THOSE
WHO
FOLLOW
by Michelle Garza
& Melissa Lason
Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the author’s written consent, except for the purposes of review
Cover Design © 2017 by Mike Bukowski
https://lastchanceillustration.wordpress.com/
ISBN-13: 978-0-9980679-9-5
ISBN-10: 0-9980679-9-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
READ UNTIL YOU BLEED!
PROLOGUE
A CHURCH IN THE
MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
The sun seemed unusually bright above her, even for Arizona. Luckily for her, it was only mid-April and the summer heat had yet to take hold in the desert. The highway looked like a black river of dried asphalt with the customary adornment of broken yellow lines—a highway like any other she had seen and yet it felt foreign to her all the same. She guessed that she had fallen asleep in that old man’s front seat and must’ve worn out her welcome because the last thing she could recall was watching the moon through the windshield of that old car; it was riding high in a clear desert sky with its light falling softly on the miles of barren land below. She was now walking along the roadside in broad daylight wondering where she was. She felt her pockets for fear that she had been rolled but found all her belongings in place. She swung the lightweight pack from her shoulder and inspected its contents to find everything still there.
“Must’ve blacked out again.” Celia spoke her thoughts out loud.
She had a habit of doing that, imbibing a little too much of the flask in her bag or swallowing a few too many of the assortment of pills that had become her only companions on the road and losing a few hours, a few days.
There wasn’t a sign of life around and so she continued on her present course in hopes of spotting an oncoming vehicle that she could thumb down. Maybe catch a ride up north and spend the summer there amongst the ponderosa pine trees. Her mother had often complained about her nomadic lifestyle but to Celia it was the ultimate freedom, living off the grid, drifting around like a feather on the breeze. She was lost in an imaginary argument with the old woman whose repetitive criticism about hiking around in the middle of nowhere and accepting rides from strangers was met with Celia’s repetitive answer, the same she had flung at her mother since she was seventeen and started her roaming.
“You have never lived, only existed. You don’t know what it is to experience anything because you hide in your house afraid of everything. That’s not for me!”
The old woman couldn’t answer her now or ever again seeing how she had been dead for three years, but, in Celia’s moments of self-doubt, she chose to lash out at the memory of her mother instead of herself. She would always squeeze the side pocket of her back pack to locate the tiny jewelry box that her mother had given her as a gift and let the old woman have it.
She stood for a moment and looked about. The deserts on the roadsides were akin to those of higher elevations and she wondered how far the old man had taken her before deciding to ditch her unconscious on the roadside. She was irritated yet relieved that she hadn’t woken up to find him groping her. Her concentration was broken by a rumbling in the distance and thought a thunderhead may be building up, so she continued her wandering. She could see a thicket of mesquite trees up the road and thought she might rest there. It would be the only reprieve from the rain, if it came.
Celia made it to her only oasis as the scent of rain filled her nose, carrying with it the smell of wet creosote bushes and she knew the storm would be on her soon. She leaned her back against the rough bark of a mesquite tree and instantly shot from her seat. She swatted at her back that was now burning and irritated, her panic growing until she was certain that no scorpions had crawled down her shirt. She contorted her head as far as it would turn on her neck and inspected what appeared to be a crescent shaped cut. The humidity was building with the approaching storm and her sweat had gotten into the wound. She sighed heavily, relieved that she wouldn’t need to worry about seeking medical attention on top of her present set of needs, that consisted of finding another soul that could either offer her shelter for the night or a ride to a place that could provide it. Her thoughts were broken by the sound of music in the distance and she grinned, hoping her troubles had all been resolved.
Beyond the thicket of mesquite trees there was a dirt road that bisected the main highway and she followed it in hopes of finding some folks. On down the road, she could see a wooden building and she quickened her pace as a light spattering of rain fell down to speckle the dirt road and the lonely girl that walked it.
As she drew near, she realized that the building was a dilapidated church and she paused, looking down at her cut-off jean shorts, tank top and combat boots, worried that the church going types may not receive her well, but she pushed that concern aside.
The shape of the building, with its steeple leaning unsteadily, and dust-covered windows would have caused her to believe it was abandoned if it weren’t for the music.
Another thought blossomed in her mind. Perhaps it was a flop house for other drifters. The prospects of possibly finding some other free spirits sent her quickly forward, hoping they were in a sharing mood and that she could replenish her stock of booze and pills. Her confusion and rising apprehension over feeling lost for the first time in years was cast aside and she grinned as she stepped foot on the first rickety step that led up to the church door.
The music was that of a church organ, yet instead of inspiring the Holy Spirit within her, it made her think of those bands from the sixties and seventies and made her hope the inhabitants of the church also doled out hallucinogens. Her heavy boots bowed the wooden steps as she ascended them slowly and, as she reached the door, the music died so suddenly she flinched at the still silence that engulfed her. There wasn’t a bird in the sky. Not an insect came to inspect the perspiration that was now gathering in her underarms. The measly storm had petered out and left only its humidity as a reminder that it had rolled through at all. A second steady rumble behind her caused her to pause, for it wasn’t the sound of any storm but that of an engine and it roused such a sense of déjà vu that her body reacted before her brain could make sense of sudden terror that sent her sprinting around the side of the church in the middle of nowhere.
She watched from her hiding spot as the shining front end of a black car came into view and her vision blurred. A swooning feeling came over her and the threads of a nightmare began weaving together in her mind. Her stomach knotted as if she had downed a bottle of rot-gut whiskey. Her memory was restored and she now recalled most of the happenings of the night before.
A black highway, a black car stopping beside her as she swallowed a handful of downers. The old man with a yellow toothed grin, that old cars engine roaring as if it had been completely bored out. Her apprehension steadily growing as he pressed the pedal to the floor and the effect of her narcotic dinner taking hold of her. She could see the moon through the windshield and felt for the door handle. Celia asked kindly if she could be let out and when he turned, his eyes met hers and her stomach seized for all he did was smile and continue to push that old car to its limits. There was something not right in his eyes. They were devoid of humanity and she knew he wasn’t as harmless as his age let on. He laughed and she knew that he was aware of t
he effect he had on her. There was a rancid panting on the back of her neck, but she dared not turn around. She pushed at the door and felt the warm desert wind on her face and a sharp pain in her back.
Celia could recall no more, but she knew that this man was someone to be feared and avoided at all costs. She crouched lower and continued to watch his approach. The car came to a stop and the driver’s side door was flung open and he stepped into the sunlight. Celia could see him better now—he had white hair, tanned skin, and a sweat-stained button-down white shirt. He busied himself with opening the trunk of his car and she looked about frantically for a better place to hide, but all that stretched out for miles was lonesome desert.
She wished that she hadn’t left the thicket of mesquite but she would never make it back there now. He and that black car stood between her and the withering branches of those trees. She didn’t want to find herself lost in the expanses of the desert behind her. She had always considered herself streetwise, yet she was clueless as to the ways of wilderness survival and, calculating her chances of making it out of those barren lands, she knew they were extremely nil.
She looked back to see him unloading a heavy tool box and hauling it up to the steps before the church but she lost sight of him. Behind him, from the back seat of the car, came bounding a hound the likes of which she’d never seen and, as it raised its massive snout to sniff the air, her stomach knotted. The beast was the size of grown man, with a hide that was black as pitch and steady streams of thick slobber dripping from its dangling lips. A low growl started in its belly and sprung forth in a drawn-out baying as it tilted its head back and leapt forward.
Scrambling from her hiding spot, she fled, cursing her limbs that seemed atrophied with fear. A waking nightmare came bearing down on her with ungodly speed. The sound of the massive hound’s paws tearing the dusty earth beneath it was second only to the thunderous pounding of her pulse in her ears. The distance between them was closed in a matter of seconds and, as it leapt, she was flooded with defeat.
She went down under its weight, the breath knocked from her instantly, and the sensation of its jaws snapping at her flesh elicited cries from her dusty throat that she knew would fall on deaf ears. Celia attempted to cover the back of her neck with her hands only to provoke the monstrous hound who reacted by latching onto her wrist and shaking her madly. She felt her petite body being tossed about without the slightest of exertion. She could hear the snapping of bones and, as her adrenaline waned, the agony of her injuries sank in.
A short whistle halted the loyal dog and it released her there in the dirt. The sun above her was blotted out by his silhouette and before she lost consciousness she looked up to see him grinning down at her with his mouth of decaying teeth.
****
Celia could taste blood and dirt on her tongue and she opened her eyes. She felt drowsy and disoriented. Her heartbeat was slow and heavy and her mind fixated on it, for a moment worried it would stop completely. The hot panting of the hound was at her cheek, yet she didn’t dare make eye contact with it. Mixed with its rancid exhalation was a smell of rot. As her mind fought to grasp the situation, her eyes began to focus and she could see the old man standing over her. Her gaze went beyond his grinning face to the dilapidated ceiling of the broken-down church. The beams were dry-rotted and splitting. Nailed to those beams were countless driver’s licenses, military I.D. cards and photographs that were yellowed with time and covered in dust.
“Sixty-eight, why don’t you play us a tune to mark this special occasion?” he spoke.
The church organ began to blare, startling her back to full consciousness. She was lying upon a splintering wooden altar table and out amongst the pews were two other women and one more behind the organ. The three of them wore heavy shackles and chains about their ankles. They were filthy and haggard and their eyes held a feral glare. One of them stood and lumbered past where she lay, hobbling as she dragged her chain behind her. The other woman’s gnarled hands moved over the organ and an off-key rendition of the wedding march played.
Celia writhed feebly but found that her battered body had been tied down to the altar table. The music wore on until it clumsily came to its climax and he stood over her, his hands high above his head. The church walls shook with the reverberating organ music and dust motes danced in her vision.
As all fell silent he took up a knife. He kissed the blade reverently as if in some kind of blessing. He lowered it until it paused just above her forehead and he addressed the women in the pews.
“We are gathered here today to welcome number fourteen to the fold.”
He brought the tip of the blade down into her flesh, scoring her forehead. Searing pain brought tears to her eyes and when her blood came fast and hot, it ran into them.
“We shall also mourn the passing of Seventy-one.”
She could hear a violence in his voice as he stepped aside. Behind him was an inverted cross with the corpse of a naked women nailed to it, the number Seventy-one carved into her forehead. Celia was grateful now that her years of cocaine abuse had nearly abolished her sense of smell, yet what did seep in caused her to vomit uncontrollably.
“I don’t allow such nonsense in here!”
He brought his fist down, crushing the bridge of her nose. His outburst sent the other three women cowering in the pews.
Celia swallowed her tears and wept, “OH GOD, PLEASE, JUST LET ME GO!”
“God can’t hear you here. He has no power here. Ask them.” He nodded to the three terrified women that huddled together. “I AM GOD. I AM THE DEVIL. THIS WORLD BELONGS TO ME AND NOW YOU DO TOO!”
Spittle hung on his lips and the blood rushed to his cheeks. His hound growled, pacing the floor, and she knew with just a whistle from its master, it would eat her alive. With a slice of his knife, he tore free a decaying slab of meat from Seventy-one’s thigh and tossed it to the beast.
“Teach her the rules.” He commanded the trio of mangled women whom he called his wives.
He cut Celia’s bindings with his gory blade and slapped a heavy shackle around her ankle. He mopped his face with the back of his sleeve and left her there. She rolled from the altar to the splintering wooden floor. Her boots had been cut off and her pack was gone. He made his way to a coat rack beside the door and busied himself putting on a clean shirt. “Be a good dog.” He smiled down affectionately at the beast as it hungrily lapped up the remainder of its putrid dinner.
The car roared to life and, through the dusty window, she watched him prepare to depart.
“Don’t cry too much,” said Sixty-eight. “At least he spared you, if it weren’t for Seventy-one going he would have marked you as a sow.”
“What does that mean?” Celia questioned.
“What do you think it means?” the monstrous woman asked. “You really can’t be that dense?”
She dragged her chain along beside her and sat beside Celia who cradled her broken arm. “You would’ve been cut up like the others,” she pointed to the ceiling and the many photos. “Fed to the dog… fed to us.”
Celia looked up to the adornment of what was left of his victims.
“We can get out of here… call the police.” She desperately offered.
“There is no getting out,” a second wife added, rubbing the number on her forehead, eighty-two.
“There are no police. Only him. Just be thankful he is too old to consummate your marriage.”
The third and last wife—ninety-seven—nodded but spoke not a word. Celia looked back to the window as the engine of that old car revved with such ferocity she thought the motor might combust. He threw it in gear and whipped the car around, kicking up rooster tails of powdery dust.
A peculiar orb of light materialized before him. It looked like ball lightening that danced with electricity and pulsed a light blue hue. It began to expand, pulling itself wider and wider until it was large enough to accommodate the old black car. In astonishment and sickening hopelessness, she watched it op
en. On the other side, there was a starry night sky and a stretch of highway. He flipped on his headlights and she recognized a crooked saguaro, the same cactus she had stopped beside the night she took a ride from the old man. He punched the pedal and the car was obscured in a combination of dust and white electricity that pulsed through the arid environment until it was at last swallowed up. The passageway closed in the blink of an eye, fading to nothing but a pin prick of light and then it was gone… he was gone. She was left there with the three women, those that had lost any semblance of humanity at his hands and a dog that was raised to eat human flesh.
“There isn’t any way out.” The old woman pointed to her forehead.
“I have been here since nineteen sixty-eight, from your marking, I take it that the year is now twenty fourteen.”
Celia nodded and began shaking, weeping pitiful sobs until she hacked and gagged.
“Imagine if a gift like that had been bestowed upon a man with a kindly soul, one that could have used it in some way for the good of people, but instead it was given to such a vicious man,” Sixty-eight sighed heavily.
“He could have changed the world but instead he created his own here, a place to carry out fantasies that couldn’t be concealed on the other side, a place where God and the Devil are one and the same. They are both him.”
Eighty-two looked to the corpse of Seventy-one and added. “No one makes it out of here alive. She tried, but as the days go by, I wonder if a fate like hers would be so bad?”
She turned and looked to the window and spoke the very question that was passing through Celia’s confused mind. “I often wonder who he is on the other side.”
****
The meatloaf was nearly finished. the mashed potatoes and green beans were warming on the stove top. She had set the table just how he liked it and smoothed her hair. She reapplied her lipstick and waited for him on the sofa. It wasn’t long before she heard the rumbling of his car’s engine. She grinned. It was his pride and joy. He’d had that old car since before they were married and refused to give it up, just as he refused to give up his job as a traveling antique salesman. He spent a lot of time on the road but he always provided really well for them so she never complained. She heard the jingling of his keys in the door and she stood to check her makeup once more in the mirror above the fireplace. She wasn’t as attractive as she used to be but she knew that neither was he. She loved him even as his hair faded white and his teeth grew yellow, he was the gentlest man she had ever known, not a mean streak in him to be seen in all thirty-eight years of marriage. He came through the door and affectionately swept her up in his arms.
Those Who Follow Page 1