The Damned Summer (The Ruin Trilogy)

by Weaver, Scott

Jake pointed at the old cursed house. "That seems like the closest thing to a home you're ever going to find. You might as well get comfortable now."

  "Gonna leave me out here with the wolves?"

  Jake had already started to walk home, but he turned for a brief instant. "You are a wolf." Jake's footsteps faded away as he walked off into the darkness.

  The demon seeped into the back-window of the old house, already setting a plan into motion.

  "Whatever," Johnny said, picking up the burning cigarette and taking a deep drag. Gathering up the beers that were left for him, he took them up to the battered, rotting porch. He looked at the dilapidated house with a nod. "Story of my life." He wiped his bloody nose yet again.

  Silence answered him as his solo status started to set in. "Wonder if there is a chair in there somewhere," he reached for the small door knob, expecting it to be locked.

  The old rusty handle spun in his hand like it was recently greased, the door creaked back about six inches before bumping into something and stopping. A slight, musty smell blew across his face as the old air in the house quickly escaped from its dark prison.

  Johnny stood, looking at the doorknob, wondering why he had opened the door in the first place. "I can just sit on the porch steps," the thought to himself. "I don't need a Goddamn chair."

  His cigarette dipped down towards the ground, hanging loosely from his lips, smoke trailing into his eyes, suddenly some ashes joined in.

  "Shit," Johnny rubbed at his eyes, taking a step back.

  "Maybe there's a bed in there you can crash on later," a voice in his head added.

  He stumbled away with the wave of his hand. He had no intentions of going to sleep anytime soon. He had at least eight more beers to drink.

  "What's the problem, bro?" the voice asked. "You chicken shit?"

  Johnny answered the question by taking three quick steps and giving the door a hard kick, breaking the top hinge, making the door flutter like a broken butterfly wing for a moment before leaning against the wall, like a drunk, like Johnny.

  "Wendy," Johnny said in his best Jack Nicholson voice, strolling into the old house. "I'm home."

  Taking a deep drag from his smoke, he looked at the room from the flare of the smoldering cigarette. Nothing but an empty room glowed in orange for a brief moment.

  "Ain't nobody here but us chickens!" he said with a giggle and then took a big gulp of his beer.

  He was the only thing making any noise, but movement suddenly caught his eye in the hallway to his left. Big, like a person, not some damn squirrel.

  "Who the fuck?" Johnny growled, taking an involuntary step back.

  Creaking wood was all that answered him, which could mean something, or nothing.

  It was one of those rare moments, where the next few seconds would decide the totality of a person's life: embrace the fear and run like hell, or stick out your chest and face whatever it is lurking in the shadows.

  The enigma of this particular situation was a coward's way was the right way. Some things aren't worth pursuing, regardless of how brave it makes you. Expecting a drunk teenage bully with a bruised ego to figure that out was near impossible.

  Taking the road less traveled, Johnny sealed his fate.

  "Get out here, asshole!" he stormed into the back bedroom, running right into the missing little girl's room. Yellow, wrinkled drawings still fluttering on the walls.

  "What the hell?" he asked, looking at the drawings of unicorns and rainbows, and stick figure portraits of a long dead and broken family.

  "I didn't kill her," a voice said from behind Johnny.

  Johnny spun around, ready to fight, but the dark figure was sitting in the corner on the floor.

  "Nor did my husband," the shadow said. "Do you believe me?"

  Johnny was quiet for a moment, unable to find his voice as his stomach got cold. He took a deep swallow and replied.

  "What the fuck do I care?"

  The shadow cocked its head. "Because if I was a killer, perhaps you would be in danger."

  Johnny let out a small laugh. "Not from the likes of you."

  "Certain of that?" the shade stood up, nearly as tall as Johnny and what he would classify as a hot older woman.

  "Hell ya," Johnny took the last drag of his smoke and flicked it at her. " If you can't protect your own daughter, what the hell have I got to worry about?"

  "You're quite the bad-ass, aren't you, Johnny?"

  "Why don't you come over here and find out?"

  I've got a better idea," the shade finally came closer, holding up a bottle of Dead Ace Whiskey in one hand. In her other hand a ball cap advertising farm equipment loosely fell from her fingertips. "How about we have some fun?" She used the neck of the bottle to push off the straps of her summer dress, and with a sexy shifting of her hips it fell to her ankles.

  Johnny smiled.

  Consciousness came back to Drew like a night-fever: out of nowhere and not particularly wanted. He made a noise that was a cross between a snore and a buzz-saw right before his eyes opened.

  "Shiiiiit," he hummed as his head started to hurt, looking up at the rearview mirror, he saw a smashed, bloodied face looking back.

  Finding the door handle, he pushed open the door and fell out onto the dirt and bean plants that his beast of a car had run over.

  He laid on the ground for a while before getting up, making sure he had no broken bones.

  "Shouldn't move after a collision," he said out-loud. "Could have a spinal injury and not even know it." He looked around for a moment. "Guess it's a little too late for that now."

  He sat down in the front seat of the old Ford, leaving the door open with his feet still in the dirt, the dim dome light made about as much luminance as a firefly.

  Running his fingers through his sticky, bloody hair, he let out a loud sigh. The beer he had been drinking was now laying on its side on the floorboard of his car.

  Picking it up, he could tell there was maybe half a swig left swirling around in the bottom of the can. He downed it and then threw the can to the ground, crumpled.

  "Just like tonight," he whispered, looking at the crushed aluminum. "Same as my chances with Jenny."

  Lighting up, he circled the car and then looked back at the road.

  "Should be able to back up out of here, so long as she starts."

  He climbed back into the old Ford, cranking her over and letting her run for a moment, giving it a little gas. She ran loud and clean, just like the old whore she was. Once he was sure she was going to run, he shut her down and cracked open a beer.

  Moving back to the trunk and leaning against it, he looked back at the road he flew off of not so long ago. Taking a deep drag off his cig.

  "This is as good of a time and place for a moment of reflection on the events of the evening." He let out a loud belch. "Who knows, maybe this is fate that I'm out here in the middle of a fucking bean field in the dead of night." Looking over to his right, he saw the old abandoned house less than half a mile away.

  Just like everyone else in town, he knew the history behind the house. "Well, isn't that just creepy," he said, taking another drink. "Of all the places fate could land me," he chuckled.

  The humor would have been lost if Drew had known who was in that house at that very moment.

  The sex was everything that Johnny could have asked for: primal and violent, with her hurting him almost as much as he hurt her. He had a lot of frustration to vent and she was just what the doctor ordered.

  Johnny and the demon sat in the darkness naked, drinking whiskey and beer, smoking weed as well, genuinely enjoying one another's company, which was a first for him, since he was always done with a girl once the sex was over.

  Johnny enjoyed the demon because she agreed with everything he said. She also thought that all the others needed a wake up call, except Drew, he just needed to be dead.

  "What about Jenny?" the creature from hell asked, loading the pinchee and handing it to him. "Does she need mo
re than just a kick in the ass?"

  Johnny contemplated on that, taking a deep drag from his one hitter, followed by a long drink of overpriced whiskey. "Yeah, she needs axed too, but before Drew," he looked at his new friend and giggled. "So he can watch."

  The demon took the bottle of Dead Ace, tipping it towards Johnny. "Man after my own heart."

  The demon also enjoyed Johnny's company, but for a different reason: it didn't have to come up with any of the dark and dirty, Johnny had that completely under control.

  The fiend exchanged the whiskey bottle for the pipe. "Like taking candy from a baby," she said with a dark laugh.

  Johnny nodded his head in agreement as he started to slobber out of the corner of his mouth, pitching to the floor as he passed out.

  The demon looked at him for a moment before getting up and walking toward the door. "Gotta tell ya, Johnny," she said, looking back. "I was really hoping this was going to be more of a challenge for me." She let out a small sigh. "Ends justify the means, I suppose."

  She went to the window, looking out at Drew as he finished his beer, climbed in his car, and fishtailed his way back onto the road.

  The demon looked back at the unconscious Johnny. "Well, that was one ship that sailed out without us."

  Johnny seemed to let out a long snore in reply.

  "Don't worry, champ. We'll get him next time."

  Frank and Lloyd were enjoying yet another dream wove from the past. Frank was still young, his wife and child were still alive and they were having a picnic at the park. Technically this would have been decades before Lloyd would have been born, but dreams have a way of fudging through things like that.

  Frank had his arm around Beth's shoulder, watching Lisa giggle as Lloyd licked her nose.

  "That's just so precious, I'm getting goosebumps," the voice from behind said.

  As soon as the sentence was over, so was the picnic, disappearing along with his wife and child. The park suddenly got dark and windy. Lloyd wasn't making a sound, but he was showing his teeth.

  Frank turned around, suddenly nose to nose with the demon.

  "Long time, no see, Franky," the demon said with an unnaturally long smile.

  "I thought that was what you were wanting, demon."

  "Oh it is, it is," the monster agreed, taking a step back, raising his hand in an almost peaceful jester. "I've been leavin' you alone all this time in dreamland, letting you relive all of these pleasant memories instead of taking up your sleep time with senseless combat." It pointed its fingers at Frank. "You've been enjoying that right? Appreciating it?"

  "We both know, the only way you can get into the dreams of others is getting past mine," Frank replied. "Since you haven't been showing up for the fight, that tells me you haven't been up to much in the dreams of others lately. So as far as I see it, you haven't done me any favors, you're just tired of getting your ass kicked every night."

  "I will admit, ever since your partner showed up, your win ratio has increased considerably," the monster conceded with a nod. "Back in the day, when it was just you and me, I'd say it went about sixty percent of the time my way, but now that you've got the little killer here," it pointed at the dog. "I'm lucky if I scoot past you two any better than ten percent."

  "Not even half that," Frank corrected.

  The monster shrugged. "Whose keeping track? Especially now."

  "Why are you here?" Frank asked.

  "Just making sure we are still square on our deal, is all."

  "You being here kind of goes against that."

  "I'm leaving right now, I just wanted to reiterate that the entirety of the deal is that I stay out of your dreams, and you stay out of my way in the waking hours, right?"

  "Have you seen much of me around town lately?" Frank asked. "Have you caught me following you recently?"

  "Nope, not at all. I was just making sure we were on the same page is all."

  "We'll never be on the same page, but I understand what you want perfectly. Now get out of here before you break your own deal.

  "You've got it Franky," the monster said, folding off into nothingness.

  Frank turned to Lloyd. "Whatever grand scheme he's planning is about to happen."

  Lloyd replied with a quick sneeze.

  Chapter 10 Dead Bikers MC

  Even though the demon had left Frank's dream, its presence had still forced him awake. After a moment of Frank staring at the ceiling, Lloyd also woke up. The dog moved closer to his friend, lying down beside him with his chin on Frank's chest.

  "Don't think I'm going to be able to go back to sleep," Frank said, still looking at the ceiling. "How about you?"

  Lloyd answered by jumping off the bed and moving off down the hallway.

  With a sigh, Frank got up, following Lloyd toward the living room. "Hope late night T.V. is better than it was when I was a kid."

  Entering the living room, Frank flipped the light switch, which resulted in a soft pop, as the light bulb gave its dying salute to electric light as the filament inside the glass broke in two.

  "This night keeps getting better," Frank said, making his way to the garage, hoping there were some extra bulbs in one of the cabinets.

  Frank and Lloyd made their way into the garage. He flipped the light switch, which replied with a small pop, perfectly mimicking its cousin from the living room.

  "Don't that figure," Frank commented, walking past his old motorcycle that was covered with a blanket. "Need to sell this damn thing." He knew he wouldn't though, the old bike had too much history with him. To sell the cursed relic to another would be teasing the fates. Tempting them to start up another cycle of darkness that he had spent so much of his own life stopping. He finally had laid all his old tools of darkness to rest, he wasn't about to let one of the biggest ones ride out of here to cause more trouble.

  Memories of his youth crept back into his mind yet again. He had left for Vietnam as a punk kid always looking for trouble, running with the wrong crowd. All the death, murder and evil of Nam had changed all that though. He had graduated from a juvenile delinquent to a full blown outlaw.

  April 24th of 1970 was when Frank returned from the war. He had gotten the letter from his mother about how his father had died one night of alcohol poisoning. His dad's demise was quite unfortunate, since Frank was looking forward to telling him how he had lost his precious switchblade.

  His mother met him at the door of the tiny, dingy house out in the middle of nowhere with a big hug. She was a decent mom, broken, mainly by his father's hand, but decent all the same.

  "I'm so happy you're back," she said, holding onto him like he was a life preserver in the cold, choppy sea.

  "Me too ma," he lied. He had no intentions of sticking around.

  She took him inside and fed him some country fried steak from meat that didn't get much tougher from a domesticated animal, with watery gravy and mashed potatoes that were more mashed than potato. Compared to the rations he had been eating in the jungle, it was a meal meant for kings.

  "Could I borrow the car to go into town and pick up a couple a things at the store?" he asked, finishing up his meal.

  "Cars on the fritz," she replied. "Haven't had the money to get it looked at yet."

  "I'll go take a look at it," he put his plate in the sink, washing it off. "Maybe I can get her moving."

  "Oh honey, you deserve a break," she rubbed his back. "Why don't you go turn on the TV and I'll bring you an ice tea?"

  "Naw," he said, heading toward the screen door. "I'd rather work on an engine than stare at the tube anytime." He made his way into the night, toward the dark barn.

  The huge, ancient, driftwood door creaked open in protest as he made his way into the shadowed building. He knew the barn like the back of his hand, walking straight to the chain in the blackness, grabbing it on the first try and yanking it, turning the lone light bulb on.

  The single sixty watt bulb cast the large room in a misty light as hay dust floated on the air like dea
d butterflies. He saw the rusting, light blue Buick sitting in front of him like a giant metal coffin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the old motorcycle in the corner of the room, hiding in the shadows like a serial killer.

  His dad had brought the bike back from his war, just like the knife, which is something you think Frank would have picked up on at the time, but hey, a free bike is still a free bike, especially to a young vet with no extra money to blow on a new one. Besides, the knife had been a weapon, this was just a bike. The only person he could kill on the motorcycle was himself. It was an army issue Indian motorcycle that the old man had quickly stripped all the military shit off of and painted flat black. She had some miles and age to her, but Frank was a good mechanic with both motorcycles and cars, so he knew enough to keep her running.

  Taking a look at both the car and the bike, he quickly surmised the bike needed less work to get going. In fact, there was a good chance he could get the Indian going tonight.

  After about an hour and a half of work, he finally kicked the old bike over and got her running. She sputtered and spat for a few moments and then started evening out, running almost smoothly.

  "Let's go get a drink, girl," he dropped her in first and shot out of the barn, snapping the light chain as he went by, sending the barn back into blackness as the bike hit the gravel road and sped up, roaring off into the night.

  He got her up to about seventy before she started rattling so bad she was either going to start falling apart or she was going to shake Frank right off the seat. Slowing her down to sixty, she seemed to calm down.

  He saw a road tavern coming up. "Balls are getting numb anyway," he thought to himself as he slowed the shaky bike to a stop, parking her next to the front door.

  He climbed off the bike, noticing another group of motorcycles off to the side. There were five Harleys, most in as bad a shape as his Indian. Being out of town for a couple of years, Frank didn't think anything of it, guessing they were local bikes.

  Walking into the bar, the tension came over him like the smoke of a cheap cigar as he closed the door.