by C. K. Vile
Nick wanted to scream, to swear, to kill Clark with the sound of his voice alone. But there were rats crawling all around his face. He could have drowned in them.
Clark stood over the barrel, camera in hand. “That should do it.” He pointed the camera at several different angles. “Any last words for everyone?”
Nick gritted his teeth and looked into the camera. “I authorize my attorney to release $100,000 to the person who kills this asshole and provides a body as proof.”
Clark set the camera down. “Thanks, now I have to edit around that.” He stood back up, holding the barrel’s lid. “You’ll see. Or I guess you won’t, but still. This will be the best possible ending for everything. Your career, my Nick Dawkins series. The real ending to Rat King, on screen for the first time.” Clark’s eyebrows dropped. He sighed wistfully. “Bye, Nick. Loved your work.”
The lid of the barrel fit snugly into place, securing Nick in total darkness. The fur that completely surrounded him ceased to be a series of creatures, but a single one, moving and scratching and stuffing itself into every crevice it could find. It worked its way down his shirt, up his pant leg. It nibbled at the wound on his leg.
He opened his mouth and screamed, the only semblance of release he had left. He shook back and forth, but had nowhere to go. A bite ripped into his side, living razors tearing at his flesh.
A warm sensation fell over his back. Within seconds, it went from warm to hot, spreading around the entire circumference of the barrel. Clark hadn’t missed a beat. He was going the whole nine yards with the scene.
In the tiny dark space, surrounded by furry little hell spawn, Nick could picture Clark with a torch, holding it to the sides of the barrel. Heating it up to an unbearable degree. He could picture it because that’s how he’d written it…
The torch licked at the barrel with hot and hungry tongues.
The barrel’s inhabitants, both man and beast alike, reacted the same. With a flurry of teeth and nails and impotent rage. All at once, they realized what had been lurking in the back of their minds since the moment they had come into existence.
The end was nigh. It always had been. It was an inch away. A millisecond. One wrong step. One bad choice.
The man in the barrel did the only thing he could. He cursed a world that had been trying to kill him in one way or another since the day he’d been born.
Likewise, the rats in the barrel did the only thing they could. They dug into the softest surface available in search of refuge from the increasing heat.
The rats dug into the man.
Chapter 19
Deputy Kern trod through the mud, trees rising like dark sentinels on either side. The sky continued its torrential outburst. She was an angry one that night. All lightning, thunder and fury. Usually on a night like that he’d be on the side of the highway, making sure assholes weren’t killing themselves at eighty miles per hour on hairpin turns.
Not that night. That night he was doing what he knew his pop would have called ‘bonafide po-lice work’. He especially missed the old man that day. Him and the way he pronounced ‘police’.
He knew what his dad would say about Clark, no question. ‘Dougie, you drop him if you get the chance, do not hesitate.’ This was a guy who had come to the community of Forest Down and terrorized and kidnapped and maimed. Pop wouldn’t have had a lot of patience for that sort of thing. He’d paddled Kern once but good just for stepping on Mom’s flowers.
Yeah. Fuck this psycho. The likelihood was low that he’d ever walk out of Forest Down.
And maybe, if the stars for Dawkins aligned just right, he’d still be in one piece when it all went down.
The muddy path stretched onward into the yawning black. He looked over his shoulder and wondered if Reed had found anything. When he looked ahead again, something caught his eye, reflecting the light of his flashlight a few dozen yards ahead.
White van. He took a few more steps and shined his light along the side. One of the windows was a black hole next to the others. Yeah. Jackpot.
Behind the van was a massive wooden structure, some part of the logging company. It was too small to be where the real work happened, more likely the main office. A flickering light seeped through a dirty and cracked window.
Kern unhooked his radio. “Positive ID on the vehicle. It’s outside some kind of administration unit at the end of the left branch. Over.”
Reed radioed back. “You have an eye on the perp or Dawkins? Over.”
Kern moved toward the front steps of the building. Blood spatter on the wood grain. He lowered his voice. “Got blood outside. Moving for a closer look. Over.”
The deputy tread gingerly up the porch, not just for fear of his weight on the rotted planks. The whole place looked like it could come down with a good sneeze. It had been decades since this building had seen days that could be described as ‘better’.
The light in the window flickered. It was fire; probably a lantern. Kern hung up his flashlight and peered through the years of neglect coating the glass.
Long dark hair. Thick glasses. Had to be Clark, and he was… dancing?
Clark leaped and frolicked around a giant barrel, a torch in one hand. He dragged the fiery implement all around the wooden object. Why? What the hell was he doing? Was he trying to set the barrel on fire? Too wet to light, maybe?
Did the barrel just shiver?
Kern inhaled sharply. The barrel wasn’t shivering. Someone or something was in it and didn’t want to be.
Dawkins.
Kern clutched at his radio. “Positive ID, situation critical, moving in,” he whispered. “Over.”
He stood in front of the wooden door and held his gun in both hands. If there was a lock on it, he damn sure hoped it was in as shitty a condition as the rest of the place.
Kern kicked the door clean off the hinges. “Freeze. Hands up. Hands in the air.” To his credit, Clark did put his hands straight up, torch and all. He was caught off guard. Whether it was the result of overconfidence or miscalculation, he hadn’t expected the interruption.
The deputy yelled at him. “Torch down now. Torch down now.”
Over the din of the relentless rain, the crackling fire, and the rolling thunder, Kern heard another sound. Muffled screams warred with alien sounding squeals within the trembling barrel. What was this guy doing to Dawkins?
Clark didn’t move, even as the embers from the torch above his head rained down on him. “Five more minutes.” He wasn’t pleading, he was dead serious. “Just give me five more minutes and I’ll leave. I promise.” The man had grown calm and still. His head tilted to the side, fire reflecting from his corrective lenses, hiding the look in his eyes. The image of the complete mental case was completed by the blood that stained Clark’s mouth. “Five more minutes and no more Nick Dawkins. I’ll free you of him. Then you’ll never hear from me or anyone from Myiasis again.”
Kern was oddly seduced by the repetition of Clark’s words and the promise of peace.
A nice, quiet community. No more dangerous out-of-towners.
No more Nick Dawkins.
He shook himself from the fantasy and straightened his back. He pointed his gun dead center at Clark’s chest. “I’m not kidding, drop it or I’ll shoot.”
“There’s no need for that. Come on. I know. I know that’s what you want, Nick Dawkins gone from your life. Danielle was quite perceptive.” The perp slowly lowered the torch to his side, his lips curved a bit. “A little off the rails—no pun intended—but perceptive.”
The wooden barrel between them shuddered as if the cries inside had brought it to life. What the hell was in there with Dawkins?
“Rats.” The psycho read his mind. “They’ll do the job for us; your hands will be clean. All we have to do is stand here. Maybe give them a nudge with the torch.”
Crazy or not, the guy knew what to say. A return to Forest Down pre-Nick Dawkins was an appealing idea. Especially now. The attention the town had gotten that week,
and would continue to get, was attention it didn’t need.
All he had to do was stand there. Five minutes.
Even Dawkins’ mother would pull up her stakes and go back to wherever she came from.
Just stand there and listen to a man die screaming.
Aside from what happened to poor Delbert, it would be like Nick Dawkins had never come to Forest Down at all. Not a single local lost.
He had to stand there and ignore everything he’d ever been told, been taught, been trained to do. He had to ignore every cell in his body, resist the urge to—
Help those who needed help.
Damn it, Pop.
“Drop that fucking torch now. Last warning.”
Clark lowered his head and dropped the torch to his side. “Why is everyone in this inbred shit-show so fucking stupid?” He whipped the blazing club at the deputy, the flames biting at his fingers as the scalding chunk of wood smashed into them. Kern lost his grip and the gun tumbled to the floor.
Kern reached for his nightstick. His fingers didn’t want to do what they were told and Clark was on top of him in an instant. The asshole was fast. Damn fast. He clawed and screeched at Kern like a rabid animal.
The two men drug each other to the ground, each struggling to gain some kind of physical advantage. Kern had the bulk, but this guy was lean and fast. His fingers were like little fleshy daggers, jabbing and pulling at anything they could get hold of.
Kern throttled the perp in the face with his baton, sending him reeling.
Clark clutched at his face, blood dripping from between his finger. “Oo cod-sudding hirbirry peede of garbade.”
Kern reached for his gun. Clark reached for it too. Kern grabbed it first and got his finger on the trigger. Clark didn’t back off, instead he pulled at the piece now in Kern’s hands.
Kern squeezed.
Bam.
The shot kicked Clark off of Kern. He tumbled to the floor, landing next to the barrel.
Unable to believe his eyes, Kern watched the maniac try to get back up.
“—Tear your eyes out, you hillbilly Barney Fife—”
Bam. Bam.
Silence.
Kern took no chances. Three dead center and he still felt for a pulse. Nothing.
He kicked the barrel onto its side and pulled at the lid. The damn thing was nailed on tight.
Poor fucking Dawkins never stopped screaming. The guy was being eaten alive.
Kern looked around the room and saw a hammer on the floor off to the side. He dove to the ground, picked it up and pried at the lid of the barrel with the hammer claw. The nails that held it in place showed themselves slowly but surely. His fingers turned white as he held the barrel still and turned leverage to his advantage.
He’d managed to get the lid maybe a quarter of the way open when one by one the rats filed out of the barrel. Some of them trailed little bloody footprints across the floor as they made for holes in the floor and walls. “Dawkins. I got you, man.”
Dawkins coughed and gasped between cries and howls of anguish. Kern pulled at the lid until the entire thing was loose. By the time he was done, every last rodent had escaped from the wooden container. Only Dawkins was left, what remained of him.
Kern looked into the barrel. “Dawkins. Dawkins, look at me.”
The writer didn’t move, not voluntarily, only wheezed as he twitched and shook. He didn’t speak or open his eyes. Shock. Possible catatonia. He was covered in blood. Kern knew better than to try and move him.
He radioed Reed. “Shots fired, suspect is down. Repeat: suspect is down. I have Dawkins, but those EMT’s had better get out here PDQ.”
Blood trickled out of the barrel and onto the floor. At the far side of the room, a rat squeaked and disappeared into a hole.
Chapter 20
“The pain meds almost make it worth it.” Nick grimaced as he adjusted himself in bed. “Almost. Have I mentioned how much I love you guys?”
Sheriff Reed and Deputy Kern exchanged glances. The steady beep of the machine next to the bed dominated the conversation for several seconds. Nick wished it would shut up. It had nothing new to contribute. You’re alive. Thanks Beepy Machine, he appreciated the reminder.
Reed smirked. “Yes, you’ve actually mentioned it several times. Since we got here. Ten minutes ago.”
“Well, it’s as true now as it was then. You guys are the best. I owe you everything.” Nick flopped his hand on the bed for emphasis. It was critical that they hear and understand what he was saying. “Ev-ery-thing.”
A Hellraiser-esque contraption of pins and steel held Nick’s leg in place as it healed. He giggled. Watching Hellraiser sounded like so much… necessary. He swung the table with his laptop on it over the bed and clicked impatiently at the keypad. Open, open, open.
“Kern.” Nick continued speaking as he opened a movie streaming service and valiantly attempted to type the word ‘Hellraiser’ correctly on the first try. The medication fucked with his typing. The bandages on four of his fingers didn’t help. “Deputy Kern. Boy, did I have you pegged wrong.”
Kern looked at Reed. Nick couldn’t be sure why, even in his darkened hospital room, she wore her sunglasses. It was impossible to read her half the time. Kern coughed into his hand. “Is that so?”
“Dude, look, I’ll be honest.” Honesty was the way to go. It was always the way to go. The world would be such a great place if everyone was open with each other all the time. “I thought you were a huge douche-nozzle. I mean, you kind of were. But you saved my life, man. I mean, you killed a guy for me.” Nick’s lip stuck out as a lump formed in his throat. He couldn’t help it. He had so many feelings. Kern grumbled like the big stern faced teddy bear he was. “I know, Dawkins. Thanks for reminding me.”
“I want you to know that we’re good, man. From here on out, you’re my bro. Feel me?” Nick tapped at his laptop screen. “Ooh. I’m going to watch Hellraiser, you should watch it with me.”
Kern cleared his throat. “I would, but I need to be getting on home, thanks.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
The smooth faced deputy rocked back and forth on his feet. “I have not.”
“It’s amazing.” Nick patted the bed beside him. “Watch with me. We’ll cuddle. I’ll protect you.”
The deputy didn’t move so Nick patted the bed again. Nothing. Nick thought that perhaps he hadn’t adequately expressed how important it was that Kern remedy this grievous oversight. “It’s about a puzzle box that once you figure out how to open it, it summons these things called the Cenobites—”
“Dawkins.” Reed interrupted his sales spiel. She always sounded so annoyed. Why was that?
“—Demons to some, angels to others,” Nick said exactly like the guy in the movie. Exactly.
“Dawkins, we were telling you about Clark Abernathy.”
Nick scratched at one the bandages on his face. “Oh, right, sorry. I don’t know how we got so sidetracked.” He waved his fingers in front of his eyes. Pretty. Holy Moses, those were some good pain meds.
Kern turned to Reed. “I’ll go wait in the car.” He nodded at Nick. “Good night, Mr. Dawkins.”
Kern was gone. “That guy is so cool, right? Why haven’t you two ever... you know?”
Reed sighed and opened her notepad. “For reasons that will probably be apparent if you happen to remember this conversation later, I’m going to make a long story short. Clark Abernathy was a veterinary school dropout. He worked a series of odd jobs and took up blogging in his spare time. Much of it about you. He had little success at that, too.”
Nick clicked the play icon on his computer’s screen. “I’m listening; I’m just letting the opening credits roll.”
“He stole the van and a number of chemicals from the veterinary school he attended. Horse tranquilizers. Killed a lab technician in the process, which brings his murder count to two, although—” The orchestral music on Nick’s laptop swelled as if on cue.
“Sorry.” He t
urned it down. He didn’t want to be an asshole.
“It’s okay; you pretty much know the rest. Pain meds are good then, huh?”
Nick swung his head up and down. “The best. Love them. Love. But, I already told Blaire not to let me agree to anything this time.”
“That’s probably for the best.” Reed closed her notepad.
“Not that I think it would be a problem. You know they shelved the movie? Right now they’re examining their options.” Nick made quotation marks with his fingers and said the last part in a super-serious executive tone.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. Whatever happens with it happens. I’m getting back to my roots. Fuck the movies, fuck the fans. You know what I’m going to do?” Nick waited expectantly for an answer to his rhetorical question.
Reed took a second, but she bit. “What’s that?”
Nick nodded, thanking her for having the courtesy to ask. “I’m going to write something like nobody’s ever going to read it except me. You know how long it’s been since I’ve done that?” He thought for a moment. The machine next to him beeped. “Wrong,” he shouted at the machine. “I don’t know if I’ve ever done that, now that I think about it.”
Reed smiled. “I think that sounds like a fine idea then.”
A Beasley Medical Center nurse poked her head into the room. “Mr. Dawkins, bandages. Be right back.” Poof, she was gone.
The sheriff looked over the rim of her sunglasses. “Well then. That sounds like fun.”
Nick raised his mummy arms to display the myriad pieces of gauze that had been taped to him. “Better than Six Flags. You kiddin’ me? It takes forever to change these things. Three times a day. Fucking rats. I’m glad I didn’t end up with rabies or The Black Plague or some shit.
“Well,” Reed said as she adjusted her hat. “We’re all glad you’re okay.”
Two characters in the movie on Nick’s monitor started talking. Nick paused it. “You headed out?”