Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1)

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Stabbing his index finger toward Andy, Lewis uttered the forbidden phrase once again. “Fuck you. I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

  Frustration and anger swelled within Lewis. He glanced around the trail, searching for anything to use as a weapon against the brute. He could try and torch Andy, but wanted to save the remaining gasoline for the tree.

  Andy advanced, taking his time, a smarmy look of victory on his filthy face. Lewis knew the expression belonged to the witch, but his anger focused on Andy, the bane of his childhood. Lewis spied the familiar vines crawling up the trunk of a tree next to him; he plucked several of the swollen swamp potatoes, cradling the ammo in his torn shirt as his rage boiled over. He faced his longtime tormenter and threw the first potato, striking Andy in the shoulder. The boy stopped and smiled, unharmed as the tuber bounced away, plunking to the ground. Lewis wound up again and threw the next even harder. The second potato hit the thing that used to be Andy Reed in the chest with the same outcome.

  Lewis launched a third and a fourth. One sailed over Andy's fat head, the other lodged in the boy's gaping throat wound with a satisfying thump. Andy halted, removed the potato from his neck with all the nonchalance of plucking lint from his navel, flicking it to the ground. He advanced again, unharmed.

  Lewis gripped the last potato. It filled his small hand, heavy and hard as a rock. He reared back and focused all the years of torture and suffering from the hands of the Reed twins into his tired muscles, casting the missile with all his might, hurling it at Andy's massive head, now only ten feet away.

  The potato struck Andy in the forehead—a perfect bull's-eye.

  The dead boy's head exploded with a deafening blast and a brilliant flare of light.

  Lewis crashed to the ground, his ears ringing in pain as warm bits of Andy sprinkled down around him. Stunned, Lewis sat on the trail and gawked at the mostly headless body teetering before him, then pumped his fists in the air as the knife fell from Andy's limp hand and the body toppled backward to the ground.

  Still seated on the trail, Lewis continued his private celebration, fists punching the air. Until a hand gripped his shoulder.

  Lewis jumped to his feet, grabbed a potato from the dirt and spun, ready to take on the next foe with his new incendiary wonder weapon. He blinked rapidly to remove the purple afterimage from the bright explosion of light, and stared at the man on the trail.

  Bathed in moonlight, cradling a smoking, double-barreled shotgun, stood his friend and neighbor.

  Clyde Boyd.

  36

  Mr. Boyd snapped the shotgun open, discarded the empty shells, pulled two from his shirt pocket and reloaded the weapon.

  “You okay, son?”

  The question was muffled to Lewis, as if hearing it underwater, but he understood it well enough. He responded with a slow nod, his mouth and eyes stuck wide open, and pushed his index finger into his left ear, jiggling it back and forth.

  Mr. Boyd nudged the gas can with his boot. “I told ya, you can't burn the damn thing. And using gas would turn these woods into Hiroshima, son. We have to kill the first one infected.”

  The old man nodded to the headless corpse on the ground. “Hope I just did.”

  Lewis let the potato roll from his fingers, and then jumped on Mr. Boyd, hugging the man around the waist, smashing his face against his chest. He could smell the old man’s cologne: Old Spice, just like his grandfather wore.

  “I thought you were dead. One of those things was in your house,” Lewis said, his muffled voice a thin vibrato of emotion.

  Mr. Boyd shook his head and pushed Lewis back, looking into the boy's watery eyes. “Nope. Still kickin'.”

  “Where were you?” Lewis asked.

  “Got tired of twiddlin’ my thumbs, waiting for those damn cops to skedaddle, so when it got good and dark, I grabbed my guns and hopped the wall behind my house. Went straight to the tree and hid there for a while but nobody showed, so I've been walkin' these trails all night.”

  Lewis recalled the footsteps that had come within inches of where he crouched in his hidden fort, and the lingering scent of cologne; he smiled. “Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah. I followed a butt-naked lady for a bit. She went down into a ditch and crawled into the big run-off pipe that flows into the lake. I’d just worked up the nerve to go in after her when you came stomping along. Couldn't tell if you were one of them or not, so I followed you instead. Glad I did.” He patted Lewis on the head.

  Lewis nodded. “Me too. You saw one go into the drainpipe?”

  “Yep. I bet that's where they've been hiding out and sneakin' around.”

  “I saw a bunch on our street,” Lewis said. “They were in Mrs. Norton's driveway … eating her … at least, I think it was her. Jerry was there. So was my mom.”

  Lewis grabbed the man’s shirt. “She's one of them, Mr. Boyd … her and Clinton too. What are we gonna do?” The tears flowed freely again.

  Mr. Boyd pulled Lewis in and hugged him with his free arm. “I'm sorry, son. I'm truly sorry.” After a moment, when Lewis’s hitching sobs weakened, he pushed the boy back again and stared into his moist eyes. “We have to kill the Harris boy. And anyone else that gets in our way.”

  He patted Lewis on the head again, and then moved the hand around to the small of his back; it returned with a blue-black snub-nosed revolver resting in the open palm. He handed it to Lewis.

  His hands sluggish, Lewis accepted the offering with apprehension and respect. He held the small gun in both hands, the weight surprising him. It looked like a gun from an old crime movie, one the detectives always carried and shot from the hip. Lewis looked from the small weapon, to the large shotgun in Mr. Boyd's grip.

  “Don't worry, I shortened that barrel myself. She shoots straight and packs a wallop. Your daddy ever teach you how to use one of these?”

  Lewis gripped the .38 in his right hand, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Well, time for a crash-course: Just point it at what you want to kill and squeeze the trigger. That easy. You got six shots. Make 'em count.”

  He slapped Lewis on the shoulder and pulled a flashlight from his belt. “Let's go.”

  Clyde Boyd turned and marched back down the trail, away from the clearing, following the beam of his flashlight, the shotgun resting on his shoulder.

  Lewis followed, leaving the gas can and headless bully behind, hoping Andy was the first one infected, and that this nightmare was over. He gripped the cool pistol as a distant scream of anguish reached his ears, dashing his hopes.

  Maybe the nightmare had just begun.

  37

  Lewis followed his neighbor along the dark trail, the faraway scream echoing in his mind. He hadn't heard another sound since, causing the seed of hope to flower again. Maybe the scream came from someone discovering the bodies on my street. Maybe Andy was the first infected, and this is all over.

  Mr. Boyd burst from the dense vegetation of the trail and stopped in the fork. “I'm an idiot,” he whispered and turned back to look down the trail they'd just left.

  “What's wrong?” Lewis whispered back.

  Mr. Boyd sighed. “I could've just checked the damn tree. If the leaves were all gone then we would know if that boy had been the first infected.”

  Another shriek of terror wailed in the distance. Mr. Boyd turned his head toward the sound. “Never mind. I think that answers that question.”

  Standing in the relative brightness of the main trail, Mr. Boyd clicked the flashlight off and secured it back onto his belt. He turned to Lewis and whispered, “I think we can see good enough by the moon the rest of the way back. I don't want 'em to know we're coming.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Lewis, the flower of hope wilting. “But if she controlled Andy then she knows we're out here.”

  He faced away from Lewis, looking down the trail. “Yeah, you're probably right. Let's move quietly, and be ready to—”

  Before he could finish, a naked woman sprang from the
bushes with a feral screech, landing on the old man's back, sending the pair sprawling to the dirt in front of Lewis.

  The shotgun flew from Clyde's grasp and tumbled away into the bushes lining the trail. The old man wrestled with the wild woman, freeing her from his back with a well-placed elbow to her temple. She quickly regained her composure and pounced onto his chest as he rolled over. The old man threw punches from the bottom, connecting with the woman's jaw, but was unable to dislodge her again.

  Lewis raised the revolver and aimed the short barrel at the struggling couple on the ground. His aim wavered as the woman's nakedness finally registered, hypnotizing him. The gun sank toward his feet.

  “SHOOOOT!” screamed Mr. Boyd as the woman bit into the flesh of his forearm, the word trailing off into a howl of pain.

  Lewis raised the weapon again but hesitated once more, this time in fear of shooting his friend.

  “SHOOT HER!” he cried again, driving her head back with his arm still in her jaws.

  Point at what you want to kill and squeeze the trigger. Point at what you want to kill and squeeze the trigger.

  Lewis aimed at her head and fired the revolver, the report and recoil of the small gun surprising him. Nothing happened. He had missed her completely from just a few feet away. He aimed the pistol again, steadying the gun with his other hand, and squeezed the trigger once more.

  The second shot surprised Lewis as well, making him jump, but this time the woman's nose vanished, the divot of flesh flying off into the brush. Dark blood oozed from the triangular cavity in her face. She calmly opened her jaws, freeing the mangled arm, and turned her seeping face to Lewis. Her glowing eyes met his. Releasing a ferocious animal squeal, the woman sprayed Lewis with thick blood as it dribbled into her mouth. He shut his eyes, the cool liquid spattering his face.

  Lewis didn't hesitate this time. Knowing what to expect, he opened his eyes, aimed, stepped closer to the yowling beast, and fired point-blank into her face.

  The bullet entered her left eye and exited the back of her head, her dark hair lifting as if from a sudden breeze. Lewis could hear a soft patter on the bushes behind the woman—the contents of her skull decorating the woods. This soft tapping sound, not the sight of the woman's destroyed face, is what caused Lewis to fall to his knees and relinquish the meager cargo of his stomach to the forest floor. The woman's limp body toppled backward off the old man.

  Panting, Mr. Boyd managed to get to his feet. He stumbled toward the retching Lewis and placed a hand on the boy's thin shoulder. “Good job, son. Couldn't have done it better myself.”

  Lewis used the front of his shirt to clear the vomit from his shaking lips, and the woman's blood from his face. He pointed to the leaking bite on the old man's arm. “You all right?”

  “I'll be fine,” he replied, pulling a bandana from his pocket, wrapping the wound tight. “Been bit by worse before. Remind me later and I'll tell ya about the time I tussled with a gator.”

  He helped Lewis up. “Well Lewis, at least we know for sure that boy I shot back there wasn't the first infected. And you were right, they knew exactly where to find us. Better get moving before more show up.”

  They stared at the dead woman, her one eye stared back, now a normal human eye. Lewis looked away from the accusing glare, his knees threatening to buckle. She was just a woman now, not a monster. Maybe someone's wife, or sister, or mother. And he had killed her.

  Mr. Boyd shook his head. “Damn shame, she was quite a looker.”

  He retrieved the shotgun from the bushes and turned back to Lewis. “That's all the bullets I could find for that gun. You got three more shots, son. Don't waste 'em. Who knows how many of these things there are now.”

  Lewis didn't respond, so Mr. Boyd asked, “You say you saw a bunch of 'em at the Norton house?”

  Lewis nodded as Mr. Boyd patted him on the shoulder again. “Come on then. Let's go home.”

  Lewis inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, regaining his composure. Stealing one last glance at the dead woman, he said a silent apology, and followed his friend.

  38

  The loss of the other twin angered her. Regardless, she kept feeding, gorging on the delicate bone marrow of the obese woman. Then three more gunshots, and another one of her creatures were taken. Maybe she underestimated the little child; she has lost five valuable servants because of him and that old man. It was time to tend to the nuisance.

  She sent the two cops to take care of the pesky brat and his aging cohort, and decided to hide in the safety of the underground lair while her other servants continued to build her ever-growing army.

  Several pops of gunfire erupted from a street over as she lifted the manhole cover—her marauding servants were struck but not harmed. Stupid cattle and their silly weapons. Delightful screams of pain followed the shots, filling her with joy. She watched, her eyes their eyes, as her minions sprinkled the magical sand down the dead throats of their victims. She would need to replenish the substance from the clearing soon, after she took care of the pests in the woods.

  Sated for the moment, she conceded, realizing this particular vessel was too small and vulnerable to be out in the open. Once the troublesome child and his old friend were either killed or turned, she would emerge and seize her land once again. She dropped through the dark hole into the storm drain.

  This time she would be more careful.

  This time her reign would last.

  Forever.

  39

  Justin sat up in bed.

  Firecrackers? Why are there firecrackers going off? What time is it?

  He rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes and listened for more of the celebratory pops. He glanced around the dark bedroom, confused. It wasn't even close to the 4th of July.

  A sudden sound from inside the house awoke him fully: the unmistakable hollow liquid crash of a bottle hitting a tile floor. Justin formed a perfect image in his mind of his father dropping a beer, and waited for the obligatory inebriated curses that usually followed such a mishap—none came. The only response was a single loud bark from Chewy, followed by the soft thumping tick-tock of the dog door swinging on its hinge.

  Chewy rarely barked, and when he did, it was usually a happy yap of greeting when the boys came home from school. This bark, however, had a completely different aura. This bark had a tone of fear, and warning.

  Tossing the sheet away, Justin swung his bare feet to the floor. He stood slow and silent, the need to be quiet overwhelming him, the reason for this necessity unknown, instinctual. He crept to the bedroom door, his footsteps muted by the thick carpet, and cracked the door just enough to peek through. The hall was dark. Strange shadows danced on the living room wall at the end of the hallway. He could hear the T.V. now, and realized something was moving in front of the light from the television, casting shadows into the next room. The volume was low, but he could make out the tinny sounds of actors voices and the occasional laugh track.

  Justin inhaled, about to call out for his mom to see if everything was okay, when Chewy spoke up again, another single bark, this time from the backyard. Justin could swear he sensed an urgent plea for caution in the dog's bark. He released the breath, the need for stealth staying his tongue. He opened the door further and squeezed through into the shadows of the hallway.

  He made his way to Clinton's room across the hall. The door remained closed, a sign reading KEEP OUT with a perfectly rendered drawing of Justin's dripping, severed head adorning the entrance. Normally, Justin would knock and ask for permission before entering, the wrath of his older brother nothing to toy with; this time, however, being quiet felt imperative, outweighing his fear of Clinton's fury.

  He turned the knob and pushed on the door. Justin knew—even before he saw the open window and the pushed-out screen—the room was empty. He could somehow sense the absence of his brother, the energy of the room rendered inert.

  “Clinton?” he whispered anyway, and cringed at the loudness of his voice.

&nb
sp; A crash came from the direction of the family room. Justin whirled, his quickened pulse humming in his ears. After a few seconds, he inched his way along the corridor toward the noise, approaching the pulsating shadows on the wall. The closer he got, the more sounds he could discern: a low intermittent squeak; quiet laughter and voices from the television; and above that, a strange slurping and smacking, like Chewy devouring his bowl of foul smelling canned dog food.

  The shadows stopped moving just as Justin reached the end of the hall, then after a couple of seconds, resumed their strange dance; he cautiously peered around the corner. He could see the back of his father's favorite chair—the beat up old recliner his dad refused to replace despite the complaints from his mother. The chair sat in its usual spot, silhouetted in front of the glowing television. Justin could see it rocking slightly, and could hear the old springs squeaking in protest. The wet smacking sounds also came from the vicinity of the chair.

  Sure enough, Justin could see a broken bottle on the floor below a dangling hand, and smell the sweet tang of beer. His father's silver wristwatch gleamed on the wrist above the suspended hand as it swayed in rhythm with the movements of the chair.

  Justin turned the corner and approached the recliner. Outlined against the bright television, he could now discern the familiar shape of his mother's head above the back of the chair, facing him. She was sitting on his father's lap, straddling him. Her head dipped up and down, and moved side to side. She didn't notice her son creeping into the room.

  With disgust, Justin realized what was happening on the other side of the chair.

  Oh, gross! They're making out!

  Justin scrunched his face into a melodramatic pucker of repulsion and turned around to head back to bed, relieved, but also regretting the picture burned into his retinas forever, an image that would surely haunt his dreams for the rest of the night. He inched his way back toward his room.