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

by Craig Wesley Wall

  She already had a surprise waiting for him when he reached his destination.

  Her wicked laugh echoed through the dark tunnels.

  44

  Exhausted, his ribs stinging and chest burning, Lewis slowed. Monsters or no monsters, he had to walk, the endless running had finally taken its toll.

  He looked at his empty hands and yearned for the pistol. Even though there’d been only one bullet remaining, the small but surprisingly hefty weapon had given him much needed comfort. No matter, he thought, convincing himself that the chances of getting another shot at Jerry was slim anyhow, and by the sound of it, he had the entire neighborhood to contend with. He just hoped Mr. Boyd was wrong about the tree; that it would burn, because that was all he had left—hope. Without that hope he was utterly alone. Lewis clung to the vision of the burning tree. He would have to do this on his own, or die trying.

  He marched on, too tired to care about what might be waiting for him on the dark path. The sky flashed like God taking his photo—heat lighting from an approaching storm. Lewis groaned; if the rain beat him to the tree his plan would definitely fail. He picked up his pace, but still did not have the energy to run. He tapped the bump in his pocket, checking every few seconds to make sure the lighter still resided there.

  The shadows of the dark forest pulsed as the stampeding clouds passed in front of the moon and distant lightning lit the blanket of advancing thunderheads. Lewis headed toward the forbidden trail, the fitful lights illuminating the way.

  More distant screams reached him, along with a sound that could only be a car crashing. Lewis could picture the chaos unfolding in his once quaint community and hoped Justin was okay. He wondered how many of his schoolmates and their families were already turned into flesh-eating fiends, or how many had become a meal for them. The thought was surreal. Then Lewis thought of something even more terrifying: the sound of the car crashing. What if they got downtown? Or further? Where would it end?

  He had to stop her. This had to work.

  Lewis entered the over-grown path, breaching the barrier spell without hesitating this time. He expected resistance around every bend, but none came. The distant sound of approaching sirens lifted his spirits; I hope they don't end up like the other cops. He walked on with stubborn determination, his skinny twelve-year-old frame feeling stronger now with every step that brought him closer to the clearing.

  He knew it would work.

  45

  The first responders fared slightly better than the chief and his deputy, but not much. The two cruisers—half of the remaining force of the Hopkinsville Police Department—slowed to a crawl as they entered the neighborhood, quieting their wailing sirens.

  Their headlights washed over the denizens of Poisonwood Estates. The once normal, hard working folk now resembled escapees from an insane asylum, standing still as statues on porches and front lawns, watching the vehicles as they passed. One home had the back end of a giant yellow station wagon protruding from its living room windows, one blinker still flashing. Both officers had to repeat themselves many times as they described the scenario to the station.

  Some of the frozen onlookers wore pajamas, others were half-naked, and a few were totally nude. One thing they all had in common was the varying amounts of blood covering their skin, usually their face. And the other thing they shared were their eyes—crazed, and glowing.

  Both cars had their windows down on this muggy night, and that proved to be their undoing. The officers drove past the odd assemblage, describing the onlookers as your stereotypical junkie, a hungry look in their awful eyes. The sheer number of people made the officers want to turn around and drive out of the neighborhood at high speed, regroup and wait for reinforcements, but the dispatcher reminded them there was a citizen in need. Not to mention the fact that the chief and Deputy Dixon had responded to a call in Poisonwood earlier, and had yet to check in, neither one of the officers answering the dispatcher’s calls.

  They stopped their vehicles in front of the residence of Mike Simmons. The windows of the house were dark, no sign of anyone home.

  Mike was home. He had turned off all the lights shortly after hanging up the phone, grabbing the flashlight from the kitchen drawer. He peeked through the small window at the top of the front door, his stunned face illuminated by the colored police lights. He could only watch, helpless, as the static mob suddenly converged on the cars with deceptive speed, moving as one creature as they attacked the vehicles, reaching through the open windows to get to the officers. Several gunshots rang out from the cars, the interiors flashing with every report. A few of the attackers fell to the ground and didn't get back up, but their numbers were too much for the cops.

  A scream reached Mike over the grunts and snarls of the attackers, a shrill scream of tormented pain that shook Mike with despair and guilt. The terrified shriek died, and Mike could see the lead car rocking as it filled with the blood-hungry ghouls.

  The other cruiser sped off, tires screeching, several of the beasts falling from the car, and Mike was filled with hope that the officer would get away. That hope was dashed, along with the officer's life, as the car lost control and plowed into a light pole with a deafening crunch. The driver flew through the windshield, his limp body bouncing off the hood and smacking face first in the street as sparkles of glass twinkled around him. A woman Mike instantly recognized crawled from the front seat and perched on the hood, admiring the crumpled body on display in the one surviving headlight. She jumped from the car, joining the hungry horde that waded in to feast on the dead man.

  Hey Tim, Mike thought, and trained the flashlight on his dead friend, his grip on sanity slipping a little further, it's your girlfriend. I think she's pissed. You better stay inside with me, buddy. Mike turned, leaned against the door and slid to the floor. His blank expression matched the one of his friend staring back at him from the kitchen.

  The doorknob next to his head rattled, and the door shook against his back. Mike put his head down, and for the first time since he was a little kid, he prayed.

  46

  The strobe of lightning revealed a familiar shape on the trail ahead—the gas can.

  Lewis smiled and jogged to the can, lifting it, the sloshing sound of gasoline boosting his spirits. However, his smile wavered as the far off sounds of gunshots, followed by another crash, reached him. The sirens had stopped and the silence left after the crash was disheartening. The smile returned, however, as more lightning revealed the headless corpse of Andy Reed sprawled along the trail, the bushes still gleaming with gore.

  Lewis shuddered. He must have walked right past the carcass of the naked woman, the darkness and his eagerness to reach the tree concealing her. The memory of her brains sprinkling the trail once again turned his stomach, wiping the grin completely from his face this time.

  He still couldn't believe he had shot her like that. Lewis thought of his mother and hoped he wouldn't have to do the same to her. He spat on the remains of his old nemesis and ventured on, moving faster now, his anger building. Lewis tramped down the trail, his mind focused on the tree, not caring about the witch and her growing army. The tree is the key to victory.

  Another blaze of lightning revealed the barrier of vines just up ahead. Distant thunder followed the flash this time, rumbling across the sky like approaching cannon fire.

  Lewis approached the wall with caution and peered through the vines; the glow of the white sand exposed the emptiness of the clearing. He barged his way through the dry tendrils, unscrewing the cap of the gas can as he went. Luck seemed to be on his side and Lewis was eager to take advantage of it.

  He advanced on the tree, its dark limbs reaching for him like bony fingers, their tips covered with healthy leaves. The shiny leaves undulated as a cool breeze swept across the clearing, reminding Lewis of the scurrying roaches in the sewers. He could feel the air around him change, growing heavier the closer he got to the tree. He knew the feeling wasn't the shaman's old spell, this was the t
ree itself, projecting an atmosphere of evil that made his skin flutter and his breath catch in his chest.

  Lewis splashed the trunk of the tree with the gasoline, the pleasant scent burning his nostrils, dispelling his feelings of dread.

  Please let this work.

  Lewis soaked the tree again with two more swings of the can.

  This has to work.

  On his fourth dowsing, a dark shape lurched out from behind the tree. A staccato burst of lightning scattered the shadows like startled bugs, revealing the figure.

  Clinton.

  47

  “Mike. It's Justin, let me in.”

  The muffled voice came through the door, followed by a sharp bark that vibrated down his spine. Mike stood and peered through the small window. It was Justin all right, and his dog too. The creatures on the street were still occupied with the fresh meat of the cops, the bark thankfully not drawing their attention over the din of their feast.

  Mike opened the door and Chewy barged in, growling, and barked once more. “Shhh. It's all right, Chewy,” Justin said, following the dog into the dim house. He closed and bolted the door behind him.

  “What the hell is happening?” Mike asked, calming Chewy by rubbing the dog's furry head.

  “Don't know,” Justin said, his voice shaking, tears welling in his eyes. “Everyone's gone crazy. My mom killed my dad and tried to kill me. The whole neighborhood is killing each other.”

  “Tell me about it. My roommate tried to eat me.” Mike pointed the light to the corpse on the kitchen floor.

  Justin averted his eyes and stabbed a thumb back to the door. “We were hiding in the bushes across the street. I saw the cops pull up so I thought it was safe to come out. That's when I saw your face in the window. Then, when everyone was busy … you know … with the cops, we snuck over. I'm glad you answered.”

  The front door shuddered in its frame as something slammed against the other side. Justin jumped and spun in mid-air. “Crap they know we're here,” he whispered. Chewy growled at the spinning doorknob.

  “It's all right. They can't get through that door, it's solid oak,” Mike boasted.

  Glass shattered into the house as Tim's girlfriend jumped through the front windows of the living room, landing on the shabby sofa that her and Tim had used for other activities besides lounging.

  “HOLY SHIT!” Mike cried out. “This way, quick.”

  Justin followed Mike down the hall and into a dark room. Mike slammed the door and turned on the light. He pointed to a heavy chest-of-drawers. “Come on, help me move this in front of the door.”

  Justin glanced around the small room. “Wait. Where's Chewy?”

  Before Mike could answer, Justin flung the door wide and ran out into the hall.

  48

  Thunder shook the sand beneath Lewis's feet as his best friend staggered toward him. Clinton's body jerked and swayed, fighting for balance as if the ground actually trembled from the thunder. Lewis realized why the creature was stumbling—Clinton's broken neck. Controlling his body must be difficult with a shattered spine.

  The stab wounds across Clinton's chest made Lewis moan with sadness as he began to understand what must have happened to his friend. The witch had broken Clinton's neck, and then stabbed him repeatedly, the cracked spine not doing the job quick enough. Then another thought hit him, if she got Clinton then she most likely got Justin too.

  Bitch!

  “I'm sorry, buddy,” Lewis said, choking back tears. “I hope it didn't hurt too much.”

  Lewis splashed gasoline onto Clinton's twitching, shambling corpse, the head leaning awkwardly on the broken neck in an inquisitive gesture, as if asking Lewis to repeat the last sentence. The dead boy continued forward, his sneakers dragging in the white sand, his arms raised, begging for a hug from his old chum.

  Lewis backed away, tossed the almost empty can to the side. So much for my plan. He freed the lighter from his pocket, flipping the lid back, the click summoning tears to his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he repeated.

  Lewis thumbed the wheel of the Zippo. Sparks jumped from the lighter, but no flame.

  “Shit,” he hissed, flicking the lighter three more times.

  On the fifth try, fire erupted from the beautiful chrome invention, just as Clinton's outstretched hands came within reach.

  Lewis tossed the lighter at Clinton's chest, the fuel-soaked t-shirt igniting with a rushing gasp of hot wind. Lewis fell to his ass and scooted away from the shuffling inferno that had once been his best friend in the whole world, a friend that had once saved his life—at least that's how he liked to tell the story.

  Clinton continued forward. Lewis raised his hand to shield his eyes, the few remaining hairs on his arm smoldering, the intense heat from the flames roasting the skin of his face. Lewis scurried further away from the flaming boy, until his back pushed against the palmettos and dense vines lining the perimeter of the clearing. The scent of cooking meat and burning hair made him gag as he turned, looking for an exit. The perimeter wall was too tall and thick, he wouldn't get very far before the flames toasted him.

  Above the crackle of flames and the popping of Clinton's searing flesh, Lewis heard the distinct and familiar laughter. Turning his face toward the entrance, Lewis could see Jerry—or rather the vile thing that has stolen Jerry's flesh—illuminated by the fire, lurking on the other side of the entrance. The spindly vines cast shadows like ancient runes across the boy's cackling face. Behind Jerry, stood Lewis's mother, bathed in flickering yellow and orange. She laughed as well, her teeth and face stained red.

  This is it then, Lewis thought, exhausted, his mind no longer able to except the horrors of this long night as reality. This is how it ends. Burned to death by the flaming reanimated corpse of my best friend while my possessed, dead mother watches and laughs. I guess it's better than being eaten alive.

  Lewis gave in to his fate, cowering against the wall of the clearing, the heat of the nearing flames burning into his arm as he shielded his face. He glanced again toward his mother and Jerry. They were both watching the scene from the entrance, their widening smiles threatening to split their heads in half. Then, their expressions changed, the giant grins fading slightly into a look of confusion.

  Lewis felt the scorching heat diminish.

  Confused himself, Lewis lowered his arm to see Clinton walking away from him.

  Walking toward the tree.

  49

  “Justin,” Mike called out too late. Justin had already vanished around the corner. Canine and human growls reverberated down the long hallway, and Mike could hear Justin's voice screaming for Chewy to come back.

  He's just a little kid. I gotta help him, Mike thought, and went after Justin. The house was still dark so Mike flipped the hallway switch on his way. Light flared, revealing the action to go along with the commotion. Chewy was on top of Tim's girlfriend, his jaws latched to her throat. Mike watched in awe as the mutt whipped its head back and forth, and heard the snap of the woman's spine clearly over the dog's deep growls. Just as the body went limp in the dog's death grip, two more people came through the window. Mike knew the couple well: Mr. and Mrs. Chung, the nice elderly Asian couple from two doors down.

  The old couple attacked Chewy with a ferociousness that shocked Mike. The dog squealed as the woman tackled it, biting into the furry flesh on its back. Mike started forward to help Chewy when a cry from his right stopped him. Justin flew from the kitchen, past Mike, screaming at the top of his lungs, the stained marble rolling pin held above his head like a battle-ax.

  Mrs. Chung jerked her face up just in time to see the rolling pin crash down on her head, splitting the scalp wide open. A clump of soggy brown fur rolled from her mouth as she tumbled backward, her face a mask of red. Her husband—the once quiet, always smiling Mr. Chung—rose to his feet, faced Justin, and released a bestial screech so fierce that Justin's knees gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. Mike swung into action and dropkicked the old man in the chest, s
ending him flying back out the broken window.

  “COME ON!” Mike screamed.

  Justin and Chewy both sprung upright at Mike's scream; together, they ran down the hall and into the bedroom. Mike followed. When he reached the bedroom door he glanced back; the old couple were back on their feet, and they had plenty of friends.

  Mike entered the room and slammed the door, the sense he was closing the lid on his own coffin squirming into his brain.

  “Lock it,” Justin said, panting. He sat on the bed, hugging the injured dog. The dog's snout was coated with blood, but Mike was sure most of it belonged to Tim's girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.

  “It doesn't lock. Quick, help me with this thing.” Mike motioned once again to the bulky dresser.

  Justin stood and helped Mike slide the heavy piece of furniture in front of the door. A second later the door flew open, smashing into the barrier. Hissing snarls came through the thin opening. Bloody fingers appeared in the gap and Justin promptly smashed them to pulp with the rolling pin.

  “We need more stuff to put in front of this,” Mike yelled over the animal screams on the other side of the door. “Help me with the bed.”

  Chewy was up and off the bed before they could tell him to move, and they flipped the mattress and box spring over, blocking the door.

  “That won't hold them for long. They can bust right through that door,” Mike panted, leaning against the box spring, his eyes wide.

  “What about the window?” Justin asked.

  Mike shook his head, catching his breath, and motioned toward the window. A brand new air conditioner filled the space. “That beast is screwed into the frame. Works great, though.” As if to prove this point, the unit clicked on and hummed, blowing cool air into the room.