“Great. What do we do?” Justin asked, his voice quaking, the night's events taking their toll on the young boy.
“Give me the rolling pin. There's a baseball bat in the closet. We're gonna have to fight them when they come through,” Mike said as the barricade shuddered against his back.
“When they come through?”
Seeing the terror in their eyes, Mike shrugged and gave boy and dog his best smile. Ever since Justin had nearly drowned in the public swimming pool a couple years ago, where Mike had been working as a Lifeguard, he’d felt a need to protect the little guy from harm. If Mike hadn’t performed CPR on Justin, he most likely would have died. Now, he felt a deep responsibility for the boy’s safety. “If,” he vowed. “If they come through.”
It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Dresser and bed shuddered again.
When they come through, thought Mike.
50
Clinton stumbled toward the tree, bits of burning cloth and flesh dropping to the sand. Lewis watched his friend, grasping the situation with disheartening clarity: the evil witch was planning to light the tree, trap Lewis within the circle, letting him die slowly and painfully. Payback for being such a nuisance. Then Lewis recalled the perplexed gaze on Jerry's face. Or maybe there's some of Clinton left in there that she can't control, he thought. He hoped. But either way the outcome would be the same. The perimeter was going to burst into flames.
Lewis decided to take advantage of the reprieve and charge the entrance, take his chances with Jerry and his mother. He stopped before he could even start, his opportunity slipping away as the chief and his deputy waltzed up next to Jerry, fresh blood gleaming on their faces. Lewis remained seated, accepting his fate again. He noticed the gaping wound across the chief's chest. Mr. Boyd's last shots had done some damage at least. He turned his attention back to Clinton.
Clinton reached the gasoline soaked trunk of the tree and without pausing, hugged it like a long lost pal. Lewis scampered away from the edge of the clearing as the tree ignited, the rushing wind from the explosion of flames like the enormous sigh of a sad giant. Lewis ducked his head between his knees to protect his face from the flames. The boiling air rolled over his back like winged razor blades, slicing through the thin fabric of his mutilated shirt and into his flesh, sucking the air from his lungs.
He looked up, squinting at the bright flaming pyre. Through the shimmering heat, Lewis could see Clinton still clinging to the trunk like a condemned heretic. He glanced around the clearing, thinking his plan had worked after all. The perimeter wasn't burning, only the tree was ablaze, now fully engulfed in beautiful fire, all the way to its highest branches.
Fully ablaze, but not burning.
The fire covered the tree, but Lewis could see that the leaves were unmarred by the flames, the black wood unchanged. He had the distinct feeling the tree was laughing at him.
That's when the noise started. Not laughter, but something much more troubling. It was the sound of the initial explosion, only played in reverse, like a record spinning backward. The sad giant was now inhaling. The flames on the tree began to follow the sound, the film being rewound as well. Starting slow and gaining speed, the flames were absorbed by the dark skin of the tree. Even the few curling flames still burning on Clinton—now fused to the tree—were being drawn into the bark.
Gasping for air, Lewis could only watch as the fire vanished into the tree and the rushing noise condensed to a high-pitched hiss. The woods were dark once again, lit only by the full moon's glare and a few chunks of Clinton's flesh that still burned in the sand. Laughter rose above the hissing sound now. Jerry—hands on his hips, cackling at the sky in a stereotypical villain's pose—stood a safe distance from the clearing, his undead minions waiting obediently behind him. Jerry lowered his gaze, a smug grin of victory on his moonlit face.
On his knees, Lewis met the glowing eyes that once belonged to his frail companion, and showed them his middle finger. Lewis closed his eyes, his finger still raised, as the hissing abruptly ceased.
51
The box spring and mattress tipped over, smothering Justin as he fell to the floor. Mike dropped the rolling pin and tossed the cumbersome bed from the child. That's when the first one came through the widening crack in the door. Chewy sailed past Mike's face, landing on the dresser, and tore into the first attacker, forcing it back through the gap. Mike pushed, managing to close the door again, Justin once again there to help. Chewy—his snout covered with fresh blood, and teeth dangling pink flesh—jumped from the dresser and went back to Justin's side.
“They’re gonna get through,” Justin whimpered over the din of snarls on the other side of the thin door.
“Let 'em. I'll bash their brains in,” Mike shouted to the shuddering door as he pushed on the dresser.
The door pounded into the barrier and splinters flew into Mike's face, stinging the flesh of his forehead. He looked up to see a hole forming in the door just inches from his eyes. He ducked his head down as another blow showered him with fines pieces of the cheap wood. Two more crashes and the hole in the door grew to the size of a basketball.
Mike looked up again, straight into the bleeding yellow eyes of Mrs. Chung. Her face disappeared for a second and then returned as she crashed her head against the door. This time her head breached the barrier, pushing through the hole with a rasping scrape. Her scalp hung to either side of her head like fresh slices of corned-beef, exposing white skull underneath. She bit at the air, her teeth clicking together like deadly castanets, trying to reach Mike's face. The wooden baseball bat came down on the woman's head with a hollow clunk, and she disappeared back through the ragged hole in the door.
The already weak door was now a loss. Mike stood up and flashed Justin a nervous, apologetic grin as the wood cracked under the stress of the onslaught.
“Get ready, Justin. Here they come.”
Man and boy stood ready with their weapons raised. The dog bared his lethal teeth, also ready, as the top half of the door tore to kindling.
52
Another second ticked by. Still nothing happened. The woods were silent.
Anticipating a maelstrom of fire, Lewis opened one eye. He saw the expression of joy evaporate from Jerry's face, replaced with another look of confusion. Lewis lowered his middle finger and let his hand drop to the sand. He opened the other eye as a faint cracking reached his ears, like heavy footfalls crashing through the woods in the distance, approaching from every direction. Lewis could feel the air change, a static charge tickled his follicles, the same sensation he felt before an intense thunderstorm, only tenfold. On hands and knees, he inched closer to the center of the clearing, closer to the tree, as far away from the edge of the circle as possible, sensing the coalescent threat surging around him.
Clinton's roasted husk separated from the tree with a wet crackling sound, thumping into the sand just in front of Lewis.
The distant snapping intensified, drawing nearer from all sides, accelerating until it resembled the tearing of fabric. The sound surrounded Lewis, spinning around the clearing now, gaining speed with each revolution until it became one droning whir. Lewis covered his ears as the ripping increased to a deafening volume.
Just when the sound threatened to drive Lewis insane, it stopped. It did not fade out. It just stopped.
Lewis, realizing what must be coming next, flopped onto his stomach, his hands protecting the back of his head.
The silence ended with a colossal explosion, the giant roaring in anger. Sand from the base of the tree blasted Lewis's scorched flesh. The perimeter wall burst into flames, rocketing upward and shooting outward. A ripple of blazing destruction spreading through the woods, away from the clearing.
53
The top half of the door bounced off the dresser with a spray of splinters.
Mike and Justin, backed by Chewy, took action as the horde pushed through the remains of the door. Mike swung the rolling pin, cracking the
skull of the lead attacker with a hollow moist pop, vaguely recognizing the man but not caring at the moment. Two more ravenous beasts replaced the first, with the hallway behind packed with snarling, gore-caked people, queued up for their next meal.
Justin swung the wooden baseball bat with all his might, but to little effect. The creatures poured through the hole, tumbling over the dresser, falling into the room. Chewy attacked them as they hit the carpet, and Mike continued swinging the rolling pin. Streamers of blood filled the air.
Despite their brave efforts, it was a losing battle. One that would end soon.
Just when Justin was on the verge of collapse, his muscles seizing from swinging the heavy bat, the house began to shake.
Mike could feel it come up from the floor and crawl up his legs. He could hear the walls rattle above the hungry cries of the attackers. The rumbling built, moving the entire house around him, increasing in intensity.
More of the crazed demons fell into the room, overwhelming the trio, backing them across the vibrating floor until man, boy, and dog were stopped by the far wall. That's when Justin raised the bat above his head, and screamed.
The small boy let loose an immense wail overflowing with all the night's terrors and frustrations. After all he had been through, he was going to die anyway. This thought angered Justin and he refused to go down without a fight, even if he could barely raise his weapon.
The mob of ravenous intruders froze at the sound of the boy's emotional cry. They stopped in unison, inches from the three defenders, their arms dropping to their sides, their hands swaying like crooks from a gallows pole. They too started to scream. The screams mirrored Justin's cry perfectly: angry, frustrated, refusing defeat.
Mike assumed the monsters were mocking the boy, a cruel joke before they slaughtered him and his companions. Then he heard the screams transform.
They changed into a cry of pain.
And fear.
54
The anguished scream could be heard above the roar of flames. Still on his belly, surrounded by a wall of fire, Lewis searched for the source, squinting against the heat as it singed his exposed flesh.
The shimmering bodies of Jerry and his minions could be seen through the towering flames, shadows stumbling against the solid wall of fire, toward the flame-free clearing. The violent release of fire from the perimeter had launched them down the trail like burning rag dolls, disintegrating their clothes and hair instantly.
Lewis watched the figures wade through the inferno, the calamitous howl rising into a screech of suffering that brought a smile to Lewis's face. One by one the bodies dropped, succumbing to the flames, until only one was left. Swaying left and right, Jerry danced with the fire, fighting his way back to the clearing, his thin arms fanning the flames as if they were a swarm of annoying insects. Jerry stumbled as flesh from his legs cooked away, regained his balance, and plodded on.
Lewis breathed in, the biting heat pricking his lungs, and screamed through a throat lined with sandpaper, “DIE! JUST DIE!”
The flaming child fell to his knees just short of where the barrier of vines once stood, now a solid wall of flames; the muscles in his legs, burned to leathery strips, could no longer support his meager weight. He fell forward onto his face, his roasted hands breaching the wall of fire and puffing down into the white sand. The black hands grasped fistfuls of the chalky sand and pulled, dragging the charred remains across the threshold.
Jerry's bald, blackened head broke through the flames and released another scream, a defeated bellow of pain. He lifted his face toward Lewis and stared at him through melting eyes. Thick viscous blood burst from the dripping eye sockets, bubbling away into steam as it flowed down his shrieking, charred face.
The chin of the creature that used to be little Jerry Harris stabbed into the white sand, shutting off the pathetic wailing. Dark liquid gurgled from the boy's empty sockets; his black, skeletal hands relaxed, resting on the pale sand like two withered spiders.
55
The roomful of paralyzed attackers crumpled to the carpet. The house still shuddered slightly as the rumbling faded away.
Justin, his rasping breaths loud in the quiet room, stared at Mike. Mike looked back and shrugged, his eyes in danger of popping from their sockets, his breathing also labored. Mike poked the nearest body with his bare foot and raised the pin, ready for an attack.
“I guess you scared them to death,” Mike joked, and jumped when Chewy released a victory bark.
Justin laughed. A tired, weak laugh laced with sobs. He dropped the bat, knelt down, and hugged the shaggy dog; Chewy cleaned Justin's grimy face thoroughly with his long tongue.
“Come on,” Mike said, still panting, his face freckled with blood. “Let's check out the street.”
Justin retrieved the bat and followed Mike out of the room, threading his way through the bodies littering the floor, trying his best not to touch them. The dog followed the same path, sniffing the corpses as he went.
The trio worked their way down the hall, into the living room and through the front door—now missing from its hinges. They stepped onto the front lawn, chins dropping as they took in the sight of their street. Under the glow of the streetlights, bodies dotted the pavement and lawns, folded in various positions. Children and adults alike littered the street.
Mike grabbed Justin's shoulder and shook the boy gently. Justin looked up, saw Mike staring off, and followed his gaze. Smoke and clouds above the woods glowed a bright orange and red like a beautiful sunset. Lightning flashed through the clouds, and thunder rumbled under their feet.
“The woods are on fire,” Mike said. “The lightning must’ve caused it.
“Justin?”
Mike turned to see Justin staring at a body on the sidewalk, Chewy at his side. Justin stared into the open eyes of his dead mother, once again their normal shade of brown, and fell to his knees next to the body. Chewy sniffed the corpse and whimpered, nudging the lifeless hand with his snout. Justin sniffled, wiped tears from his eyes with his shirt, and stood up. He began checking the other bodies strewn about. He paused briefly at several he recognized, then moved on, continuing his search.
“Justin? What are you doing, buddy?”
“Looking for Clinton,” Justin said, choking back his tears. “He wasn't in his room earlier. Do you think he's still alive?”
Mike looked around at the assembled corpses and stared up at the blazing sky. “I'm sure he's around here somewhere.”
Another clap of thunder rolled across the glowing clouds.
56
Lewis stared into the empty eye sockets, a feeling of relief washing over him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in the sand. He opened them again and lifted his head at the sensation of something soft touching the back of his outstretched hand. A beautiful leaf rested there, shining in the firelight. He watched as the leaf withered and crumbled away to nothing, the memory of its delicate touch on his scorched skin the only proof of its existence.
Lewis rolled onto his back and looked up into the tree. Countless dark shapes floated down around him, silhouetted against the burning woods, turning to ash and vanishing when they hit the sand. Sadness filled his heart as he grasped the meaning of the downpour of leaves. He cried for the souls raining down around him, and rubbed the back of his hand, the feel of his mother's loving caress undeniably there.
It was done.
The thing that had stolen Jerry's life and body was dead, or at least imprisoned in the tree once again. Despite his predicament, despite his loss, and the tears that welled in his eyes, Lewis laughed. Surrounded by flames, he looked up to the glowing clouds.
I did it, Mr. Boyd! I sent her back!
His laughter soon turned into hacking coughs as the thick smoke from the raging forest began to settle on the clearing. Lewis got to his knees, scanning the circle for any chance of escape.
He was trapped.
The blaze surrounded him, the smoke thickening, making it harder to see a
nd breathe. Lewis choked and gagged as the acrid smoke filled his lungs. He recalled the silly films his teachers had made him watch in school: the safety films in which the narrator instructed the boy with the funny haircut to drop to the floor during a fire, where the air remained clear of smoke. Lewis pitched forward to his stomach again.
The smoke actually was thinner close to the sand, giving Lewis some air to breathe, but it did nothing to fix his problem with the ring of fire. Lewis realized his only option was to wait for the rain to come and save him from the flames. If the rain came.
Lewis lay on his stomach for several minutes, his forehead resting on the back of his hands, coughing into the snowy sand. The smoke and fumes grew worse, burning his lungs with every struggling breath. He felt sleepy, his tired muscles warm and relaxed. I'll just hang out here with Clinton until the rain comes, then we'll head home for supper when mom calls me.
Lewis lifted his face, searching for Clinton. The thick smoke, glowing a beautiful orange, now caressed the sand. His eyes burned and leaked as he searched for his friend. Reaching out he felt the hot, crispy flesh of Clinton's arm. There you are, buddy. I thought you'd left me. Lewis clasped onto Clinton's arm and smiled weakly as his faced dropped back into the sand.
Lewis and Clinton relaxed on the tree stumps in their secret hideout, the warm sun and blue sky peeking through the woven roof. The boys giggled, tears rolling down their cheeks. Lewis hadn't a clue as to what was so funny, and it didn't matter. He was with his friend.
With his eyes closed, Lewis hacked a rasping cough as the radiant smoke engulfed his still form.
A lilting voice drifted on the pine-scented breeze, catching Lewis's attention.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 21