Ravenous

by West, Terry M.

  “Jeez, Callahan!” boomed Brax. “We gotta get you to a hospital!”

  “Wish I could, Brax, but duty calls.”

  “Already?” Druid sighed, Ferrez’s arm curled around his shoulders for support. “Can’t we take, like, a five minute break or something?”

  “Not an option, Druid,” said Callahan. He waved the pocket-sized console in his hand. “We’re getting distress signals from the amusement park down the road. We’re thinking some of those baby beasties escaped the brothel and broke into Danger World to raise a little hell.”

  “Little monsters running riot in an amusement park?” Brax grinned. “Sounds like fun!”

  “Do you need to sit this one out, Agent Ferrez?” Callahan asked.

  Ferrez shook her head. “I got nowhere else to be. I’ll need a new gun, though.”

  Callahan smiled. “No problem. Come on, we’ll take my car.”

  He pressed a small button on his console and the headlights flickered on a souped-up civilian Humvee parked on the sidewalk that had miraculously survived the fight between Brax and the Car Nex. As Druid helped Ferrez into the back seat, his hand lingering on her shoulder, he turned to Brax.

  “You’ve seen Cloverfield?” he asked, dubiously.

  Brax shrugged his massive shoulders and squeezed into the Humvee’s passenger seat. “Gotta have something to do in the down-time between missions,” he said, and slammed the door shut.

  Druid shook his head with a disbelieving chuckle and clambered into the back seat. Ferrez leant her head against his shoulder. He smiled, enjoying the coarse feeling of her brunette hair against his cheek. Brax was right; you had to have something in the down-time between missions. And, for the record, Druid knew exactly what he wanted his to be.

  Callahan kicked the engine into gear. “Hold onto your hats, bitches,” he said, and the car exploded off the sidewalk with an animal roar and a screech of burning rubber.

  Author's Note: THE FACE-PUNCHERS WILL RETURN

  About the Author

  Joseph Ramshaw is a West Australian-based author with a love of monster movies, comic books, sci-fi, fantasy and all things genre! Basically, he's a massive geek. 'Car Nex: The Mighty and the Merciless' is the most fun he's ever had while writing, and he intends to continue writing in the universe of the Face-Punchers for a long time. His other stories can be found elsewhere in 'Journals of Horror: Found Fiction' from Pleasant Storm Entertainment, 'Cursed Curiosities' from Barbwire Butterfly, and the upcoming 'Undead Legacy 2' from JEA Wetworks. For a full list of all the goings-on in Joseph's life and career, please visit his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/ramshawshorrorshack. He lives in WA with his gorgeous fiancée and an extremely fluffy cat named Sebastian.

  www.josephramshaw.com

  Car Nex: Storm by Kerry EB Black

  The Campbell homestead looked as creepy as she imagined, projecting an air of past pains. Mariah Dawn grabbed her over-sized bag from the passenger’s seat of her Caddy SRX- deep red, like her fingernails- to collect her camera.

  She focused on the farmhouse. The boarded windows resembled patched eyes. Each frame captured neglect and abandonment. Shutters hung askew as though dislodged during a tornado. White paint peeled and chipped from the bleached wood siding. Steps leading to the covered front porch splintered, unable to bear their burdens. A lock box barred the front door.

  Strangled weeds reached through the driveway gravel like fingers of the buried damned seeking light. A burnt husk moldered where once stood a large barn. Untended fields lay farrow. No flowers. No birdsong. An underlying air of menace emanated from the very breeze. The place even smelled rotten, like stagnant water and spoiled eggs.

  She snapped photos of the decay as she made her way to the back of the house.

  As suspected, someone stripped the wood from the back to gain access. A place as infamous as the site of the legendary Campbell Homestead Massacre in Pleasant Storm, Texas attracted attention.

  That’s why I’m here, she thought. Writing an anniversary piece for ‘Haunting Texas Landmarks.’

  The door groaned on its dulled brass hinges. As she crossed the threshold, a grey streak hissed by. Mariah startled, then laughed. A scrappy Tom cat glared from one baleful, blue eye. A deep scar over his right socket told of a battle that also shredded his ear. “Hey, Mister! I’m not here to cause trouble. Just having a look around.”

  The cat arched his back and hissed, bearing needle-like teeth.

  “Seriously, puss, I promised my editor a good story.” She snapped a photo of the menacing feline. It growled. “Now, excuse me. I told my editor I’d have this story done tonight, and I don’t want to keep Reggie waiting.”

  The cat swiped at her legs as she rushed passed into the kitchen, but he missed.

  The kitchen sported typical appointments. A farmhouse sink sat beneath a window. Older appliances, a big wooden table ringed with four chairs, and huge cupboards, empty except dishes, glasses, and pots and pans. The knife block bore only empty slots. She slid open a drawer, but found no silverware. “Bet trophy hunters stole them all, huh Puss?” The cat glared from the doorway.

  A carved wooden highchair in the corner gave her pause. “That’s right. Mrs. Florence Campbell was expecting a baby.” She adjusted her lense and snapped a photo. She ran a finger along the ridged tray. No dust. That’s odd.

  She opened the pantry and found it empty except for an intact bag of dog food and two large ceramic bowls. No mouse holes. Wonder where Fido was when Adam Campbell went all psycho killer?

  No dog was mentioned in the police report. Mariah pulled a piece of paper from a folder in her purse. She had managed to get a photocopy of the original police file off of the Internet.

  Mariah counted the victims in her mind; pregnant wife, a son, and daughter, plus nearly twenty poker buddies at a nearby neighbor's house and three more friends found in Campbell's barn. Adam Campbell's charred remains were found in the barn as well. He had eaten the business of a shotgun. All of these people were allegedly murdered by upright, church-attending gentleman and soft spoken farmer Adam Campbell on 29 September, 1965. Police never found the murder weapons, but they described the bodies as hacked to pieces. Shredded.

  Above the fireplace in the dining room, a portrait of the Campbell family revealed four smiling faces. The boy resembled his dad. Adam boasted a muscular physique. Mariah noted that Adam was a big man. She could see how he would be able to overpower so many people. But looking at his happy eyes in the portrait gave her doubts.

  The china cabinet was looted.

  The wooden floor boards creaked as she walked through the living room. The furniture and Oriental rug smelled musty. Her footfalls echoed as she made her way upstairs.

  She came first to the girl’s room. A cabinet displayed blue ribbons from 4H and the Texas State Faire. Pink ballet shoes and tutu hung among the clothes in the closet. A rag doll rested on the pillow as though waiting her young mistress’s return.

  The boy’s enthusiasms included the local sporting team, the Yellow Jackets, and astronomy. A telescope pointed toward the window, and science books rested on his desk.

  She wandered through a guest room and a restroom right out of the 1940’s, complete with claw-footed iron tub and black and white octagonal floor tile. No sign of the murders surfaced until she entered the master bedroom.

  The smell of decay intensified. Curtains lay in a stained and shredded heap on the ground. The wooden floor and throw rug bore dark stains. The king-sized bed take a seat smashed on its side in the corner, as though tossed out of the way. The closet door leaned against the cracked plaster wall, its heavy metal hinges mangled. No clothes or shoes. No fire safe holding important documents. A cheval mirror and dressing table twisted together in ruins of wood and glass across from the closet. Deep gouges raked along the chair rails and plaster.

  Mariah photographed everything.

  A scraping sound from above made her jump. With stealthy steps, she made her way to glance up
the stairs to the attic. Subtle shuffling made her heart pound. She cleared her throat and called, “Hello? Is anyone up there?” Silence greeted her.

  She silently cursed each complaint of the worn wooden steps. On both sides of the stairwell, deep gouges were scraped in the plaster. Wonder what made them? When she inserted her finger, the plaster crumbled to fine dust. She saw nobody in the attic room. A desk dominated the space. No dust here, either. Strange. The drawers scraped with warped reluctance along their tracks.

  Masculine handwriting scrawled across pages of lined paper, nonsensical and disjointed. Ham. Petal. A doodle of a sun. Teeth. Wind. Red eyes. Legs. Power. Hundreds of pages of scribbled words filled the drawers. Mariah spread them atop the desk and snapped a shot. She gathered up the pages and replaced them in the drawers.

  Sweat stung her eyes. Gosh, it’s gotten hot. She turned to leave, but halted. Wait a minute. She pulled out the bottom drawer again and knocked on its base. Hollow. She pulled out the papers and ran her finger along the inside until her finger found purchase. A false bottom slid to reveal a book.

  Crafted of suspicious leather, the dark brown cover displayed no title. Mariah trembled as she touched it. Frayed and damaged, the tome bore an air of menacing antiquity. It weighed more than she anticipated. Hand-calligraphed on vellum in an unrecognized language, Mariah could not read from the pages. She felt electricity course through her as she ran her finger along the lettering and shuddered. Wonder what this means?

  She dabbed her face with a tissue. It’s really hot up here. Her stomach filled with an acidy feeling of foreboding.

  There was a rumor that Adam Campbell was into devil worship.

  She shivered despite the heat. I don’t see any satanic symbols, she thought. Just indecipherable writing.

  She studied the words wiggling across the page. Wind? Dervish? She imagined meanings hiding behind the ancient language.

  I know this is important. She removed her cell phone from her purse and dialed. When answered, she said, “Theresa Anne Noble, how much do you love me?”

  A hesitant soprano replied, “What’s going on?”

  “You’re never, ever going to believe what I just found.”

  “What?”

  “An ancient book.”

  “How ancient? Where’d you find it?"

  Mariah smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm. “The old Campbell place. You remember, where that guy went all scary insane back in ‘65.”

  “I think I remember.”

  “I can’t read it and wondered if you could bring your awesome linguistic talents out here to this po-dunk town and assist me?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  Mariah laughed. “Let’s see. A night in the big city. The best wine we can order, dancing, and chocolate decadence desert after.”

  “Well, you know the right buttons to push. Text me the address and I will GPS it. It’ll take about an hour for me to reach Pleasant Storm.”

  “Great. I’m going into town to see if I can get any more information. It’ll be in the attic in the top drawer in an old desk. Be discrete. We’re not exactly invited, you know? The back door’s open, though.”

  “Got it. On my way.”

  Mariah photographed the book and its pages. Illuminated letters began and ended the pages. The letters looked heavy in places, then almost thin as spider legs skittering across the pages. When she closed and photographed the last cover, the howling of a pack of dogs startled her.

  Wonder if one of them is Fido? she thought.

  She glanced at the time on her phone. Crap! How’d it get so late? Theresa will be here soon.

  She clutched the book to her chest, reluctant to place it in the drawer. I could take it with me and have Theresa meet me somewhere.

  She shook herself out of her revere. Don’t be stupid. Hurry up. She fought the urge to retrieve the volume. This story’s getting under your skin.

  She hurried through the house and, wary of possible dogs nearby, to her car. Her heart pounded in her ears as though she had run a marathon, and a feeling of unease sent quivers up her spine. The air hung heavy with the smell of rotten eggs. She felt watched as she started the engine and drove to town. Wonder if my buddy Dr. Schrader will talk with me?

  Pleasant Storm boasted a population of just under one thousand people. Small town folk kept track of one another. That’s why Campbell’s rampage was such a shock. She pulled into a parking space outside of Dr. Schrader's psychiatistry office which was plopped on Pleasant Storm's lazy main street. Mariah applied a fresh layer of makeup. Want to look my best when I schmooze for information. Satisfied with her reflection, Mariah paid a visit.

  Dr. Schrader was in his 80s, easily, but he appeared healthy, clear and vital. He was in his own waiting room, instructing his receptionist on something, when Mariah showed up.

  Dr. Schrader twirled his grey mustache like a cartoon villain when she introduced herself. “You helped a friend of mine a number of years ago. Bella Walton.”

  “I remember Bella.” He scrutinized her.

  "I thought you might be able to help me," Mariah said.

  “I’m between appointments. What can I do for you? Is this about Bella?”

  “I’d like to ask you about something that happened a long time ago. It’s for an article I’m writing for the anniversary of the Campbell slayings.”

  Dr. Schrader stiffened as though slapped. “That was a very long time ago, and whatever makes you think I have anything to add?”

  “You met Adam Campbell, right? You knew his family. Can you offer insight into his character? Maybe supply a motive?”

  “I don’t have much to share. Neither he nor his family were my clients. I can’t think of a motive to ascribe. Sometimes psychoses hide well in seemingly well-adjusted people.”

  “Have you heard the theory that he was involved in some kind of devil worship?”

  Dr. Shrader tut-tutted. “Any time provincials hear of something so outside the norm, they blame the devil. I assure you, there is enough evil within the human heart to make any devil proud.”

  They shook hands. “Well, thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  She felt his eyes boring into her back as she left. Mariah reclaimed the driver’s seat of her car. She was outside now, but felt as if the doctor was still staring at her. Through a window, perhaps. A feeling of impending doom inexplicably blossomed in her stomach as she steered down the quiet main road.

  Mariah jumped when her cell rang. With a nervous giggle, she answered it.

  Theresa said in hushed tones, “I’m here. Wow, this place is disturbing, and the book. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  “Can you translate it?”

  “I think so. It’s written in more than one language. One is related to Sumerian. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Okay. Stay safe.”

  “Sure. By the way, what’s with the demon cat?”

  Mariah laughed. “Don’t know. He’s a scrapper, though, isn’t he? I’ll be there soon.”

  Lights in the rear-view mirror drew her attention. Her heart sank. “Oh, no. The cops.” She pulled to the side of the road, put the car in park, wound down the window, and collected her license and registration.

  She recognized the name on the older gentleman’s badge. Sherriff Thornall. “Ma’am. License and registration.”

  She handed them through the window. “What seems to be the trouble, Sherriff?”

  He took her papers and returned to his car without a word.

  While she waited, a text came through from Theresa. “Got something. This is interesting.”

  She typed, “What’d you get?”

  Sherriff Thornall returned to her car and restored the paperwork. “What are you doing in Pleasant Storm, Miss Dawn?”

  “I’m writing a piece for ‘Haunting Texas Landmarks' on the Campbell murder-suicide. You know, with its anniversary and everything.”

  “So I heard.”

  Guess the doc�
��s confidentiality doesn’t extend to curious journalists. Her phone jingle announced another text message.

  He narrowed his eyes, looking like a stern grandfather. “We don’t need press about those kinds of things. You know what we could use? We could do with some coverage of our fair. Kids work real hard at their projects. Why not report on Jeb Barnes’ prize winning pig? You won’t find a porker her size anywhere else. Really, though, what’s a nice girl like you doing investigating something so grisly?”

  She looked into his watery eyes. Lines like fissures etched into his skin. Old Soul cologne wafted from him, making her think of her Great Uncle Jim. Sherriff Thornall felt safe.

  The jingle proclaimed another text message. She knew it was Theresa without glancing at the display.

  “You were a deputy when the murders took place, weren’t you?”

  He nodded, his eyes looking distant and untouchable. “Yep. I was a kid still. That business was the nastiest carnage I’ve ever seen. Don’t do no good to pull open their crypts when we know their wounds won’t be healed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, but let the dead and our town find some peace. You ever heard of the Aurora, Texas encounter? They suppsoedly got a little green man buried at the cemetery. Why don't you go and bother them, instead? ”

  Another text. Mariah positioned herself to fill the window and covertly slid her finger along the screen.

  Message one read, “I’ll be damned. I think I’ve got this translated.” Message two read, “Someone’s in the house. Kids I think.” The last read, “Get here fast. Everything is wrong.”

  Cold electricity rushed down her back, and the air disappeared. Theresa. Panicked, she reached through the car window and grasped the sheriff’s collar. “My friend is at the Campbell house, and something’s wrong. Please come with me.”

  His face tuned crimson. He pushed away, yelling, “Damn it, what’s wrong with you people?” A rapid limp carried him to the squad car. He thundered, “Follow me!” With a whirl of red and blue lights, he led a hurried pace.