Cider Mill Vampires (The Caleb Anthony Paranormal Series #1)

by Alan Spencer

  “Shoot him!” Luke demanded, his throat constricted, the words barely eking out. “He’s lost it! Gaaaaaaaaaawd!"

  The sheriff crushed his larynx with his free hand, one clamp down and he was dead. He sucked Luke’s eyeball out of the socket and spat it out, freeing up more red that burbled forth. Then Katie pressed the gun to his temple. "I won't hesitate to—"

  He jerked to action, spiking Luke's corpse to the floor, and lowering down to dodge the gun that blasted a round where his head used to be, he donkey-kicked her in the stomach. She was launched off her feet, sailing into the wall. He heard her ribs break.

  The ruckus was overheard from the back office and feet pedaled to answer the disturbance.

  “You’ve done enough,” Ruden called out, stepping confidently through the entrance. Lenora was beside him adorned in a see-through black sheath dress, the fabric offering the gift of viewing her pert, round breasts, and the wild patch of pubic hair. He pointed at the sheriff. “Stay here and watch.”

  Deputy Fred Kiernan arrived on the scene lugging a 12-gauge. He didn’t have to call out any warnings, his face contorted in horror at Ruden and Lenora. Before he could pump the gun, Ruden sprinted at him, delivering him to the floor in one swift pounce, Kiernan yipping in terror as he was brought down. Ruden forced open the deputy’s mouth using both hands to crank it open, and he burped, vomiting foam and blood between his lips. Fred’s resistance ended the moment he swallowed. He froze with arms and legs stiff at his sides, his eyes drawn to the ceiling and affixed on nothing.

  Officer Herman Farley was second to arrive, but Lenora flanked him from behind, wrestling him to the floor and squatting on his chest to make him gasp for breath. His mouth shot open, and she spat the blood into his wide gob. “Uhhwup!”

  “The rest can die,” Ruden playfully announced. “Enjoy yourselves. Bleed them dry.”

  Robert Gomez blasted four rounds from his magnum, but the shots went wide by the guide of trembling hands. “Put your hands up, you’re under arrest—I'll shoot, I'll, I'll blast you all!"

  Lenora crawled with the speed of a skink, slinking between a series of desks, to rise up unseen behind Gomez. She wrenched the officer’s head from the neck, her fingers squishing through bone and tissue, and in one wicked pull, the extremity was uprooted.

  Deputy Wayne Hillard hid behind his desk and watched Gomez with wet eyes. Ruden approached him, knowing the man wouldn’t have enough time to aim and fire at him. “No—please don’t! Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!”

  Ruden shoved him to the floor by the face. “The blood is in you, and it’s ours to take!” He lifted his foot, and with a finalizing stomp, the deputy's head burst. Lenora, on her knees, sucked the pieces of meat between the broken hemispheres of skull, letting the mess ooze between her fingers and dirty her dress. Sheriff Graham was enamored by the sight of syrup heavy spoils oozing down her face, and he joined in, licking the cracks between the tiles for what trailed his way.

  “He’s one of us now." She tore back the corpse’s nose past the sinuses to reveal the brains. “This thrall has potential.”

  “They all have potential." Ruden eyed them both in action. “But not all of them will be as useful as others.” He studied the back area, the door marked "Holding Cells". “We still have work to do.”

  Lenora removed herself from the feast, following his gaze. “Is there anybody else here?" The sheriff confirmed, “Three drunks are detained back there.”

  Her arms bent to grapple and tear, her mouth widening, slowly opening, she issued a sharp rasp. “Me first!”

  Ruden turned to the front entrance, concerned with the commotion of their recent battle. “Did anyone hear those gunshots out there?”

  The sheriff rushed outside, checking the front sidewalks for witnesses. “I think most everyone around here’s off to lunch.” He peeked up and down the streets, what was empty of people. “The workers at the post office are the only ones in earshot. Plus, most of Smithville are shooting fireworks. We can hope they assume it’s Independence Day leftovers.”

  Ruden cackled at the man's notions. “That’s some wishful thinking, Sheriff. I have it taken care of already. Nobody's going to disturb our work. I was kidding."

  Lenora dragged three torsos with their innards trailing out their bellies from the main entrance and dropped them onto the sidewalk. Rushing back inside, she soon kicked a trio of severed heads up to them, then launched arms and legs and severed genitals and two breasts at them, the woman giddy and shrieking in delight during the entire process. Ruden scrambled to make sense of the pieces. The sheriff took the initiative and clutched the arms and legs like firewood and followed Ruden out to a nearby alley.

  Screams projected throughout the sky and echoed from random avenues in town center. The front window of the thrift store was shattered by the pulped corpse thrown through it. Figures and shadows stalked about the post office, the unemployment office, Sampson’s Ice Cream Shop, and Leo Greenwell’s single pump gas station. Telephone lines were cut, the electric lines two blocks east of them ruined after the posts were chopped down with an axe by one person, a member of the bloodthirsty gang. The dispatching group disappeared as fast as they’d arrived, seeking new victims in other parts of town.

  “They’re here!” Ruden cried in celebration. Lenora came to his side, and they embraced with a tawdry, bloody kiss. “They waited three years for this moment. Things haven’t changed, not for those who waited.”

  Ruden and Lenora urged the sheriff back into the alley with corpses in tow. He pointed at the school bus parked near the dumpster. Blood coated the windows, drying into an ugly period-brown. The beast couldn’t contain his laughter, knowing he was victorious. “No telephone, no power, and your deputies are hunting down civilians in their homes and on the roads. Nobody can hide from us."

  The leader opened the bus’ emergency exit. A hundred plus bodies were heaped on the seats awkward in pose, their faces painted in permanent anguish, the collection looking like children about to attend school. The mass of bodies produced a potent waft, the windows beading with condensation. The floors were glossed in red and spilling over the exit’s threshold and dripping onto the road. As the sheriff absorbed the disconcerting scene, Deputy Fred Kiernan and Officer Luke McCullough stumbled from the police station clutching their heads, grasping for fibers of their former selves. They were experiencing the beginning stages of their transformation, both of them barely able to stand on two feet without tipping over.

  Ruden addressed the new recruits. “You’re craving blood. Obey me, and you’ll know the taste again. The blood I’ve given you isn’t straight from the veins. It’s prepared special. To taste this blood again, locate those in hiding in Smithville and kill them and bring them to Birchum’s Cider Mill. If you refuse, join the ranks inside the bus, and I will be merciless.”

  The sheriff lent credibility to the warnings. “Do as he says. It’s true. The blood is glorious. The grumble of your stomach, the dryness in your mouth, the itch under the skin, the cravings will only increase. This blood is the only relief. And he will slaughter you if you disobey him."

  It surprised the sheriff how fast the two understood. Ruden’s power was either growing or the blood had become that much sweeter, the sheriff thought. The smell of the richness from Ruden’s lips, the sheriff took whiff after whiff of it and indulged what he could only observe and not partake.

  “Go now and complete your duty!” Ruden commanded of them, pointing up the alley. “By tonight, I want this town dead and their bodies delivered to the cider mill.”

  Officer McCullough and Deputy Kiernan raced to the task, the bloodlust shining in their eyes, what compelled them to pile into their cruiser and scout the town for survivors.

  Ruden entered the bus, and Lenora and the sheriff followed him. The beast took helm of the wheel, the circumference sloppy with clods of human skin. Before he drove, the beast looked at the sheriff. “Enjoy the ride, Sheriff, for there is much work to do in the coming hours.”


  24

  Shannon knew of a hidden trail in the woods that led directly to the cider mill. She promised Caleb they'd come upon other interesting landmarks on the way. He parked on the shoulder of a back road in front of the sign reading: Forester Woods Hiking Trail. Stepping out, he again cursed the fact he didn’t have a good pair of hiking boots.

  "You'll be fine," she reassured him. "If your feet get tuckered out, we'll take a rest, okay? I'll even hold your little hand."

  "You might be making fun of me, but I'm taking you up on your deal. You'll see. Half a mile, you'll be regretting those words. You'll be holding my hand, and you'll be sorry."

  She led him into the woods, trudging through untended terrain until they hit an actual trail. Walking on for moments without words exchanged, he took a stab at conversation. “What would you do for a living if you had the chance? Credentials aren't a factor. College degrees meaningless. I'd be a copyeditor for a cool publisher. New wave fiction. Fiction that someone hit a time warp, went to the future, and came back to the present with novels beyond post modernism. Imagine what cool crap they'll be writing in the year 3000. Okay, so what would you do?"

  She poured on her valley girl accent, “I’d go to Los Angeles and, like, become an actress and stuff.” She rolled her eyes and then fake vomited. “Forget that, I’m not one of those bimbos with fake boobs, fake lips, and fake vaginas—who knows these days—who want to “act.” I’d be happy with a calm desk job, maybe as a receptionist. I’m realistic. I wasn’t born with far-reaching dreams. I guess escaping my family will do for now, and wherever that means afterwards, I’m okay with it.”

  “You think Ralph and Travis would come after you?”

  “The only reason they’d track me down is in the hopes of bumming money. Mom loved me, but I can’t blame her for leaving Dad. He was an asshole to her, and he slept around. Hit her too. Being pregnant was like a padlock on her life, but she managed to unlock it and busted the hell out. Good for her. I can take care of myself. She’s better off out of my life. I don't hold it against her. I see exactly why she hasn’t come back.”

  "It's good you're so understanding. I bet if your mom came back into your life, she'd be pleasantly surprised who you've grown up to be."

  She winked, "And you clean up well too, Mr. Anthony."

  He fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and they shared a smoke—passing it like a peace pipe. "I didn't used to completely hate my family. My brother was the exception—used to be the exception. The good thing about Travis was that he was protective until I became a teenager and grew breasts and had periods. Travis got too busy chasing skirts instead of saving mine. I don’t miss high school either. Shit, I only made it to my junior year. I couldn’t keep my grades up working full-time. How can anyone keep their eyes open after working until three in the morning at the Burger Shack? I was already paying rent when I was sixteen.”

  He offered her sincere praise. “You’re a tough girl. See, you deserve better. You’re a good person."

  She locked arms with him. “You're being so nice to me. Where the hell did you come from?"

  "I was spit out of a yellow journalist's ass."

  "Yellow journalist?"

  "Ah, never mind. I'm here. Let's leave it at that."

  The dense trees parted and opened up to display the iron barred enclosure marked "Smithville Cemetery." The rows of headstones and grave markers were misaligned and dipping in sections from floods and erosion. The weeds were as tall as Caleb’s hips. It was a small piece of land that fit a hundred graves. The headstones were drab and weather-beaten and some had lost their engravings.

  The front entrance was padlocked.

  “A great place to mourn." He was unable to open the entrance after shaking the bars and the chains. “What a time to leave your bolt cutters in the car, right? They should make cemeteries that are more inviting."

  A cemetery in Brentwood, California, has created the first of what has been called a “luxury cemetery.” The grass is lush, the gravestones are polished and clean, and every marker has a set of flowers determined by their respective loved ones’ choice. Brentwood Cemetery is host to picnics, open bars during and after ceremonies, and a stage where live music can be played—again, to the loved ones' discretion. Lance McKenzie, owner of the cemetery, explains his process: “People are tired of the same old sad ceremony. Respect is first and foremost, but the bereaved want to remember their loves ones on a positive high note. Who wouldn’t want to be buried where their family members and loves ones can mingle and reminisce and remember in a fun-inducing environment?”

  Shannon threaded her fingers through the bars. “Smithville Cemetery’s been moved three times. They had it closer to the mobile home park years ago and then it flooded out. I remember the cranes and workers digging out the caskets. Folks from the neighborhood watched them exhume their graves like nosey neighbors. Some would camp out with lawn chairs and drink beer and, well, just watch them work. And then they place the cemetery in an open field. A year later, the owner, who finally learns he owns the property, claims it, freaking out that it's been mistakenly used for a cemetery. The law and courts got tied up, so they ended up clearing an area in the woods for the memorial. Here it is."

  He snapped three pictures and moved on. The hiking trail disappeared and reappeared, the local brush overflowing from all sides of the path. Rush Creek was paces ahead, the current pounding frothy and strong. He studied Shannon’s contemplative face; she looked scared, lost in a storm of thoughts. Was she having second thoughts about moving out of Smithville.

  “What are you thinking about? You look so serious.”

  She offered him a curious grin. “You seem too good to be true. What do you expect in return?”

  He blushed, feeling caught without doing something wrong. “A good story, right? What else would I want?”

  “How come you’re not jumping my bones? Most guys would be slobbering on me, but you’re not.”

  “It’s because I like you. I have to get to know you first. That’s my motto on the road. 'You have to really get to know people'.”

  "You sound like a politician." She raised her eyebrow. “You think I’m a bad girl, huh? I guess you have every right to think that. I party too hard, puke everywhere, strip naked in front of you at the motel and sleep in the same bed with you—all within twenty-four hours! Honestly, I expected you to make a move on me. But I think that’s what I like about you. You didn't."

  “I’m old fashioned. Besides, women reveal themselves in layers. You could be the butterfly within the cocoon, or the stinky onion whose layers get smellier the deeper I go.”

  “The same goes for you. Maybe "nice guy" is the role you play to fool girls into bedroom gymnastics. I’ve known guys that could sling the English when it comes to fucking.”

  “I guess if you want to know the truth, you have to get to know me.”

  “Likewise, bath salts boy.”

  They trudged uphill, cutting through the dense woods and into a temporary opening. He distinguished the outline of a wishing well that’d seen better days. He looked down and expected the glint of nickels and pennies to reflect below, but there was nothing except darkness.

  He snapped a series of pictures, using his flash. “How long has this well been out of commission? Did you ever make a wish in it? Whoever came up with the superstition? Why not drop a coin in your piggy bank and make a wish? That seems more productive than handing your money over to a stupid hole.”

  “I disagree." She surprised herself at how much sense her answer made. “Instead of treating it like a wishing well, it’s more like a well to hang out and talk. It's like a therapist who hears you out, and you usually feel better afterwards. And did you know Dale Birchum takes naps under the shade right here during business hours? I can’t remember when it was actually used for what it's designed for.”

  He couldn't resist drumming up an idea at the interesting notion:

  Publishing tycoon Trevo
r Berkshire is a practical joker. He builds landmarks that have no use and posts hidden cameras to watch the fun unfold. This includes public telephones that have no phone connection, stops signs that have no apparent function, newspaper machines that refuse to open even after the change is paid, vending machines that only have pictures of food and no actual food inside, and the best joke of all, Trevor pays a fake hooker to parade the streets selling baked goods. Mr. Berkshire yucks it up at his private office at the cost of foolish victims.

  “The cider mill isn't too far from here." She pointed to the apple trees in the near distance to entice him back to reality. “The apple nursery leads to the cider mill itself. That mill is the single reason this small town exists. We don’t even have a Wal-Mart. Everybody says Dale Birchum’s apples are the best fucking apples in the world. They’re hulking huge; have you seen them? They’re swollen and about to burst out of the skin. He says he doesn’t use chemicals."

  She whispered to him, "That’s bullshit. I’ve seen him spraying them down with insecticide at odd hours. Oh, and I’m sure everybody who works there is legal and is never paid under the table.” She ended her commentary. “But let’s see the place. I had fun the first time I came here...the first time. Now it's yesterday's news from years ago."

  Then they were both jolted, knocked from their conversation, by what spoke to them. Together, they hid behind the nearest tree and scanned each direction, scrutinizing the horizon. She grabbed hold of him with a vice-tight grip after the voice from up in the trees warned them, “Don’t go to the cider mill.”

  The two locked eyes on the man adorned in army camouflage who rappelled down a tree’s trunk with practiced grace. Chippie glared back at them with a green and black painted face, the army fatigues matching the colors. He carried a Glock 18 machine pistol. He stepped down to un-strap himself. Freed and on his feet, he scouted the horizon with his binoculars. “It’s not safe out here. It’s not safe anywhere except where there’s a fortified shelter, and I have one."