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

by Alan Spencer

  “But what a life it will be,” she beseeched to him, ignoring any thoughts of consequences. “I want to swim in blood, fuck in blood, gorge in blood, and render it from bodies. I love to squeeze heads off my victims and see right through them to their veins, to their core. I could do it forever, and ever, and ever!”

  He appreciated her zest, but the reality remained: how could they kill the horde that labored in the cider mill? It didn’t come to him until he pictured the monsters sent down the conveyor line one at a time.

  “I have an idea." He caressed her cheek. “Together, we shall keep the blood for ourselves.”

  She hugged him close. “So what’s your plan?”

  He pointed up to the ceiling with a hooked smile. “It’s upstairs, in my son’s room...”

  27

  Caleb believed Chippie's militant performance earlier was genuine, considering the evidence had been all around them, namely the planting of land mines and the bear traps. The work would merit a certain level of composure on the coot’s part, a special brand of seriousness, but once inside the man's house, the bastard was giddy. Chippie opened the front door, letting them cross into the threshold of his home, while humming an unknown song under his breath. Four chains and bolts later, the door was secured.

  None of the windows were unimpeded, each blocked by card tables stuck in place by industrial sized nails. A map of the world was taped on the living room wall stabbed by red tacks and covered in labels: “Safe,” “Questionable,” “Secure,” “Test Sight,” “Agent Orange Storage,” and “Uranium Stockade.” Pictures at Vietnam with Americans raising their M-16’s above their heads as villages burned in the background dominated another wall. Solider of Fortune magazines were stacked knee-high among issues of Penthouse and Tang. The kitchen was bare except for a table stocked with well over two dozen bottles of hard alcohol. Chippie reached for a steel flask next to a lamp and took a hard swig. The whiskey bullet knocked some sense into him, his face frozen on pause.

  “Is he okay?” She was afraid Chippie might hear her. “I don’t like being here.”

  He agreed. The atmosphere of the house promised Uncle Sam’s good ol’ boy was ready to pull the pin on the largest grenade in history. What had Chippie seen that alarmed him so much? He recalled the screams in the woods when they visited Johnny Appleseed’s bones yesterday, but he wasn’t positive they were real or a manipulation of distance.

  He decided to test the man. “We’re not going to get anywhere without talking about what’s going on. You’ve obviously been at work, Chippie. The woods are a deathtrap. Now what is it that you saw that’s got you so concerned? Why not call the police?”

  “The police are dead." He finished the flask and launched it across the room. “You doubt me, just like the tree hugging hippies and hairy bitches who burned their bras during Vietnam. It's moralists and cowards and passive aggressive assholes like you that can’t put the chips down and fight. This is where I draw the line. I know when I’m in danger, and this battle requires unquestioning support.”

  She was offended by his nonsense. “Just spit it the fuck out, you idiot. What's going on?”

  The statement was a slap to Chippie's face. He couldn’t react immediately, but when he did, he was speaking through gritted teeth. “The police are dead. They’ve taken out the power. I can’t turn on my lights.” He flipped the light switch to demonstrate. “Everybody in town has been mutilated. The dead bodies are piled up at the cider mill, if you care to take a look.”

  “Nobody’s dead, Chippie," Shannon challenged. "We were in town this morning. Nobody attacked us. I didn’t hear a damn thing.”

  “It’s happened in the past few hours. They’re fast. Stronger than us, and they’re not human. Dale Birchum and Annie McTavey have joined ranks with them. I saw them drinking blood out of a barrel at the cider mill, and their faces, they were—”

  “Joined who? Drank what?” He grew curious, interrupting him. “What exactly did you see?”

  He was now sitting in a captain's chair and refilling a different flask with "Pewter Inn Bourbon." “I was in the woods and caught sight of a strange woman. Her eyes were bulging from the sockets, as big as billiard balls. This bitch was hideous. I watched this woman send a headless body down Dale’s apple conveyor line. The blades sliced the corpse into blood and pieces. Each of Dale’s employees were decapitated and drained of blood and hanging from the ceiling rafters. More of these people—monsters, whatever you want to label them—arrived about an hour ago. There are dozens of them, and each of them are freaks. I don’t know who they are or why they’re here, but they need to be blasted to hell like those terrorist camel jockeys.”

  “Oh my God, here he goes again. Normally, you’d spout American propaganda bullshit and pin the blame to a different nation or terrorists, but this time, you’ve made up the enemies. Nobody’s at Dale Birchum’s cider mill decapitating heads—or whatever the hell you said.”

  Caleb wanted to hear Chippie out. The way he delivered the explanation: the agitation, his vigor to drink, the man’s genuine fear, the words had to stem from something real. He imagined Chippie to be an overzealous warmonger, but not a storyteller. “Let’s hear him out. Maybe there’s truth to what he’s saying.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Chippie barked. “This isn’t any kind of enemy I’ve ever read about. This is a war of a different kind, and you can call me crazy, but you won’t be calling me dead. You go out there without me, I can’t promise you’ll survive. They attacked Sheriff Graham in the woods. One of those people came down from the trees and spat something into his mouth. The sheriff was left on the ground in a trance, but he got to his feet and flocked to the cider mill. It’s where they congregate now, and he's one of them. I have the best seats in the house to stop this thing. I will stop them.”

  Chippie marched to his telephone, holding it up for them to hear. “Listen.”

  She didn’t move and wouldn’t, so Caleb got up and listened instead.

  The line was dead.

  “Have you paid your phone bills lately?”

  The man slammed the phone back onto the receiver. “Damn it, you don’t believe me! Still, I’ll show you mercy. Help me. I plan to strike at night. The shadows will be on my side.” He eyed them sourly. “That’s the only thing on my side.”

  “I’d rather call the police,” she suggested, hoping Caleb would second her idea. “You’re the one we have to worry about, not a far-fetched cult in Dale Birchum’s cider mill. And what if there are monsters? What a shitty place to meet, huh? It belongs in one of your articles, Caleb.”

  He smirked at the thought. “I’d entitle it “Blood Cult Holds Weekly Meetings at Local Cider Mill.””

  “The hell with you both!” Chippie snapped, punching the wall. “Leave my house. Die if you consider my warnings a joke. It’s every man for himself—so be off! My conscience is clear. You think I’m crazy, but I saw those dead bodies, and those people. They’re madmen. Creatures. They’re stronger than you and me. They can wrench heads from bodies. All I know is that they want blood and lots of it!"

  Shannon stomped out the door after toiling with the numerous locks and bolts. “Yeah, that’s great, Chippie. I pray I don’t step on a landmine on the way back to Caleb’s car. And what if children stroll through here and play a little football or baseball and they go into the woods?”

  “There are no children left. Nobody's left."

  Caleb followed after her, and the coot raced to the door and concluded their meeting. “Stay on the path and you won’t be hurt. Whatever else you do is your funeral.”

  The urgency in the man’s eyes, it haunted Caleb well after he caught up with Shannon. "It's going to be okay. We're out of the house now. I'm sorry."

  “He pisses me off. Why would he go out of his way to tell us such bullshit?”

  “Because he wants to scare you.”

  “Well, mission accomplished.”

  "Think about it. He doesn’t have family, do
es he? He’s not married. He lives alone. The man’s lonely with his war memories and collectibles. What would any man in his position do to bring a lovely lady and a reporter to his house for an afternoon chat?”

  They entered the woods, going back the way they came, though now walking one behind the other so as not to step on any tripwires. The sky was thick with rain clouds; a strange color scheme of blues, grays, and aqua greens. Forks of lightening busied the horizon. Each icy breeze offered a firm warning of the coming storm.

  “Don’t be upset. How about visiting the cider mill ourselves? It’ll clear up Chippie’s lies.”

  “I want to go home and sleep. That fucker ruined my day. I’ll take a long nap, and I’ll let you take me out to dinner later.”

  “Oh really. And who said I’d do that?”

  “You owe me two hundred dollars, buddy. You got into Chippie’s house. You heard his insane ramblings. This day can’t be a total waste because that fucker ruined my afternoon.”

  “Fair enough, but I have a favor to ask.” He removed his keys and jangled them in front of her. “Take my car. Set your alarm clock. Give me a couple of hours. I might go back to Chippie’s place and have a man-to-man talk. I think there’s more to see than what's in his living room. A man’s basement is even more interesting than any other room in the house.”

  He handed Shannon the keys. “I trust you to pick me up at a decent time. Give me a couple of hours, or so.”

  She wanted to convince him to do otherwise, but the look he gave her indicated her arguments were a waste. “Hey, whatever, it’s fine by me as long as I don’t have to come along for the show, it’s your life.”

  “Hey, how about later we check out the cider mill? I’ll buy you some cider donuts.”

  He said one last thing to her before she disappeared up the path. “Hey, if you can’t find me when you come back, you know to call the police, right?”

  28

  Dr. Stone suffered a fit of spasms as he coughed up pink blood. He collapsed onto his hands and knees in shock. It was then his throat opened up from the inside out and disintegrated, the wound spreading as acid burned through the lining of his esophagus and down to his lungs. The dying doctor grabbed Hector’s legs in a plea for help as his chest and stomach melted; the pinkish mess coagulated on the floor in a sizzling puddle. See-through torso, his organs slithered out his belly, and his face turned into the outer layer of a dissolving pill. One final scream was all he had left. After the shriek, his head broke from the neck and slopped onto the ground, everything continuing to fizz once separated from the body.

  Ruden rushed to the nearby table and closed the plastic box containing what was supposed to be a blood powder substitute.

  Hector reeled at the sight of his fallen researcher. “Ruden, what happened?”

  Ruden worked to subdue his assistant's reaction. “I snuck into the facilities at KU to create this synthetic blood powder he just sampled. Though it turned out to be poisonous. It’s another failed project, I'm afraid." His voice now harbored authority. “He had to die, Hector. What has he done to support us? He goes on and on about how Frank shouldn’t have died, and how we should close up shop. He’s been sneaking out more and more at night without telling us. If our fellow kind come in here, they won’t have the results they want, and that could mean death for the both of us. But listen, I know I can trust you. I’ve got a real good discovery I’m looking into. Your notes helped me come to this conclusion.”

  Hector spoke at a whisper, afraid Ruden might take action against him too. “H-how did my notes help you?”

  “Your notes covering blood-to-mouth infection, I’ve been thumbing through them recently. How can we replicate that experience without turning a victim into a hulking monster, like us?”

  His cohort was confused. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Create a craving for blood in someone without turning them into a monster, addict them enough to the blood from our throats—the kind that’s rich, intoxicating, and irresistible—that they’ll do anything we tell them to do. They'll donate the blood in their veins for another taste, kill for us, commit to research, anything we want them to do, all this while being as weak as a human.”

  Hector’s mind spun taking in what Ruden had said. “Yes, we could replicate the experience.”

  Ruden pointed at Dr. Stone’s body. “Let’s get to work, but first, we have to get rid of this useless garbage on the floor. I'll get the mop..."

  29

  Ruden hurled himself through the glass front of Shelly’s Bakery. Landing inside, he crunched over broken shards as he observed the empty lobby. Nobody moved within, but his vision penetrated through the back walls. He sensed a person hiding, their blood flowing ever so quickly through their veins. Lenora stalked beside him; the state of her matted hair and blood crusted skin lent her a sewer rat quality.

  He placed his finger on his lips, “Shhh. There’s someone in back.”

  He observed the display of cream puffs, frosted donuts, apple strudel, German chocolate cake, frosted cookies, apple, blueberry, cherry, and mincemeat pies.

  None of it enticed him.

  “Pretty good for a Podunk town." She eyed the desserts. “How long has it been since we actually ate normal food?”

  He recalled the day everything changed for him. “I was working at Carver University in New Hampshire. I was studying blood borne illnesses. I was one of the best phlebotomists in my field. I was ahead of my class, and cutting edge for the late sixties. I was analyzing white and red blood cells through a scanning electron microscope in the sub-wing of the university when a back window shattered. That night you arrived, I was eating corned beef and cabbage that my girlfriend at the time prepared and dropped off.” He smiled at her. “That was my last meal.”

  “Corned beef and cabbage." She pinched her nose. “Gross. What a crappy final memory of food. That’s tragic.”

  She followed his lead into the back of the kitchen. He hopped over the cashier’s counter. Powdered sugar and flower dusted the floor and shaped footprints. In the back room, nobody was out in the open. The person was hiding inside of something.

  Shelves of confectionaries and canned fruit filling and a variety of industrial sized mixers occupied half the space, and he skulked about trying his best not to give himself away—though smashing through the front window wasn’t too subtle.

  He focused on the walk-in freezer, but seeing through the layer of steel, there was nobody inside. Glancing about the room, he finally learned her location. The woman was hidden in the bread oven. A wicked smile formed on his lips, twitching with malevolence. He seized a large butcher knife and jammed the oven door’s handle closed with it. He turned the oven on 450, releasing a cackle within the deepest pit of his throat.

  “Shelly is best cooked at 450 degrees for ten minutes!"

  “No!—noooooo!” Shelly screamed as the oven warmed up. She coughed and suffocated, banging the walls, kicking them, shrieking and blathering nonsense, all of it falling on apathetic ears. “For God’s sake, let me out!”

  She gagged, unable to talk anymore, the heat causing her to succumb to a grizzly death.

  The timer dinged twenty minutes later, and he opened the oven, and he revealed the corpse to be a blackened crisp. She boiled inside, steam issuing forth when he used a knife to poke her stomach open. Pockets of blood burst within. Lenora used a spoon to catch the red, and she blew on it to cool it. She slurped slowly, savoring the warmth like a delectable soup.

  They worked at the corpse for ten minutes until it was bone dry.

  Outside the bakery, Smithville was empty of its citizens. Ruden and Lenora studied the vicinity to double check what seemed obvious: everybody had been turned to blood. After a soft rumble of thunder in the sky, she caught a pair of eyes peak out from a sewer ditch.

  She screeched, “We haven’t killed everyone yet!”

  “Raaaaaaaaaatch!” She crawled on all fours, clearing the distance from the ditch
in seconds. Reaching in, she yanked out the man by the neck. Out from the gutter hole, she flung him in an arc, and he slammed headfirst into the street. The man jittered in shock, his skull fractured and splitting all the way down to his chin. Lenora picked his brains out in handfuls and tilted her head back to sponge out the blood into her mouth in ropey lines.

  A glob of clotted red dribbled from her lips. “Nobody can escape us!”

  He stared through the streets until his vision cut through the road. The sewers were dank and flowing with water, but nobody else roamed the dank denizens. The ice cream parlor was empty, each window shattered, the leftover trails of blood spattering the walkway outside. The public library and park harbored nobody. The post office was also abandoned; a mail truck had wrecked into a set of parked cars; loose envelopes blew aimlessly in the wind.

  A squad car sped up and stopped beside Ruden. The trunk was heaped full of limbs and torsos; it was tied shut with nylon cords to secure the load. Another corpse without limbs was staked to the top of the car; the stumps exuded what Ruden considered wasted fluids. Five heads were pitted across the roof of the car tied down by rope, each of their expressions mangled and spliced by talons. Deputy Fred Kiernan and Officer Luke McCullough were inside, their eyes in the early stages of development, swollen and tomato red.

  The deputy put the car in park and said, “We’ve cleaned out the back roads and the residential areas. Smithville is clear.”

  “Are you certain? Lenora pulled out one from the sewer, and we killed one hiding in the bakery. I suggest you and your boys make another go around. Pool your resources and form roadblocks. By tomorrow, none of it will matter, but for now, tonight must be ours.”

  The deputy shifted his car into drive again. “We’ll take these bodies to the cider mill and finish the job.”

  “Go to it. Be back by midnight. That’s when the celebrations will begin.”

  Lenora returned from her freshest kill sopping wet. She clung to his arm, resting her head against his shoulder. “It’s really happening. I watched my family starve themselves to death. They gave up on you. Just about all of them did.” She let out a soft sob. “Then your thoughts became hopeful again, Ruden. I’m so happy I didn’t let myself die before you discovered a cure. I was so close to death.”