by Alan Spencer
“How are we getting that damn box inside?” Annie was concerned, speaking up from behind him. It wouldn’t be long before another vehicle or group would arrive to deliver bodies and join in on the effort. “We don’t have time to wait around.”
He scrambled to decide, and then he had an idea. “Run inside and grab a pile of intestines.”
“Why would I do that?” She was caught off guard by the damfool request.
He was tired and impatient, so he kicked her on the backside, cursing under his breath. “Move it.”
She did as she was told. Ruden would have him strung up and bled dry upside down if he caught onto his plan. Annie would perish the same, but he calmed himself with the idea that he was virile and robust. The blood from the barrel enhanced his muscular and circulatory system; his heart beat with ferocity, pumping adrenalin and fuel unending. He could fight the ones inside, but if he could avoid confrontation, the plan would work much better. None of it would happen until the celebration tonight. Ruden promised to reveal the secret about the blood and the true meaning behind its power, and he would be there to catch every detail.
Annie finally returned with two handfuls of intestines, her face perplexed and annoyed. “Innards are strewn all over the place in there."
“Drop them on top of the box,” he instructed, pointing at the top of the crate. “Smear your bloody hands along the wood too.”
She cast him a smug face, but she finished the task anyway. “Are you going in?”
“Go about working. Don’t worry about me. Collect the bodies and organize the place. Just look busy. I’ve got this.”
He crossed the threshold with the box decorated with innards. They stank of cod oil and wet pig. He focused on the conveyor belt up ahead. The piles of bodies were random and each heaped as tall as the dung piles outside of Cindy Major’s horse kennel five miles west of their location. Men and women alike worked franticly to pick up bodies and render them into pieces on the conveyor. Smithville was literally in cordwood stacks ready to be chopped on the bladed belt and pressed of worth.
He placed the box underneath the belt mid-way and stepped away when a beefy man six feet tall seized him by the shoulder, startling him. He spoke in a deep smoker’s gruff. “What’s your name?”
“Dale. W-why do you ask?”
The speaker wore blue overalls without a shirt underneath. He was barrel-chested, broom thistle hair in patches on his back and shoulders. Two double chins lent him a marshmallow face. The man had shaved his head bald, the surface uneven with wicked veins. The stranger was a good three hundred pounds.
“I’m Henry Farley. Some of the boys need help lifting those stock tanks. We need a few strong backs. Damn near filled every stock tank in the place with blood.”
“You got it. Back’s as good as anybody’s.”
He followed Henry to the stock tank where his family and workers’ bodies had been drained. Four more men of similar build awaited their arrival, each with distended eyes and faces withered by time and trials. He imagined a group of seasoned lathe operators five minutes after punching out.
Henry pointed to the hole that Dale had toiled so hard to dig up. The concrete was still wet, but the hole was covered with pond liner an inch thick.
He was confused by the change. “When was that done?”
Henry smiled, pleased to speak of his accomplishments. “Together, we decided not to dump the concrete in. It’ll be days before that hardens. The rubber pond liner will buy us time. The blood’s collecting so fast, we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“Then let’s make do. I suppose we’re lifting the stock tank and pouring it into the hole.”
“Exactly,” one of the others replied. He wore jeans without a shirt, his chiseled body forming muscles so tight they were malformed. “Pour it right into the hole.”
He clutched one end of the stock tank, the others following his lead. Henry counted aloud, emboldening the group: “One! Two! Three!”
Grunts and expelled breaths, bones popping, muscles shifting, they lifted the burden up together. The stock tank was hundreds of gallons full, and even in his new body, Dale and the others struggled to hoist it from the ground.
“Come on!” Henry spat through gritted teeth. “Lift!”
He stomped upon skulls, popped organs out of bellies stepping on them, and slid on blood stained straw to reach the pit.
“Almost there.” Dale issued words of guttural encouragement. “This is it, the end of our cravings!—the end of hiding!”
The statement got the rest of them roaring. They plundered forward and tipped the load into the hole. The crimson flowed thick and aromatic. Each of them were entranced as the blood splashed down the nine foot drop and collected; it filled a quarter of the space.
“Again,” Henry ordered, pointing back the way they came. “Three more to dump, boys.”
Half an hour later, they completed the task; the hole was full to the brim.
The group lumbered outside and sat down on a group of hay bales. The hay was supposed to be used to cover the new grass seed he'd planted, but Dale didn’t get a chance to finish the project.
Henry produced a pipe and tobacco; he lit the tobacco and smoked it. He passed it around, and Dale graciously accepted the pleasure when it came his way. He appreciated the taste of tobacco, especially since he enjoyed his own pipe regularly in the evenings.
He couldn't help but ask the question. "I'm curious to know what brought everybody here?”
Henry took a whiff of the air. “The mind grows sharper to the smell of blood. You'd think with our keen senses, we'd dominate the world, and yet our survival has remained a problem. Our appearance, mostly; many of us have died because of that. I mean, not everyone can go from a normal life to a night dweller and be successful with the transition."
He sniffed the air again. “This new blood is different. Better. I haven’t tasted it, but the smell alone is evidence of its intricacies.”
The shirtless man to his left added to the story. “Finding a blood source also affects our longevity. Without the blood, our bodies slowly wither. As the blood can enhance, lack of it can shut us down like a vengeful cancer. We shrink and shrink until dehydration and malnutrition sets in. We can’t eat normal food, so once you’re introduced to the thirst, there’s no going back, even if you try. And yes, this new blood Ruden’s created, it’s wonderful. He demands us to wait before we can partake of it.” He squeezed his fists, snarling deeply, “But I can’t fucking wait to have it on my tongue.”
Henry continued sharing his personal history: “It’s impossible to murder and hide the bodies in today’s society. Forensics and police investigations have put many of us out-of-commission. I was a funeral embalmer; I worked late hours to avoid scrutiny.” He raised his head in pride. “Instead of disposing of the blood and water mix down the drain, I saved it. Others have done this too. The corpse blood was diluted, but it was blood all the same. No police or bodies to account for; my victims were already heading to the grave. I had it easy until my deformation occurred."
A man with mane-long hair and emerald green eyes shared his story next. “I used narcotics to survive. I’d perform deals at night, mostly weed in the suburbs—rich kids pay the most. I’d wear sunglasses and a stocking mask to hide my deformity, like many of us do. Then after I’d score the cash, I’d pay whores to give me their blood. They were happy to oblige since I didn’t make them have sex with me.”
“I stole hazardous waste from hospitals." A leaner cut fellow with a Cubs baseball cap and a tattoo on his shoulder of a woman riding a Harley Davidson topless spoke up. “In the bins, they threw away dirty needles, soiled linens, and the reason I bothered with sorting through that shit, was the placenta and blood from births that came from the OB floor. The blood was fertile and nutrient rich. It was hard to restrain myself when I picked up the goods not to pry open the plastic containers and drink it right then. I’ve almost lost that job a handful of times. And
then when my eyes started to grow bigger, I couldn't work or show my face in public.”
Dale sighed, not having a story of woe and hardship to share. “Thank God this happened when it did. I wouldn’t know the first step to survival. I’d probably wither and die, or get killed.”
Each of them lowered their heads in mourning. Henry then said, “Many of us have perished for those reasons. Money. Blood. Being discovered. It’s too bad Ruden’s work wasn’t completed sooner.”
The man in the Cub’s hat growled, picking up single threads of straw and peeling them into smaller pieces. “I lost my wife. She grew tired of living off of what I brought home from hospitals, so she went out on her own to find blood. She got her head blown off by the police after she murdered someone in the park. Senseless."
Henry patted his back. “The struggle is over. Now’s a time to celebrate. This is a new beginning.”
“A new beginning is right, my friends!” Ruden called out, standing on the hood of a baby blue Chevy truck with Lenora at his side. “Blood will flow aplenty for the rest of our days. Our battles have been fought and lost, but here we are still living. You have centered your lives on me. You’ve commuted to stay in the Midwest to protect and see me through my research, and I have not failed you. Years later, my friends, and finally, here we are.”
Those inside the cider mill gathered around the Chevy truck. Annie wrapped her arm around Dale’s back and pulled him in close, lovingly. She was wet with blood, and he lavished its touch more than his lover’s.
“They have no clue what’s coming,” she whispered in his ear. “No clue at all.”
He smiled, enjoying the secret—the box.
Ruden continued his speech. “Tonight, we’ll celebrate our victory and remember those we’ve lost. We’ve become the shadows. We’ve maintained our lives at a level less than what we should be living. No more, friends. We’ll chew the fat from the bone, relish the blood—bathe in the blood!”
Cheers and accolades spread; the group of mongrel onlookers were enlivened by their leader.
“Continue your work,” he called out to them next. “There is another task I must complete, immediately. There are members double checking the neighborhoods for survivors. I’ve learned from Deputy Kiernan that there’s a house in the woods nearby. A man resides in that house, and he probably knows we’re here. This man is well armed. He’s not afraid to fight, the deputy tells me. Who’s willing to smoke this man from his hole? I need volunteers.”
Many raised their hands, but one of the first names called out was Dale’s—and Dale hadn’t raised his hand. Ten others were summoned. Dale was hesitant to approach the Chevy truck, but the roar of the crowd and Annie’s nudge—“You have to be one of them”—urged him into the truck bed with them, those monsters ready to murder with psychotic integrity.
Ruden took the helm of the vehicle after enough people had come to their aide with Lenora seated in the passenger side. The truck sped down the road in the direction of Chippie’s house. Henry Farley was sitting to the left of him with a snarl tightening his features.
Henry caught Dale’s stare. “You know this guy in the house?” He nodded that he did, and Henry asked, “Is he dangerous?”
“Well, Chippie’s into American warfare, but he didn’t see action on the account of his heart palpitations. He’d be the first to die in the trenches if it were up to him. He embraces local war veterans; he often invites them to his house for parties. They have target practice and pissing contests in his backyard.”
He sensed Henry wanted to hear more pertinent details of the last survivor in Smithville, so he supplied them. “Yes, he’s armed and dangerous, but I’m not so sure he even knows we’re here. He’s a recluse. I bet he won’t be expecting us.”
“Good to hear it. I hope I get the first taste of his blood.”
After a five minute drive, the truck turned into the house surrounded by apple trees, but Dale was more attracted to the bear traps hanging from each of them. His stomach turned, knowing they were in danger and that Chippie was anticipating them. “Maybe he knows about us after all. Bastard.”
The urge to warn Ruden came and went; Dale’s resolve of self-preservation kicked in. If you warn them, who knows what will happen? The more that die now, the less I have to kill later.
Ruden pointed at the house, his arm jutting out of the car window. “Break into the premises and do what you will to this man's body.”
The group flocked to all corners of the house, staying low, skulking swiftly and silently up to the windows and to the front door. Dale stayed back, and so did Ruden, after he'd stepped out of the vehicle to watch the show unfold.
“Chippie knows we’re out here,” he confided, whispering to Dale. “He’ll shoot through them. I want to see what tricks he has up his sleeve. If we’re lucky, the bastard won’t know what’s coming, but I can’t take that chance.”
Lenora kissed Ruden’s neck. “It’s coming together, isn’t it? I can’t wait until Ruden shares his blood secret.” She licked her lips and then crossed her tongue across her front teeth. “It’s keeping us all in anticipation.”
“You’re quite a hero to these people, Ruden.”
The monster kept his focus on the house. “So many years, and I was so close to quitting.”
Glass shattered at opposing ends of the house. Two entered the house through a side window, literally diving in headfirst. A woman shimmied down the chimney with the flexibility of a monkey. Henry crashed into the door, kicking and punching it into kindling. The house was flanked from all ends in seconds.
“Give it a minute,” he said to Dale, a smile forming on his lips. “The sleeping giant’s about to wake.”
32
Caleb wished he hadn’t sent Shannon off in his Sedan when the rain poured down. The torrent was instant, and he was pinned under sheets and sheets of rain. He slid on a patch of mud and toppled onto his back, splashing into a puddle and soaking his back and legs. Getting up, he jogged up the trail. The cider mill was the closest shelter. Up the path, he reached the wishing well, but a strange sight halted him.
Petrified him.
A group ambled around the cider mill. He ducked so they wouldn’t see him, though he could barely view them from his new standpoint. The first indication something was wrong with them: they were each covered in what he assumed to be blood. And covered was an understatement. It was sprayed on them!
“I’m not seeing this,” he muttered, fearing he’d been found, remaining low behind the wishing well frozen and steadying his breathing so he didn’t hyperventilate. “It can’t be real."
A group was working down the path towards him, though he wasn’t sure he’d been discovered or not. He wanted to dart into the woods, but then he recalled Chippie’s traps.
It wasn't safe anywhere.
They were thirty seconds from his position now. He noticed the rope tied to a tree that hung at the edge of the well. There was no time to decide with the bloody group advancing closer. He rappelled down the well. He wasn’t graceful, his hands wet, the rope wet, and he soon lost his grip, plummeting down the many feet to the bottom. Crashing down, reeling from the quick descent, he landed on his tote bag, the collision abbreviated by a metallic crunch.
He listened, ignoring the fact he’d probably busted his camera. Caleb craned his neck up for anybody peeking down at him.
Please let them be gone. Let them be gone. Let them be gone.
Above the narrow chasm of the well, the slap and stamp of footsteps bypassed him. He squeezed his fists in celebration.
They hadn't seen him.
He waited a full five minutes before shifting from his landing spot. His left elbow had landed against the hard ground. He might’ve cracked or fractured it, he thought. The rest of him was relatively fine considering the long fall.
Caleb worked to his feet and used the brick wall as a support. And that’s when he caught the sight of the door, though it was camouflaged. It had been painted to mimic
the brick, but there was a brass doorknob and the rough outline of a doorway. Something about the door deterred him from testing the knob, at first. He still didn’t believe it—or wanted to believe it. Chippie’s words of warning were taken with a token of humor, but now he considered what he’d said with a level of truth.
Oh my God, Shannon!
He didn’t have her phone number. The next best option was to try the police, but when he unzipped his tote bag, his cell phone had been smashed in the fall. He wasn’t convinced it was safe to climb up the well and run for help.
The door kept challenging him.
Open it.
He pressed his ear against the frame and heard nothing.
The whip-crash of thunder, the rains above tripled.
“Well, I can’t just stand here in the cold.”
He twisted the knob, turning it slowly. The door hissed air; a hermetic suction was released. Once inside, he faced impenetrable darkness. A stench arose like wall of decay reaching out and clinging onto him. Caleb then did what he did with every room he couldn’t see into and felt around the wall for a switch. He was surprised when he discovered it relatively easy. He flicked it on, the space ahead of him awash in incandescent light.
“Talk about your underground hideaways,” he whispered, taking in the short hallway. “This Birchum guy’s got the right idea, though I don’t know what the fuck you’ve got going on down here.”
The entrance led to a narrow channel with four doors, all of them on one side. Every square inch of the tile floor was caked in a dark red crust in the shape of footprints upon footprints upon footprints. He staunched his mouth and nose with the bottom of his shirt, his eyes watering because of the piercing smell.
“What is this place?” He whispered, suddenly afraid he’d be heard.
The bottoms of his feet stuck to the floor nearly glued and making schluck sounds. The tang deepened as he continued into the corridor. He was convinced—and the proof was obvious—that something dead was kept down here, and not just from one body, but from many. Even the plastic covers over the tubular incandescent lights were caked in random blood spatters. The white walls showed hints of pink where somebody had attempted to scrub them clean and failed.