What Vengeance Comes
Page 13
The beast reared up, as if sensing what was about to happen, and took a step forward.
Duke raised the twelve-gauge, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The recoil sent him staggering backward. He reached out and steadied himself against a tree trunk. When he looked up the beast was still there, only now it wasn’t just watching him, it was closing the distance between them at an alarming rate.
He lifted the sawed off gun and fired a second round, peppering the beast with shot. He might as well have been throwing popcorn at it for all the good it did.
Duke backed up and broke open the gun. He fumbled to reload, pulling fresh cartridges from his pocket, but before he could slide them into the breach, the creature lunged.
45
“WHAT THE HELL?” Bobby turned in the direction of the gunshot.
“Duke.” Gill took a step forward.
A second shot disturbed the silence, followed by a sharp, short scream, then nothing.
Jeremiah lifted his weapon and charged in the direction of the gunfire. He ploughed through the undergrowth, all thought of stealth abandoned. Gill and Bobby hitched their weapons and followed suit, pushing at the thick undergrowth and stepping over tangled vines that threatened to trip them at every footfall.
It didn’t take long to find Duke. He lay sprawled on the ground, his gun several feet away as though it had been knocked from his grasp. His head lay twisted to the side, his eyes wide open and glazed over. A haze of blood covered his lips and chin, as though he’d coughed it up. His neck was nothing but a gaping hole, ragged, torn skin flapping over exposed gristle and bone. One arm was bent back, broken. The other was flung up over his head as if he’d died trying to fend off his attacker. As for the rest of him, it was hard to tell what was spilled blood from his neck wound and what was an injury.
“Holy Jesus,” Bobby muttered. “What have you gotten us into Jeremiah?”
“He’s dead.” Gill was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the ruined body of his friend.
“No shit Sherlock.” Jeremiah rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.
“We have to get out of here.” Bobby turned to face their rear and raised his gun. “This place ain’t safe.”
“No one’s going anywhere.” Jeremiah wheeled around, his face flush with rage. “Damn thing’s close. We need to finish it.”
“Are you crazy?” Gill protested. “Look what it did to Duke, man. He fired off two shots, we all heard them, and it still did that to him. It ripped him to shreds.”
“Yeah, well there are three of us.” Jeremiah walked to the shotgun, picked it up, and knelt next to the corpse. He found the cartridges still clutched in Duke’s hand and pried them free with a grunt. “We have it outnumbered.”
“What the...” Gill shook his head. “This is bullshit.”
“I agree,” Bobby chimed in. “We have no idea what this thing is. Duke’s a fine shot, and it still got him. We should get the hell out of Dodge while we still can.”
“Like I said, no one’s leaving.” Jeremiah raised himself up. “You want to turn tail and run, you gotta go through me first.” He leveled his rifle in the direction of the two men.
“Okay, okay. Let’s all just calm down,” Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous. “There’s no need to be pointing guns at us Jeremiah. We’re all in this together.”
“Seems to me that the pair of you would rather turn and run like scared little bitches than put things right for Terry.” Jeremiah shook his head. “Never pegged you for cowards.”
“Damn right we’re scared,” Bobby said. “You should be too. Duke’s dead for chrissakes.”
“And standing here like a bunch of sissies ain’t gonna bring him back,” Jeremiah said. “Now come on, let’s go put an end to this.” He took a step forward, finally bringing the muzzle of the rifle down so that it wasn’t pointing at the others. He pushed between them and walked off without a backward glance.
“Should we follow him?” Gill kept his eyes averted from the bloodied corpse.
“Hell no. I’ve had enough of this,” Bobby said. “I’d rather get shot in the back by Jeremiah than end up like that.” He hitched a thumb toward Duke.
“I don’t know.” Gill said. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him out here all alone.”
“Then stay if you want. I’m off.” He turned, taking a step back toward the trail, and then stopped, his eyes alighting on a dark shape in the bushes several feet away, a shape that almost blended in with the surrounding forest. Almost.
“What the hell?” He took another step, trying to make out what he as looking at. He reached out and tugged on Bobby’s arm. “Do you see that?”
“See what?” Bobby turned toward his friend. As he did so the creature stepped from the shadows. They had found what they were looking for, or rather it had found them.
46
SEVEN FEET OF SINEW and muscle covered by cracked leathery skin rippled as the beast moved toward them, low on its haunches. It studied them through pale yellow eyes, the pupils twin vertical slits, black as coal. It sniffed the air with a long canine muzzle that sported rows of needle like teeth capped by two large downward protruding fangs.
Bobby raised his gun, almost dropping the rain-slicked weapon in his haste. He wrestled it under control and brought it round, aiming squarely at the beast.
Gill fumbled to bring his own gun to bear, suddenly clumsy in the face of the monstrosity slinking toward them.
Before either man could squeeze off a shot, the creature pounced, bringing its arms wide. It slashed downward as it did so, deadly sharp claws finding Gill’s chest and opening him up like a gutted fish. Bobby ducked instinctively, but the sweeping arm caught him alongside the head, sending him sprawling. The shotgun flew from his grip and landed somewhere in the thick vegetation that lined the forest floor.
Jeremiah turned at the sudden commotion, his eyes flying wide. He stood transfixed, the rifle in one hand, Duke’s shotgun in the other, but made no attempt to fire either weapon.
Gill looked down in horror, his hands working to stem the steady flow of blood from the gaping lacerations crisscrossing his chest. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasping, gurgled hiss.
The creature circled once, then went in for the kill, gripped him between powerful arms, lifting the stricken man from the ground. He hung like a rag doll, limp and useless, his mouth opening and closing in silent agony as if he were a fish hauled from the water. Blood bubbled between his lips. His eyes bugged from their sockets, and his arms flapped uselessly upon his assailant, but he was too far-gone to strike a meaningful blow.
“Jesus Christ, help us.” Bobby screeched toward Jeremiah as the beast buried its muzzle into Gill and finished him. “Shoot the bastard. Shoot it.”
Jeremiah loosened his grip on the shotgun, his eyes never leaving the horror unfolding before them. The weapon slipped from his fingers and slid to the ground, falling away with a dull thud. He made no attempt to lift the rifle clutched in his other hand.
The beast dropped the bloodied, lifeless carcass of Gill and padded toward Bobby, its jaws wide and rimmed red.
“Oh please no.” Bobby kicked at the earth and pushed himself backward. “Dear God help me.”
The beast kept coming.
Bobby reached down and pulled the pistol from his pants, thankful that it wasn’t knocked lose when he slammed into the ground. He raised it and fired, the bullet smashing into a tree wide of its mark. He fired off another round, but his hands shook too much. It whizzed wide left, hitting somewhere behind the beast with a smacking thud. He calmed himself, as much as possible, and hoisted the gun a third time.
It was too little too late.
The creature sprang with lightning speed as Bobby pulled the trigger, the bullet harmlessly splitting the air the creature had occupied a second earlier. The beast landed atop him and went in for the kill, his screams drifting up into the night air as it ripped and clawe
d and chewed.
Jeremiah stood unmoving, watching as the beast finished its grisly task. When it turned toward him, fixing him with those cold yellow eyes, he dropped the rifle and pissed himself, the warm liquid flowing down his pant legs to the ground.
The creature took a step forward, then another, drawing within a few feet of Jeremiah, and then it stopped, observing him, waiting to see what he would do.
They stood facing each other, the monster and the unarmed man. And then, as if deciding he was not worth the bother, the creature turned and walked off, leaving the old man alone.
Jeremiah sank to his knees. He made no attempt to pick up his gun or follow the beast. Instead he put his hands up to his face and cried like a baby.
He remained there, alone, for an hour or more, surrounded by the bodies of his dead friends. Finally, oblivious to the torrent of cold rain falling from above, he staggered to his feet, leaving the discarded guns where they lay, and walked back to Floyd’s camp.
47
ON MONDAY MORNING, after leaving Nancy with a promise that he would check in on her later, Decker drove to the sheriff’s Office. When he entered, carol greeted him with her usual smile, but he could tell by the look on her face that she was anything but cheerful.
“Morning John. The coffee is fresh, the pastries not so much.”
Decker poured a coffee and eyed the box of donuts open on the counter. They looked stale and dry. “Is it too much to ask for a good donut shop in these parts?” he said, picking one up, then putting it back with a scowl on his face.
“Probably,” Carol said. “Do you want the bad news first?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“The worse news.”
Decker sighed. “Alright, hit me with it.”
“Well, the Coroner confirmed that all four victims, Jake Barlow, Floyd Benson, Terry Boudreaux and Benny Townsend, were killed by the same animal. Bite radius, tooth marks and wound patterns are identical. And here’s the kicker, they don’t match anything in their database of known animals. It’s not a bear, a bobcat or an alligator. They even looked at exotic animals like lions and tigers and still didn’t get anywhere. In short, the coroner has no idea what species the killer is. All they are certain of is that it was a wild animal of some sort.”
“Figures.” Decker already suspected as much. “I assume that was the bad news, so what’s the worse news?”
“That storm in the Gulf. It’s getting bigger. Last night it was a tropical storm, now it is a category 2.”
“That explains the shitty weather.” He looked at Carol and realized she wasn’t done yet. “Well?”
“The weather service has narrowed down the projected landfall.”
“Let me guess,” Decker said. “It’s coming right for us.”
“You got it,” Carol replied. “There’s a 70% chance it will come ashore somewhere between Terrebonne Bay and West Cote Blanche, then head inland. We’re slap bang in the center of the cone. If it keeps to the same path it will be here in about fourteen hours, give or take.”
“Fantastic. This town goes a hundred years with nothing going on, then everything shows up on my watch,” Decker said. “Looks like we have some work to do.”
48
JEREMIAH BOUDREAUX SAT on the floor of the trailer, his back pressed against the front door. He hadn’t moved since the early hours of the morning.
The previous night had been a disaster. Three of his friends were dead, their lifeless, shredded corpses still lying out in the woods. Worse, he’d watched them die, too afraid to lift a finger in their defense. He should have fired on the beast, killed it. It was right there a few feet from him, a sitting duck. He could have done what he went into the forest for in the first place, he could have avenged his son, but instead he just dropped the guns and stood there with piss running down his legs.
He was a coward, and he hated himself.
He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, looking for some clue that might help explain why he was still alive. The beast should have ripped him apart, shredded him like pulled pork, but instead it walked off. He wasn’t even a worthy enough adversary for it to bother killing him.
He moved finally, lifting himself up and shuffling to the bedroom. His legs felt weak and stiff. They tingled as the life came back to them after hours on the cold floor, but he didn’t care.
He peeled his damp clothes off and dumped them in a pile on the floor, then flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. He could not remember when last he slept, but it was a long while ago, he knew that much.
The bed felt comfortable.
He pulled the sheets up and settled in, wanting more than anything to drift off and escape the reality of his situation for a few hours, but sleep proved elusive. His mind would not shut off. Images of Terry, of the shattered bodies of Gill, Duke and Bobby, hounded him. He saw the beast again and again, those yellow eyes and hungry, slathering jaws. It haunted him.
He forced the thoughts from his mind, made himself relax, and eventually, little by little, he succumbed to a deep slumber, and as he slept, the beast crept into his dreams and terrorized him some more, while outside the weather grew worse ahead of the approaching storm.
49
MAYOR BEAU THORNTON drove the two blocks from his house to the sheriff’s Office. It was early evening but already the sky was so dark it might as well be the middle of the night. Dirty, roiling storm clouds scudded overhead bringing with them bands of rain that lashed the windshield so hard the wipers could barely keep up.
He was not a happy man. Between the spree of killings and the swiftly approaching storm, his safe re-election bid could slip from a sure thing to a shot in the dark quicker than sliding down a greased pole if things were not handled the right way.
Less than thirty minutes before, the Governor, sensing the need to cover his ass, declared a state of emergency, which meant there was little chance the storm would miss them. It also meant that Mayor Thornton needed to look like he knew what he was doing. Swift, decisive action was needed.
When he arrived he found the entire town police force rallied there. Of course that only consisted of the sheriff, his Deputy and the dispatcher, Carol.
Chad looked up when he entered. “Hi there Beau.”
“Please address me as Mayor.”
“Sure thing Beau, whatever you say,” Chad replied.
Decker suppressed a smile.
“What can we do for you Mayor?”
“You tracking this here storm that’s coming in?”
“Sure are,” Decker replied. “Looks like it’s going to be a whopper. Maximum sustained winds of one hundred twenty miles per hour.”
“So I hear,” Thornton said.
Decker spoke again. “The storm is moving fast, and growing in size. At best we have four hours, maybe five before the weather is too bad to do anything.”
“Tell me, what are we looking at?” The Mayor raised his eyebrows.
“Downed power lines and flooding are almost a given, plus, some of the buildings hereabouts are already in rough shape. There’s no telling what winds this high will do to them.”
“Or trees,” Carol said.
“That too.” Decker frowned. “We could lose a lot of trees in this one if those winds keep up.”
“Christ.” Thornton threw his hands up. “When it rains, it pours, pardon the pun.”
“Well it certainly is going to pour.” Decker leaned on the counter. “Which is why I want to issue an evacuation.”
“Absolutely not. People aren’t going to want to abandon their property. We’ll initiate a curfew, keep everyone indoors.”
“Fine,” Decker said. “But this thing is big, you could be looking at some major casualties, even deaths.”
“That’s not going to do much for your re-election bid,” Carol chimed in.
“Damned election.”
“I know,” Carol said. “Having to deal with pesky things like the democratic process.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Decker said. “I’ve already put in a call to the high school to have it opened up as an emergency shelter. We can use the gym. That should be able to hold several hundred people easily. We can use the emergency broadcast frequency to issue the alert.”
“A lot of folk aren’t going to hear that,” Thornton said.
“I know that. We’ll just have to round people up the old fashioned way.” Decker motioned toward Chad. “While we do that why don’t you and Carol go to the school and get things set up there.”
He paused for a second, and then added. “And let’s hope we don’t run into whatever is killing folk while we’re doing it.”
50
THE BAR WAS EMPTY but Ed Johnson stayed open anyway, partly because there was nothing better to do, and also because he hoped that at some point a customer would show and keep him company.
It was unlikely though, given the double blow of the foul weather and a killer on the loose, but he lived in hope. If nobody showed up by 9 p.m. he’d call it a night and shut the place down, but not just yet.
On the TV above the bar the local weather station showed a graphic of the storm as it churned toward the coast. Already larger than originally forecast at a category three, it had the potential to grow even more thanks to the warm Gulf waters. A timeline graphic predicted the storm making landfall in the next three hours, which meant things were going to get worse before they got better.
Sick of the doom and gloom, he snatched up the remote and flicked through the channels until he came to a comedy show, grabbed a bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a drink.