Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “It’s a lie!” Frank was insistent. “His kind always lie. He’s been a brown noser since he got on the force, and he’ll go through the rest of his life eating the peanuts out of his superior’s shit so he can get ahead. He climbs over people like us so he can get to the top. He’s not smart, and he’s got no skills with the exception of his drone-like qualities and his pissant little attitude. That’s what got him into his job, and that’s what will get him ahead in life.”

  Derrick’s features metamorphosed instantly. He snapped his head toward Frank. “Hey, fuck you! If you weren’t such a pussy, you would have taken him down—”

  Rick reached inside the car and grabbed a fistful of Derrick-flesh and hauled him out screaming from the car. He touched the barrel of the nine-millimeter to the outer juncture of Derrick’s left eye. He scowled as he leaned close, breathing harshly. “And look who took you down, fuckface. You took the first swing, unprovoked, and I beat you. If it weren’t for asswipes like you...” he flustered, then threw the cop to the ground. Derrick rolled on his side, squirming on the pavement in a halfhearted attempt to get up. His face was blushing, hot and sweaty with exertion and anger.

  Frank slid out of the rear drivers’ side of the vehicle. He stood next to Rick, cuffed hands behind his back, glaring down at his partner in anger. Derrick stopped wiggling like a decapitated worm and glared at his partner. “Motherfucking piece of shit, I swear to God that when I get out of this....” He couldn’t finish.

  Rick looked at Frank. Frank met his gaze with an unwavering set of steely gray eyes. He was under the impression that Frank was royally pissed and angry. But not at him...

  He stepped behind Frank and unlocked the handcuffs with the keys he’d confiscated earlier.

  Frank massaged his wrists gingerly, gazing down at his partner in disgust. Derrick spat at him in anger. “Get him, you fucking sonofabitch! Get him!”

  Frank rubbed his wrists and glanced at Rick. Then he looked down at Derrick, who had risen to a sitting position on the asphalt of the interstate. Faint tints of red were beginning to bleed through the black sky, signaling sunrise. “And then what, Derrick? Watch you beat this man to death after I uncuff you? And what happens after we take him back? You going up on a murder charge, and me...God knows what will happen.” He traded a sidelong glance with Rick who stood leaning against the Camaro, arms folded in front of his chest. “I’ve seen you beat enough innocent people during your nine months as a cop. You give good cops who are trying to make a difference a bad name.”

  Derrick howled. His biceps swelled with exertion as he strained to break free of the handcuffs. “Motherfucker, let me go or I swear I’ll fucking kill you!”

  “I know.” Frank was panting. His eyes clouded over with memories of his nine months with Derrick as a partner from Hell. “I’ve seen you lose it too many times, Derrick. Losing it when somebody we’ve pulled over for a traffic violation mouths off to you; how do you respond? You hit him, he hits you back, or tries to, and you beat the shit out of him and arrest him for assaulting a police officer. You intimidate people who don’t deserve to be intimidated; you take bribes from people we’re supposed to be busting...dealers, pimps, hookers. I know you get blowjobs from hookers in alleys off Hollywood and Vermont. Know what they tell me? That if they do you for free, you won’t bust ‘em.”

  “That’s a lie!” Derrick was screaming.

  “What about that little thirteen year old girl you felt up when we raided that house on Cahuenga for drugs?” Frank ignored Derrick’s screams. He was on a roll. “Fifteen officers invaded that house, and you had to herd a thirteen year old girl into a back room, stick a gun in her face and rub your hands all over her tits. I think if I hadn’t come looking for you, you would have done more.”

  Derrick was breathing heavy. His eyes were damp with tears of anger. “Shut up, goddammit, just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  “NO!” Frank lashed out a kick, which connected with Derrick’s ribs. Derrick doubled over and yelped like a dog that had just been whacked with a folded up newspaper. Frank leaned over Derrick, his features a mask of disgust. “I’m sick and tired of people like you always fucking everything up for the rest of us.” Frank’s fists were balled at his side, ready to lash out. “You don’t deserve to be a cop, you don’t deserve shit!”

  Rick stepped forward before Derrick could answer in an expletive. He hauled Derrick to his feet by the back of his shirt and spun him toward the barren wasteland at the side of the road. “C’mon. I think it’s time we take a walk.”

  Frank looked momentarily irritated that his moment to kick righteous ass had been stolen, but grinned when he read the implications in Rick’s eyes. He nodded. Yes. This would be perfect. This was the way it had to be. It was the only way.

  Red bled into the darkened sky as the two figures herded the short, handcuffed man out into the desert.

  WHEN THEY GOT back to the car, the sun was already up and burning overhead. The desert nightlife had retreated into burrows and caves to sleep off the hotter part of the day. The desert was a vast wasteland of emptiness, accented by the dry winds that blew from the north. The wind felt good against Rick's skin as he opened the driver’s side door and leaned against the car, eyeing Frank on the other side. In another hour the heat would be hot enough to fry an egg on the black asphalt.

  Still uncuffed, Frank grinned at him from over the roof of the Camaro. His police uniform was mussed with sand and dark splotches of blood. His hair was ruffled, his face still sticky with blood from his bashed nose. The glimmer in his eyes was different now; they reflected a deeper, more cynically refined purpose. A mission.

  Rick faced him over the hood of the Camaro. His gaze was as unwavering as before. “No turning back now.”

  Frank nodded. It had gone good out in the desert. They had walked Derrick a mile and a half into the barren landscape until they’d come to a large outcropping of boulders that flanked the top of a small downhill rise. Once behind the rocks, Rick gave Frank the reins. He even offered Frank his gun back. A test of loyalty of sorts. Frank passed the test with flying colors.

  He ended up not needing the gun after all.

  Derrick’s first screams were deafening, torturous, and echoing. Rick heard it reverberating off the large boulders. After the first few kicks, his screams mutated into the whining sound of a coyote. The sound blended well with the terrain.

  Frank worked Derrick over with his feet, shouting all the rage and hate he had ever wanted to unleash on him and others like him. Derrick fought like a wildcat trussed up in a straight-jacket. Frank hauled Derrick to his feet and pummeled his face with his fists until both eyes were swollen shut. Derrick tried to gasp for breath, his nose a ruined mass. Blood bubbled in his mouth as Frank sent him sprawling to the ground again to begin a second round of kicks to his body. Rick stood and watched it all, hands in his pockets, leaning back casually against the rock. There was the greenstick snapping sound of breaking ribs, and a wet ripping noise as something gooey was wrenched inside his torso cavity. Derrick had gone beyond howling in pain; he was still conscious, moaning every two kicks Frank landed on his rapidly breaking body. When Frank’s kicks traveled up to Derrick’s head, Rick forced himself to watch. He would have to get used to it.

  The sound of Frank’s foot striking Derrick’s head was ugly. It made Rick’s stomach churn.

  On the fourth kick he heard a watermelon-like wet crunch, and saw gray matter fling from Derrick’s head. Frank kept stomping on Derrick’s face until it was a mashed pulp. It looked like a grapefruit that had exploded on impact from a four-story fall.

  They left him there to bake in the sun.

  “Well?” Rick tossed Frank a questioning glance. There’s no turning back now. Them and us. Frank nodded. Some quick changes were going to have to be made in the next twenty-four hours. The car would have to be ditched for another one, and Rick would have to stop shaving his head and start letting the hair grow, let his beard grow out, too. If they could hole
up in a motel for a day or two, Frank could clean himself off, and they could get his uniform washed. A police uniform could come in handy in extorting a number of things.

  “Let’s go.” Frank nodded back at Rick and climbed in the shotgun seat. Rick slid behind the wheel and they set off, leaving Derrick’s mangled remains a mile distant in the desert.

  Derrick would be the first of many.

  Story Notes

  This one dates back to the late 1990’s, but it wasn’t published until 2002 in an online magazine called Gang Related, which was started by former gang member Jason Duke. Gang Related originally started as a print magazine called Hoodz in 2000. Jason ran non-fiction by me in his first issue, and an excerpt from my novel Fetish in the second issue. With the third issue came the title and format change to the web. As a small press magazine, Hoodz/Gang Related was unique; while it published fiction with a crime/horror slant, the underlying theme of the fiction it ran pertained to street gangs and their effect on society. The magazine didn’t last long – I think it stuck around for three or four issues on the web at the most. Regardless, it was a credit, and it paid real money, which was important to me back then.

  I had a few encounters with Los Angeles City police officers, mostly for moving violations in my younger years. Contrary to media portrayals in the 1980’s and 1990’s, the LAPD was not only known for targeting African-Americans, they also targeted Latinos and the punk/metal-heads. I should know; I was one of them (the metal-heads, that is; I suppose I’m classified as Latino in some circles but I never identified with that ethnic culture, which is what it really is...an ethnicity, not a race; I abhor classification on general principle). Case in point: a good friend of mine was arrested one time for walking down Sunset Boulevard within three blocks of his apartment. No specific reason, they simply targeted him because he was a male with long hair. My friend didn’t take too kindly to being harassed, a few choice words were said, and he was a guest of the city jail that night. If memory recalls his case was thrown out of court.

  Shit like that used to happen a lot in Los Angeles. I remember exiting a popular rock club in the San Fernando Valley in the mid-eighties and seeing dozens of cops in riot gear, simply waiting for the rest of the patrons to exit. Slayer was on the bill that night. You know heads were busted that night.

  Simply put, driving or walking while Black wasn’t the only thing you could get popped for in LA.

  Despite having come across a few bad apples who happened to be cops, I’ve met far more courageous and distinguished police officers in my time, including LAPD officers. I’ve also read countless books and articles about them and what they go through. I've also known gang members and have read a lot about them. Being a police officer has to rank down there with least appealing jobs I’d never want to do – I think I’d rather clean cow shit all day long in 90 degree weather then have to be a cop. Those guys put up with too much bullshit for what they receive in compensation.

  This story came from a combination of my own experiences with the LAPD and from anecdotes related to me by friends and acquaintances who had their own brushes with them. Of course, the escalation of violence depicted in this story is pure fantasy. I wanted to explore what would happen if the wrong cops came across a guy who still looked like a badass but had moved on from that part of his life and left it far, far behind him. Of course, because of his looks, the badass would still get scrutiny from the law, right? You would think after awhile that would get to him. That badass look is hard to get rid of, especially if you’re covered with gang tattoos.

  And suppose one of the cops that busted him happened to be at the end of his rope, too? Maybe his partner is the epitome of bad cop. What would happen if you throw all three of these guys into a confrontation?

  Everybody has a breaking point.

  What’s yours?

  About J. F. Gonzalez

  J. F. Gonzalez is the author of over fifteen novels of horror and dark suspense including They, Back From the Dead, Primitive, Bully, The Beloved, The Corporation, and is co-author of the Clickers series (with Mark Williams and Brian Keene respectively). With Wrath James White, he is co-author of the novels Hero and The Killings. His short fiction is collected in four volumes. He also works in other media including film, the technology sector, and other areas of publishing. He lives with his family in Pennsylvania and is currently working on his next novel. For more information, visit him on the web at www.jfgonzalez.com.

  Also by J. F. Gonzalez

  Clickers

  (Co-written with Mark Williams)

  Click Click Click Click

  Phillipsport, Maine is a quaint and peaceful seaside village. But when hundreds of creatures pour out of the ocean and attack, its residents must take up arms to drive the beasts back.

  They are the Clickers, giant venomous blood-thirsty crabs from the depths of the sea. The only warning to their rampage of dismemberment and death is the terrible clicking of their claws. But these monsters aren’t merely here to ravage and pillage. They are being driven onto land by fear. Something is hunting the Clickers. Something ancient and without mercy.

  Clickers II: The Next Wave

  (Co-written with Brian Keene)

  The first wave was just the beginning...

  The United States is in ruins. It has just suffered one of the worst hurricanes in history, the people are demoralized, and the president is a religious fanatic. Then things get really bad - the Clickers return.

  Thousands of the monsters swarm across the entire nation and march inland, slaughtering anyone and anything they come across. But this time the Clickers aren’t blindly rushing onto land - they are being led by an intelligence older than civilization itself. A force that wants to take dry land away from the mammals.

  Those left alive soon realize that they must do everything and anything they can to protect humanity no matter the cost.

  This isn’t war, this is extermination.

  Clickers III: Dagon Rising

  (Co-written with Brian Keene)

  They thought it was over, but the second wave was only the beginning. In the aftermath of the Clickers and Dark Ones’s siege and a coup against an insane President, America rebuilds. Change has come, and a better future is promised to all. But promises can be broken and there may be no future at all because deep beneath the ocean a new terror awaits. Dagon, god of the Dark Ones, is waking up...and if humanity doesn’t stop him, then mankind will face extinction.

  Trapped on a South Pacific Island, the cast of Clickers and Clickers II: The Next Wave join forces with a mysterious group of occult agents to face off against the Clickers, the Dark Ones, Dagon, and an all-new threat - the deadly obsidian Clickers. The stakes have never been higher. Dagon is rising...and humanity will fall.

  Survivor

  Author’s Preferred Edition

  Before Hostel...before Saw...there was Survivor.

  It was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway. Lisa was looking forward to spending time alone with her husband, Brad, and telling him that they are going to have a baby. Instead, it becomes a nightmare when Brad is arrested and Lisa is kidnapped. But the kidnappers aren’t asking for ransom. They want Lisa herself. They’re going to make her a star - in a snuff film.

  What they have in mind for Lisa is unspeakable. They plan to torture and murder her as graphically and brutally as possible, and to capture it all on film. If they have their way, Lisa’s death will be truly horrifying...but even more horrifying is what Lisa will do to survive...

  It Drinks Blood

  New Castle, Pennsylvania, during the tail end of the Great Depression.

  Robert Brennan has never completely forgotten those days, even though he has tried to forget them. But when the nursing home he lives in receives a patient he remembers from those dark darks, it takes his mind back to a period marked by terrible, blood-soaked violence...the very kind marked by the twisted perversity of the stories he used to write for the weird-menace pulps...the kind marked by the
real-life fiend that stalked the hobo jungles in search of fresh blood!

  Primitive

  It began as just another day for David Spires and his wife Tracy: coffee, breakfast, and getting the kids ready for school. Then the bottom dropped out of civilization.

  The world ends not with a bang or a whimper, but with a dizzying downward spiral. Instead of the rat race of commuters scurrying to beat the clock, humans are now packs of animals reduced to snarling primitives.

  David, Tracy and their daughter Emily, along with fellow survivors, leave Los Angeles for the safety of the country where fewer people means fewer primitives. But as they venture farther away from the city, they realize an unnatural force is at work. Civilization didn’t just fall apart...it was overtaken by an ancient evil that was present before the first cave paintings. Human history has no formal record of it, but the dark presence that’s fueled nightmares since time began has crept out of the shadows...and its influence is growing.

  The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales

  The Summoning contains seven collected tales of Lovecraftian-inspired nightmares from J. F. Gonzalez. Featured in this collection are two original pieces: "Holes" and "The Summoning" (co-authored with Mike Baker).