by Edward Crae
“I like that guy,” Drew said. Dan smiled.
“Typical response of a right-wing extremist. Take care of yourself and no one else. Kill and kill again. That solves everything, doesn’t it?”
Drew switched off the TV. “I can’t stand to listen to her shit,” he said. “Goddamn unicorn and rainbow loving ignoramus.”
“She’ll fight the loonies with love and understanding.”
“She’ll figure it out when they come clawing at her door,” Drew said.
It was colder than usual that morning; not quite cold enough to be uncomfortable or numb the fingers, but just enough for them to take notice. The truck Dan had liberated the night before was a bit rough in starting, and it took a few pedal-pumping tries to fire it up. It didn’t take long for the heater to warm up, and the two of them sat with their hands over the vents until it did.
“So, where are we going?” Drew asked.
“We’ll check out Dennis’ place,” Dan said. “He used to be a pretty active guy and built lots of shit on his property. He should have some materials.”
“And some food, I hope,” Drew added.
Dan nodded, backing out of the garage. “He was a hunter, too. He should have plenty of ammo.”
“What were you saying about the weird lady?” Drew made air quotes.
“Shirley White,” Dan said. “She’s a shotgun-packin’ granny that lives by herself across the creek. If anyone’s alive, it would be her. But if we go there to check, we should be careful.”
Dan crept the truck down the road toward Dennis’ six acres. There were two bends in the road before the slightly run down house appeared in the distance. Dennis had a rather large house, with three outbuildings of various sizes, all settled on the back end of the lot toward the highway. A wooden bridge spanned the creek, and Dan stopped to stare across at the house beyond. Drew squinted as he stuck his head out the window.
“Do you see anything?” Drew asked.
“Not really. It’s kinda far.”
Dan slowly turned into the driveway, idling across the bridge. The creek was flowing steadily, with a layer of blotchy orange floating across it.
“There’s that orange shit,” Dan said.
Drew nodded. “The space Slurpee of citrus death.”
The bridge creaked as they crossed, and the two of them sighed with relief as they reached the gravel on the other side. Along the driveway, there were several lamp posts; each one a black iron pipe with a white glass ball sitting on top. Bare trees were on either side; old trees with cracking trunks and fallen limbs lying around them.
“Dennis wasn’t much for yard work, was he?” Drew remarked.
“Not really. He’s an old man. When his sons moved away the yard went to shit. He still mows on his tractor, though.”
Drew pointed off to the right of the property, where another house was situated on a nearby hill. “Who lives there?” he asked.
“That’s his daughter’s house,” Dan replied. “I forget her name. We should check there, too.”
They pulled into the front lot of Dennis’ house. Dan looked the house over, checking for any signs of life. Usually, Dennis had the fireplace going, even in September. But there was no smoke billowing from the chimney; only a list wispy mist that came from the various vent stacks that poked up through the roof. The windows were dark, and the whole house seemed to be empty and lifeless.
“The door of that building is open,” Drew said, pointing off the white pole barn.
“That’s his workshop,” Dan said. “We’ll check there first.”
Dan put the truck in park, shutting off the engine. The two of them got out; Dan holding his shotgun, and Drew holding one that he picked up from the street scuffle the night before. They approached the open door cautiously, splitting up into a SWAT-like formation. Dan took the left side, and Drew took the right. They each looked in, peering into the shadows for any movement and listening for any sounds.
“I don’t hear anything,” Drew whispered.
Dan shook his head, and peeked around the edge of the door. The pole barn appeared empty of life, but he could see tons of materials lying around, and several power tools sitting on top of the workbench. The smell of dust wafted out from the door. Dan relaxed and stepped in, reaching over to flick on the lights.
The fluorescent tubes flickered on, lighting the workshop brightly. The first thing they saw Dennis’ body sprawled lifeless on the dirt floor. He was on his back with his arms splayed out like Jesus. His eyes were open, and his lips and chin were covered in dry, crusty vomit. His pistol was strapped to his side.
“Jesus, man,” Dan said. “Poor guy. I wonder what he was working on.”
Drew squatted next to him, poking him with his shotgun. The body was stiff and didn’t jiggle as he expected it would. “Doornail,” he said.
“It looks like there’s plenty of shit we can use here,” Dan said, looking around. “He’s got every kind of stud and sheathing known to man. And we can probably use the tractor, too.”
“Need to mow?” Drew asked sarcastically.
“No. We might need it to move some dirt or something. But let’s check the house first.”
They left the pole barn, keeping an eye on the house windows as they walked up the stone path toward the front door. There was a dead cat on the porch, stiff and odd looking in its eternal slumber. Dan opened the screen door, reaching out to grab the door handle.
“Wait,” Drew said. “Does he have any dogs?”
Dan thought for a second. “Yeah,” he replied. “But if they were alive, they would probably be barking by now.”
“Or they’re starving and just waiting for us to come in.”
“Alright. I’ll open the door and you stand in front of it. Blast any mongrels that come charging through.”
Drew smiled half-heartedly, taking position with the shotgun pointed out in front of him. On the count of three, Dan turned the handle and threw open the door. Nothing charged out, other than the rancid smell of rotting milk… or something.
“Jesus,” Drew said. “It’s only been a day. What the hell could smell that bad?”
“Smells like somebody shit themselves.”
Chapter Six
Drew gripped the shotgun and stepped into the doorway. Dan followed him, pointing the barrel of his gun past Drew’s body. They turned in opposite directions, making sure each side of the great room was clear. The floor was cluttered with trash, and the walls were splattered with what looked like dried vomit, but there was no movement or sound.
“Did Dennis have family here?” Drew asked.
“Just his wife that I know of,” Dan replied. “But if his kids and grandkids were in trouble, they would have come here.”
Drew lowered the shotgun, moving forward toward the archway to the wide hall that led to the kitchen area. There was a stairway just beyond and to the right. He and Dan listened for any movement upstairs. There was nothing, but a cool, dry breeze was blowing down the stairs, carrying with it the smell of death.
“Something’s dead up there,” Dan whispered. “Should we both check or split up?”
Drew shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing should stink that bad this soon. Whatever that smell is, that’s just a small part of it. Maybe we should just grab what we can and get the hell out of here.”
Dan bunched up his lips, thinking. Maybe Drew was right, but he still wanted to see what was going on up there. Without a word, he crept forward and mounted the stairs, holding the shotgun upward.
“Damn it,” Drew muttered.
The stairs were modular. The first flight ended at a landing with a window overlooking the side yard. The stairs continued upward in the opposite direction. Dan walked backward toward the window, pointing his shotgun toward the perpendicular hallway above. There was one door at the end, and the hallway disappeared behind the wall in the opposite direction. The white walls were smeared with dried blood and vomit, and the carpeted stairs themselves bore stains of b
lack and brown.
“Blood doesn’t take long to start stinking,” Dan said. “If there’s enough of it, that is.”
“Ok,” Drew replied. “Mystery solved. Let’s go.”
Dan ignored him, creeping upward with his eyes trained on the corner at the top of the stairs. The door to his left was closed, so was of no concern—or maybe it was, but not at the moment. He hugged the railing on the left side, turning the shotgun to the right as he rose up. The hallway was empty, but there were two doors on opposite sides, and one archway at the end.
Dan beckoned Drew to follow, and his friend sighed and nodded. He turned to the door behind him, leaning his head closer to listen. Drew stared at him as he waited. There was no sound from the other side. He shrugged, reaching out to turn the handle and slowly push it open. They both winced as the door creaked, gritting their teeth and mouthing shit!
Dan peered inside, seeing nothing but a plain, no-frills bathroom. It was fairly clean; barren of any lady items, and had a sparkling, white toilet and sink with a simple medicine cabinet above it. Dan carefully opened it, wary of any creaking. There were some pill bottles, a tube of toothpaste, and a wrist blood pressure cuff.
He looked at the bottles in turn. There was blood pressure medicine, an antibiotic, and some boner pills; generic Viagra. Could anyone on this street get a boner? He stuffed the pills in his pocket and returned to the hallway.
“I need a fucking cigarette,” Drew said. “I almost forgot that I smoked.”
Dan nodded. “Me too. Dennis smoked. Maybe he has some laying around.”
The two of them continued down the hallway toward the archway. “Let’s check there first,” Dan said.
They passed the doors quietly. Drew sniffed as they passed, pointing out that the smell was coming from the room on the right. Dan nodded and they pressed against the hallway as they approached the arch. The room beyond was empty, except for a bookcase, a writing desk, and a frumpy chair with a crane neck lamp attached to it.
A reading room?
There was one window overlooking the backyard. Dan looked out, seeing nothing but grass and trees, and a tiny section of 37 over the distant berm. Drew went over to the bookshelf, perusing the library.
“Anything good?” Dan whispered.
Drew shook his head, making a shitty face that pretty much answered the question. “Romance novels and Reader’s Digest shit.”
Dan grinned, turning to go back out into the hallway. But another bookcase along the back wall caught his eye. He leaned in to read the spines of the books. There were craft books, magazines, and other useless crap. But one book caught his eye; a physician’s guide to medications.
“Score!” he whispered, grabbing the book. He removed his backpack and placed the book inside, slinging it over his shoulder again. “We might need this in case we get sick or find some unknown shit.”
“Fucking pill popper,” Drew said.
They stepped back out into the hallway, both of them moving toward the smelly room that was now on the left side. Dan stood in front of the door as Drew reached for the handle from the side. He quickly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The gut-wrenching odor burst through, and Dan nearly doubled over. Drew gagged, and Dan stepped forward and peered inside, his nose closed shut with his right hand.
It was a bedroom—a sickroom. There was one dresser, a crucifix above it, and a hospital bed. Dan entered, keeping his eyes on the bed and the shotgun leveled. There was a woman lying there, dead as a doornail.
She was splayed out with her arms at her sides, her legs slightly open, and her head facing up. There was a blast of shit and piss smeared down toward her feet from underneath her gown, and her face was covered in vomit. Her eyes were open, and her mouth, devoid of her dentures, was gaping.
“It’s his wife,” Dan said. “I forget her name. She had cancer or some shit.”
Drew entered, holding his nose shut. “You were right,” he said, looking at the body with disgust. “Someone did shit themselves.”
There was an IV attached to her arm, and the area around the needle was bruised and cracked. She had been in pain for a long time, and the needle had likely not been moved for quite awhile. Dan felt sorry for her. In the few times he had met her, when she was doing well, she seemed like a nice lady. What a way to go.
Dan heard Drew open the dresser drawer behind him as he stared. The clanking of glass told him that Drew had found something. He turned to join him at the dresser, and his eyes widened as he saw the drawer’s contents.
There were five large bottles lined up neatly, with a bag of syringes behind them. “Morphine,” Drew said, reading the labels. “1000ml bottles.”
“We might need those if we get hurt,” Dan said, pulling off his backpack.
Drew grinned. “Yeah,” he said, skeptically, “if we get hurt.”
“Hey, if everything totally collapses, and there are no more doctors…”
“Right, right.”
There was one door remaining across the hall. Dan listened, hearing nothing, and opened it. It was another bedroom, cluttered and messy. There were posters on the wall of tractors, hunting supply stores, and various other manly things. Nothing of importance.
“Dennis probably slept here,” Dan said.
“Check under his bed,” Drew said. “I bet there’s ammo and a shotgun.”
Dan nodded, crouching down to peek underneath the frame. Sure enough, a shotgun was there. He reached out to grab it, examining it carefully. It was clean and immaculate. Drew went around to the nightstand, opening the drawers. He pulled out a pistol, stuffing it in his belt, and filling his backpack with boxes of ammo.
“9mm,” he said. “There are some shells, too.”
He stacked up five boxes of shells, and Dan stuffed them in his backpack. They looked around once more, and started down the hallway again.
That was when they heard the thumping sound.
The two of them froze immediately. Below, the thumping was slow and irregular, gradually increasing in loudness and frequency.
“What the hell is that?” Drew said.
“I don’t know,” Dan whispered; his heart pounding.
Damn, I need a drink.
“Slow and quiet,” Dan said, creeping toward the staircase.
He looked over the edge of the railing, pointing the shotgun downward. He couldn’t see anything on the stairs, or any shadows moving. He padded over to the top stair, quietly stepping down. The stair creaked, making him wince. Drew’s teeth were gritted. Placing his hand on the rail, Dan tiptoed down two steps, placing his other foot next to the first one before stepping down again. He could hear Drew silently descend behind him.
Dan gripped the post at the landing, craning his head around the corner. Still nothing downstairs but the pounding sound. It was becoming erratic; desperate and more intense. There was a scratching sound that accompanied it, followed by a low groan.
“Jesus,” Drew exclaimed behind him. “What the fucksy? Is someone down there?”
Dan shook his head and started down again. The sound was coming from the kitchen; maybe from the pantry or a cabinet? He sighed, continuing down until he reached the last step. He crouched, leaning against the left wall to peek into the hallway toward the kitchen.
No shadows; just the scratching, pounding, and groaning.
“Is the basement door in the kitchen?” Drew whispered.
Dan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
They crept down the hallway, keeping to the walls as they approached the kitchen. They could see the back door. It was closed with the chain in place. The sounds were coming from the left of it, near where Dan guessed the basement door would be.
As they stepped into the kitchen, they saw that there was indeed a basement door. Pressed against it was a wooden post fastened into place with scraps of wood. The other end of it was wedged into the floor with more scraps; nailed down to keep it from moving. The door was shaking with each pound, an
d the scratching echoed in Dan’s ears. The low groans were disturbing and reverberated through the heavy wood.
“There are people down there,” Drew said.
No. Not people. Loonies. Dennis probably trapped them down there before he went outside to croak.
Dan looked at the back door. There would probably be basement windows outside. He didn’t really want to look, but he knew he had to. Why? Who knows?
“Basement windows,” he said. Drew raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips. Dan wasn’t sure what kind of answer that was, or whether he had even asked a question. “Let’s look.”
Drew nodded, making an “ah!” expression. Dan unchained the door, and the two of them stepped onto the patio, looking left and right for a window well. There was one on the west end of the house; boarded up with only a small gap to see inside. Dan crouched down to look.
The glass had been broken, as was expected, and the interior was dark. There were only a few rays of sunlight shining through from another window, creating thin lines of brightness on the floor. Though he could see nothing, he could hear the scuffling of one or two people moving around on the concrete floor. The pounding continued, and the groaning had morphed into eerie, croaking cries.
“See anything?” Drew asked.
“No,” Dan said. “I still hear them, though.”
Dan felt a rough tap on his shoulder. He turned his head to see a flashlight in Drew’s hand. He took it, pointing it into the gap, and switched it on. On the stairs, he could see two people—one woman and a child—pressing against the kitchen door. They were both pale, covered in blood and vomit, and appeared oblivious to the light. The child was scratching at the door with her teeth and nails, leaving bloody marks with both. The woman’s head was pressed against the wood, and her fists were banging against it. On the floor at the foot of the stairs was another body.
Dan’s eyes widened as he looked it over. It was naked, with pale skin that was cracked, lacerated, and caked with bodily fluids. Bite marks covered it, and chunks of flesh were missing; having been torn off crudely. Its face was turned away, but Dan could see a trail of blood running underneath it extending the full length of the body. A few chunks of entrails were glopped onto the bottom step.