by Jon Fore
“Why thank you, Ms. Graves,” he said politely as he took her arm.
Shelly looked about quickly but could find no reason not to follow them. She released her sidearm from its holster, and followed a distance behind. Something was not right, she did not know what, but there was wrongness in the air, so thick she could almost taste it. She had not drawn her sidearm since making detective, but her instincts were no longer being vague.
Madison turned into a side room just past the stairway, and Glenn came to a sudden stop. He gasped a deep breath and froze like a threatened animal. Before him was an elegant dining hall, filled with a large, dark, wood table. Around the table stood a number of naked men, all in very levels of decay, feasting on the raw corpse of a white male.
“Detective,” Madison said sweetly, “won’t you join us? There is enough room for everyone.”
The next few moments happened in an instant for Shelly. She had thought that being a law officer, even in a small town, would have prepared her for such things, but she was wrong. Her first reaction was to scream Glenn’s name; however, he began grabbing and pulling at his sidearm, his face the ashy gray color of death.
Shelly, following her training, immediately shifted to a tactical response, leading with her weapon drawn. But before she got halfway to Glenn, something launched from the room and skewered him to the wall. As he fell limp, Shelly realized it was a bone, a long bone still pink and wet, small bits of flesh still attached to its length.
Before she could bring herself to scream, she realized someone stood behind her. Ignoring Madison, she spun, trying to bring her gun between her and the sudden threat behind her. A thing, a man-like thing with greasy long hair, his skin the pallor of dead fish, forced a slender rod to the base of her throat. It was wearing the rotting remnants of some dark blue uniform and encircled with an ashy smoke that stank of burning flesh. She saw all of this in an instant, and then screamed at the searing pain at her throat.
The thing forced her against the wall, the thin rod pressing harder, burning deeply into her neck. She found she could not draw breath and brought her weapon up one handed, the other sizzling along the length of black iron. The head rolled loosely to one side, and a milky pustule of an eye rolled towards her as she began firing.
Shelly had selected her weapon, a Sig Sauer model P226, 357 magnum, for its performance, reliability, and magazine capacity. She exercised all of these tactical features before the rod burned through her throat and forced its way into her windpipe. Blood burst into her mouth and began to run into her oxygen-starved lungs. Shelly suddenly realized that she was dead, that all of her training failed to prevent her own murder. Faintly, from down the hall, she heard Madison’s soft moan as she slipped into a narrowing darkness, the agony of her death stealing away with her sight.
Chapter 18
Joe forced the old Ford truck to a shuddering, screaming stop with both feet. The damn thing needed breaks, a transmission and who knew what else. Clinton would help him do those breaks on the weekend for a six of Bud, if he could only afford the new pads. Now that little Becky was here, it was hard to afford a six of Bud, more or less new brake pads.
The door stuttered a deep squeal as Joe forced it open. He dropped out onto the dried up yard of his trailer, a yard he could no longer afford to maintain. The trailer was not the best in the park, but it was a double wide and the view was great. They sat in the shadow of Black Water Mountain in a park called Blissful Acres, a name that had been more of a lie than a promise. Becky had tended some flower boxes and kept the inside picked up as best she could, so it was not all bad, except for the bills.
He climbed the single step and pulled the small door open. Just before him was Becky, a large cast iron frying pan in her hand.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said and grabbed him in a hug. Somewhere in the trailer, little Becky was crying. She looked ashen and abused, almost as though she was hung over.
“What’s wrong? What’s been going on here?” Joe asked with a voice twisted in irritation.
“That screeching… I heard it again, this time repeatedly all day! It wouldn’t fucking stop!”
“Now, Becky, let me get inside. I told you it ain’t nothing but a bobcat. They are more scared of you than you are of them.”
“It ain’t neither, Joey. There is something up on that hill that ain’t right.”
Joey eased Becky back a step with both hands. “Well, I’m home now and I won’t let nothing happen to you, hear? Now where’s my Becky-bean? There she is!”
He released Becky to retrieve the little girl from her playpen. The child stopped her crying and her face lit brightly with a toothless smile.
“I’m not imagining things, Joey. That thing has been screaming all day up there and it ain’t no wild cat.”
“Now don’t scare little Becky-bean here. What you got on for dinner? I’m starvin’!”
“Rice and beans. It’s all we got—”
Becky did not finish. A short high-pitched piercing screech raced down the mountain and cut her short.
Joey’s blood ran cold and he felt his groin almost let go. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.
“You see? I told ya! And watch your mouth in front of the baby.”
“It’s got to be an animal,” Joe reasoned half-heartedly under his breath. “That’s all there is up there: animals…”
“I don’t know either way, but it’s been scaring me half to death.”
“Where’s my gun, baby?”
“You ain’t goin’ out there to hunt it!” Becky stated flatly.
“No, I ain’t goin’ out there to hunt it,” he replied sarcastically. “I want it just in case.”
“It’s in the bedroom closet. I don’t know where the bullets are at.”
“I’ll find ’um. Just get dinner on, alright?”
Joe placed the cooing baby back in her playpen. She fretted a bit before rediscovering the brightly colored blocks Annabel, their neighbor, had given them when she was born.
The bedroom still looked slept in, something Becky never let happen. Joe reasoned that she really had been scared the entire day. He wondered why she did not call him at the job site before realizing he had no more minutes on his cell phone; once more, back to the money problems. He loved little Becky, but she cost so damn much.
He pulled open the aluminum closet doors and fished around until he had the twelve-gauge shotgun and a box of slugs. He had not been hunting for some time and now the gun was bone dry and dusty, the ammunition almost two years old. There was nothing to do about that, so he loaded it with as many rounds as it would take, pumped one into the chamber, and jammed another in—just in case. He brought it back into the living room/dining room/kitchen and leaned it against the wall near the door.
The screech, somewhere between a bobcat, a screech owl, the tearing of metal, and the death scream of a woman, tore through the trailer again. Joe felt an unreasonable terror race down his spine and threaten to work his water loose. He knew some animals had a voice that could scare predators, but this thing was tormenting. Becky began to shake, her nerves scraped raw. Little Becky began to fret and whimper.
“I don’t know if I can take this much longer,” Joe’s wife squeaked. It was obvious she was about to have some form of a breakdown. “Every time I hear that thing, I almost wet myself, and I feel like I’m about to heave up. It’s driving me mad!” she screamed desperately.
Joe sat at the small kitchen table, his chair intruding into the living room. He had to agree that whatever made that sound was no animal, but what else could it be? “It’s been doin’ that all day?” Joe asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
“Yeah,” Becky replied shakily.
“Well, try to stay calm. I’m home now; I’ll keep you safe.”
The screech split the air like a wildly swung axe. This time, Becky screamed with it. The baby jumped visibly and began to cry loudly.
“Joe, can we go stay at my mom’s, just for tonight
, until that thing stops?” Becky was wringing her hands like a worried preacher.
“Becky…” Joe disliked his mother-in-law greatly; she was little more than a tattooed bag of whisky sours with a jagged razor for a personality. “Everything will be alright, hear?” Anger began to build in him, an unreasonable irritation driven by the idea of staying at that woman’s house and the loud crying of the baby.
“Just for tonight; we can leave in the mornin’. Please?”
“No! Now shut that fuckin’ thing up and get my dinner!” Even Joe was shocked at what he had just said, the savagery in his voice.
“Joe?” Becky asked weakly.
“Becky, oh my God…I’m sorry, I don’t know…” The screech drove through his head again, this time he jumped.
“Fuck it! Get the kid; let’s get out of here.”
Joe stood so quickly, so sure of his decision that the chair fell and came close to glancing off the playpen. Becky rushed to the baby and lifted the screaming bundle into her arms.
Now that they had committed themselves to action, anger fled the rush of smothering fear. Joe grabbed the gun and forced the door open violently. The sound of a gunshot stopped him, and the trailer directly across from them flashed brightly with another shot.
“What was that?” Becky shouted.
Before Joe could answer, another shot rang out followed by another thought-scattering screech from the mountain. This time, Joe did wet himself. “I think someone is shooting over at the Leonards’ place!”
“Get me out of here, Joe, now!” Becky pleaded, holding the baby close to her.
“Come on, move!” Joe shouted as he rushed out of the trailer and into the darkness, the shotgun leveled and scanning the area for threats. In the deepest recesses of his mind, Joe suddenly knew they were in mortal danger, if not worse. Another shot rang out, followed by another.
Becky broke from the front door and rushed passed Joe, little Becky screaming in her arms. To Joe’s right, another trailer’s door slammed open, and Annabel stepped out. She was drenched in blood, more than Joe thought a single body could actually hold. It ran down her face, matted her hair, and made the logo on her tired t-shirt unreadable. Her eyes were wild, like that of a frightened animal, and in one hand, she held tightly a large chef’s knife.
“Shut that little shit ball up!” Annabel screamed.
Another shot rang out as Becky scrambled to get the door of the Chevy open.
“Annabel?” Joe said, hurt by the woman’s words, afraid of her appearance, and certain her husband no longer lived.
The woman took the single step to the ground and began to rush towards Becky. “I said shut that fucking brat of yours up!” Another shot rang out from the Leonards’ place, and the loud explosion seemed to have no effect on Annabel as she stalked forcefully towards Joe’s family.
“Annabel! Stop!” Joe shouted.
The screech came again, forcing the entire scene to a nightmarish level.
When the Chevy’s door slammed closed, Annabel stopped briefly then turned towards Joe. Another shot lit the scene briefly.
“You dog fucker!” she screeched as she sprinted toward him, the knife held high.
Joe fired at her, the lead slug catching her in the upper chest, tearing free her arm and shoulder, exploding her chest far enough back to add color to the rusting chrome of Annabel’s trailer. Becky screamed. In the distance, but somewhere within Blissful Acres, another gun barked repeatedly, rapidly.
Joe ripped the Chevy’s door open and leapt into the cab. Little Becky was still screaming, and Becky was weeping uncontrollably. He rolled the aging engine over and backed the car up. There, in front of him, suddenly stood Grandmother Leonard, a ridiculously large revolver in her hand. She pointed it directly at Joe and pulled the trigger.
The round pierced the windshield neatly, missed Joe by very little, and exploded the dirty back window into the bed of the pickup. Mother and child screamed at the same instant as Joe took a quick inventory of his face. He floored the gas pedal, and the Chevy spun down slowly, then lurched forward, striking Grandmother Leonard full on. She flew back and hit her family’s trailer where she slumped to the ground. Joe jerked the wheel over and smashed the gas pedal again. This time, the Chevy responded quickly, and the truck raced through Blissful Acres and toward the distant exit.
People were milling about everywhere, and Joe worked hard not run any of them over. They were all blood-splattered and armed with various things, from knives to guns, axes to baseball bats. The entire trailer park had gone mad, murderously mad, and Joe wanted nothing more than to get his family out of there.
They made the main strip and he turned right, still going at an alarming speed. He hoped the transmission could keep up with his need without vomiting pieces of itself on the dirt road.
“My mother’s is the other way, Joe,” Becky advised in a thin whinny voice.
“We are going to the trooper’s station down on McGee,” he stated, still not wholly the master of his own racing thoughts.
They sat in silence for some time, Joe contemplating his killing of two people, Becky trying to wrestle the torturous fear she had endeared that day. He slowed the truck as a fog began to lift around them, making the road a bit harder to see but not so much that he felt the need to stop. He rounded a bend and turned onto McGee, now just a few miles from the trooper station.
In the distance, a large and well-lit vehicle came into view through the fog. It was large, yellow, and carried before it a plow, and on top, a yellow strobe light screamed in two directions at once.
“Why the hell would Billy have the plow out now? It’s not snowing,” Joe wondered aloud.
The plow lifted a bit on the front of the truck, and it changed lanes to head right for them.
“Joe!” Becky screamed.
“Holy shit! Get down!” he shouted as he jerked the wheel over to the next lane.
The plow mirrored this lane change, again heading right for them.
“Joe! What’s going—?”
“Get down, on the floor, Becky!” Joe screamed as he pushed her down to the floorboard and cut the wheel once more. When he looked up, he saw the plow enter the windshield as the trucks collided bodily. The edge of it caught Joe in the teeth and removed the top portion of his head. The force of the impact sent his head rolling to the top of the plow and then back into the cab, salt, dirt, and sand stinging his eyes. Joe’s brain sputtered a moment and eventually ceased to think.
The dash of the old truck bent in and over Becky and the baby, trapping them neatly in a pinch of metal and fake leather trim. The shock of the collision had knocked the wind out of her, and the baby shot into the cushion of the bench seat and back into her mother’s body where she began to scream wildly. Becky felt and tasted blood covering her face and knew she was injured.
She tried to work herself out of the tight confines of the ruined dash to give the baby more room to move and breath. She forced her head passed the bench cushion, still unable to draw enough breath to scream for Joe, and saw Billy looking down at her.
His eyes were wild and mad, and his face bled freely from the numerous police badges that hung from the flesh of his face and neck.
“Hi there, Becky. Time for you to go!” he announced gleefully and forced the barrel of a police service revolver painfully into her eye. Before she could move, the gun fired, and Becky’s head burst across the remains of the dashboard. She no longer felt the pain that had racked her body, heard the screams of her little girl, or saw the second shot from the revolver, which brought the inside of the truck to a death’s silence.
Chapter 19
The deepening darkness brought no end to the nerve-grating howl. It had begun near dawn and continued throughout the day. There was no pattern, no repeated length or crescendo, just random nerve-ripping, spine-gripping, indescribable screeches. The constant tearing at Rich’s nerves had pushed him up to and then far beyond his threshold of tolerance. His senses, now swamped with
an overbearing rage, were no longer his to control, and visions began to invade his sanity.
He had tried to reason with himself, to convince the voice in his head that being angry at some wild animal’s voice was unreasonable, but it simply prolonged his torturous slide toward insanity.
Julie had fared worse than he, she had always been a bit touchy and borderline enraged. When customers had come in, either to shop for their farming needs or to attempt escape of the mind-ravaging wail, she snapped at them, even threw old Ted Barton out for the color of his shirt or some such trivial thing. It was near closing then, but Rich could not afford a lost customer, especially a regular, and it set him off in a bad way.
“Julie! For the love of God!” he screamed at her, customers still milling along the isles, holding their hands to their ears, eyes clamped tight.
“Fuck you, Rich! You can just go to hell!” she screamed back, then threw an old metal stapler at him.
He ducked down in the isle to avoid the hurled stapler and found himself staring at the edge of a long-handled sickle, the Mike Hansel brand sickles he had just gotten in. His eyes fixed on the already sharpened edge, coated in some day-glow green rubber to keep the clumsy from cutting themselves. The rage that he had been able to hold at bay found a wicked beauty in the finely honed edge, and following the curved shape with his eyes seemed to lead his thoughts to a place where the unreasonable suddenly became reasonable…and now Julie most certainly needed to die.
Rich gripped the tool near the center of its wood handle and stood quickly, spinning around to find Julia looking for something else to throw at him. The cashiers’ counter held very little in the way of missiles, and she turned back to lock her maddened eyes on his.
He felt a rush of joy as her eyes went from rage to a shadowy and angry fear. He began to stalk towards her, slowly, drawing the fear out of her like a siphon, reveling in her fright.
“Rich, stop!” Daniel Becker shouted at him as another screech from the mountain subsided. He got between Rich and Julie, like some barrel-chested hero. He was a large boy, near seventeen now, and overly muscular. He had worked the farm since he was young and could wrestle the heaviest bales into the highest of barn lofts.