by John Penney
__________
It was dark and cluttered, and it smelled of rancid engine grease. But there was something else that smelled, too. The unmistakable odor of road-kill. Kat coughed and clasped her hand to her nose.
“Over there.” Roger pointed to the tool bench at the back of the shadowy garage. They started toward it, carefully crossing around the deep rectangular repair bay pit in the floor. The floor was slippery with grease.
“Watch your step,” Roger warned Kat as he pushed through the dangling hoist chains that suspended a massive truck engine high overhead.
They reached the tool bench, and Roger grabbed a small hammer. Not big enough. He squinted in the darkness, felt around on the bench, and found a screwdriver. He tested the tip, then felt down the front of the bench and pulled open the drawer.
A low, sliding sound came from the shadows at the far end of the bench. Roger spun around. Something was on the ground moving toward him. Roger brandished the screwdriver.
“What is it?” Kat whispered, alarmed; she looked in the direction Roger was looking. But there was nothing there. “Roger?”
But Roger saw it all. A young girl emerged from the darkness. Her tank top was shredded by knife wounds; she clutched her severed legs in her hands as she dragged her torso along the garage floor, leaving a trail of blood.
Her desperate eyes met Roger’s. “He…he’s coming,” she pleaded.
A loud metallic clang came from the corner opposite her. Roger looked over and saw another woman; some of her hair had been ripped from her scalp. An oily crankshaft jutted out from her chest, and it banged against the concrete floor as she crawled desperately toward him.
“Get it out. Please. Get it out of me,” the impaled woman begged.
A third voice from beyond the air compressor caused Roger to spin again. This time he saw a blonde teenager with drill bits sunk deep into her eyes. She groped her way toward Roger as blood and bile oozed from the intestines that spilled from a deep gash in her bare torso. “I can’t see anything. Help me…please.”
Roger staggered back against the tool bench and closed his eyes tightly, trying to will away the horrific sights and sounds.
“Roger! Roger!” Kat grabbed him and pulled him around.
He opened his eyes and was met by Kat’s terrified face. He looked back at the shadows. The spirits were gone.
Roger took a deep breath and tried to slow his racing heart “We’re close…close to where he killed them.”
Roger knew there was no other explanation. There were too many of them, and the encounter had been too intense. Roger leaned back against the tool bench.
Kat rested her hand on his arm, concerned. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
Roger exhaled shakily, closed his eyes again.
“Roger, you’ve got to stay with me.”
“I will. I’m trying.”
He didn’t have a choice. He had to be okay.
Roger had experienced “hot” zones before, but never like this. Usually it was at an intersection where there had been a violent car accident, and once it had even been in a 7-11.
It had been several years ago, after a late-night gig, and he was exhausted. His guard was down, and when he was coming back from the cold case with a six-pack, he saw a smear of blood across the aisle. Seconds later he was surrounded by two small children. One had been shot in the head and the other in the chest. Their mother had the side of her face blown off. Roger learned later that the family had been caught in the cross fire from a robbery that had gone horribly wrong.
As horrific as that encounter had been, this was far more intense. He was seeing Kincaid’s victims in the moments of their death, and they had all died from some horrible kind of torture.
Roger opened his eyes again and turned back to the bench. He felt around inside the dark drawer and came up with a heavy pipe wrench. “Here,” he said to Kat.
“Shhhh.”
Roger turned in time to see Kincaid’s silhouette in the entrance to the garage.
Kat was already frozen, staring at the ominous sight. She gently pulled Roger back into the shadows and looked around. “There’s got to be another way out,” she said.
There was. The back door that Kincaid had come through earlier to get his shotgun. She turned back to Roger and whispered, “Come on.”
Kat steadied Roger as they crept over to the door and tried it. But it was now locked.
“Shit.”
Roger looked back at the garage entrance. Kincaid stepped inside, carefully scanning the darkness. There was an icy, determined expression on his face as he started forward, shotgun at the ready. Like a focused animal that knew it had cornered its prey. There was no way they could get past him and out that front door without him seeing them.
Kat tugged on Roger’s arm again. He looked back. She was pointing at one of the small storage room doors off in the corner. It would have to do.
They hurried over. Kat quietly tried the knob, and it opened.
Across the garage, Kincaid swept the barrel of the shotgun through the dangling engine-hoist chains, pushing them out of his way. He crept along the edge of the repair pit, keeping his eyes and ears carefully attuned to the darkness around him.
It was nearly black inside the small, narrow storage room when Roger quietly closed the door behind them. The only source of pale light came from a small, dirty window on the far side that had been papered over with yellowing newspaper. The acrid smell of road-kill was intense; Kat gagged and stifled a cough.
“The window,” Roger said as he felt his way across the narrow room.
Kat followed behind him, holding her hands outstretched in front of her. She was almost to the other side when her right hand brushed against something. She hesitated, lowered her hand, and felt the edge of a workbench. Feeling more certain now, she slid her hand along the edge of the bench, using it to guide her way. After several steps, her fingers hit something and she paused.
It was cold, wet and clay-like.
She squinted down into the pitch-blackness, trying to see. “Roger! Roger, something’s in here.”
Roger found his way to the small window. He reached up high, stretching as far as he could and managed to get a loose corner of the yellowing newspaper that covered it. He gave a yank, tearing away the dirt-covered windowpane.
Pale light streamed in, revealing the room for the first time.
They were in the middle of Kincaid’s “art gallery.”
It was a charnel house filled with strange sculptures made from human fingers, arms, toes, and teeth, welded together with engine parts. All of them were macabre, grisly fusions of man and machine. Roger remembered the sculpture he had seen Kincaid working on in the garage. Had someone’s body parts been destined to be part of that one, also?
Kat stumbled back, horrified, and in the process slammed into Kincaid’s current project—Lucinda. Her freshly dismantled body was strewn out on the workbench.
Kat opened her mouth to scream, but Roger slapped his hand over her mouth and pointed.
The shadow of Kincaid’s feet appeared on the other side of the crack at the bottom of the door.
Roger and Kat remained frozen as Kincaid’s shadow moved up to the door and paused. Kat’s terrified eyes were torn between the shadow under the door and the macabre gallery around her. What kind of thoughts ran through a mind like Kincaid’s? She struggled to find logic to his endeavors. A mechanic, yes. A man who worked with machines and engines. But the grafting of human flesh with cold steel?
Kat could understand the creative mind. The music she immersed herself in was often dark and disturbing. But music was art. A metaphor for some kind of emotion or experience, sometimes purely designed to elicit a reaction, which was in and of itself a valid reason to exist. But this was abomination around her. Was it the ultimate freedom of expression for Kincaid? The creative mind that dared to create with impunity? To will an abstract into reality, no matter what the cost? Or was it something
born of a disconnect between what was living and what was machine? An inability to distinguish the machines he made come alive from the living people he used to do so? The corporal, mechanical, and functional human body equating itself intimately with man-made machines. How could you leap to such a thought? And disturbingly enough, what a free artist Kincaid truly must be to avoid any censorship, no matter what the cost.
Kat’s mind raced as her eyes took in the creations all around her. She was thinking about this too rationally. There couldn’t be a reason any sane, thinking mind could ascribe to it. His disconnect with reality had to be so far afield that she could never begin to comprehend. No. It was madness. Not art. It was not understandable. It was mutilation and insanity.
The time Kat and Roger remained frozen felt like an eternity. But, in fact, it had been only seconds. Kat’s thoughts had raced so quickly, she had lost track.
Roger had moved up to the edge of the door, and he was now holding the wrench up high, waiting to make a desperate attempt at clubbing Kincaid if he came through that door.
Then, as if the monster instinctively knew there was a threat awaiting him, the shadow on the other side of the door crack moved away. They heard his footsteps retreat back into the garage.
Roger lowered the wrench. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered as he pushed past Kat, who remained frozen and near shock.
He squinted down into the darkness below the window and could barely make out a toolbox. He carefully placed his foot on it, tested it, and then stepped up onto it. He quietly opened the latch at the bottom of the window frame and pushed outward. Thunk! The frame hit something.
Roger wiped away the heavy film of dirt on the glass and revealed the reason: There were metal bars on the outside of the window.
“Shit,” Roger whispered. They were stuck. No way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kat sank to her knees in the corner, trembling, tears welling in her eyes. “We’re dead. We’re dead,” she whispered shakily.
Roger turned and saw the broken and vulnerable woman as she wrapped her arms around her legs and pulled them close to herself. He felt everything she was feeling; there wasn’t a way out of this that he could see, but he knew it wouldn’t do anyone any good to give up.
He crossed over, kneeled down next to her. “No, it’s not over yet. We’ll get out.”
They sat a moment in silence, and Kat rested her head on his shoulder. Roger felt her against him, and he reached out and put his arm around her.
Kat took a trembling breath as tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “Where the fuck are we going to go? He knows we didn’t leave. It’s only a matter of time before he comes back here. He’ll find us. He’s going to kill us.”
Roger looked down at the heavy wrench in his hand. “Not without a fight.”
“Against a shotgun? He’s got a fucking shotgun.”
Roger didn’t have an answer to that. He pulled her a little closer, and they settled into silence again.
Kat wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and stared off into the darkness, avoiding the grisly sculptures that filled the room. How had she gotten here? She tried to trace everything that had happened, looking for the answer, and trying to find someone to blame. But there was no one. She had been working all this time with this hell all around her. Roger had only discovered it. In the end, Kincaid would have probably come for her the way he had for her mother.
Her mother.
The guilt Kat felt for being so angry at her mother for leaving again, when, in fact, she had been so brutally murdered, ate away at Kat; it was worse than knowing she now faced certain death.
Kat spoke softly, breaking the silence. “Did you see her? Did you see my mother when you went over?”
Roger looked down at her searching, desperate eyes. He could tell she needed something to hold onto right now. And he was willing to do anything he could to ease her pain. So he lied.
“Yeah. I did.”
A sad smile appeared on Kat’s tear-streaked face and Roger could see that his lie was a comfort to her. “She wanted to tell you that she was sorry,” he continued. “She wanted you to know she didn’t just leave you again. She wanted you to know she…” Roger paused, swallowed dryly, and added, “She wanted you to know she loved you very much.”
Kat closed her eyes, letting his words touch her deeply. “I always knew it. I mean I just…I don’t know, I just felt it. Even after she left the second time, somehow I knew there had to be a reason.”
Roger looked down at the fragile woman in his arms and knew he had said the right thing. But he also knew she wasn’t lying to herself. She probably had felt those things from her mother; it was entirely possible that her mother had reached out to her from the other side.
Roger had met several other sensitives in his life, some stronger than others, but he also realized that most people had the ability to feel things from the other side if they allowed themselves.
They sat for another moment without saying anything. But the very reason they could sit there in the darkness as the minutes ticked by was starting to make Roger restless. Was this going to be how it ended for them? Were they going to sit here until Kincaid came back and found them? There had to be a way they wouldn’t both die.
Roger’s thoughts started to magnify themselves along with a newfound anger. He found himself shaking his head. “I’m not going to do this,” he said.
Kat looked over at him, not understanding.
Roger felt his resolve solidifying. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for him.” He pulled away from Kat. “One way or another, I’m going out there.” He got to his feet and looked back down at her. “Stay here. If you hear something, run. I’ll do what I can to distract him.”
Kat wiped her eyes as she looked up at Roger. She knew what he was suggesting; he was willing to sacrifice himself so that she could escape. But there was no way she was going to let him.
“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to stay here alone.”
She meant it. She would rather die trying to escape with him than have him leave her alone to fend for herself.
But Roger pushed his point. “Kat, as long as he’s busy with me, you might have a chance.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to be here alone. I’m going with you.”
Roger looked down at her and saw the determination on her frightened face; he knew he wouldn’t be able to change her mind. And he was right.
__________
Moments later, the storeroom door opened a crack. Roger carefully peered out. The garage was silent. There was no sign of Kincaid.
Roger opened the door a little further and stepped out, brandishing the heavy wrench. He looked back at Kat and signaled. She came out behind him.
“I don’t see him,” Roger whispered.
They both scanned the dark maze of shadows between them and the open front door. A glimmer of hope. Maybe they would be okay after all.
“Let’s get out before he comes back,” Kat whispered urgently, and nudged Roger.
They started tentatively toward the open door across the large garage. They reached the repair bay and carefully crept around the side to the dangling engine-hoist chains. Roger looked back at Kat and pointed out the chains so that she would be careful not to disturb them. Kat nodded silently, and Roger squeezed carefully around them.
Kat started to follow him, and her foot slipped on the oily floor. She recoiled to catch her balance, and her arm brushed against the chains. They rattled as they swayed back and forth.
They both froze in their tracks.
Roger frantically searched the shadows around them. The garage remained quiet. No sign of Kincaid.
Another lucky break. They pressed onward. The open door was straight in front of them now, about ten yards away. They picked up their pace. Seven yards to go… then six… five… four… then it was just a few steps, and they were there. Roger paused and carefully peered outside.
The dark truck stop was quiet. There was no sign of anyone. Roger adjusted his angle so that he could see around the side of the main building to the parking lot. They had a clear path all the way to his car at the front of the diner.
Roger allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope. They were close now. The end was in sight.
He turned back to Kat, and that was when the shadows came alive behind her. Kincaid stepped out and leveled his shotgun at them.
Roger tackled Kat. BOOM! The shotgun blasted over their heads.
They tumbled back into the garage. Kincaid racked his gun again and cut in front of the open door, blocking their escape.
“Kat! Up! Get up!” Roger yelled as he dragged Kat to her feet. They frantically stumbled back deeper into the garage.
Kincaid started after them, his shotgun leveled and ready. Roger and Kat pushed their way through the dangling hoist chains.
Kincaid took aim at Roger. It was close range, no way he could miss. Roger desperately hurled the heavy wrench at Kincaid. It glanced off his shoulder—BOOM! It was a wild shot.
Roger backed into the chains, looking frantically all around for any possible way out of this. Kincaid racked the shotgun again, bearing down on Roger. His finger moved to the trigger. Finally. The last, fatal shot.
In that split second, Roger saw a way out. He reached up, yanked the lock lever on the hoist chain, and it sprung free. The massive truck engine suspended above plunged downward.
Kincaid leaped back, but not far enough to get out of the way of the heavy engine as it rattled downward. The massive motor crashed down on Kincaid’s leg, pinning him to the greasy floor. The shotgun clattered into the bottom of the repair pit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The loud noise echoed into silence. Roger and Kat took a moment to assess their new situation. Kincaid was trapped; the massive engine was lodged on his leg.
Roger reached down, retrieved the heavy wrench he had thrown at Kincaid, and staggered over to him.