by P. G. Kassel
He did know them; he remembered now. He didn't know their names but he'd come across them at a couple of parties, college parties if he was remembering right. They'd come on to him so he'd ended up banging them. Maybe it got rough, but so what? Why were they here, what was the big deal?
The car was almost on them now and the misery in their faces quickly transformed into anger. No, not just anger. It was a hateful fury that he could almost feel. He shrank back in his seat in a futile attempt to shield himself from the intensity of it. The girls turned and slowly followed the car as it raced past them. At least they'd never catch up to him at that speed, he thought.
The reverberations of the girls' crying sped along with the car and was joined by a pair of weak, pathetic screams. An elderly couple came into view directly in the path of the car. Their faces were drawn in pain, sadness, and fear, and the ugly bruises on both of them reminded him of the time he'd been in need of a car. Elderly and frail, it had been a breeze taking it from them but both of them had protested and he'd had to teach them a lesson.
But now there was a fierceness to the fear and pain in their faces as they reached out for him, trying to take hold of him with their long, clawlike fingers.
He could feel their fingernails scratch at him as the car moved past them, the sting of it as real and horrible as everything he'd been through since boarding this cursed ride. When two more figures gradually faded up from the darkness he was certain he couldn't take anymore.
He could see that they were two men. One of them was in uniform and for a moment he was certain the cops had gotten inside the ride from one of the maintenance doors and headed him off. But he quickly saw that it wasn't a city cop, it was a sheriff in the typical khaki uniform. There was no mistaking this guy, it was the only time he'd ever hit anybody with a car. He thought he'd killed this sheriff but here he was, coming towards him with a bad limp. With every step there was a wince of pain on the man's face, and with every step the glare of hatred grew more intense.
Staggering along beside the sheriff was the most terrifying memory he'd seen yet. Memory? He hoped it was all just a memory. He knew he'd killed this guy, he'd bashed his skull in with a hammer. The left side of the bus driver's head was caved in, a gory mess of bone, brain matter and coagulated blood. How could it be that this guy was on his feet, lurching towards him with a bloody hammer grasped in his fist?
As the car neared them the sheriff unclipped the nightstick from his utility belt and drew back his arm to strike. At the same time the bus driver readied the stained hammer.
He wasn't thinking anymore, he wasn't doing anything except cringing in fear. He covered his head with his crossed arms and ducked down low. He felt the blows land on his wrist and back, the sharp pain a reminder that this was all too real, and then the car was suddenly past them.
He could feel tears running down his face, stinging him as they washed across the cuts and scratches on his cheeks. Aside from the clacking of the car as it raced forward it had grown very quiet. With considerable effort he willed himself to raise his head again.
The blackness that surrounded him was slowly lightening to a dark, swirling, fog-like gray. Up ahead he could just make out several people lining each side of the track. He had flickers of recognition as he sped past them, the eyes of each of them never wavering from him.
There was a middle-aged school teacher he'd roughed up for her purse money. He saw the high school kid he'd jostled passing on the sidewalk and then beaten bloody when the kid flipped him off. There was an old man he'd thrown to the ground next to an ATM machine when the guy made him fight for the cash he'd withdrawn. There was even a guy he'd done a breakin with. After the job he'd coldcocked the guy with a pipe so he could have all the jewelry they'd stumbled on for himself.
There were more of them ahead, plenty more, lining each side of the track, just watching him with unblinking eyes. And just as quickly as they had come into view they were gone. With a gasp of relief it occurred to him that maybe the worst of it was behind him.
The gray darkness gradually took on a slight greenish hue and in the dimness he began to make out what looked like small blotches. First one, then another, and then another. But as the car drew nearer to them he could see that he was looking at the ends of shafts of wood. They were long and stake-like with jagged, sharp tips. There were at least a dozen of them now and they were all pointed at him. The car was bearing down on them with increasing speed and they were all pointed right at him.
He struggled fiercely, twisting violently, insane with fear as he tried to dislodge himself from the car. His mouth went horribly dry. If he didn't get out of the car quickly he'd be impaled.
The wooden spikes were only a few feet away now. The safety bar suddenly released and sprang upward. The moment he stood up he realized it was too late. He heard himself scream a loud, empty, lonely scream.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Now You See Him...
Larkin stood at the rear of the building housing the dark ride shining the beam of his flashlight over the metal maintenance door.
"It only opens from the inside, with one of those emergency release bars, just like the door on the side," Romero said. "He must’ve jumped out of the car as soon as he was inside and slipped out through one of these doors."
"Not without being spotted by the two other units that pulled up in the parking lot as I followed him over the fence," Larkin responded.
He stepped away from the door and headed back towards the front of the building.
"Those guys went over the fence after I did, not more than a minute behind me," Larkin continued. "They'd have been approaching the rear of the building just after Wedlow went inside."
They made their way around to the front of the building, stepping into the bright blue and red glow from the emergency lights on the six cruisers that had parked in between the various rides in the area. Beyond the cruisers was a city ambulance. Larkin could see the girl sitting on the rear bumper. A detective he recognized, a guy named Marsten, stood next to her.
He turned back towards the dark ride building in time to see two of the officers who had followed him over the fence coming out of the ride's tunnel at the exit side. Two other officers soon appeared from the tunnel on the entrance side.
"Anything?" Larkin asked.
"Nothing but a lot of fake scary shit," one of the officer’s answered.
"No sign of him," his partner added.
"Damn it!" Larkin cursed. "He can't have just disappeared into thin air."
"There's plenty of places to hide in there, but I gotta tell you, we covered it good," the officer assured him.
Marsten left the girl with one of the ambulance attendants and joined them.
"How is she?" Larkin asked him.
"Shaken up. She's got a couple of bad bruises and some minor cuts but she'll be okay," he responded. “Any sign of your guy?”
“Nothing,” Larkin answered.
"What about the ride operator? What's he have to say?"
"No sign of him, either" Romero answered.
"The guy was nowhere to be seen by the time I reached the ride," Larkin explained.
"You weren't kidding when you said Wedlow has a knack of slipping out of tight spots," Romero said.
"Don't rub it in," Larkin grumbled.
"Not me, man. I'm right there with you," Romero assured him.
"Officer Larkin... Detective," a voice called out.
They turned to see a young, uniformed officer approaching from the direction of the pier, the beam of his flashlight swaying back and forth in front of him. He looked unsettled and nervous.
"What’s up?" Larkin greeted him.
"I think you just better come see this," the officer said, a tremor in his voice.
They all followed the officer back towards the pier.
"So what're you showing us?" Larkin asked, not in the mood for any guessing games.
"You just better see it for yourself, sir."
&
nbsp; "Patience is a virtue," Marsten quipped.
As they approached the pier Larkin could see several uniforms gathered at the guardrail some seventy five feet out from the pier's entrance. Each of the men were shining their flashlights over the rail at the shoreline below.
None of the men said a word as Larkin, Romero, and Marsten joined them. Larkin leaned over the rail and followed the flashlight beams.
"Shit!" he heard Romero exclaim.
A dozen of the original pilings from the old pier jutted up out of the sand along the shoreline, some reaching above the beach higher than others. The tide water flowed up and around the wooden posts, caressing them with foam for several seconds before withdrawing again.
On a single piling about six feet high, Marty Wedlow was suspended, face up and bent backwards, almost in half. His eyes were open wide in horror, his mouth was frozen open in an ugly, silent scream. The jagged, sharp end of the piling, dark with blood, protruded from Wedlow's chest almost a foot.
"How do we get down there?" Marsten asked.
The young officer who had fetched them pointed back inland. "There's access stairs right there. You can see the opening in the rail.
Less than two minutes later they were standing beside the body. Up close and with the light of four flashlights on the body, the scene was even more horrifying.
"He was bottled up in that ride," Larkin said. "How the hell did he end up here?"
"More to the point, how did he end up like this?" Romero asked.
"He didn't jump," Marsten observed. "I'd say we're at least twenty five feet from the edge of the pier. He'd have to have wings to make it this far."
Larkin pointed. "He's got some pretty ugly scratches on his face and arms. Whatever did it was sharp enough to shred his shirt."
"Move the lights closer," the detective instructed, stepping closer to the body. "He's got burns, too. His skin's blistered and his clothing's scorched. How the hell did that happen to him?"
They stood in silence, each of them trying to make some sense out of what they were seeing, working to come up with some explanation that might make sense in an official report. Larkin looked up at the pier, and then judged the distance back to the body. There was no way Wedlow had landed here from the deck of the pier. This looked like the guy had dropped from a plane and landed on the piling, or maybe like he'd been thrown down on it with a lot of force. But that was impossible.
"Hey, who's that guy?" one of the officers asked, nodding his head towards the pier entrance.
They all turned to look.
A tall, dark figure stood at the edge of the pier, staring down at them with black, empty eyes.
"The ride operator," Larkin said quietly.
"Him we need to talk to," Marsten said.
All of them sprinted back towards the access stairs. Larkin kept his eyes on the strange man above them and wasn't surprised when he unhurriedly withdrew from the pier guardrail, disappearing from sight. As he bolted up the stairs Larkin felt with a strange, unexplainable certainty that they would never see the ride operator again.
<<<<>>>>
Other Books by P.G. Kassel
Black Shadow Moon ~ Bram Stoker’s Dark Secret:
The Story of Dracula
Black Shadow Moon – Stoker’s Redemption
About the Author
P.G. Kassel (Phil to his readers) is a former film and television writer-director turned novelist. With over 30 years working in the entertainment industry his teleplays have been produced for television, and his feature length screenplays optioned by major studios and production companies.
Phil is married to an amazing and beautiful woman who puts up with all his artistic moodiness. They make their home in Los Angeles, California.
If you have any questions or comments for Phil connect with him online:
www.pgkassel.com
[email protected]
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