The Sludge

by David Bernstein

  Praise for David Bernstein

  "The stuff nightmares are made of" —Cemetery Dance Online on Goblins

  "An in-your-face, take-no-prisoners romp in the vein of Richard Laymon and Edward Lee" —Examiner.com on Goblins

  "A fascinating, unpredictable, ever-shifting tale of greed and desperation. Highly recommended!" —Jeff Strand, author of Pressure on Relic of Death

  "one of the most brutal stories I have ever read, and that's saying a lot." —Sheri White, from The Horror Fiction Review on The Unhinged

  "David Bernstein is a rarity among up-and-coming writers today, as one glimpse of his work reveals a serious dedication to, and respect for, his craft. The result is a developing body of fiction that continues to grow as accomplished as it is visceral and disturbing. For me, Bernstein is without question among the more promising talents in the genre, and by all indications, he's only just begun. Good news for everyone who loves well written, entertaining, no-apologies dark fiction. If you're not reading David Bernstein, you should be." —Greg F. Gifune, author of THE BLEEDING SEASON

  "Fast-paced, cinematic, and excellent. Horror fans gather around, it's time for another chilling tale from David Bernstein."

  —Keith Deininger, author of Within and Ghosts of Eden on Skinner

  "A brutal horror story that will keep surprising you over and over" — Beneath the Underground

  "When folks ask me to recommend one of today's best horror authors, David Bernstein is always near the top of my list." —Dark Discussions Podcast

  “Bernstein’s books should be an automatic purchase for any horror fan,” —Beneath the Underground

  The Sludge

  BY

  David Bernstein

  Published by Great Old Ones Publishing

  New Hampshire, U.S.A.

  http://www.greatoldonespublishing.com

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording, broadcast or live performance, or duplication by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors, except for the inclusion of brief quotations with attribution in a review or report. Requests for reproductions or related information should be addressed to Great Old Ones Publishing at http://www.greatoldonespublishing.com.

  Sludge

  Copyright © 2016, David Bernstein

  Edited by Gregory L. Norris

  Cover artwork by Ogmios http://www.artbyogmios.com

  Manuscript to book by Philip C. Perron http://www.darkdiscussions.com

  The stories within this collection are works of fiction. All characters, products, corporations, institutions, and/or entities of any kind in this book are either products of the respected authors' imaginations or, if real, used fictitiously without intent to describe actual characteristics.

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Great Old Ones Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692726446

  ISBN-13: 978-0692726440 (Great Old Ones Publishing)

  Also by David Bernstein

  Machines of the Dead Trilogy

  Machines of the Dead 2

  Machines of the Dead 3

  Goblins

  A Mixed Bag of Blood

  Damaged Souls

  The Unhinged

  Relic of Death

  Toxic Behemoth

  Skinner

  Amongst the Dead

  Apartment 7C

  The Tree Man

  Witch Island

  Tears of No Return

  Surrogate

  Jackpot (co-authored with Kristopher Rufty)

  GREAT OLD ONES PUBLISHING

  NEW HAMPSHIRE

  U.S.A.

  The Sludge

  BY

  David Bernstein

  GREAT OLD ONES PUBLISHING

  NEW HAMPSHIRE

  U.S.A.

  DEDICATION

  For Tristan, one helluva great dude!

  “The marijuana goes in the top drawer. The cocaine and speed go in the second drawer. And the heroin goes in the bottom drawer. Always separate the drugs.”

  —Mouth from The Goonies

  CHAPTER 1

  Bull turned the faux-marked tanker truck onto the overgrown and no longer used logging trail that cut through the northern part of Lolo National Forest, an over two million acre stretch of protected land located in the southeastern part of Montana. The road was still used on occasion by forest rangers and firemen, the firemen for when a forest fire broke out or some adventurous hikers decided to traipse through the wild and wound up injured or lost.

  Bull's real name was Nate Bullard. He weighed slightly over three hundred pounds, stood six feet, five inches and never backed down from a fight, garnering him the nickname Bull.

  The area he and his partner, John Doverman—a lanky, weasel-faced man with long, stringy hair—were traveling through was not only uninhabited, but miles from any of the marked and ranger-patrolled tourist trails that ran through the park.

  The only motor vehicles allowed on the protected land were the ones driven by the rangers or some other state or government agency, such as the police or fire department. Rangers mostly used Jeeps and road horses, but they remained south where the tourists and designated trails were located, leaving Bull and John to pretty much do as they pleased.

  Despite the serious implications they’d endure if they were caught dumping toxic waste or any waste for that matter, to do so on federally protected land was even worse. Obviously, most people wouldn't think of doing such a thing, which was why—in their minds—the forest was the perfect place.

  From what Bull had heard, the Jennings Chemical Corporation had been in a bit of trouble. The company was involved in some kind of animal research and testing, and had a rat inside who was reporting to the authorities on the matters. Whatever crap they had been working on was apparently highly dangerous and illegal. Bull had even heard it was something top secret for the military, but figured that was mostly bullshit, as bogus stories often reared when things were in chaos.

  It was his and Doverman's job to make sure illegal waste was gotten rid of and never found. They worked independently for a number of businesses throughout the Midwest and usually had time to plan out where to dump whatever it was they had to dispose of. But Jennings Chemical was under a time crunch, had to have the stuff out of their facility in a week's time and they couldn't make a big deal of it because they were being watched. Whatever they were hauling, the stuff was apparently quite unstable if mixed with the wrong chemicals. The material was best sealed in barrels and stored in some mountain somewhere, but the company didn't have time and couldn't risk it. So the partners came in with their faux-labeled milk truck, filled it with the toxic waste, and headed out, with specific instructions not to dump it where any other chemicals had been deposited. The material in question was highly reactive to a number of things—nothing specifically mentioned—that they had dumped before for Jennings Chemical. But with such short notice—and a ton more money than usual—Bull took the job, saying he had the perfect place to get rid of the stuff.

  "Slow down," Dover said, as the medium-sized tanker truck bounced up and down. "We don't need to break an axle out here."

  Bull lifted his foot off the gas a little and the truck slowed, the jostling lessening.

  "Better, Mom?" Bull asked.

  Doverman eyed Bull as he sucked on his cigarette. The lanky man weighed almost two hundred pounds less than Bull, but was by no means any less intimidating. They'd gotten into a tussle or two when they were both drunk and the skinny man had held his own.

  "Let’s see you even joke about a blown tire," Dover said. "This is some last minute shit we're do
ing. I don't like it. I just want to get it done."

  They'd been dumping all sorts of substances for years. Started out dumping trash and moved up from there. Bull had a knack for finding places no one visited. But toxic waste was the top of the pyramid. The big time. You had to be careful with it. Not just for their sakes, but getting caught with it could mean hefty fines and imprisonment, along with Jennings Chemical’s repercussions. There was no way Jennings Chemical was going to allow anyone to rat on where the waste had come from.

  Bull figured Lolo National Forest was close enough and the perfect location for the toxic waste. Dumped in the lake where they had previously dumped waste was perfect. Yeah, Jennings Chemical had said not to put it with anything else, but the stuff they'd dumped last time was in barrels and that had been a few years ago. Since that material was sealed up, it didn't matter, Bull thought. And hell, where else were they going to get rid of raw, unbarreled toxic waste?

  "This is a primo spot we're using," Dover said. "We ain't going to be able to come back here for a long while. Good thing we got paid well."

  "Yeah, it's a good place," Bull said. "But there's lots of good places around these parts. I'll find others."

  The fact that they were dumping exposed chemicals into the environment meant the place was closed for future dumping. Sealed containers sat unnoticed and didn't affect the wildlife and flora, at least for many years until the barrels sprung leaks. But after dumping the shit they were carrying, Bull had no idea what type of damage was going to be done.

  The falsely labeled milk truck rumbled onward, crushing weeds and baby saplings. They'd pop back up like flora does, leaving no sign anyone had been along the road.

  The going was long. Having to travel ten, sometimes five, miles an hour was excruciating. They couldn't listen to music because they had to pay attention to the police scanner, the device tuned to the ranger channel. Doverman practically chain-smoked, making sure not to fling his butts out the window. Bull chewed on Sunflower seeds, spitting the shells into a bag between his legs. There was to be no trace that they'd been there. If shit went bad, the EPA would be called in. Those motherfuckers would look under every leaf and rock hoping to find a clue as to who had dumped the chemicals.

  Almost an hour and a half since leaving the main road, a worn and cracked winding stretch of asphalt, the tanker came to a stop where the backwoods road wound alongside a small cliff that overlooked thousands of acres of untamed forest. Some fifty feet below was a small lake, home to a variety of fish, turtles and frogs, and a water source for wildlife.

  Bull performed a partial K-turn and maneuvered the tanker around, then backed up the truck to the edge of the cliff. The men got out and slipped into their yellow biohazard suits. Donned in protective gear, they placed a fifty-pound block of cement on the ground near the edge of the cliff. Dover set the end of the hose into the clamp that was attached to the cement block, then went back to the truck and flipped up the lever. The pump roared to life, shattering the silence of the forest. The hose went stiff as the toxic waste shot through it, but the clamp's weight, along with Bull’s muscle, kept the hose from flying around. Black sludge, like super-heated tar, poured from the hose's nozzle, down the cliff face and into the lake.

  They had one more haul to make after this one. Probably in a day or two. Then, they'd be done.

  Unbeknownst to the men dumping the illegal waste, one of the barrels they had deposited a few years ago had sprung a leak. It had happened during a ferocious storm six months ago. A large Maple at the top of the cliff had been knocked over by gale-force winds. The lumber plummeted into the water and sank to the bottom. On its way down, it collided with one of the barrels that hadn't been properly sealed. The container was breached and the chemical substance leaked into the water.

  When the sludge mixed with the tainted water, a new chemical reaction occurred and changed the DNA of the lake life. Frogs, fish and turtles grew sluggish and became attracted to one another. They sought each other out. Cells grew together, connecting fish to frog and frog to turtle. Frog to water spider, water spider to turtle and everything else that lived in the lake.

  All this happened within a few hours.

  Three massive new life forms were created from the many smaller ones. Creatures in the appearance of earthen, multicolored oil slicks moved across the water, searching for life to add to their bodies. They had been created quickly and were dying almost in the same fashion.

  By the following morning, only one of the creatures remained alive. All lake life was gone and it was in pain, feeling itself falling apart. It needed new life to absorb into itself, something that could sustain it for a longer period of time. It had no ability to think, only a need to feed and grow into something more powerful. If it didn't find food soon or a more sustainable life force, its new existence would be short lived.

  CHAPTER 2

  The stolen 1999 white Toyota Camry pulled into the Helena First National Bank parking lot at 9:15 a.m. Cole Garrett sat behind the steering wheel. He was a thirty-two-year old man with a swimmer's build, despite all the abuse he'd done and continued to do to his body. He was good-looking, with intense blue eyes that could catch and hold a person's stare from across a room. Tucked into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back was his Colt Python, a .357 Magnum.

  Sitting in the passenger seat was Cole's brother, Derek. Younger by five years, he had an acne-scarred face, one slightly droopy eyelid due to getting hit with a baseball bat when he was younger, and a scar that ran from his lower lip to the end of his dimpled chin from the time he had gotten into a fight in high school, his chin bursting open when his face hit the blacktop. He had a shaved head and thick muttonchops. A Smith and Wesson .45 handgun rested on his lap.

  "Tuck that fucking thing away," Cole said.

  Derek swore, picked up the gun, leaned forward, and tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

  In the back seat, armed with an SKS assault rifle, was Cole's best friend, Dirk Scopel. He was a large man, built solid through and through from his days spent working on his father's farm. He wasn't the brightest man alive, but he was loyal and a bit on the crazy side. He and Cole had been friends since the eighth grade when Dirk saved him from getting his ass beaten by the Clampski brothers. Dirk gave them a whooping and even sent one kid to the hospital. Cole was never bothered again and had grown into quite the stud himself.

  The trio had been parked up the street, listening to the police scanner Cole had purchased online a month ago. Once they knew where all the cops were, none too close by, they drove up to the bank.

  "We doing this thing or what?" Dirk asked, the man hopping up and down in his seat, a wickedly carved jack o' lantern-like smile across his face.

  "Fuck yeah," Cole said. He was nervous as hell, but ready. Like the time he'd lost his virginity to Mrs. Emma-May, the cheating tart that she was. She had been gentle at first, Cole ready to explode the minute he entered her bedroom, but after spending time with her, getting him to last longer and longer, she showed him a world of wonders over the next four months before her husband caught her cheating with the mailman and blew her brains out. Cole was grateful to have met the woman and would never forget his time with her.

  Derek wore no expression and said nothing. Cole punched him on the arm. Derek's head spun toward him, face angry. "What the hell?"

  "You don't seem up for this, little brother," Cole said.

  Dirk clamped a meaty hand on Derek's shoulder. "The dude's solid, Cole. He'll be fine."

  Cole cupped his brother's face and stared into his eyes. "Are you ready for this? This ain't the time for pussies. I can't have any fuck ups."

  Derek shoved Cole's hand away. "I ain't pussying out, asshole. This shit just got more real, that's all. After this, we'll have the F.B.I. on our asses. It'll be federal."

  "Fuck the feds and everyone else, man," Dirk yelled and pounded the roof.

  "We've been over this," Cole said. "This is a one time deal. We ain't
setting to rob banks across the Midwest. Just get us enough cash to leave this shithole town and start a new life. It was the fucking government who took our farm. The goddamn land that's been in our family for generations."

  "Yeah," Dirk said. "Fuck 'em all."

  "I know," Derek said. "It's why I'm here. They stole from us, so we're taking what's ours."

  It was all bullshit of course, Cole knew. He didn't want to work on a farm for the rest of his life. After his parents died in the car crash, he felt freer than he ever had. He planned on selling the land and taking off, but found out his dad was up to his silo in debt. Working on the farm would have been the only way to pay it off.

  "Uncle Sam won't even notice what we take," Cole said. "Sure, they'll be looking for whoever robbed the bank, but they won't find us. There's no way they can. We took precautions." Cole let a moment pass, then said, "Now, are you fucking ready to do this or do I have to put this shit on hold and find someone else?"

  "Fuck that," Derek said, angered. "I'm all in." He withdrew the section of stocking from his jean jacket pocket and pulled it over his face, making his features appear melted and mashed together. Unrecognizable.

  Dirk and Cole followed suit and the trio became an ugly-looking bunch of monsters.

  They exited the vehicle with haste, Cole carrying two empty black duffel bags, Derek with one. From afar, no one would be able to tell they were wearing disguises, the stockings making them appear normal whereas masks would be clearly identifiable. Dirk had the SKS's stock folded, allowing him to hide it under his cutoff denim jacket. It was seventy-five degrees and clear skies, so wearing extra layers would appear odd, but by the time anyone noticed, it would be too late.