by Matt Hults
And almost screamed at what he saw.
He stared at the thing, shaking his head as he tried to tell himself that it couldn’t be what it looked like.
“Holy Jesus,” Pickett gasped. “Is that one of your kidneys?”
Jimmy dropped the organ on the floor and swung toward the mass of dismembered animal parts.
“Easy!” the Sheriff said, quickly restraining him. “We have to get you to the doc!”
“It’s not dead!” he cried as Pickett lifted him to his feet. “The finger’s still in me! It’s playing possum, Sheriff! It’s gonna try and get me again!”
He tried to break away, his mind racing to think of a way to burn the remains or blow up the building before it was too late, but he didn’t have the strength to resist and before he knew it Sheriff Pickett had ushered him out the front door and into a patrol car.
“Keep pressure on the wound,” Pickett told him. “We’ll get you patched up in no time.”
Jimmy wanted to tell him that was exactly what the witch wanted, why it had played dead and allowed them to escape, but the words came out as little more than mumbling that even he couldn’t decipher.
The Sheriff started the car.
Switched on the lights and siren.
And as they pulled away, Jimmy thought he saw Detective Riverwind’s corpse standing in the entryway of the building, the Skinwalker’s four-fingered hand jutting from the hole in the man’s throat, waving to him, like an old friend promising to come visit again.
Once Jimmy was healed.
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MATT HULTS ~ lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with his wife and two children. Books of the Dead Press released his first novel ‘Husk’ in 2011.
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Preview of:
MATT HULTS - HUSK
STILLWATER, MINNESOTA
Five Years Ago…
Black.
The suspect had painted every inch of his house black.
Obscured by snowfall, it looked like nothing more than an apparition in the storm, but through the binoculars its sinister presence loomed as large and solid as a monolithic tombstone.
Homicide detective Frank Atkins lowered the binoculars and handed them to his squad partner as the remaining S.W.A.T. officers took up positions to their left and right.
“This is it,” Frank said. He unslung the HK sub-machinegun from his shoulder and flicked off the safety. “We’re going to need to move fast to cross that field without being spotted. This psycho is a slippery son of a bitch. We can’t give him the slightest opportunity to get past us.”
Martin DeAngelo peered into the binoculars. “You do your thing, Detective. We’ll do ours.”
“I mean it,” Frank replied. “I want this bastard taken down once and for all.”
The officer smirked. “Just because you’re qualified for this shit doesn’t make you my commander. Follow my lead and leave the noble quest for vengeance up to the prosecutors, okay?”
Frank looked to the house with the word on the forefront of his mind. Vengeance. That’s exactly what it came to. Vengeance for Christine Mitchell. For Katie Hart. For Sean Edwards. Vengeance for the adolescent boy they still couldn’t identify. Vengeance for all of them.
“Jesus,” DeAngelo commented, still gazing through the binoculars. “I can already hear the insanity plea.”
Frank racked the first round into the breach of his weapon. “If I find him first, he won’t be going to court.”
Maybe it was the hiss of contempt on Frank’s tongue, or the soft squeak of rubber as his hands wrung the handle grip of is weapon, but DeAngelo’s stare broke from the house and regarded him with a creased look of uncertainty.
“You don’t really mean that, do you?”
Frank held his gaze. “Like you said, lieutenant: You do your job, I’ll do mine.”
The man opened his mouth to reply when the voice of the taskforce commander came to life on their radio headsets.
“Move in! Everyone, move in!”
The tactical team plunged out of their cover of evergreens and charged toward the farmhouse, plowing through snowdrifts to the war-drum beat of the twin air-units approaching fast from the south.
The black house loomed ahead. No lights, no sign of movement.
They’d closed within yards of the target when a cataclysmic blast of thunder exploded overhead, shaking the air with the concussive force of a bomb. Three serpents of lightning slithered earthward through the flurries, striking a canted weathervane atop the killer’s rooftop. Sparks showered in every direction.
Several of the men stopped in mid-stride, dropping into defensive postures.
“Jesus!” someone yelled over the radio.
“What the hell was that?”
“Everyone in formation,” Frank roared.
Praying they hadn’t lost the element of surprise, he crouched behind DeAngelo, staying close when the man hefted his riot-shield and rushed up the front steps to the porch. Another officer, Sergeant Rice, heaved a battering ram against the front door, pulverizing it in a hail of splinters and paint chips.
“Police! Search warrant,” Rice shouted as a second officer tossed a stun grenade into the farmhouse’s foyer.
Inside, the decoy device exploded, sending out a mild concussion to disorient anyone in the immediate area. The tac team rushed through the smoke in a stacked, two-by-two formation, spurred on by Rice shouting, “Go, go, go, go!”
Frank followed in line behind DeAngelo, moving fast and low. He kept one hand on the S.W.A.T. officer’s shoulder and held his breath when they crossed over the threshold.
Smoke swirled in the air.
Combat boots hammered the floor.
Three groups of officers, all entering the house from separate locations at once, began calling off cleared areas of the home. Frank and his squad entered a brightly lit foyer flanked by open doorways. Ahead lay a staircase and a long hall that extended toward the back of the house.
Contrary to the exterior paintjob, the walls and floors inside the home appeared immaculately clean. The walls looked smooth and unblemished by age, dotted by dozens of pictures in decorative frames. Ornate woodwork made up the baseboards and trim. Hardwood floors gleamed, exuding the scent of fresh polish.
From the hallway, Frank glanced into the living room on his right. He spotted a host of nick-knack covered end tables, chairs with white doilies draped over the armrests, and a plastic-sealed couch with an eye-sizzling floral print.
“That room’s clear,” DeAngelo said. “Stay with me, Detective.”
Frank’s hand had come away from the officer’s shoulder while he contemplated the dichotomy of their suspect’s strange dwelling, and he rushed to catch up. The forward half of their twelve man team raced up to the second level, leaving Frank and DeAngelo to lead the remaining squad members deeper into the house.
A third of the way down the hall, they came upon a half closed door yet to be checked.
“Basement,” DeAngelo said. He kicked the door open, and the stairwell beyond expelled a hot breath of putrescence. The stench of decay invaded Frank’s lungs, causing his chest to heave with a reflexive cough.
“Police,” he yelled. “We’re armed.”
He followed DeAngelo down the stairs, passing between mortar-caked stonework that brought to mind the crumbling tunnels of a subterranean tomb. A bare light bulb over the lower landing cast a fiery glow on the walls, and combined with the smell of death assaulting his nostrils, Frank imagined he’d not only trod into the domain of a killer but had descended into Hell itself.
Four steps from the bottom Kale Kane lunged into view. Their suspect sprung from an open doorway to the right of the landing, brandishing an automatic weapon that exploded to life in a blaze of fire and noise.
“Look out!” Frank cried, but it was already too late.
The first barrage of gunfire hit DeAngelo’s shield center-mass then trailed up the stairs toward the other officers behind them. Bullets cut a dusty tr
ail of destruction along the walls and risers as stray shots whined off the house’s cave-like foundation.
Hot lead cut the sleeve of Frank’s uniform. More screamed past his helmet.
DeAngelo fired two rounds from his sidearm. It was all he had time for. Following the second shot, sparks leapt from the stone on his left and a ricochet tore ear-to-ear through his head. Blood and brains sprayed Frank in the face.
He fired a burst from the MP-5, but the shots went wild as DeAngelo’s body collapsed backward against him.
The other officers higher up the steps erupted into a fury of shouts and hollers, everyone struggling to flee the cramped stairwell and retreat toward safety. Return fire sputtered overhead, amplifying the chaos and adding to the cries of several men shrieking in pain.
Half-blinded by the rain of debris coming off the walls, Frank shoved DeAngelo’s corpse toward Kane with all of his might, slamming the killer back into the room he’d emerged from.
The gunfire ceased.
Frank charged after Kane before he could regain the advantage. He rounded the corner in time to see the madman slap a fresh clip into his weapon.
Frank rammed him in the chest, tackling him to the ground.
Kane’s weapon roared, spitting fire inches from Frank’s face.
The two struck the floor and rolled apart, each coming up into a half-crouch with only a few feet between them.
Both snapped up their weapons. Their gazes locked over the gun sights.
“Drop it,” Frank shouted.
The killer’s eyes reflected the ugly orange light of the basement like twin flames set in the sockets of a half-rotten skull. They flashed with undeniable glee as he retracted his upper lip in genuine smile of delight.
“Fraaaaaaank!”
Frank shuddered at the sound of his name. It gusted from the killer’s mouth in an elongated breath of mixed wonder and jubilation.
“I said drop it!”
Kane’s smile only broadened. “You’re early, Detective Attkins. Not that it will do you any good. I’m finished.”
Frank’s heart thundered in his chest. Sweat slipped from under his Kevlar helmet and cut trails down his cheeks. Behind him, the stairwell rumbled and creaked as the SWAT team reassembled.
“Don’t come any closer!” Kane shouted to the officers without taking his eyes from Frank. “I’ve got your man Attkins. I’ll blow his head off!”
Frank’s grip tightened on his weapon. “How do you know my name?”
Kane’s laugher sounded like snakes slithering through dry grass. “I’ve been told all about you. Who you are. Where you live. I’ve stood over you while you’ve slept. You didn’t know that, did you? The veins in your neck have beat against my blade more than once, but each time I let you live. Do you know why? Because you pose no threat to me, Detective. No more than those dead men on the stairs.”
“There are fifty officers surrounding this place,” Frank growled. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Now drop the fucking weapon!”
Kane laughed again. “I’m counting on those fifty officers, Detective. Don’t you get it? You’re here because I want you here. This is where it starts!”
Frank’s trigger finger tensed when amber light suddenly flared to life on the other side of the room. For a split second his mind screamed BOMB! He flinched hard, but then recovered. Kane’s silhouette stood amid the blaze in stark relief. He could’ve cut Frank in half.
“You see?” Kane said within the light. “It’s begun.”
Frank squinted, trying to keep Kane in his sights.
Over the madman’s shoulder the blinding amber light seeped through the frame of a closed door set into the far wall, casting blazing slivers across the room that illuminated the basement. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanished. Kane’s spittle-slick grin snapped back into focus.
“The bible got it wrong,” the killer said in an oily whisper. “The meek won’t inherit the Earth, Frank. They’ll take it BACK.”
And with that, the smiling devil pulled the trigger of his weapon.
Each round punched into Frank’s chest with the ruthless power of a sledgehammer, their lethal progress stopped short of entering his flesh by his vest’s protective plating. Pain sunk its teeth into his nerves. Somehow he held the MP-5 steady, gripping it in both hands. He fired back even as he fell, his shots opening a dozen dark holes in the killer’s gaunt torso. Red geysers sprayed from exit wounds in the madman’s back. Unbelievably, Kane continued to grin, firing his gun empty as Frank’s 9mm rounds sliced through him.
The remaining officers poured down the steps and flooded into the basement, filling the room with the explosive roar of additional gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit up the room, creating a crowd of black shadows that danced on the walls like a cheering crowd of demonic spectators.
Frank collapsed to the floor, jaw clenched in a rigor of pain.
The final shot rang in his ears, followed by the shouts of the officers entering the room.
“Cease fire!”
“Officers down!”
“Get the medics in here!”
Frank caught a momentary glimpse of Kale Kane’s blood-splattered face staring back at him from the ground, eyes open. Then fellow officers crowded into the area, blocking the view.
Two of the men helped Frank to his feet. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’ll live.”
He pushed away and edged through the crowd until he stood over Kane’s corpse. The killer lay in an ocean of blood, one cheek peeled aside by a bullet to reveal those shiny white teeth, as if he was still smiling.
Frank sagged, catching his breath.
Across the room wood shrieked against a strike plate. When Frank looked, he saw one of the tactical officers trying to yank open a door built into the opposite wall. It pulled free on the third try, and the officers that closed in to clear the room beyond immediately choked and recoiled.
“Holy shit,” one of them cried.
Another doubled over and puked.
Frank hurried forward. He pushed through the crowd, wincing in pain, but came to a halt when he beheld the unimaginable sight that waited in the dirt-walled room ahead. He stared in dreamlike detachment, his mind straining to make sense of the madness displayed before him.
“My God,” he whispered.
And just when he thought his overstressed nerves had been pushed to their limit, one of the medics who’d bent over Kane’s body ended the shock-induced stillness with a scream.
“He’s still alive!”
CHAPTER 1
Five Years Later …
Jerry Anderson’s eyes snapped opened to see the last flicker of pale blue lightning depart from his bedroom walls, pursued into the night by darkness.
He bolted upright and surveyed the shadowy bedroom with widened eyes, searching his surroundings for the source of what had roused him. By the weakness of the lightning’s pursuing thunderclap, he knew it hadn’t been the storm.
Something moved in the darkness, and Jerry wheeled around to face it.
Outside, the wind gusted against the house and through the nearby treetops, its morose tone overlaid by the sound of rainwater dripping from the gutter. Inside, black shadows swayed on the walls and floor, but he saw nothing to justify his fear.
Nothing yet.
“Get up,” he hissed, shaking his wife.
Margaret Anderson jerked from sleep. “What—” she gasped, but Jerry clapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish.
“I heard something,” he whispered. “In the house.”
Her startled expression cleared, replaced by a look of stark terror. Even in the wan light of the bedside clock the color drained from her face. “No,” she groaned. “It’s been three days. Kern said three days and we’d be safe.”
“Kern’s a fool,” Jerry said. “We were idiots for listening to him.”
Her eyes flicked from his to the door, then back. Lightning flashed outside, and a peal of thunder trembled through the air. The
y listened to the silence that followed, straining to hear into the deeper reaches of the house.
“You’re certain it wasn’t just another nightmare?” she asked. “We’ve been through this before. You know how real they can be.”
Jerry shook his head. “We should’ve left when we had the chance.”
Turning away, he extracted a .44 revolver from the nightstand, keeping his gaze trained on the bedroom door. When he looked back to his wife, she’d already retrieved the Remington pump-action shotgun from under her side of the bed, just like they’d practiced.
“Stay here,” he said.
He eased out of bed and walked toward the hallway, holding the gun ready. He forced himself to keep his finger on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself, afraid his shaking hands might fire the gun prematurely.
Clearing the doorway, he crept down the hall to where the stairs overlooked the foyer. Below, the reassuring red light of the front door’s new security panel glowed in the darkness: Property Secured.
He exhaled his fear in one great breath. If anyone lurked down there, the motion sensors would’ve detected them the moment they entered the room.
I’m a prisoner inside my home. And now even home no longer feels safe.
But maybe it was over; maybe Kern was right?
Lightning flashed outside. It lit the huge window in the adjoining living room and displaced the darkness, illuminating a collage of muddy footprints splattered across the carpet.
Jerry’s heart convulsed.
His jaw trembled; his legs weakened.
“No,” he whispered, clutching the railing for balance.
Darkness devoured the sight, but not before he saw the tracks proceeded up the stairs.
Then it came again, the noise he’d heard earlier.
Not wind. Not rain.
Someone moving through the darkness.
His skin went cold, and he whirled around, tracing the footprints back to the bedroom door, where they faded to nothing more than outlines on the carpet.