by Jason Parent
Canine clichés aside, Abigail got the point. She hated that foul slug thing with more hate than she ever thought she could muster. She wanted to kill it, to grind it beneath her heel and listen as its life left it in an agony equivalent to what she had experienced, but she only had one sneaker left, and she doubted it would help her mash the little shit into a flattened mass of black Jell-O.
“Does anyone else feel like that thing is watching us?” Luc stepped next to the girls. Revulsion marked his face.
It is watching us. Though she didn’t know how, Abigail knew it was true. “I want to kill it.”
Luc nodded. “We definitely should do something. I don’t like that thing in here with us.”
“We should keep our distance,” Merwin said, again the voice of caution.
“Oh, the hell with that.” Abigail was fed up with caution. She didn’t like the idea of sitting there and waiting for the next wave of worms to batter the walls or swarm up from the basement. Eventually, they would tear down that shack. Then what? Were she and the others going to fend off hundreds of creatures with a handful of flashlights and a single lantern?
No, they had to learn how to fight these things. They had to learn how to kill them. A fire burned inside her. She wanted to see this particular squishy black fucker suffer and die. If she didn’t kill it soon, she knew the fire within would consume her.
Dakota’s hands tightened around hers. She shook her hands free, but Dakota reached under her arm and pulled her closer. Abigail strained to twist out of her grasp. “Let me go. Let me kill it. You don’t understand.” How could this stranger understand what had happened? Abigail had lost a husband, a man she had loved. A man who had fought to save her. A man she had failed.
She buried her head in the crook of Dakota’s neck. Finally, the tears came. Abigail found a moment’s solace in the stranger’s arms.
Merwin raised his gun. His intent was obvious: he planned to send that globular devil straight back to whatever hell it had crawled up from.
“Wait,” Bo said. “The noise might bring its friends back. I have a better idea. Luc, remember when those possums would try to nest under our porch?”
Luc scratched at his neck. “Ah, I gotcha.”
All eyes were on Bo as he picked up Dakota’s duffle bag. He unzipped it and dumped its contents all over the floor.
“Hey, jerk,” Dakota protested, but it was already too late. Clothes, water, keys, cigarettes and her personal belongings littered the floor.
Bo swirled an arm inside the bag. His hand came out, grasping nothing but air. “Good. It’s empty. Now I’ll just place the open bag beside the table like this.” He tiptoed toward the edge of the table. The lantern shone on top of it. Below it, the creature hissed in the only dark place in the room. Bo dropped the bag and shuffled backward. The creature did not move.
“Now, we’ll use our flashlights to lure it into the bag.”
“That’s it?” Mark punched Bo in his arm. “That’s your brilliant plan?”
Merwin tugged his beard. “It could work.”
“Yeah, Sherlock? And who’s going to close the bag once that thing hops inside of it?”
A fair question. Abigail’s mouth curled into a smile. It seemed to unsettle some of the others. She didn’t care. “I will.”
She trotted over to the back of the room, where Dakota’s crude instruments had been strewn about. Most had vanished. Abigail had no idea who was hiding what instrument but suspected they all were hiding something. It made no difference to her. She wanted the meat hook—an ugly, twisted piece of wrought iron weaponry, like something from a more savage time—which lay right where she had last spotted it. She picked it up and carried it over to the table under which the creature hid.
She crouched down a foot away from the duffle bag, keeping it between her and the vicious bloodsucker, wanting to show it just how vicious the human race could be. “Flush it out.”
“It’s your funeral.” Mark walked away.
Bo crept to the other side of the table and shined his flashlight directly at the creature.
Man, was it pissed! Abigail was quick to regret her decision, but she kept her position. The slug thing gurgled and shrieked, spitting out a clumpy black ooze. Its head rose and swayed back and forth like an enchanted cobra. It seemed intoxicated, or perhaps it was preparing to strike. Abigail couldn’t predict its next move. Her doubts grew.
The creature collapsed into itself, pancaking onto the floor. With a speed so quick that Abigail only saw a blur, the creature propelled itself toward the bag.
Toward Abigail.
“Poop,” she muttered as the monster flew off the floor. Her reflexes acted on their own volition. Her arm was swinging before her thoughts could even process why. The pointed metal at its end caught and impaled the creature, now little more than a disgusting worm on an oversized hook.
She dropped both worm and hook into the duffle bag and zipped it shut. That was when Abigail lost her cool. She grabbed the bag’s handle and slammed the bag repeatedly into the floor, grunting and howling like an animal. Curse words she wasn’t aware she knew sprang from her mouth. For the first time that night, she felt like she was in control. It felt good.
When she’d let out her steam, she glanced at the others, who were staring, openmouthed. She dropped the bag on the floor. The creature inside made only subtle movements, just enough to let her know it was still alive.
“Kill it,” she said.
The others swarmed the bag like carrion birds over a fresh kill. Dakota, Mark, and the twins, working together against a common enemy, stabbed and prodded the bag with sadistic zeal. Sharp, pointy weapons rose and fell like the hammers on a piano. They reminded Abigail of the old Eagles song—only this group, stabbing with their steely knives, would certainly kill the beast. She rushed to join them, her bloodlust not yet satisfied.
Only Merwin and Tyler held back. Fuck them. She needed this speck of revenge. It might be all she’d get. As she and the others stabbed away, she was amazed that no one took the chance to slice someone else. Some blades hit their mark. The weapons rose covered in oily plasma. Black slime dripped from one twin’s screwdriver. Others just hit fabric. The creature shrieked and slashed blindly with its spines. Its struggling slowed.
Dying.
Eventually, the bag stopped moving. The arms stabbing at it stopped, too.
A thousand shrieks rose in unison from all around the cabin. Abigail’s hands went to her ears. She curled into a ball, the pain in her head debilitating.
The worms went silent. Abigail rose to her feet. “You like that?” she shouted. “That’s for Karl, you bastards!”
Tyler nudged the bag with his foot. It sloshed as if filled with water. He upended it. Sludge pissed out through the zipper. It ran in a narrow, winding river toward the trap door despite there being no noticeable decline in the floor. The liquid disappeared into the cellar. Not a drop remained above. It was as if the creature had never existed.
Tyler opened the bag. Abigail held her breath as he lowered his head to peek inside. She imagined the slug thing popping out of the bag like some twisted jack-in-the-box and tearing Tyler’s face into ribbons.
But nothing sprang from the bag. Tyler’s face remained one hundred percent intact.
Like a magician displaying an empty top hat, he showed everyone the inside of the bag. It was empty save for an inner lining smeared with mud.
Abigail allowed herself to breathe again. “Where did it go?”
Tyler pointed to the cellar doorway. “It liquefied, I guess.”
“You mean it got away?”
Tyler laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure you guys killed it several times over.”
Merwin cleared his throat. “Well, I reckon it’s settled, then. Those suckers hate light, so it’s probably safe to say they’re nocturnal. We hunker down here until morning then mosey on out of here when the sun’s shining brightly above us.”
For once, everyone seemed to be in agreement. Abiga
il caught Merwin’s gaze. He looked at her with a fatherly concern that softened his gaunt features. She faked a smile for his benefit. He looked away, his cheeks a shade rosier.
“Well,” he continued, clearing his throat again. He glanced at his watch. “That gives us five or six hours—”
Abigail.
“—anyone wants to sleep—”
“Huh?”
I’m outside, Abigail. It’s safe to come out now, baby.
“—think anyone here will be able to sleep, but—”
“Karl?”
“Is she okay?” Merwin asked.
Abigail closed her eyes. As if the night weren’t already fucked, now she was hearing voices. Well, not voices. Just one voice, her late husband’s. She opened her eyes and listened. The voice was gone.
Other voices, real voices, were muttering things about her sanity.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess I’m still a little out of it.”
“Abigail!”
She closed her eyes again, willing the voice away. You’re dead. There’s not a damn thing I can do about it now. Please, don’t haunt me. Let me get out of this mess, and I promise I will grieve for you like a good wife should.
When she opened her eyes, she noticed that the others had lost interest in her waning sanity. They all stared at the door.
“Abigail! Help me!”
“Who is that?” Dakota asked. “Shouldn’t we let him in?”
“Wait? You guys hear him, too?” Abigail tried to process it. She knew that voice as well as she knew her own. But she’d seen him die, hadn’t she? Her mind was not yet willing to cling to false hope—but that thing had drugged her. How could she be sure anything she had seen was real? There was no denying that voice.
“Karl?” She took one hesitant step toward the door. “You’re alive?”
Her shuffling feet began to walk then quickly escalated into a mad dash toward the door. Karl was alive. In a moment, she would open the door and be with him again, hold him in her arms, kiss his soft lips, his lovable fat head.
Strong arms clamped around her, but they didn’t belong to her husband. “Wait,” said one of the twins. His arms were like a crane, lifting her off the floor. “We don’t know what’s outside.”
“We can’t just leave him out there.” Dakota, her heroine, rushed to the door. “He needs our help.”
“Like hell we can’t.” Mark blocked her path, his weapon drawn.
“Again with the knife?” Dakota said. “That’s getting kinda old already, don’t you think?”
“Get out of the way, Mark.” Tyler, another hero, stood beside Dakota. If they made it out of that god-awful park alive, Abigail figured she’d owe them big-time. Maybe she’d have them over, fix them a nice dinner. That would be nice—to be back doing normal things. Why couldn’t she just be back doing normal things?
With Karl.
If they helped her save Karl, Abigail would name her unborn children after Tyler and Dakota. Hell, she’d even name her kid after Merwin. Or her next dog.
Bo, or Luc, had her locked up good. She didn’t bother to squirm, figuring he’d be more apt to let her go if she were calm. Her legs already ached from a long day of hiking and running for her life. Conserving her energy seemed like a smart plan. The others would do her dirty work, take the risks.
Like that boy, that poor, poor boy.
Abigail found it hard to swallow. “Put me down,” she whispered. To her surprise, the twin let her go. When she turned, Abigail saw it was Luc who had grabbed her. She could tell by the unbroken nose.
Luc held her by the wrist, gently. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t help him. We just need to be careful about it.”
“Well, we know which one of you got the brains.” Merwin stepped into the fray, rifle in hand. He cast a sideways glance at Mark. “Put that away, son. The young lady’s right—it is getting old.”
“What’s the plan?” Tyler asked.
“On three, you open the door, and I’ll shoot anything that ain’t human fixing to get in here.” He raised his rifle. “The rest of you might want to stand back a bit.”
They all did, except Abigail. She had to see what was out there. Not that it mattered. She’d help Karl no matter what she had to face, with one shoe, no shoes, or no feet at all. She would do her own goddamn dirty work.
God, don’t let my courage fail me now.
She stood just behind Merwin’s right shoulder, close enough to smell Old Spice and man musk. Her fingers dug into his arm, but she couldn’t let go. She stared at the door. Tyler reached for the knob.
“One… oh hell. Just open it.”
Before anyone could utter another word, Tyler’s wrist turned. He swung the door open and hid behind it. Abigail stared out into the night.
The forest was silent. Even the insects seemed to have taken the night off from their chirping and breeding. If Karl was out there, she couldn’t see him. Then someone, or something, moved behind a bush. It appeared to be a man, and it might have been Karl, but Abigail couldn’t tell. All she could see was a shape rising in the darkness.
“Karl?” Abigail came around Merwin. She inched closer to the threshold.
“Stay back, Abigail. You’re blocking my shot.”
“Please,” a voice said, emanating like a whisper on the wind from the direction of the shadowy figure. It was low, gritty, and echoed in the most unnatural way as if it wasn’t one voice but many. “Help.”
The figure no longer sounded like Karl, but it sure started to look like him. Even in the darkness, Abigail knew her husband’s shape. Thirteen years she had spent sleeping next to that body. Thirteen years, putting up with his mouth-breathing, bed-hogging, blanket-stealing ass. She would have given anything to be back in that bed with her husband.
Please help me, Abigail. It hurts so bad.
“Karl? Come inside, Karl. It’s safer in here.”
“Can’t… move… hurt.”
“I’m coming, baby.” Abigail’s legs trembled as she took a step. She crossed the threshold.
“Don’t go out there,” Merwin said, tugging on the back of the sweatshirt Frosh had given her. “I don’t know who or what that is, but I know it ain’t your husband.”
“I think I would know my own husband.” An unsteady laugh escaped her. Her anxiety was undermining her resolve. She couldn’t let it. He needs me.
“I’m coming, Karl,” she muttered again, more to reassure herself than her husband that she’d be stepping out of the light to save him.
“Come back inside.” Merwin sounded like he was begging.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. He needs me.”
Her sneaker squished into mud as she crept toward her beckoning husband. The earth accepted her other, sneakerless foot into its wet confines. The mud coated her sock. Cold water seeped in through the fabric. A few yards ahead, where the light of the doorway faded, the mud seemed deeper, slushier. Its surface looked as if it were boiling.
Karl’s voice played like a record in her mind, calling her closer. It battled against another voice, a smaller one. That second voice was telling her what her brain refused to process, the fact her two eyes had witnessed. Her husband was dead.
A third voice, even smaller, whispered from the shadows—there a moment, gone the next, a low hum that, like Karl, beckoned her forward but halted her feet. Join us, she thought she heard. Come join us.
The figure in every way resembled Karl, or at least a cardboard cutout of him. He said he was hurt, but he was standing. Why wouldn’t he move? What had those things done to him?
As she approached, stepping deeper into the oozing earth, Abigail studied the figure. Her husband never moved an inch, not so much as a twitch. It was as if he were a statue, ebony and featureless. Now only twelve feet away, Abigail expected to see the whites of his eyes, the shine of his teeth, the color of his clothes—anything that would mark him human, alive. He remained a black mold, all covered
in night, as if he had risen from the mud beneath her feet.
The Karl thing raised a hand.
“I’m here, baby,” she said softly. “I’m here.”
The hand extended toward her, reaching, growing. Fingers as long as snakes stretched toward Abigail. They were not her husband’s. The ground before her boiled more fiercely, and she saw that it was alive. Slithering.
“Get back!” someone shouted. The loud blast that followed drove Abigail to her knees, her palms slamming over her ears, but she kept watching. Karl’s upper body rocked backward though his feet, hidden behind the bush, remained firmly rooted, as if they were cemented in place. When he righted, he fell to pieces.
No, he exploded into a hundred shrieking leeches.
Abigail turned and ran.
Her eyes grew wide as she stared down the barrel of Merwin’s rifle. He squinted through the scope, correcting his aim with slight movements. Still, she raced toward him. Death by firing squad had a much better ring to it than being eaten alive.
The gun trembled in Merwin’s hand. Was he afraid to take the shot? The shrieking behind her grew louder. Abigail tucked her head and dove forward onto her hands and knees, back into the light but short of the relative safety of the shack’s four walls.
“Shoot!” she yelled.
“At which one?” Merwin asked.
“All of them!”
When the blast came, Abigail closed her eyes and prepared for oblivion, her mind vaguely cognizant of the fact that if the bullet were going to hit her, it would have done so already.
But the bullet had hit something. It sounded like a bee had suicide bombed into a brick wall, ending its life in a satisfying splat.
“What the heck, man?” someone shouted behind Abigail. An arm hooked beneath hers, and she screamed. That thing that had impersonated Karl had her now, but it wouldn’t have her without a fight.
“Easy. I’m trying to help you,” a man said as he took her elbow into his stomach. She stopped resisting then, and together with a stranger, she stumbled back into the cabin.
Tyler slammed the door shut.
Chapter 17
“He shot me!”