IN THE FLESH: PART TWELVE

Genre: Horror (Zombies)

ROLL CALL

Alive:

Carson Ryder: Former marine/Former police officer/Suffers from retrograde amnesia/ Searching for clues to his past

Damien Albright: Found and saved Carson/Has no family or friends outside of the group/Doesn’t seem to have a care in the world

Kenny Sudrow: Former spa porter/Happy to be doing something else

Chuckie Razzano: His only concerns are his Rolex and his hair gel

Chase Crawford: Religious zealot/Loner/Keeps to himself

Willard Pickman: Scientist/Worked for the CDC/Knows of a cure

Eli Burton: Survivor found in Cherrywood Mall/Parents were rich and left him a large inheritance when they died

Vern Sheldon: New associate/Drives a box truck/Carries a badass flamethrower

Terry Watts: Proprietor of the Starlight Hotel

Valentina Jackson: A new ally that was saved by Carson Ryder

Deceased:

Arnold Vesti: A compassionate man who let the entire group stay in his underground shelter/Biters got him

Regis Whitfield: Abusive husband of Janice Whitfield/Biters got him

Devin Morris: Comic store employee from Long Island/Was found dead, strangled in his sleep

Darren Mays: Survivor found in Cherrywood Mall/Shot by Damien Albright/Claimed that Carson arrested him at one point

Trevor Virden: Comic store owner/Biters got him

Brent Blaze: Former Cherrywood police officer/Vern Sheldon shot him after he got bit

Ally Burton: Wealthy sister of Eli Burton/Attacked by a lone Biter

Janice Whitfield: Pregnant wife of Regis Whitfield/Committed suicide

IN THE FLESH

By Daniel Skye

PART TWELVE

BLOWN AWAY

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Five.

Chase Crawford hadn’t uttered a word in weeks. His crucifix rested, buried under a mound of snow beside Janice Whitfield’s grave.

          He mostly slept during the day, or just remained confined to his room while the others bonded, ate together, drank together. He’d eat at night while the others were sleeping and roam through the halls. The vacancy of the corridors offered Chase the peace and silence he needed to ponder his next move.

He was afraid to speak up at this point for fear that Eli Burton would kill him. And partially because he didn’t think anyone would take his word for it. But when Willard Pickman knocked on his door that day and came in to check up on him, Crawford spilled his guts.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” Pickman asked as he closed the door behind him. Crawford was at the edge of his bed, reading a complimentary copy of the Gideon Bible. Others had been reading Stephen King and Tom Clancy novels that Terry Watts was generous enough to share. But for Willard, the solace of the Good Book was all he required.

“It’s that kid,” Crawford told him.

“Which one? Kenny? Chuckie?”

“No, those boys are fine by me. It’s Eli Burton.”

“What about him?” Pickman asked.

“That boy’s got the devil in him,” Crawford said. “I can see it plain as day.”

“Oh boy, here we go again,” Pickman said, rolling his eyes. “All aboard the crazy train.”

“See, this is why I didn’t say anything earlier. You guys never take me seriously.”

“You make it very challenging.”

“Have you ever heard of the Black Lodgers?”

“It doesn’t ring any bells.”

“They’re an international group of bioterrorists. Their sole function is to spread disease, poison the planet, and bring it back to the dark ages. I read of them years ago, back when they harbored five thousand members internationally. As of last year, there were four hundred and fifty-seven thousand members.”

“What does this have to do with Eli?”

“He bears their symbol on his arm. Every member of the Black Lodgers has to be marked, a way for them to identify one another. I believe Eli knows more about this plague then he’s shared with us. And I believe he’s very, very dangerous.”

“Why haven’t you told the others?”

“The same reason I hesitated to tell you. Nobody listens when I speak anymore.”

“Can you blame them?”

“I suppose I can’t.”

“Now can you keep a secret?” Pickman asked.

“Of course,” Crawford assured him. “I’m all ears if you have something to confess. I promise I won’t judge you. But I can’t promise the same for our Lord.”

“You know this underground lab that we’re heading to? The secret lab in Texas that houses the miracle cure that’s going to save the world?”

“I believe I know what you’re referring to,” Crawford said, waiting for the man to make his point.

“I lied,” Pickman said under his breath. “We did engineer a cure for this pathogen, and it is in an underground base, somewhere in Texas...as far as I know. I mean, that is if somebody hasn’t gotten to it already. But the truth is I don’t know where the base is. I doubt we’ll ever find it.”

“Then why in God’s name did you lead us all the way out here?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was trying to offer everyone the hope to survive, to carry on. At one point, I honestly believed we could find the place. That we could save the world. Now, I’m not so sure. The farther we’ve traveled, the more I’ve lost faith. I don’t think any of us are going to make it, Chase. Just remember, you promised to keep it a secret.”

          Willard Pickman wandered off, closing the door behind him. Chase sat on his bed, pondering the horrors that awaited them. He did promise, and he certainly didn’t want to be the one to break the bad news to the group.

          There would surely be a riot when everyone found out they had been led astray by Pickman. And if he confronted them now about Eli, with no proof, just accusations and conjecture, they’d never believe him.

          Chase was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, with no other options except to wait it out, and see what potentially horrific events would transpire.

* * *

The group had finished the bottle of scotch Damien snatched from the liquor store, and now they were working on the bourbon. The guys had offered to teach Valentina how to shoot, but she was already versed in weaponry and fired with the accuracy of a pro.

          “I wanna learn how to shoot,” Chuckie Razzano told them as they gathered in the vestibule to warm up after being outside for more than an hour.

          “You?” Damien Albright scoffed. “Shouldn’t you be looking for your Rolex?”

          “Fuck the watch,” Chuckie said. “It’s just a meaningless material possession. A gun is a foundation for survival. I wanna learn how to shoot. Hell, I need to learn. At least for my own sake. So what do you say?”

          “I’ll teach you,” Carson Ryder said.

          “Sweet,” Chuckie said. “Let’s have at it. I’m ready to go.”

          “Give me a few minutes,” Ryder said, rubbing his hands together. “Let me get the feeling back in my fingers first.”

          “This will warm you up,” Vern Sheldon said, passing him the bottle of bourbon. Ryder took a swig and passed the bottle to Valentina.

          “Thanks,” Jackson said as she swilled the bourbon and handed the bottle over to Kenny Sudrow.

          Kenny quaffed some down and tried passing the bottle over to Eli Burton. “No thanks,” Eli said politely.

          “Might as well drink it while it’s here,” Kenny said. “It’s going fast.”

          “I don’t drink,” Eli told him. “I like to keep all my senses as sharp as possible.”

          “I can respect that,” Kenny said, passing the bottle to Damien instead. “I know you want some.”

          “You sure as hell don’t have to ask me twice,” Damien said, guzzling the bourbon down.

          “Hey,” Valentina said. “Save some for the rest of us.”

          “We’ve still got about half a bottle,” Damien said, drying his wet lips with the sleeve of his jacket.

          “Let’s save it for tonight,” Ryder suggested. “Chuckie, I’m ready if you are.”

* * *

          Chuckie wasn’t too bad for a beginner. After going over the basics with Carson, two Biters staggered out from the brush and Carson put him to the test. He missed the first shot, but the second shot was on target.

          Carson took down the second Biter with his Remington shotgun and commended Chuckie on a job well done.

          “Once you get used to the recoil of a gun, it’s a piece of cake. The trick is to have a steady hand. You can never shake if you want to be accurate.”

          “Thanks for teaching me all this,” Chuckie said. He went to check his watch, then realized again it wasn’t there anymore. “I never would’ve learned all this growing up on Long Island. I was from Levittown originally. Never thought I’d end up in Tennessee of all places. Life is full of surprises.”

          “What’d you do?” Ryder asked. “Were you a student?”

          “I was an employee at Best Buy. I was always a big movie buff, so the job was a blast. But I didn’t see myself doing it forever. Then again, I never saw myself doing anything like this either.”

          “Do you know what happened to your family? You know if they made it?”

          “Can’t say for sure,” Chuckie said. “It was two days before I ended up in Arnold Vesti’s bomb shelter. I waited for two days, but they just never came home. For all I know, they’re still out there somewhere.”

          “I showed the photo of my wife and daughter to Valentina,” Ryder told him. “She recognized them. Said they passed through here and were heading for Arkansas. I figure we can search for them once we move on from this place. I just wish I could remember my daughter’s name.”

          “It will come to you eventually,” Chuckie said. “I’m sure you’ll find them, alive and well.”

          “I can only hope,” Ryder said as another Biter shambled through the thick brush and set its sights on them. Ryder let Chuckie do the honors as he raised his gun, fired, and capped it in the head. “Nice shot.”

          “Thanks,” Chuckie said. “I think I’m getting the hang of it. You know, I wasn’t always like this. I know I come across as a total hipster with the cologne and the watch and the hair gel, but that was just my way of fitting in. On Long Island, it was the only way for me to make friends and have a social life. I went to clubs, titty bars, and sports game with my hair all spiked up and my gold chain dangling off my neck. The girls loved it. And I loved the attention. So I just kept it up. I got stuck playing this character. And this character consumed my life.”

          “I’m sure you’re not the only one, kid. But in this new world we’ve found ourselves in, it doesn’t matter who or what you were. All that matters is what you become now.”

          “You’re right,” Chuckie said, nodding his head. “I never thought of it that way.”

          “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” Ryder asked.

          “Nah,” Chuckie said. “Sorry. I was never a big smoker. That was another thing I used to do just to fit in. You know what I really wanted to be growing up?”

          “Nope, tell me,” Ryder said.

          “I wanted to be a firefighter,” Chuckie told him. “I used to be mesmerized by fire trucks whenever I saw them on the television. I wanted to be one of those heroes riding on the back of that cool truck, climbing up that big ladder and saving people trapped on the third floor of a burning building. When I was five, my dad let me watch Backdraft. You ever saw it?”

          “Can’t say I remember it,” Ryder shrugged.

          “It was a great movie,” Chuckie said as they walked back to the vestibule to warm up and rest their guns. “It really inspired me. But I just never followed through on my dreams.”

          “I wish I could tell you there’s still time,” Ryder said as they entered.

          “I know it’s a major risk, but we’re going to have to venture into town again,” Damien said, interrupting their conversation. “There’s plenty of ground we didn’t cover; plenty of houses and stores we didn’t search. There could be a ton of supplies were missing out on. Food, water, clothing. We can’t pass all that up.”

          “I hate to say it after what we went through last time, but he’s right,” Carson said. “This time, we take more people though. You, me, Kenny, and Vern.”

          “I’ll go,” Valentina said.

          “Darling, you’re one hell of a shot,” Damien said. “But we can’t put you at risk like that. You’re staying behind.”

          “I’ll come along,” Chuckie said. “It’s time for me to earn my keep.”

          “You sure about this, kid?” Ryder asked. “You’re still new at this.”

          “I can handle it,” Chuckie assured him. “Have some faith in me.”

* * *

A few Biters were shambling around aimlessly outside the market. Vern Sheldon had left the flamethrower behind, as the tanks fuel was running low, and he figured it wouldn’t be needed on this occasion.

Carson pumped his Remington and took the first Biter down with an earsplitting blast. Chuckie stepped up and took two more Biters down with two well-aimed shots. Kenny did the honors of tagging the last staggering Biter with his semi-automatic pistol.

The doors to the market were locked, but not barricaded. So Damien saved all of them some time by kicking the doors in.

“That works,” Ryder said as they marched in one by one, their weapons at their sides, as they had no clue what threats lurked inside.

“I found cereal,” Chuckie said, holding up a box of Alpha-Bits from aisle three. “Crappy cereal. But if it hasn’t gone stale, I’m sure someone will eat it.”

“Even if it has gone stale, we’ll eat it,” Ryder said. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I found a jar of cherries,” Kenny called out from aisle five. “They’re still sealed and they look good to me. We’ll just have to eat them fast since we can’t refrigerate them after we open the jar. Oh, I found a jar of peanut butter, too.”

“Good finds,” Damien said. “Take them along. You got anything, Vern?”

“I found a box of tampons,” Vern said from aisle eight. “I’d take them back for Valentina, but I don’t think that’d be appropriate.”

“No, grab them anyway,” Damien said. “She’ll probably be thankful you did. Hey, I got a big score here. Two display boxes full of energy bars. And a bag of Reese’s.”

“I’ve got a case of water over here,” Ryder shouted from aisle one.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Chuckie said. “I found two bottles of shampoo. Jackpot.”

          “Hey guys, we’ve got company in the stockroom,” Vern alerted them.

          “No threat, boys,” a man’s voice called from the stockroom. “I’m armed, but my gun is tucked away. There are just two of us, and we mean you no harm.”

          The group moved to the stockroom, guns raised as they assessed the level of threat. The men were indeed armed, but they weren’t brandishing their weapons. They were sitting peacefully on milk crates as they played cards for jelly beans, their guns tucked into their waistbands.

          “I’m Freddie,” the man introduced himself. “That big lug over there is Joel. We’ve been on the road for weeks now, months. I don’t really know how long it’s been.”

          “You guys look like you’ve been through the mill too,” Joel pointed out.

          “We have,” Ryder said. The five men lowered their weapons and rested them at their sides.

          “Joel and I have been holed up here for a couple of days now. I found some pillows and blankets back here. Looks like we weren’t the first to crash here. I also found a whole bunch of preservatives and bags of dry food. There’s still some left if you fellas are hungry. Where are you guys camped out?”

          “No place special,” Ryder said.

          “Joel found this map of Tennessee in one of the lockers over there. There’s a place not too far from here called the Starlight. We’ll be heading there by morning.”

          “Don’t bother,” Damien said. “It’s taken.” Ryder glanced back and shot him a look as if to say ‘why’d you tell them we’re staying there?’

          “Now come on fellas,” Freddie said. “I’m sure there’s plenty of room for all of us. Can’t we come to some sort of compromise?”

          “Yeah,” Damien said. “The deal is you stay away from the hotel and we’ll let you keep your heads.”

          “There’s no call for that,” Ryder told Damien. “Guys, the place is full enough as it is. And we’ve had our share of unpleasant encounters with other survivors. It’s nothing personal. We just have to look out for our own.”

          “You’ve got a big group, huh?” Freddie said. “You’ve got women? I can’t remember the last time I had a piece of ass. I bet you got some young ones with you, right? Some jail bait?”

          “Don’t push it,” Damien said through gritted teeth.

          “So what? You guys think you’re gonna come in here, raid the shelves, take our food and water, and then leave us high and dry? I don’t think so, fellas. I’m sure you’ve done some pretty awful things in order to survive. But so have we. And if there’s a place we can crash until winter, we’re gonna crash there. You ain’t gonna stop us.”

          “We’ll just see about that,” Vern said, lifting his .357 Magnum.

          “No need for that, fellas,” Freddie said as Joel’s hand crept for his weapon. “Like I said, I’m sure we can reach some sort of comprise. How about Joel and I stick to one side of the hotel and you guys have the other side? Hell, you could stick us in the boiler room and we’d be happy.”

          “No dice,” Vern said vehemently.

          “We’re staying at that hotel come hell or high water, and that’s final,” Freddie said emphatically.

          Vern cocked back the hammer of his .357 just as Joel’s hand snatched the pistol from his waistband. Vern squeezed off one shot before Joel had a chance to even raise his gun, nailing his right above the eyes.

          “Kill shot,” Freddie said with his hands raised in the air. “Very impressive. I can’t say I’ll miss him. The guy was slow, goofy, didn’t talk much. Kind of reminded me of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. Are you going to kill me too?”

          Vern felt the cold metallic sting of a gun barrel press against his neck and he lowered his Magnum. At Freddie’s recommendation, they all dropped their weapons to the floor.

          “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the group,” Freddie said. The gang turned around to face their newest adversaries. “That’s Brick, Crusher, Lobo, Vinnie Mac, and Tommy Boy. And as you can plainly see, they’re all armed with AK-47s. So don’t make any sudden movements, fellas.”

          “Ok,” Damien sighed. “You’ve got us by the balls. Take our guns and supplies and let us be on our way.”

          “I don’t think so, fella. Hey boys, you know that map Joel found? These fellas know where that hotel is. That’s where they’re camped out at. And they’re going to take us back with them. They got food, beds; I think they even got women.”

          “Hot damn,” Brick said. “We done hit the jackpot.”

          “Brick here’s been dying for a piece of pussy,” Freddie said. “Ain’t that right, Brick?”

          “Damn right,” Brick said, licking his dirt stained lips.

          When Damien kicked the door in, none of them had bothered to close it up or barricade it. As luck would have it, a lone Biter had wandered in from the streets and crept into the stockroom.

          The Biter sank its chipped teeth into Vinnie Mac’s neck, tearing the skin away like tissue paper. The distraction was enough to allow Damien to remove his bowie knife from its sheath and slice Brick’s throat with it.

          Lobo, Crusher, and Tommy Boy all turned their AK-47 on the Biter, blasting it to pieces. But this gave the gang enough time to gather their weapons. Freddie reached for the pistol jammed in his waistband, but Carson was faster, and blasted a hole in his chest the size of a grapefruit with his Remington shotgun.

          Vern had retrieved his Magnum and took out Crusher and Lobo with two quick shots to the head. Tommy Boy was the last to go. He cowered in the corner of the stockroom, begging for his life. But Damien showed no mercy or compassion when he turned that blade on Tommy Boy and made him scream to his final breath.

          “What was that rule you laid down?” Damien asked Carson. “The one about not killing humans? I think that rule is officially out the window.” They gathered their weapons and supplies, took their newly acquired AK-47s, and bailed.

          As they ran from the market, Ryder heard the bloodcurdling screams and turned to see Chuckie getting mauled by not one, not two, but three putrid Biters. The decomposing demons ripped, bit, tore at every inch of exposed flesh. And what flesh wasn’t exposed, soon became visible as they continued to claw and tear away at their prey.

          The group stopped dead in their tracks, frozen at the grisly sight. Ryder wanted to act, but his body failed to communicate with his brains demand for action. It was too late to save him anyway. They all knew what happens once you get bit.

          They stood aghast as the pack of Biters tore Razzano limb from bloody limb. Ryder snapped out his trance and pumped the shotgun, fired, and pumped it again. He fired three deafening blasts that split their heads in two. It wasn’t just the threat they posed. It was about avenging the friend they had just lost.

          The boom of the shotgun just seemed to lure more of them out. In seconds, Biters were spilling out onto the streets. They floundered about in every direction, but most of this undead mob had already set their sights on the fresh meat presented before them.

          “We have to go,” Damien said.

          “We can’t just leave Chuckie behind,” Ryder said. “We have to give him a proper burial.”

          “There’s an entire herd of Biters barreling towards us. There’s no time. We have to grab our shit and go. We’ll say a prayer for him later.”

* * *

          “Don’t beat yourself up,” Damien told Carson back at the hotel.

          “He shouldn’t have been there,” Ryder said.

          “He wanted to tag along,” Damien reminded him. “He knew the risks involved. We all did.”

          “I know…if you’ll excuse me, I need to be alone. I need some rest."

          “Sure, no problem,” Damien said, closing the door to Carson’s room behind him. As he walked through the halls, he bumped shoulders with Terry Watts.

          “Have you seen Willard?” Terry had asked him.

          “Can’t say that I have,” Damien said, “It’s been one hell of a day.”

          “We usually play chess together, but he’s not in his room. And I can’t find him anywhere.”

          “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

          “Thanks,” Terry said and excused himself.

          Damien considered knocking on Valentina’s door, seeing if she wanted a little company. But he suspected Carson kind of had a thing for her, and figured it best to leave her alone. Instead, he knocked on Vern’s door and made sure to bring the bottle of bourbon along with him.

          “To Chuckie,” they toasted.

          “That was one brave kid,” Vern said.

          “Yeah, but he wasn’t made for this kind of world.”

          “Who is?” Vern asked.

          “Men like you and me.”

          “To tell you the truth, killing zombies was never my thing,” Vern said. “I was a petty drug dealer and thief, just doing what I could to support my family. I carried a gun, sure. But that was just for protection. I never killed nobody before all this crazy shit went down. I was a truck driver and a part-time janitor when I wasn’t in jail or selling pot. That was my life in a nutshell.”

          “What about that badass flamethrower you got?”

          “That thing,” Vern shrugged. “Took it off a dead cop. Didn’t think he’d need it anymore. It took me forever just to learn how to use the damn thing.” They both laughed and passed the bottle back and forth until they got sleepy and retired to their separate quarters.

* * *

          “Wake up!” Chase Crawford screeched through every corridor of the first floor. “Everybody, wake up! We have to get out now! Pickman’s gone mad!”

          “What in the blue hell is going on here?” Kenny asked as he stepped out from his room, rubbing his tired eyes. Damien, Vern, Valentina, and Carson had also heard the ruckus and joined them in the hallway. Eli soon followed.

          “Pickman’s gone mad!” Chase screamed. “He’s going to kill us all. We have to get out.”

          Terry Watts had heard the commotion all the way upstairs and ran down from the second floor.

          “Sorry about this,” Damien apologized to Terry. “He’s a bit overdramatic. Let’s go find Pickman and see what this is about.”

          Chase begged them not to go, but the group trotted over to the lobby, where a strange device sat in the center of the room.

          “What the fuck is that thing?” Valentina asked.

          “Is that Chuckie’s watch?” Ryder asked as he took a closer look.

          “Oh shit,” Damien said. “It’s a bomb. It’s a fucking bomb!”

          “Correct,” Pickman said from the vestibule, his voice grabbing their collective attention. “One of two bombs to be precise. I’m sorry I lied to you all. I’m sorry I led you all this far. I’m sorry I can’t save you. I’m going to help you, though. I’m going to spare you all this endless suffering.”

          “Run!” Ryder said. In mere seconds, the lobby was deserted. They ran down the longest corridor of the first floor, which led straight to the emergency exit. Outside, they put as much distance between the hotel and themselves as humanly possible.

          Watching from the adjacent woods, they heard a loud boom that emanated from the front of the Starlight. An explosion that took all of Willard Pickman with it. They cupped their hands over their ears, waiting for the second boom. But it never came.

          “Could it be…?” Kenny said. “Hey guys, I think one of the bombs was a dud.”

          “Let’s wait a bit longer just to be safe,” Ryder suggested. And so they did. After a full half an hour had passed, they returned to find the interior of the hotel unscathed. The bomb that Willard Pickman had constructed indeed turned out to be a dud.

          The same could not be said for the bomb he planted just outside the vestibule, the bomb that took his life, and destroyed Vern’s box truck and Arnold Vesti’s van in one fell swoop.

          “We’re doomed,” Chase muttered. “Doomed.”

To Be Continued With Part Thirteen: CHARLOTTE

CREEPY (By James Darko)

Genre: Horror

 

CREEPY

By James Darko

 

          Wednesday, March 23^rd, 2011. Two A.M.

          The sounds of barking dogs and sirens emanating in the distance added to the cacophony on the streets of Burkittsville. Kurt Watson awoke to the sirens, mistaking them for the buzz of his alarm clock.

          Without disturbing Heather, he rolled out from the bed and threw his robe on, cinching the belt around his waist. He put his slippers on and shuffled downstairs to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

          Police and ambulance sirens blended together as a convoy of vehicles went speeding down Shade Street. Kurt saw the reflection of the flashing lights in the kitchen windows and the sound of the sirens cut off at the end of the block.

          The Watsons were new to the neighborhood and kept to themselves most of the time. Maryland in general was a new experience for the Watson family, and they had yet to make many friends.

They barely knew the neighbors; they just greeted them when they first arrived and saw them in passing afterwards. Kurt could hardly recall any of their names. But now the commotion had piqued his interest.

It was morbid curiosity that carried him to the front door and down to the end of block, where the red and blue lights still flashed.

The officers cleared a path for the paramedics and held the onlookers at bay. Like Kurt, his fellow neighbors had heard the ruckus and couldn’t wait until morning to learn what the fuss was about.

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked one of the spectators whose name escaped him at the moment.

“I’m not sure,” the spectator said. “This is Elizabeth Hernandez’s place. I hope everything’s ok. She’s got a little boy, Alexandro. And she’s got a teenage daughter, Margarita.”

“Margarita?” Kurt repeated. Clearly he would’ve remembered the name had he been properly introduced to the girl.

The paramedics emerged from the house, wheeling a stretcher. The body had a sheet draped over it, and even though Kurt couldn’t see the child, he could see fresh blood soaking through the sheet.

Several police officers followed the paramedics, dragging a hysterical Elizabeth in handcuffs. Her nightgown was stained with blood that appeared black in the moonlight.

As the ambulance and patrol cars dispersed, so did the crowd as they ambled back their homes, muttering to their loved ones in speculation. Kurt retired to his bedroom again, only to discover that Drew had awakened at some point during his absence and crawled into bed with his mother.

Kurt sighed as he slid back into bed and rested beside Drew, who acted as a barrier between Kurt and Heather.

Kurt and Heather Watson hadn’t been intimate in three months. Every night, Drew would awake from some horrible nightmare and sneak into their room. Sometimes they didn’t even have a chance to drift off to sleep before he was begging them to let him spend the night in their room.

Drew was eight years old and would be nine in two months. Kurt was getting fed up, as he felt his son was too old for this sort of behavior. But Heather was the one who always caved and let him spend the night in their bed.

Kurt tried to fall back to sleep, but his attempts were futile. The mystery of the Hernandez incident would keep him awake until sunrise.

__________

          It was in the papers that morning, a last minute edition. Elizabeth Hernandez had murdered her child, Alexandro, in cold blood. She had yet to confess to the crime, so the paper was using the words “alleged” or “allegedly” in almost every sentence. But the verdict was practically in already. They were going to crucify this woman, guilty or not.

          Kurt wondered what could drive a person to do such a thing. He also wondered what would become of Elizabeth’s daughter, Margarita. That name, it was burned into his brain now. He couldn’t forget it if he tried.

          Heather made eggs and toast for breakfast, which Drew smelled all the way from upstairs, and soon came down to join them at the table. Despite Kurt’s pleas, Heather refused to make bacon. She insisted the eggs had enough cholesterol in them.

          “She used margarine instead of butter again,” Drew whispered to his father. “Yuck.”

          “I heard that, young man,” Heather said. “I’m just looking out for your health. You want to be a handsome, healthy young man, or do you want to look like Ralph Pellegrino?”

          “Nobody will ever be as fat as Ralph Pellegrino,” Drew said in regards to one his classmates. “I could eat all the bacon in the world and not look like that.”

          “But you won’t,” his mother assured him. “Not as long as I’m around.”

          “So, champ,” Kurt said to his son. “You decided to sleep in our bed again last night. Now I thought we talked about this? They’re just nightmares, pal. They can’t hurt you. And you’re getting too old to be sleeping with your mommy and daddy, don’t you agree?”

          “Dad, they’re not just nightmares,” Drew said so vehemently his mother shivered slightly at his words. “I saw something in the corner of my room one night. I swear.”

          “Sure you did,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes.

          “Why won’t you guys believe me?” Drew said, almost sulking.

          “If I believed in ghosts or goblins or fairies, maybe I’d be inclined to trust you,” Kurt said. “But your mom and I are grownups. We’re smart enough to know it’s all just in your head. It’s what happens when we let you stay up late and watch horror movies every Halloween, which you won’t be doing again this year, by the way.”

          “Oh, come on, dad!” Drew exclaimed.

          “Sorry, champ,” Kurt said. “But I’m a man of my word. If I say no horror movies, it means no horror movies. But I’ll tell you what, if you can sleep in your own bedroom for the next six months and prove to me you can handle it, maybe I’ll change my mind.”

          “Deal,” Drew said. “Besides, I didn’t have any bad dreams last night. I just woke up because of all the noise outside and got scared. What was going on last night?”

          “Nothing major,” Kurt said, flipping the newspaper over so Drew wouldn’t see the headlines. He didn’t want to traumatize the boy with details of what happened to young Alexandro. It was bad enough that Drew might hear about what happened from his classmates at school. But Kurt thought maybe it was better if he heard it from them.

Kurt never mastered the ability of breaking bad news to people. But today’s kids were different. They seemed to understand each other and bond in ways Kurt could never understand. Maybe if he heard it from his friends instead of his father, the awful news would be easier to digest.

The Watson’s were still new to the neighborhood, and Kurt wasn’t a man who took any chances. So after breakfast, he walked Drew to the bus stop to ensure his son got on board safely.

As Drew’s school bus rolled down the street, Kurt encountered the same spectator who had told him of the Hernandez family the night before. He was a tall, abnormally skinny man, wearing aviator sunglasses. His yellow, nicotine stained teeth were something Kurt had not noticed the night before. But his poor hygiene was more than visible in the daylight.

“What are you doing out here?” Kurt asked.

“Just making sure my daughter got on the bus,” the man said. “After last night, you can’t be too careful.” The man walked over to properly introduce himself, extending his hand for Kurt to shake. “Hector Cardona.”

“Kurt Watson,” he said, accepting the man’s grimy hand. The handshake lasted all of three seconds, but to Kurt, it felt like an eternity. “Did you hear any news about last night?”

“Just what I read in the paper,” Hector said. “Elizabeth Hernandez is in custody. They suspect her of murdering Alexandro. I’m not sure if her daughter made any statements to the police. They didn’t mention anything in the paper.”

“What’s the story with the father?” Kurt inquired. “I mean, is the guy out of the picture? Were they divorced?”

“Deceased,” Hector said. “I think it was a brain aneurism, but if you’re a reporter, don’t quote me on that. She’s been raising those kids by herself for years now. At least she was.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Kurt said. “I’m a proofreader. I work for Coffin Rock Publishing. I’m just curious about what happened last night.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Something like this doesn’t happen every day.”

“You’d be wrong about that,” Hector said. “Thirty-five minutes from here is a town called Woodsboro. About three or four months ago, this woman, Joan Fowler, was taken into custody under suspicion of murder. The victim was her son, Wayne.”

“You don’t say,” Kurt said, taken aback by this startling new revelation.

“I should probably get to work,” Hector said without inflection. “The grass isn’t going to cut itself.”

“Yeah,” Kurt mumbled, trying to pull himself back into the world. “I should probably get busy too. I’ve got a lot of new material to read today. Good talking to you, Hector.”

__________

          Dusty had taken to hanging out in front of Drew’s bedroom door. Every day he’d park himself in the hall outside of Drew’s bedroom and lay on his belly for hours.

          If Heather tried to step over him and cross the threshold into her son’s bedroom, Dusty would look up, show his teeth, and growl until she stepped away.

          Dusty was a golden retriever that Kurt had bought from a professional breeder. Heather wanted to go to the animal shelter, but Kurt didn’t want, in his words, “A second-hand dog.” He wanted a dog he could train and raise as his own.

          Kurt had raised him and trained him, but apparently not well enough, Heather thought. She mentioned Dusty’s behavior to Kurt in passing and he decided to approach Dusty in the hall one day, producing similar results.

          As soon as he kneeled down to run his hand over Dusty’s glossy coat, he showed his teeth and growled. In fact, anytime that Kurt or Heather stepped into the hall, Dusty would bark or growl.

          Dusty wasn’t old enough to be suffering from any form of memory loss. He still had plenty of good years left in him. But this newfound attitude was both perplexing and unsettling to say the least.

          Their son loved Dusty, and Dusty loved Drew. But Dusty had always remained loyal to Kurt. It didn’t make sense to Kurt that Dusty would be so overprotective of Drew’s room or his belongings.

          “Maybe the dog’s just going through something we can’t understand,” Kurt said. “I’ll take him to the vet if this keeps up.”

          “I want you to take him to a vet tomorrow,” Heather pleaded. “He’s really scaring me.”

          “Heather, the move really set us back a lot. A trip to the vet is expensive and we can’t afford to waste money, especially when we don’t know if anything is wrong with the dog.”

          “Something is wrong,” Heather said. “Call it women’s intuition. Call it whatever you’d like. But I can sense it.”

          “Maybe the dog senses it too,” Kurt suggested. “Maybe that’s why he’s acting so strange. You know how Drew is always saying he saw something in his room one night? Maybe Dusty is just trying to protect us by keeping us away.” His statements oozed with sarcasm.

          “Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Heather said.

          “I’ll tell you what you need,” Kurt said. “You need something to keep you busy. Why don’t you start writing again? You’re a reporter and there was a murder in our neighborhood. That’s a story just waiting for someone like you to tackle it.”

          “I’m an unemployed reporter since you decided to drag us all the way to Maryland,” Heather groaned.

          “I’m sorry, Heather. But it was a great opportunity. My editing job in Kansas was going nowhere and Coffin Rock Publishing offered me good money to be their main proofreader. I couldn’t turn it down. And you can always find another job with another paper. Just because we’re in Maryland, doesn’t mean there isn’t news to report. I even have an exclusive for you.”

          “What are you talking about?”

          “I’ve been chatting with one of the neighbors,” Kurt told her. “Hector Cardona. He knew the Hernandez family. That’s not all though. Hector told me there was a similar murder that occurred in Woodsboro just a few months ago. The victim’s name was Wayne Fowler. His mother, Joan Fowler, was arrested for his murder. So there’s something to go on.”

          “Woodsboro is a thirty minute ride from here,” Heather said, considering the drive.

          “Oh, by the way, the lady down the block had another kid,” Kurt added. “A teenage daughter named Margarita. The papers never said what happened to her. And I never saw her come out of the house last night when the cops removed Ms. Hernandez and her son’s body.”

__________

          Friday, May 27^th, 2011. 3:05 P.M.

          Heather was waiting at the bus stop when Drew got dropped off. The previous night had been the first time in about two months that Drew made an effort to sleep in his own room.

          Kurt was convinced he’d never make it through the night, but when they checked up on him in the morning, he was still sleeping comfortably.

          “I’ll be damned,” Kurt had said. “Maybe he’s finally over that little spell.”

          When Heather walked Drew back inside and helped him with his books and knapsack, she felt compelled to ask about the sudden change. But instead she decided to start off by praising him, hoping to initiate conversation naturally without having to question her son’s actions.

          “Your father and I are very proud of you for last night,” Heather told him. “We knew you could do it.”

          “Thanks, mom,” Drew replied. “It’s no big deal. I feel much safer sleeping in my room now that the ghost has moved on.”

          “Uh huh,” Heather said, seeing that Drew hadn’t quite conquered his overactive imagination. “And where did it go?”

          “It’s in your room now,” Drew said. “I saw it the other night, standing over daddy while he was sleeping.”

          Heather couldn’t tell if Drew was trying to have a laugh at her expense or if his imagination had truly gotten the better of him. So she bit.

          “Really?” Heather said, trying to play along. “So this ghost, what exactly does he look like, Drew?”

          “Oh, he doesn’t have a face,” her son replied casually. “But he’s really tall. And he wears a red suit. Red as the color of blood or ketchup. Even his shoes are red, mommy.”

          Drew certainly did have quite the imagination, Heather thought. “Ok,” she said. “Enough goofing around. Time to do your homework. You should be finished by the time dinner’s ready.”

          Kurt was working in his office when Heather passed by. She stood in the doorway, not uttering a word until Kurt looked up from his desk.

          “Everything all right?” Kurt asked.

          “Yes, it’s just…never mind.”

          Heather decided it best if she kept what Drew had just shared to herself. If she so much as hinted that she believed a word her son had told her, Kurt would laugh her out of his office.

          She walked down the hall, towards the master bedroom where Dusty was splayed out in front of the door. As she approached, the dog raised its head, showed its teeth, and growled at a low pitch.

          “This is starting to get weird,” Heather muttered.

__________

          Saturday, May 28^th, 2011. 10:33 A.M.

          Drew was happily watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room while Heather sat at the kitchen table, making phone call after phone call. With Elizabeth Hernandez’s trial a month away, Heather had taken Kurt’s suggestion and decided to write the article that beckoned her talents.

Two murders in a three month period with the victims mothers being accused in both cases. Something about that didn’t sit right with Heather. So she decided to dig a little deeper.

          But the citizens of Woodsboro weren’t very receptive to her inquiries. And all attempts to locate Margarita Hernandez were fruitless.

          So Heather decided to improvise. She still had her press badge from her time at the Kansas City Press. And a quick search of the internet helped reveal what prison Joan Fowler currently resided in.

          She phoned the prison and tried to arrange a face-to-face interview with Ms. Fowler. Instead, they granted her interview by telephone if Heather agreed to foot the bill for the call.

          Seeing as it was her only option, Heather accepted. She figured a phone interview might even be better. Arrangements for a face-to-face interview could take weeks.

          She waited on hold for fifteen minutes while they collected Joan Fowler and brought her to the phone.

          “For the last time, I didn’t kill my boy,” Joan said adamantly. “I’ve got nothing else to say to you people.”

          “I believe you,” Heather said.

          “Oh, thank God,” Joan sighed. “I knew one day some honest soul would come to tell my side of the story.”

          “That’s not entirely why I’m contacting you,” Heather said. “There’s been another murder. A young boy named Alexandro Hernandez. He lived on my block with his mother and sister. His mother is currently awaiting trial.”

          “The murder, did it occur at night?” Joan asked.

          “Yes,” Heather confirmed. “Around two in the morning. My husband saw them take Elizabeth Hernandez away in handcuffs. She was crying hysterically. And her daughter hasn’t been seen since.”

          “Have you spoken to the mother?” Joan asked.

          “Not yet,” Heather said. “I’m still waiting for the police to get back to me.”

          “You might never get the chance,” Joan said. “They won’t believe a word of her story. They’ll say she’s crazy like me. Hell, even my own lawyer didn’t believe me. He said my story would work for the insanity defense though.”

          “And what exactly is your story, Ms. Fowler?”

          “Wayne’s father died of a sudden heart attack at age thirty-two. I raised Wayne on my own from age four to age eleven. And I think I did a pretty damn good job considering I did it all on my own. But when Wayne turned ten, I noticed changes in his behavior. He started sleeping on the couch or in the guest bedroom instead of his own room. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep at all. He’d just stay up all night watching cartoons. His grades started to slip and he got booted from art class after they saw what he had drawn for his assignment.

          The principal wanted me to have Wayne examined by a professional. They sensed something wasn’t right with him, and so did I. But they were looking for the easiest explanation. A psychological impairment. I knew there was something bigger going on. So I asked Wayne after school one day.”

          “And what did he say?” Heather asked.

          “He told me about The Reaper,” Joan said. “That’s what he called it. Claimed it was a ghost or a spirit of some kind that haunted his room every night. So I asked him what the thing looked like. And that’s when he told me it didn’t have a face. I mean, I couldn’t even believe my ears; a faceless ghost. It was preposterous. But the more changes I spotted in his behavior, the more I started to believe.

          Then the night came when I heard the screams. I rushed to Wayne’s room, but it was already too late. The Reaper had finally claimed him. There was blood everywhere, and when I tried to slow the bleeding of his wounds, it got all over my clothes. That’s why the cops suspected me. They had my prints, they had me covered in blood, they had no evidence to indicate a break-in. They found no other prints at the scene. And they never found a murder weapon, either.

          They never believed a word I said. But I saw it with my own two eyes. He was maybe seven feet tall, wearing a red suit. And he was hovering over my son’s bed. And his face…it was just…gone.”

          “Ms. Fowler, what if I told you my son has seen this same entity you’ve described?”

          “I would tell you to run. Abandon your home and all your possessions and never look back, Mrs. Watson.”

__________

          Five P.M.

          Heather’s worst fears came to life when she told her husband of her conversation with Joan Fowler and he laughed in her face. A faceless ghost in a red suit. It was all a big joke to Kurt.

          He refused to establish the connection between the murders and their son’s erratic behavior. Kurt didn’t even flinch when she told him that Drew claimed The Reaper was hovering over him in his sleep one night.

          “I dig the name though,” Kurt said. “The Reaper. Sounds like a comic book character. You know, I think you may be onto something big here.”

          Heather, unscathed by his cynical jabs, went back to work. She called every source, every former colleague, and every editor she could think of until someone was able to point her in the direction of Margarita Hernandez.

          That someone was Darren Douglas, an ex-flame and her former boss at the Kansas City Press.

          Darren was a pompous prick who viewed himself as the definition of perfection. If he was the definition of perfection, nobody would ever aspire to be perfect, Heather thought.

          Darren agreed to share the information he had on Margarita for free, if Heather was willing to discuss it over lunch. Heather agreed, but made it clear she wasn’t leaving Maryland.

          “I’ll be there tomorrow,” Darren told her. “Meet you around three o’clock."

__________

          Sunday, May 29^th, 2011.

          Heather didn’t sleep that night. Joan’s words haunted her and she had visions every time she shut her eyes. She could see the faceless demon in the red suit, and it wasn’t a pretty visualization.

          She spent the night restless, debating its origin, its existence. She wondered if she should seek professional help for her son. She was wondering if she needed a little professional help of her own.

          Darren Douglas met her in a small café outside of Burkittsville at three in the afternoon. She showed up wearing sunglasses to conceal her sleep deprived eyes.

          As Heather assumed, Darren had ulterior motives for wanting to meet for lunch. But she overlooked his arrogance and his lame pickup lines. She saw it as the price to be paid for the information he was supplying. And for the information he had, she could deal with his cockiness and his brash attempts at hitting on a married woman.

          But in the end, Heather intended to remain faithful to the man she loved. That still didn’t stop Douglas from pining over her. But it did give her a distinct advantage.

          Darren Douglas was like putty in her hands. All she had to do was give a subtle wink and he’d grant any request she had. And what she requested right then and there was information on Margarita Hernandez’s whereabouts.

          “She’s in a looney bin,” Darren informed her. “About fifteen miles from here. She went bonkers after she saw her brother get it.”

          “Wait, Margarita witnessed the murder?” Heather asked.

          “Yes, but she ain’t talking,” Darren said.

          “We’ll see about that,” Heather said.

__________

          South Oaks Mental Facility was fifteen miles west from the café. She drove there straight from lunch. She hadn’t even bothered to eat. Operating on the no food and no sleep, she was determined to get to the bottom of this.

She made it past the gates without showing her press badge. She smartened up this time and claimed to be a distant relative of Margarita’s.

          Her black hair, dark complexion, and the fact that she was fluent in Spanish helped her pull it off. They asked for ID as Heather anticipated. She had also prepared for this with Darren’s help, as he had used his connections to secure a fake ID for her.

          For the next hour, her name was Maria Sanchez. It was a New Jersey license and the picture hardly looked anything like her, but it did the trick.

          Margarita was confined to a padded cell with restraints. They allowed Heather to go in by herself and told her to shout if she needed assistance. With Margarita wrapped up tightly in a straightjacket, she didn’t see what harm the girl could do. But the doctor’s seemed certain she was capable of anything.

          “You’re not my aunt,” Margarita said, sitting at the edge of her bed, her head tilting as if she was examining Heather like one would view a rare work of art in a museum.

          “I’m a reporter,” Heather said. “My real name is Heather Watson. And I’m here to tell your story.”

          “If I told you, you’d think I’m crazy. Believe me, ma’am, there’s a reason I’m in here. I don’t even know what really happened. I know what I saw. I just don’t know if I can believe it.”

          “What did you see?”

          “I can’t,” Margarita shook her head rapidly. “I can’t relive it.”

          “Please,” Heather begged. “My son’s life may be at stake here. There was a similar incident that occurred months ago. A boy named Wayne Fowler was allegedly murdered by his mother, Joan. I spoke to Joan. She described things that my son is seeing. I need to know if your brother saw them too.”

          What kind of things?” Margarita asked. “Like a man with no face and a crimson red suit?”

          “Yes,” Heather mumbled. “That would be the thing I’m referring to.”

          “I saw it myself the night Alexandro died,” Margarita confessed. “It was standing over his bed. It…it didn’t even have a weapon. It used its hands. My mother tried to save my brother’s life. And now she’s on trial for her own. But I can’t tell my story to the courts. They’ll never believe me or her.”

          “What can I do?” Heather asked. “What can I do to protect my son?”

          “Fight,” Margarita told her. “Fight with everything you have. Don’t let it take him.”

__________

          “You saw Darren Douglas today,” Kurt said as Heather walked through the front door around six-thirty.

          “How did you know?”

          “He left a message on the answering machine while you were gone.”

          “I can explain.”

          “Don’t worry, he explained all about your lunch in the message he left. And I can’t believe you went to see Margarita Hernandez. That poor girl has been through enough already. You’re cracking up, Heather. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I pushed this idea on you. But it’s gone far enough.”

          “I’m trying to help our son,” Heather insisted.

          “No, you’re trying to prove a bunch of wild theories that don’t exist. And our son happens to be an innocent victim in all of this. Heather, I’ve gone through this with you before. You get so wrapped up in these stories you lose touch with reality. I can’t go through it again. I packed my things. I think some space will do us some good.”

          “So that’s it? Just pack up and run away when things get too tough for Kurt Watson to handle? Fine. You know what? I’m better off without you. But Drew is staying with me.”

          “If you say so,” Kurt said. “But my son won’t be staying with you forever. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Kurt stormed out of the living room to gather his things, and in minutes he was gone.

          Drew was playing videogames in his room and hadn’t overheard their argument. So she figured it best if she didn’t tell him anything. If he asked, she’d simply say his dad had business to attend to. Maybe he had some loose ends to tie up back in Kansas.

          Kurt was a sensible man. Heather knew he’d return eventually. It was just a question of when. In the meantime, she had to keep a watchful eye over Drew on her own. She wasn’t going to let the boy out of her sight.

__________

          “Mommy, are you mad at daddy?” Drew asked innocently as Heather tucked him in at nine o’clock on the dot.

          “Not at all,” his mom assured him. Daddy’s mad at me, Heather thought. But he’s bound to get over it. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in my room tonight?”

          “No, I feel fine here,” Drew told her.

          “All right, well I’ll be just down the hall if you need me. Don’t be afraid to call me if you need anything. Goodnight Drew.”

          “Goodnight mommy,” he said, rolling onto his side and curling up with his blanket.

          She left his door wide open and stood out in the hallway, checked her wristwatch. It was just after nine o’clock when she heard a knock at the door.

          She wasn’t expecting anybody at this hour and she didn’t want to leave Drew’s side, but it could be Kurt. He had the keys to the house, but she thought maybe he had misplaced him. Or it could be the police, there to ask some follow-up questions on the Hernandez incident. The cops had questioned them a day after the murder to see what the Watson’s knew of the Hernandez family, but they didn’t have much to share.

          She ascended the beige carpeted staircase and walked to the front door. She opened it just a crack to peek outside. On their front porch stood a tall man with aviator sunglasses. From the porch lights, she could see the man’s teeth were stained with nicotine. And his white cotton shirt was stained red with blood.

          “Please,” Hector said, his lip quivering, hands trembling. “You must get out. It got my daughter. It’s going to get your son too. I would’ve told your husband, but I knew he’d never believe me. But you, you believe. I can see it in your eyes. Please, get out while you still can!”

          “Calm down, sir,” Heather said, slowly pushing the door shut. “I’m going to call the police for you. Everything is going to be ok. I promise. Just wait right where you are.”

          “No!” Hector screamed. “No police!”

          He tried to force his way inside, but Heather managed to slam the door on his hand, and when he recoiled in pain, she got the door closed and snapped the lock shut.

          “Mommy!” Drew cried from upstairs. “Mommy, help me! Help!” Dusty had scampered across the hall and started barking ferociously. His barks turned to yelps, then dissolved to silence after Heather heard a thump on the ceiling.

          She flew up the stairs and found Dusty sprawled out in the hall, outside of Drew’s bedroom. The dog didn’t appear to be breathing.

          Heather felt sick, but she moved past the dog as her son’s life hanged in the balance. As she reached the doorway, her stunned, unblinking eyes gazed up at a tall, slender man in a crimson red suit hovering over Drew’s bed. Atop his lean shoulders was a faceless, anamorphic flesh-head.

__________

          Heather sat in the back of a police cruiser beside Hector Cardona while the cops spoke to several of the neighbors, all of whom had called the police to voice their concerns over the screams they had heard.

          Heather tried to pull her wrists apart, but the cuffs wouldn’t allow them to stretch more than a few inches.

          The cops had confiscated Hector’s aviator sunglasses and Heather could now understand why he sported them. His left eye had been gouged out some time ago and the damage to the socket was irreversible.

          “I’m so sorry,” Hector muttered. “I should’ve warned your husband. I should’ve warned you.”

          “You knew about this thing all along?”

          “A dark memory from my childhood. I was lucky. I survived its attack. I can’t say the same for my little girl. They’ll never believe us, you know?”

          “I know,” Heather murmured. She knew the cops, the judge, and the jury could never believe such a tale. She even doubted that Kurt would side with her on this one.

          But that wasn’t going to stop her from telling the tale.

          The tale of The Reaper.