Genre: Horror
ONE FOR THE BOOKS (A Jacob Slade Story)
By Daniel Skye
PART THREE: SEEING RED
Adam Ridley would come home every day after
school, do his homework, eat his supper, and then rush straight up to his room
to work on his secret project. He wouldn’t dare let his parents see what he’d
been slaving away on. It was for Adam’s eyes only. Nobody could see it until it
was finally complete.
Sitting at his computer desk, Adam took a
short break from his work to check his email and peruse a few sites. He checked
his Facebook page–a page his parents had no knowledge of–and was happy to see
he had two new friend requests.
The Internet was a wondrous place for a boy
Adam’s age. His parents didn’t allow him to watch movies with excessive
violence, language, or nudity. So the Internet was where Adam got his fix and
downloaded all the latest titles. Adam had a fascination with the macabre. And
his love affair with forbidden movies didn’t stretch too far outside the horror
genre.
Adam had an affinity for horror movies, old
and new. And Facebook was one of the few sites that Adam used to keep tabs on
all the latest horror-related news. He’d read the posts in his newsfeed, watch
the trailers, comment and share.
Most of his friends who had Facebook thought
he was a weirdo for liking that sort of crap. But Adam didn’t find zombies and
werewolves and monsters and demons to be grotesque or strange. He found them–as
he so eloquently phrased it–to be awesome.
It was on his Facebook page that Adam came
across several status updates, all mourning the loss of Harold Moss or offering
condolences. Adam was familiar with the name, as everyone from Dorchester had
been. But he wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. And his parents didn’t want
him reading anything about how Harold died. They figured it’d give the poor kid
nightmares. Little did they know that Adam was watching movies like The Exorcist and Texas Chainsaw Massacre every night after they went to bed.
Adam slid out from under the desk on the
wheels of his chair, brushed one hand through his reddish brown hair–the color
of copper–and then used the other hand to stifle a burp. His stomach gurgled
and he giggled at the sound it made. His belly was always bloated from too much
cola, but he was an otherwise healthy child.
He had rosy cheeks with a scattering of
golden brown freckles, and his teeth were remarkably white for a boy who drank
six sodas a day. He didn’t have any problems with his hearing or his vision.
There was only one thing that truly stood out about him. And not even Adam knew
the secret to that.
Adam Ridley was an ordinary ten-year-old boy
with an extraordinary gift. More exceptional than Jacob Slade’s gift of
telepathy. Adam was an artist.
An artist with a mind so powerful, he could
make his drawings come to life. It took years for Adam’s powers to reach their
full potential. And when they did, Adam unleashed hell on earth without even
realizing it.
Adam had a vivid imagination. At the time of
Harold Moss’s death, he’d been working on an epic comic book project. A comic book
about the end of days. A comic that had something to give everyone a scare:
Zombies, vampires, werewolves. It was a smorgasbord of chaos and carnage and
gore, monsters and savage aberrations.
The more Adam sketched his masterpiece, the
more the plague of violence and insanity spread. There seemed to be no end to
the horrors in sight…
* * *
Thursday,
October 8, 2015.
It was just after midnight when they
arrived at 1478 Bishop Street. The sheriff accompanied Jacob and Drake, but
they had no additional backup. Karl Booth needed his deputies out on the
streets to try to maintain order, and of course, he needed at least one man
operating the phones down at the station.
The zombie bloodbath at Shadmoor Stadium
was just the opening act. The show had barely even begun.
Multiple sightings had been reported. The
undead were still among them. They still had bodies that were missing from the
morgue. And these walking corpses were scattered throughout Dorchester,
infecting anyone or anything that crossed their path.
The government had issued a
mandatory quarantine until the situation was contained. All roads to and from
Dorchester were blocked off and guarded by military personnel toting AK-47s.
There was no escape.
Jacob Slade had never encountered a
situation of this magnitude. He’d tangled with ghosts and spirits, danced with
werewolves, hunted down a few vampires. But this was some next-level shit. And
he didn’t quite know how to tell Booth he wasn’t the man for the job.
Slade wasn’t a hero. He was a mutant.
His powers could only take him so far. They weren’t going to help him save the
world. But Booth had faith in him. And that faith led them to Dane Hall’s
doorstep.
Dane had been missing since the day
they found Harold Moss. Slade wasn’t positive if Dane Hall was the Howler they
were searching for, but his powers warned him of the presence of evil.
All the lights were out, but the
front door was slightly ajar.
“My men just checked the place this
afternoon,” Booth said. “They would’ve told me if the door had been open.”
“Isn’t this our cue to get the hell
out of here?” Drake Furlong asked. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure I want to
know what’s on the other side of that door.”
“We can’t back out now,” Jacob said,
nudging the door forward and stepping in.
He ran his hands over the smooth
plaster in search of the lights. When he found the switches, he flipped them
on, but no light enhanced their vision.
“The powers out,” Jacob said. “Hey,
Drake. Do you mind?”
“Not a problem. This is one of the
few moments I get to shine.” With the snap of his fingers, the lights clapped
on and house lit up like Yankee Stadium.
Standing in the darkest corner of
the living room was Dane Hall.
But it didn’t look like Dane Hall to
Booth. More like Dracula. But this was no movie Dracula. This was not Bela
Lugosi or Christopher Lee or Boris Karloff or Frank Langella. This wasn’t even
Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise.
Dane looked ancient, like he had
aged two hundred years overnight. His hair was pure white, whiter than snow.
His cheekbones were gaunt, his ears pointed, his face fatally pale. His eyes
were red and purple, the color of blood clots. His mouth dropped open to reveal
his jet-black gums and razor-like teeth.
“Jesus!” Booth exclaimed. “Is that
you in there, Dane? If you can understand me, please say something.”
“I’m going to drink every pint of
blood in your body,” the voice that had taken over Dane’s body declared.
“He’s a fucking vampire,” Drake
said, drawing his gun. Jacob already had his gun out, safety off.
Dane went straight for Booth, and
Drake and Jacob opened fire.
“Aim for the heart!” Drake screamed.
But it was easier said than done. This was no movie, and even at close
distance, they missed a few shots. Booth had dropped to the floor, taking
cover. He worked his service revolver from his holster, raised it, and fired
one shot. The bullet tore through Dane’s chest, piercing his heart.
His body disintegrated before their
very eyes. And all that was left was a pile of ash.
“I take it this wasn’t the Howler
we’ve been looking for,” Booth said, picking himself up and dusting himself
off.
“Nope,” Jacob responded. “But Dane
might’ve been the one who killed Jenny Washburn, and those victims your men
found down by the train yard.”
“What do you mean might’ve?”
“I mean Dane might not be the only
vampire lurking in the shadows of Dorchester. There might even be more than one
Howler. Anything is possible after tonight.”
“Well we can’t stand around and wait
for it to find us,” Booth said. “We need to find it before it kills again.”
“Well I’m all out of ideas,” Jacob
shrugged. “Did you get the silver?”
“I stopped by the pawn shop and told
Gene Carlson it was a police matter. He hooked me up big time. Got a whole case
of silver bullets.”
“Good. Now all we need are the
squirts guns and the whiskey.”
“Oh, no problem. We’ll just swing by
the twenty-four-hour liquor and toy market.”
“I have some squirt guns in my
garage,” Drake said and they both stared at him awkwardly. “What? I collect
lots of childish shit.”
“Well that saves us some trouble,”
Jacob said. “And Portside Pub is still open. So that solves the whiskey
crisis.”
Booth’s radio went off and he
unhooked it from his belt. It was Deputy Brackett. They were needed at McDowell
Memorial Hospital immediately.
* * *
Wesley Reese was barely alive when
they brought him into the hospital. They’d managed to stop the bleeding. The
wounds were too big to stitch, so they had to cauterize them. Afterwards, Wes
was bandaged and doped up with enough painkillers to calm a wild boar.
He drifted in and out of
consciousness, listening to the insipid hum of the fluorescent lights. Wesley
had no affinity for hospitals. He associated them all with the same morbid
notion–Death.
Hospitals were a sterile, yet unwelcoming
environment. They all carried that same lingering odor of ointments and
disinfectants. And they all gave Wesley the willies.
He tried not to think about where he
was. Instead, he tried to think about Cynthia. But all he could think about was
lying in the bushes outside of her house, bleeding to death. He was too weak,
too powerless to save her. Cynthia Rockwell was dead because of him.
The
painkillers aren’t working, Wes thought as a sudden pain shot up his left
arm. His chest felt like it was on fire. His heart monitor was going berserk.
It
can’t be a heart attack, Wesley thought. I’m too young. I just need to calm myself down. Where the hell is the
nurse? Shouldn’t someone be checking on me? Okay, just relax. Calm down.
But Wesley could not come down.
Something was terribly wrong. He could feel it inside of him, bubbling its way
to the surface.
His eyes turned yellow and glowed
like the moon itself, and the transformation had begun.
* * *
Nurse Harper’s feet were killing
her.
She was working a double shift and
she was on her tenth hour when Johnny Gallo flat-lined. She summoned Doctor Ken
Dodge immediately. They did everything they could to revive him, but nothing
could bring Gallo back.
There had been many casualties at
the stadium that evening, but plenty of others had survived the attack. Johnny
was the only survivor who had been brought in from Shadmoor Stadium with a bite
wound. He developed a high fever and his body burned out quickly as the
infection spread.
Nurse Harper was called away shortly.
And when she returned to collect Johnny’s chart for the necessary paper that
needed to be filled out, his body was gone. She looked down and recoiled at the
sight of Doctor Dodge splayed out on the floor.
He wasn’t dead. But he was going into shock.
He was missing four of his fingers on his
left hand.
A set of bloody footprints started on the
floor by the bed and ended at the bathroom door. “Mr. Gallo?” Harper called,
her voice cracking. “Are you in there?” The lights were off, the door slightly
ajar.
The bathroom door swung open and Johnny
Gallo stood there, the corners of his mouth smeared red. A shark tooth necklace
dangled around his chest, also stained red. She saw that crazed, glazed over
look in his eyes. He had lost all control of himself. His body was operating on
instinct and instinct alone. The need to feed was imperative and took priority
over everything else.
Harper scrambled for the door, but she
tripped, twisting her ankle. And Gallo advanced on her. She thrashed and kicked
her legs around as he grabbed hold. She let out a loud, sharp cry as he tore
in. She wanted to scream HELP but the pain was too intense.
His teeth were locked around her
leg, tearing the sinew from her femur. She let out another cry– this one dull
and muted–before she lost consciousness.
Downstairs in the lobby, the automatic
doors slid open and the bodies from the morgue came piling in, still sporting
their toe-tags. They smelled blood and fresh meat from a mile away.
The nurse who was stationed at the
front desk took one look and ran down the hall screaming. Security stepped in,
but they didn’t stand a chance. Nobody did.
* * *
When Jacob and the men arrived at
McDowell Memorial, the place resembled an abattoir more than a hospital. The
smell of ointments and disinfectants had been replaced by the metallic scent of
blood. Blood ran down the wall in uneven streaks. Severed ears, fingers, and
arms adorned the lobby. Past the front desk, Drake found the bodies of the
security guards. Maimed beyond recognition. Their faces clawed, their intestines
ripped from their body and gnawed at like raw sausage links.
Drake gave them mercy and put a
bullet in each of their heads to make sure they wouldn’t come back.
But the echo of the gunshots seemed
to draw them all out. One by one, they filled the hall and moved almost in
unison towards the entrance.
The bodies from the morgue were
fresh, but already showed signs of advanced rot and decay. They were
decomposing at an exponential rate. Their skin had the pigment and texture of
rancid meat. Their dead eyes looked like dirty marbles.
“Remember, aim for the heads,” Drake said.
“Got it,” Jacob said. “I’ve seen
Dawn of the Dead.”
One of the bodies from the morgue
had a badly mangled leg. It hobbled along, a snapped bone jutting out below the
knee. It was an easy target, and the first zombie Jacob took down.
Drake aimed for the biggest, meanest
looking zombie he could find and pulled the trigger. He raised his
semi-automatic, aimed carefully, and nailed him right between the eyes.
Jacob took two more shots and
brought two more of the undead to their knees.
A young woman ambled along in a
hospital gown, her throat ripped open. The zombies from the morgue had gotten
to some of the patients and the staff. Karl hesitated to shoot her, but as she
drew closer, he fired his service revolver.
“So this is what you wanted,” Jacob
said to Drake as he capped another zombie. The bullet ripped through its skull,
exited out the back, and entered the skull of the zombie lined up behind it.
“This is what you’ve been waiting for, huh?”
“Okay, maybe the zombie apocalypse
was a bad thing to add to my wish list,” Drake admitted. “But I don’t think
right now is the best time to talk about it.”
They kept shooting, reloading, and
shooting some more. But it still wasn’t enough to stop the onslaught of the
undead.
There were too many of them. The
corridors were teemed with a festering mob of zombies.
“I’ve got this,” Drake said and tucked his
gun into his waistband.
Drake glanced around and found what he was
looking for–an outlet. He pressed his hand to the outlet, crouched, and rested
his other hand to the floor.
“Get back,” Drake advised them. “Way
back.” Jacob knew what was coming, grabbed Booth by the lapels of his jacket,
and pulled him back.
The electricity from the outlet
passed through his body and traveled from one hand to the other, electrifying
the floor. It didn’t fry them all, but it did stun them momentarily.
“Let’s move,” Drake said. “We’ve got
to get everyone out of here, including ourselves.”
They sprinted through the halls.
Even at his advanced age, Karl Booth moved with grace and speed. His life did
depend on it after all. They checked every room on the first floor, finding
nothing but casualties and empty beds.
They moved to the second floor and
split up to cover more ground.
Nurse Harper, missing most of her
lower lip, had turned at the hands of Johnny Gallo. She stumbled awkwardly
through the hall, like a newborn infant learning to take its first steps.
Doctor Dodge had turned too.
In fact, half the staff had been
turned, and the rest were either wounded or in hiding. Jacob was the one who
had crossed paths with Nurse Harper and Doctor Dodge. He granted them mercy and
moved on, checking every room he passed, eventually coming across a familiar
face.
“It can’t be,” Jacob said, unsure at
first. Then he saw the shark tooth necklace and confirmed it. “Johnny Gallo.
Son of a bitch.”
Jacob knew Gallo personally. They
played cards, drank beers, hung out on Sundays to watch the games. Jacob
hesitated, but only momentarily before he gave Gallo mercy. If there was any
way to bring him back, Jacob would’ve spared his life. But he knew there was no
coming back.
Wesley Reese, or the beast formerly
known as Wesley Reese, stalked the halls of the west wing, which happened to be
Drake’s current location.
“Nice doggy,” Drake said nervously.
Its snout wrinkled back, showing a
mouth of razor-sharp teeth. Drake unloaded on the beast, but his bullets were
not silver and they accomplished nothing. The wounds only seemed to anger the
beast.
It came charging. Drake felt someone
brush his shoulder and push him aside.
It was Lenore Foster, armed with a
squirt gun. She sprayed the charging brute down and halted it in its tracks.
The whiskey was like acid. Globs of fur and
flesh dripped from its torso. It howled in pain as Lenore sprayed it again,
this time in the face. She watched its snout dissolve, its yellow eyes melt
from the sockets.
“We have to get out here,” Lenore said in a
matter-is-settled way. “Where are the others?”
“I’m right here,” Karl said, limping towards
them.
“Are you bit?” Drake asked, inching back.
“Nah,” Karl said. “Just old age. I
fell running from some zombies, hurt my leg. We have to get out of here.
There’s too many of them.”
“I heard the shots,” Jacob said as
he came running towards them. He saw the remnants of
Howler that stained the
hallway and motioned towards it with his pistol.
“It was the Howler,” Lenore assured him.
“How did you know where to find us?”
Karl asked.
“I have a police scanner at home. I
like to keep tabs on things. And it gives me ideas for my stories and helps
with police lingo and dialogue.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear
that,” Karl said.
“Listen, we have to get out of here,”
Jacob said.
“That seems to be the phrase of the
day,” Drake quipped.
“We need to find a place to regroup and
formulate a plan. They’ve infected the staff and the patients. By tomorrow it
could be the whole town.”
To Be Continued With Part Four: BAD MOON
RISING
