The Fall: The Rift Book I

by Robert J. Duperre

  CHAPTER 7

  DEMONS

  IT WAS A QUARTER PAST MIDNIGHT on a Monday, and Kyra found herself with very little company. Old Willy, one of the many town drunkards, was the only patron left in the bar. Bill and Meghan Tulowiski had finished their last beers and bolted almost two hours earlier, and that was it for the night. Three patrons since she began her shift wasn’t exactly a recipe for great business.

  She felt around in the tip jar and groaned. There were only three bills in there, along with some miscellaneous change. Add that to her four-dollar-an-hour wage, and what she didn’t have were any reasons to keep the place open. It simply wasn’t worth it.

  She slapped her palms against her thighs and said, “Okay, Willie, time to go.”

  The old man got up off his stool with a sigh, rocking back and forth on wobbly legs. His eyes grew cloudy. Kyra circled from behind the bar and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  “Whoa, watch it, big guy,” she said. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

  “Ah’m all right,” he replied. “Gettin’ my sea legs, is all.”

  Kyra frowned. “Yeah, right. Will you get home okay? It’s a bit cold.”

  “Ah’ll be fine,” he slurred, and flashed a mostly toothless grin. “Ah’d be better if you came with me, though. I make for good company, if you know what I mean.” His gaze dropped from her face. He reached out a clumsy hand and fumbled for her breasts. He found the left one and squeezed. Her flesh crawled beneath his grip.

  Kyra slapped his hand away. He almost fell over when she did so. “Get out, Willie,” she said. “Now.”

  She held the door open and shut it quickly when he stepped out, almost smacking him in the rear. The brief exposure to the frigid cold—the warm spell had gone away much too quickly—caused her fingers to grow numb, which made entering the alarm system’s security code more of a task than usual. When she finally completed it, and the speaker beside the keypad gave her the usual three tweets of acceptance, she peered through the huge front window. There was Willie, walking across the parking lot, swaying. His breath, illuminated by the street lamps, formed a glowing white cloud around his head of oily, silver hair. She thought he resembled the abominable snowman, and her hands, which had been growing warmer while stuffed in her pockets, ached again. Shivering, she lowered the blinds, cutting herself off from the outside world. Winter was right around the corner, and it was only the middle of October. She wished it would take its time.

  She took her pocketbook out from behind the counter and pulled up a stool. Her chores were done for the night. She had wiped the bar, swept, and washed what few glasses had been used after the Tulowiskis left, which meant the only thing left to do was dispose of Willie’s empty bottle of Budweiser, which was a quick enough task. She decided it could wait and sat down on one stool, put her feet up on another, and removed the trashy romance novel she’d been reading from her bag. You’d probably be more comfortable at home, her sensible inner voice told her as she opened the book. She knew that wasn’t the case, for she had started to feel shaky in that house ever since the night Justin hit her, since the night her mind annulled their marriage. His actions had poisoned the place, made it inhospitable. Home wasn’t home any longer. It was where the demons lived.

  She read to forget about it. Her mind wandered as her eyes passed over the words on the pages. The story did its work on her, though whatever tale it was trying to tell became lost. A gentle, willowing tremor appeared in her abdomen and she felt a sudden longing. She closed her eyes and could almost feel a man’s hands on her body. They were gentle yet strong, these hands, a little dry, and yet soft in all the right ways. It had been weeks since she’d felt any sort of intimacy, and she missed it. Sex was her security blanket. It wrapped her in the virile clinch of animal passion and helped her forget all that had gone wrong in her life. There was no need for love; the escape, the gratuitous pleasure, was all she required, all she desired. She imagined the face of this invisible man who now rubbed her back. It was a kind face, with intense brown eyes and a charming smile. Almost instinctively, her hand pressed into the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers tickled the hairs down there, and the vulnerable cleft found just beneath that. Her teeth chattered. Her body shuddered.

  The harsh ringing of the telephone pushed all those pleasurable sensations away. She jumped and let it ring a few more times before picking up.

  “The Pit Bar and Grille,” she said.

  “Kye, is that you?” a familiar voice on the other end asked.

  She knew who it was immediately and started laughing. “Yeah, it’s me, Stacy. Who else would it be? It’s not like anyone else works here.”

  “Thank God you’re okay,” replied Stacy, and Kyra cut the witty banter. The tone of her neighbor’s voice said this wasn’t a humorous social call.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  A pause, then, “Have you seen the news?”

  “No.” The truth was that she hadn’t so much as turned on the television since that public service announcement the night Justin fell ill.

  “You’d better. Channel seven.”

  Kyra grabbed the remote from its resting place in the jar beside the register and powered up the set hanging above the bar. She pressed the buttons for the correct channel and turned up the volume. An unusually solemn-looking anchorwoman appeared. This was an unusual time of night for her to be on the air. Kyra mouthed the woman’s usual greeting: “This is Jill Scott, Channel Seven Eyewitness News, thank you so much for joining us tonight.” There were no such pleasantries on this evening, though, for Jill Scott’s trademark smile was gone. Instead, she stared with wide eyes at the camera, her lips appearing unsteady, her voice was low and dire. Kyra picked up what she was saying mid-sentence.

  “…urge anyone in the surrounding townships to lock their doors and stay inside. These people are to be considered dangerous and possibly armed.” Jill Scott cleared her throat, glanced down as if to gather herself, then faced the camera again. It looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. “I repeat,” she said, “tragedy has struck the Wentworth-Douglass Hospital in Dover this evening. At approximately eleven-fifteen, State Police, responding to a 9-1-1 call placed from within the facility, arrived at the scene of a massacre. Preliminary reports say there are as many as seventeen fatalities. The specifics of this report are unclear, but a source inside the hospital has claimed these horrific actions were perpetrated by those under quarantine with CTP, or Rodent Flu, as it is now known. The State Police have maintained that those responsible had fled by the time they arrived. Emergency workers from nearby hospitals are working closely with the remaining Wentworth-Douglass staff to tend to the injured. A remote camera crew has been dispatched from this station. We will disclose any and all information we receive as it becomes public. We will not go off the air until we have answers. Until then, we urge anyone in the surrounding…”

  Kyra snapped off the television, as if doing so would make the news less real. She stood bone-still, staring with a slackened jaw at the now-black screen. Her heart jumped beneath her ribcage.

  “Oh, shit,” she muttered, then realized she was still holding the telephone to her ear, and said, “Stacy, are you still there?”

  “Of course.”

  “This can’t be right. There’s no way.”

  “I know. It seems crazy. But…”

  “No. Justin couldn’t do that. Never.”

  “You also told me he’d never hit you. Look how that turned out.”

  “Still…”

  Stacy’s tone became commanding. “It doesn’t matter what you think, Kye. We don’t know who’s alive or dead, or even if Justin’s involved. But the fact is that someone just slaughtered seventeen people at the hospital! Which is what, a fifteen minute drive from where you are? You’ve gotta get the hell out of there.”

  Kyra nodded. “Okay. But the car’s been acting a bit wonky—”

  “Don’t worry about the car. I sent Roger to
get you. I don’t want you alone when you leave. Just hang tight. He should be there in—oh shit—in a couple of minutes.”

  “What happened? Are you okay, Stacy?”

  Stacy sounded aggravated. “Sorry, Kye. Little Roger just fell off the bed. I’d better go take care of him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, hun. Everything’s gonna be okay. Just be careful, stay inside until Roger shows up, and I’ll see you when you get here.”

  Kyra said goodbye and hung up the phone. She dashed to the front window, parted the blinds, and peeked out. With her heart racing and her mind a swirl of horrible thoughts, monsters lurked in every darkened corner, standing just beyond her view, preparing to strike.

  She saw a dark shape darting across the side lot caught in her periphery, and when she jumped back with a yelp the blinds snapped shut. There she stood, holding her breath and shaking, and for a moment she was sure there was something behind her. She wheeled around. Nothing. Her heart rate started to slow and she approached the window again. Once more, she saw something move in the side lot. She turned toward it this time, letting her eyes adjust. It was nothing but a large tree branch, swaying in the wind.

  Her fear quelled for the moment, she dimmed the lights and rechecked the locks and security system. Everything was buttoned up tight. Secure. She went back to the stool, put away her book, and placed a cigarette between her dry lips. Her hands were shaking, and when she flicked her lighter, its flame danced around the tip of the cigarette. When it finally caught she took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She sat there, puffed on the filter, and watched the clock hands tick away, second by agonizing second, until she could hardly stand it.

  “Come on,” she said. Her foot tapped against the stool’s leg. She closed her eyes again and tried to send her mind back to that place of passion, that place where the horrors closing in on her couldn’t intrude. It wasn’t working. Spine-gripping anxiety was all she felt.

  The sound of breaking glass, followed by the soft, humming whoop-whoop of the alarm, seemed to prove her worry fitting. Her eyes popped open. “Roger?” she said, in little more than a whisper. She stood up, knees knocking, and glanced in the direction of the rear corridor. The thump of heavy footfalls came next. Kyra broke out of her frozen state, raced behind the bar, and ducked out of sight. Her lungs ached. She’d never exhaled her last drag.

  “YOU!” a guttural voice boomed, though to call it an actual voice would be erroneous. It was more like a grunt, or a howl, that of an animal trying to mimic, but not quite grasping, how humans speak.

  Even with her hands weak and trembling with fear, Kyra managed to pull herself up and sneak a quick look over the counter. Though the space was dimly lit, she could see clearly. In the middle of the dance floor stood a man wearing a brown button-up coverall. The suit was too small and the buttons were askew. The man’s shoulders arched forward, holding up a pair of huge, hairy arms. Splotches—she couldn’t tell what color they were, only that they were there—covered his exposed flesh. The veins in his neck knotted and stretched. His lower jaw protruded a good two inches farther than his upper, and the lips were bared, revealing a set of blackened teeth too large for the mouth that stowed them.

  But it was the eyes that really caused Kyra’s heart to clench. They stared into the darkness beneath a bony, distended brow. She recognized them immediately, but there was none of the lethargy she’d grown used to over the years in them any longer. Now they flared, wider than ever. They were awake now, and they seethed with anger.

  Justin turned toward her with unexpected speed. Kyra ducked away as fast as she could, hoping he hadn’t seen her. Her answer came in the form of that god-awful mockery of her husband, screaming, “YOU!” once more. She breathed in deep and held it. The act of waiting for the inevitable was maddening. A part of her wanted to stand up and accept her fate right then and there.

  Don’t you do that, Kye, the survivor in her protested. Don’t you dare. She swallowed hard and managed to put her body in motion. She crawled around the cramped space, maneuvering around the coolers, feeling for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Justin’s inhuman snarling echoed all around her.

  She reached behind the tubes that led to the beer spigots and her hand fell on something hard and plastic. What she pulled out was a screwdriver, most likely left behind and forgotten by Frankie the day before when he had replaced the Guinness keg. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

  Kyra used her feet to push her rump across the sticky floor mat and wedge her torso between the cash register and the sink. She heard the heavy stomp-and-drag of Justin circling her balsawood prison. She craned her neck, trying to catch another glimpse of him as he moved toward and then away from her. She moaned, and then he replied.

  The beast that had taken up residence in Justin Holcomb’s body leapt onto the counter opposite her, landing with a thud. His forehead collided with the wine glasses and snifters, knocking them from their hangers above the counter. Glass broke at her feet and Kyra shrieked, pressing her hands against the solid mass of wood she’d sandwiched herself between. She kicked wildly, trying to get out. Her shoulders gradually slid free and she slipped onto her side. The creature growled in response. Kyra looked up.

  Perched on the counter, with long arms ending in hands that were curled into claws, Justin looked more like a gargoyle than a man. An expression she presumed to be a grin stretched across his face. His oversized lower jaw opened and closed and his tongue licked spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  “YOU!” he said once more.

  Kyra stood up. The screwdriver in her right hand smacked against the night safe she was using for support. A loud clank followed, joining the din of Justin’s breathing and the thunderous beat of her heart. She winced. Justin leaned forward. A string of drool dangled from his lower lip and then plopped to the floor.

  Inch by painful inch, she shuffled her way to the bar’s hinged countertop. The thing that Justin had become watched her with a voyeur’s interest. He seemed to be taunting her with his lack of movement, as if saying that it didn’t matter what she did; she’d come to the same end either way. This thought got Kyra’s adrenaline pumping. Even though she knew it would be akin to a Chihuahua taking on a Doberman, she needed to act.

  Her breath quickened while she switched the screwdriver to her left hand, reached into the box on the counter beside her, and pulled out an empty bottle of beer. Then, with all her gathered strength, she heaved it across the bar.

  Before Justin could react the bottle smacked him on the side of the head, shattering on impact, gouging his flesh with shards of glass. He reached up with those clawed hands and swiped frantically at the stream of blood that now appeared on his left temple. His body teetered and his feet slipped out from under him. He tumbled to the floor, inside the server’s area, only a few short feet away from her.

  Kyra spun, flipped up the hinged countertop, and sprinted for the back door. Go faster, go faster! her mind ordered. The door came into view. Without slowing she slammed into the handle, but it didn’t give. Her arm crumpled into the door like an accordion, followed by her body. Her forehead clouted against the glass and bounced off of it. A brilliant white light shone in her vision.

  She flopped on the ground, moaning in pain. Blood flowed into her eyes and her ears were ringing. She started to come around and glanced up. The window to the side of the locked rear door had been smashed in. There was glass all over the floor. That explained how Justin got in. It also would be her way out.

  A mighty howl broke through the alarm’s beeping. Kyra swiveled and wiped the blood from her brow in time to see her deranged husband running at her, full speed. She held her hands out in front of her in self-defense. Justin crashed down right on top of her, pinning her down, and let loose a wounded yelp. He rolled off to the side, cuffing her on the side of her already wounded head with his flailing, ape-like arm. Free of his weight, she rolled in the opposite direction, thinking it onl
y moments before he jumped on her again.

  No one touched her and she spun around. She gaped at her deformed husband, watched him thrash for a moment, and then started to crawl away. Her left hand was still balled, and the carpet burned her knuckles when she pressed down. She looked at her fist and realized she still held the screwdriver firmly in her grip. It was covered with blood. Her hand was covered in it, as well, all the way to her elbow. She instinctively tossed the screwdriver aside and it bounced off the carpet, skittering across the dance floor.

  Justin’s wailing stopped and his head whipped around. His eyes narrowed.

  “Shit!”

  She started crawling again, trying to scramble to her feet. The sound of shattering glass broke above the ruckus, this time from the front of the bar. The image of Justin’s murderous buddies from the hospital paying her a visit popped into her mind, and she tried to move faster.

  A grasping hand wrapped around her ankle. She kicked out, trying to get free, but the grip was too strong and she was pulled in reverse. Her hands reached out, almost mechanically, grappling for something to hold onto.

  Then, unexpectedly, her leg was free. She heard Justin growl, followed by a metallic thump. Another thump followed, and a screech, and another thump, louder this time. Kyra scampered toward the broken rear window again.

  “Kye!” a man screamed. “Kye, go to the front! Hurry!”

  She wheeled around. A large black man stood over her fallen attacker, a baseball bat raised high above his head. It was Roger. He brought the bat down onto Justin’s back and her husband squealed beneath the blow, collapsing onto his stomach. Blood vomited from his mouth.

  Roger waved his hand at her. “Go!” he screamed. He hit Justin one more time and then ran in her direction. Kyra’s feet finally got the message. She stood up and stumbled, almost falling over, but Roger’s strong hands caught her in time. She tried to keep running but found she didn’t have to. Her neighbor’s lifesaver of a husband wrapped his arms around her and carried her through the smashed front door as if she weighed nothing.