by Alan Spencer
What he saw in the truck bed caused him to stiffen. Three corpses were splayed in the trunk. Each of them were slathered in blood, almost swimming in it, because they were hacked into pieces. No corpse was left intact. Two of the severed arms and the shoulder sockets gleamed of metal at their meaty stumps, and beneath the twisted bolts of tissue, were the curls of steel springs.
"My God," he kept muttering to himself. Brock failed to make sense of it, so he ran to the driver's seat, though he didn't find anybody inside. A large bloody knapsack was strewn on the passenger side, the top bent so he could see what was inside. It was stocked with coins, credit cards, dollar bills, credit cards, rings (and one of them was Hannah's, a promise ring her sister made her wear vowing to never marry anybody ever again), and random jewelry.
He got Hannah.
But she wasn't in the truck.
Then where is she?
Hearing the jarring snap of a branch crack under a hard footstep, Brock hunkered back down into the woods, kneeling low, holding his breath, and keeping watch.
There he was, he thought, the man with the axe. The axe head was golden, though the surface was sullied by thick congealing blood. The burly man was over six feet tall with the stature of a hearty lumber jack. The man scanned the horizon, the patches of woods, and up the road, turning over every hideaway in the area. Somebody had gotten away from him, Brock thought. Was it him, Brock wondered, or was it Hannah, or one of the four robbers? The way the bodies were mutilated in the truck bed, there was no way telling how many people were in there or who it really was dead.
Brock prayed the man didn't find him.
There must be no police if he can drive around with dead bodies in his truck. For God's sake, there's blood trickling down the bumper.
The killer marched back to his truck, slinging the axe into the back of the truck, done with killing for now. The beast of a man took the wheel again. Taking it out of park, he sped away.
Brock stepped out of the cover of the woods after he was certain the man wouldn't catch him in his rearview mirror. He wasn't sure if he should run after the truck or form a better plan.
I have no plan. I have no place to go. Hannah could be in those woods. She could be wherever that bastard took her. She could be dead. I don't know!
The sense of loss began to sink in. He wouldn't marry Hannah. What if he found her in pieces? And what was with the steel springs in that man's arm sockets in the truck bed? Had he imagined it?
Angel was here somewhere too, he remembered. Was she already a victim? He had nothing to go on. He could be miles from town, and where did that leave him?
Brock kept jogging forward in a determined pace.
Keep moving, and you'll find someone that can help you.
His wish was ill-rewarded. Up ahead, the truck that had just drove off came back, the tires squealing, the truck bed rocking back and forth, jostled by the vehicle's increasing speed.
He knows I'm here!
Brock broke for the woods, dashing for another place to hide. Instead of running, he listened and waited. Nobody was coming. The man with the axe had overlooked him, or hadn't seen him to begin with.
He spotted a shed that was the size of two full-sized bedrooms with a roof over the top through the trees ahead. Encouraged by the good hiding place, his feet guided him on. There could be a phone inside, though the prospect was grim. He was enticed by the shelter anyway. That was until he stepped in leaves that weren't solid ground beneath. Squishing on something semi-solid, he landed on his hands. Turning his gaze to the ground, he caught the blackened face underneath the pointy ends of wilted leaves. The eyes were gone, the sockets gulfs of red syrup. The corpse's mouth was wide in a permanent scream.
"Gawd!"
Brock backed up from the body by scooting on his hands and the balls of his feet. Horrified, Brock retreated to the shed, throwing the door behind him closed, locking it, and breathing in air that was tainted with stirred-up nastiness that seemed to be stuck to his clothes. He took stock of the shed. No guns, no telephone, and nothing useful beyond a pair of binoculars on a table. The table was made of cheap stock, and judging by the deck of Bicycle game cards and the half-empty bottle of whisky on the table, and the ashtray with the nubs of cigars, he supposed someone played a good game of solitaire while viewing the woods. Not just the woods, he learned, noticing the thick book called "The Field Guide of Local Birds" propped in the corner on the floor.
He grabbed the binoculars. "Let's see what the hell I can find out there."
The binoculars turned out to be long range, the kind used for hunting quail or stalking deer. After guessing what the adjustments did, Brock scanned through miles of woods.
"Gaah!"
He folded over, pressing his back up against the wall underneath the open window he peered out of after catching the man with the axe skulk about the woods. He had no idea from what locale or distance the man was moving to or from. The split-second image of the man with a shirt sodden in fresh blood, Brock couldn't help but imagine it was Hannah's blood.
What else could he be looking for?
You, you idiot.
Forced to check out the window again, Brock scanned the woods for the man again and failed to locate him.
If he comes through that door, you jump out of that window and run.
Brock eyed the bottle of "High Rise" brand whiskey, imagining his hand grabbing it and breaking it over the man's head and then throttling the man's neck until he confessed where he'd taken Hannah. Keeping himself together, Brock listened again. Hearing nothing, he decided to keep studying the distance. Looking through the woods, he came upon a residential area. During his inspection, he kept gasping, choking on words and appall at each landmark and building he registered.
He glimpsed an old man who had blown his brains out. The corpse was sitting on a rocking chair on the front porch. An emaciated body was splayed on a rooftop clutching a sign that said HELP ME. Every other finger clutching the sign was missing. A priest in full garb was hanging from a nearby tree from a noose, rotting in the color of green marble and black bruises. Beyond the houses, Brock got a look at a section of town, namely a grocery store, a strip of restaurants, a library, and a school yard. All of it was covered in the aftermath of a large scale riot. Not a single window remained unbroken or vehicle left unturned. He caught four different ATM machines smashed and left in the middle of the road. A local bank had been shot up by hundreds, if not thousands, of bullet holes. A Jeep had crashed through the front of that bank, the inside looted and charred. Trails of blood matched the evidence of violence among the sidewalks. Hundreds of corpses were laying about rotting and puckering in the sun. They were violently killed.
What Brock stayed on the longest was the nearby park filled with children sitting on swing sets. Their hands clenched the chains, righting themselves up. Their backs were stooped and their heads pointed down in a death pose. More children were strewn on the bottom of slides in piles, or laying on the ground below the monkey bars, as if sleep had suddenly caught them. Every corpse was growing fetid in the sun.
Looking beyond the playground, he caught a woman on her porch steps cradling her husband. Both had slit their wrists, their blood painting the porch and steps.
Just what the hell happened here?
He kept checking the distance for the man with the axe and came up with nothing.
He's gone.
And so is your chance at finding Hannah.
Suddenly he overheard a breath expelled nearby. It was one of expressed awe. Brock was leery to follow it, but he was also too desperate and on edge to ignore it. He exited the shed quietly and stalked deeper into the woods. It wasn't long before Brock spotted the man staring up at the tree with his arms rigid at his sides.
It escaped Brock's lips, "A-are you okay?"
The man turned around as if rudely disturbed. Soon, a caught expression spread upon the man's face. He was the same age as Brock. He had graying hair on the verge of becoming
white. He wore a black shirt and white khaki pants. The man's eyes were wild and always wide open as if everything he saw was beyond belief.
The stranger spoke meekly, "You're not going to hurt me, are you?"
The question struck Brock as odd. "No, of course not. Hey, can I ask you a question? Have you seen a woman in her fifties? Blonde hair. Skinny. Her name's Hannah. We were robbed by these four people earlier. Man, it was a nightmare."
"I haven't see anyone." He sensed the man's posture ease up. "Let me ask you a question. How long have you been here? In Blue Hills, I mean."
"Since yesterday."
"Oh." He was confused. "And you said you were robbed by four people?"
"Yes, and I think this man with an axe attacked them."
"Where is he?" Nervous, "Is he here? When did you see him last?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure. He's out there somewhere. I saw him minutes ago."
Brock observed the steel square installed in the tree. He was suddenly captivated by what the other man had been studying. It matched the slots over the telephones. "Do you know what the hell is on that tree? Who put it there?"
The man shook his head. "I have no idea. They just keep appearing on things. It's as strange to me as it is to you."
"Look, my fiancé is missing. She was probably taken by that guy with the axe. Please help me. Anything you know about what's happening, tell me. I'm not here to play games, or to do anything bad to anyone. I swear."
The man seemed to grow disinterested in Brock's predicament. Even cold. "Whatever I do won't help your fiancé. The axe man takes them, and he changes them."
"How does he change them?"
"I can't tell you here. It's not safe here."
"Then where? Where's safe? I have to help her."
The man seemed to lose his train of thought. The man was shaken up, so Brock decided to keep things simple. "I'm Brock Richards. What's your name?"
"James Matthews."
"So you're from Blue Hills?"
"I've lived here for the past twenty-five years. I'm retired. I used to run the cemetery up the way. Owned and operated the business. What does it matter who I am? Everybody I cared about is gone. My wife, she's gone too, just like the rest of them, and that's all I'm going to say about it to you."
Brock asked a more involved question. "Okay, okay fine. Can anybody help us here? I still don't get what's happening. Why aren't the police doing something about this?"
"The police are dead, or they've been changed."
"Changed?"
"I won't explain it out here. It's not safe."
"Jesus. Then where are we safe? I have to find Hannah."
"If you do find this lady, she might not be the same."
James was withholding details, and Brock was on the verge of shaking the man, maybe roughing him up. You scare him off, who else is around to help you? I've only seen dead bodies so far. He's it. Be patient. Do what he asks. Find somewhere safe to hide.
He thought back to his sister. "Where's the Piedmont Inn?"
"We're a mile from the place. A mile from town too, actually. It's just up the road." He pointed west, back towards the main road.
"Why not hide at the inn? My sister contacted me, saying she was staying there. I say we go there. Then you tell me what you know, then I'm looking for Hannah."
James held a grim face. "Your sister might be the one finding you first."
Emanations from underfoot began as soft whispers that soon gathered depth, rising up into the sky and spreading with enough treble and bass to shake Brock's core. Thousands of voices spoke together, the collection ranging from sharp screams, cursing, or simple declarations. Brock's body jerked as if every new word or shriek freshly startled him.
"Watch and face what you must face/its what we've always dreamed/the vision is real/now run/ scream/hide/you'll vanish and nobody will care/vanish like the rest of them will/just wait and see/we've waited forever and now it's time/stay because you must/because you will all die/but first, let's have some fun."
When the strange voices stopped, the words seemed to cling onto Brock's skin like a hot mist. James was about to flee the area. "We have to get out of here! Run to the Piedmont Inn. We'll talk there, but it won't do much good. We can't fight them. We can't do anything against them."
Brock was tracking the man who was a streak of speed. He struggled to match the full-out sprint James was able to kick out. The man had knowledge of the situation in Blue Hills, and Brock was clueless. When his lungs shrank and his sides ached from the exertion, Brock kept imagining Hannah and Angel. He prayed they weren't victims to the man with the axe or the voices that spoke just moments ago.
It wasn't long before they escaped the woods and entered town. They crossed a small bridge over a creek the length of two cars front to back. Looking down the edge of the bridge, Brock noticed twenty bodies were sprawled out among the river stones, curled up like defiled fetuses, their heads dashed upon the rocks. The finer details of the real damage were obscured by the veil of shallow waters. Did they jump and die that way, or were they bashed to death by someone?
Moving on from the grizzly sight, the main drag of Blue Hills was up ahead. Brock could only register only one detail at a time. At the center of the main drag of buildings was a large fountain that kept spewing water. The fountain was a statue of four horses with colonists riding on their backs. The beauty of it was ruined by the bodies floating on the surface ripe and bloated, their flesh eel colored. He could smell them. Brock was forced to hold back the immediate urge to retch. Fording on, there was no corner unblemished by death. A chapel at the point farthest north from him was three stories tall. What used to be stained glass windows was a shattered square. Bodies were stacked up on the tall concrete stairs just below the empty window inside. They suffered broken heads, broken necks, and limbs twisted out of their natural points of flexion. White flesh turned black and green in the fetid post-mortem color scheme. Congealed blood stained the steps. It was all evidence of a mass suicide.
Store fronts were smashed through. Anything ranging from clothing stores to restaurants were left in chaos after a vicious riot. There wasn't an inch of ground that wasn't covered in either glass, blood, or corpses. Beyond the stores, there were houses in the distance, and he imagined each were in the same condition.
James was half a block ahead of him. The man failed to realize Brock had halted to take in the horror and had left him behind.
"Come on!" James shouted back at him, impatiently waving Brock on. "And watch out, some of these bodies might be playing dead."
"Playing dead?"
James scowled at him. "Not here. Somewhere safe."
Brock raced on, moving double the speed through the killing floor of bodies once he spotted the entrance to the Piedmont Inn. The hotel was a single story building, a simple structure made of black stone built to look like the outside of an old English pub. Every car in the parking lot had their windows smashed out and every other car was a burnt shell. He thought back to the four robbers and how they torched Brock's rental car.
James sized up the hotel entrance. A barricade of tables and chairs from within had been undone. The front metal doors were wide open. Rain and leaves had blown into the fine red carpeting within the building. James motioned to let Brock inside, the man saying without affectation, "Welcome to the Piedmont Inn. After you, sir."
DAMN PHONE
The sight of Tally's body coming undone repeated itself in Willy's mind. One moment, the man was standing there, and the next, Tally's torso shot out his arms, legs, and head as if launched from an air-pressure cannon. It couldn't be real. It wasn't humanely possible. Willy heard the unlocking of bone, the breaking of flesh, the tearing of muscle tissue, and the single grunt Tally issued before his head shot off between his shoulders. Willy didn't forget about the relatives inside who were sprawled about the floor as if they'd been butchered.
Willy clutched the wheel of his Oldsmobile and didn't know where he was going.
It didn't matter as long as the road didn't circle back to where he'd come from, he thought. He eyed the rearview mirror, and nobody was coming after him. Nobody to come after him, he realized. Those who were involved in the estate of Tim Hawker were dead.
Why am I not dead?
Why wasn't I on the floor dead like the rest of them?
The executor of the will had asked Willy to walk out of the house for a private talk. That was when the rest of his relatives must've been attacked. If that happened, why did the executor go back inside to fall down dead like the others? Willy remembered seeing the executor's body laying with the rest of them. It made no logical sense.
Willy had no answers. One thing for certain was that he had to get into town and reach the police. The front tires screeched, and he veered off to the shoulder of the road. It finally occurred to him to call the police on his cell phone. The boys in uniform could come to him instead. Why didn't he think of it before?
You just saw somebody go to pieces. You're freaking out.
Willy dug out his cell phone from his pocket with shaky hands. When he tried to dial, he realized he couldn't gain access to the digits. A steel covering in the shape of square blocked it from access. There was an odd thin slit in the middle of the steel square. Frustrated and his confusion turning into a growing pile of misfired thoughts, Willy tried to pick the thing off with his fingernail. He used a screwdriver in his glove box to pry the covering off to no success. Willy got out of the car and smashed the phone against the curb. It only served to scratch the steel covering, though the back plastic had cracked and broken into bits.
