by Dan O'Brien
Chapter XXI
Montgomery drove the car aggressively down the two-lane highway. His lights flashed over deer that sat just on the side of the road, enjoying the heat afforded by the well-driven blacktop. The heater blared in the cab, his forehead sweating. Eyes watched the road with a sullen rage. He grumbled angrily as he slowed up, but not nearly enough, to take a turn.
Tires spun and the car turned wildly. He over-corrected, holding onto the wheel and fighting the inevitable. One tire dipped into the snow-filled ditch that lined the side of the road. It fought desperately, spinning and then as it took hold, dragging the rest of the car with it into the ditch.
Sitting sideways, Montgomery slammed his fist into the wheel of the car several times. The driver’s side sat inside the ditch, the window there spider-webbed and white from the snow that lay just beneath.
His face felt warm. Touching it with his hand, he saw blood on his gloves. “Motherfucker,” he whispered and unlatched his seatbelt in frustration. The strap whipped backwards, slamming into the driver’s side window.
This only cracked it further; snow seeped in. The cold found its way. Dash lights remained on, amber-colored warnings and an irritating chime of a door being slightly open. “The door isn’t open,” he grumbled as he reached up and tried to grab the passenger side door.
He managed to pull on the door handle. Hanging there, he pulled on it with his body weight, trying to straighten himself out.
It snapped. The weak metal gave out under his weight. He cursed and groaned, in that order, as his back struck the wheel and his head slipped back between the seats. Kicking his feet out, he struggled to right himself; in the process dislodging anything that was capable of being dislodged along the dash.
Static echoed in the cab.
Craning his neck, he saw that the CB had fallen off its holster. Reaching out with his hand, he dug beneath the seat, searching for the receiver. His fingers touched the cold plastic and he fought with it until he grasped it in his hand and pulled it free. Pressing the button on the side of the receiver, the static dispersed. “Station. This is Montgomery. Over.”
There was static again and then Mrs. Meadows’ voice.
“Sheriff, this is Station. Over.”
Montgomery sighed. His face hurt. Irritation was almost a permanent state of mind at this point. “I have had an accident near the Walleye turnoff. Over.”
There was a pregnant pause.
Montgomery could hear one of the tires still spinning. Deep within the engine, something still stirred, liquid running. Heat radiated from the vents. Mrs. Meadows’ voice returned. “What happened, sheriff? Are you okay? I heard about Matthews…”
Montgomery pressed the button on the receiver again, cutting her short. “Send a tow. Over.”
Static erupted again. Mrs. Meadows was quick to come back. “Are you hurt? Over.”
His mind throbbed. Anger seeped into his voice. “I’m in a fucking ditch and I broke the door. I’m trapped inside. How the fuck do you think I am? Over.”
“Sending a tow. Over.”
Montgomery threw the receiver onto the floorboards and eyed the passenger side door once more. Reaching into the back seat, he sorted through the piles of blankets and coats until he found what he was looking for: a blunt object.
The flashlight was an industrial one, heavy and made to withstand the cold. Pulling a blanket across his body so that only a small sliver of his eye and his arm were revealed, he threw the flashlight up as hard as he could muster.
Crashing into the window, it did not shatter. Montgomery watched as it came back down, bouncing off of the steering wheel and under the seat just beside him. There was a heavy crack and several smaller ones just around it.
“Son of a bitch.”
Reaching under the seat, he grasped the flashlight once more. Repeating the process, he slung it harder this time, leaving much more of his body exposed. Glass rained down. He pulled the blanket across his face. But in the aftermath, shards hung in the folds his jacket.
Shaking himself miserably, he threw the blanket up over the open hole. He gripped the edges of the window mount and pulled himself up, groaning.
It wasn’t much of a pull-up, but one nonetheless.
And it was a painful one at that.
The wind was blowing hard now.
Visibility was minimal. Crawling across the top of the overturned vehicle, the cold seeped into his entire being. The road was masked by the blowing snow. Blacktop disappeared beneath a blanket of white. He stood, his body swaying, muscles twitching. The howl of the wind amplified in his mind as he felt the spreading pain at the base of his neck.
He knew that it would be some time before the tow truck arrived. Erickson’s was a mile; a mile and a half down the road at the farthest.
He weighed his options. It was below zero. Blowing winds and snow made it at least ten degrees colder, maybe more. He was wearing three layers and a thick wool cap. Tow truck would be there in forty-five minutes, an hour maximum. Reaching down, he grasped the flashlight that he had used to break the window. Clicking it on, he peered into the snow bank just beside the entrenched squad car.
A column of attenuating light extended up into the torrent of snow. Pulling his coat around his neck and ducking his chin down into the heavy lining of the warm fabric there, Montgomery stalked off into the frigid night.
THE NIGHT MANAGER LOOKED AT Lauren like she was insane. “There is something in the factory. A creature?” he asked slowly. Like many of the men in Locke, he wore a heavy beard and his brown eyes were hazy with confusion. The green jacket he wore bore the Erickson’s logo with a nametag that read simply: Jeff.
Dominic was visibly frustrated. “There are two dead men by one of your dock doors. Have you not heard about the murders in town?”
Jeff looked at Dominic with a blank expression. “I don’t get home much, mister. I picked up this late shift ‘cause they cut my hours during the day, see. I have a mortgage and a new baby, hey. And as far as killings, I heard some rumors, but I don’t watch the news much ‘ese days.”
“How many people do you have here?”
“Handful, I ‘uppose,” Jeff answered, trying to recall the actual number.
Dominic looked at him in disbelief. “You do not know how many employees you have working the night shift? Are you not the night manager? Is not your particular responsibility to know something like that?”
Jeff looked at him with cow eyes. “What is with this guy? Sounds like he should be on BBC, hey.”
Dominic shook his head, throwing up his hands as he paced away from them.
“You now have two fewer workers than you had. We have to shut this place down. Get your people out,” Lauren demanded, brushing past the man and pushing back her coat to reveal her holstered weapon. Many of the men were lingering about, talking to one another and pointing at the two new people. “Gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
Some whistled.
They were mostly men, except a shrew of a woman in a far corner busily folding something. Another hooted. There were comments about what they would like to give her other than attention. Jeff, the night manager, stood by and held a hand over his mouth as he chuckled, no doubt sharing some of their off-color sentiments.
“Well that was lovely. Now that I have your attention, I would like you to evacuate the factory in a calm manner. A person of interest is loose in the building and we need to apprehend him. Your presence here would impede his capture,” she announced.
There were murmurs within the small gathering. One of the men, an anorexic with acne, spoke up. His voice was like helium in a vacuum. “Person of interest? What the sweet fuck does that mean?”
Lauren sighed.
Dominic stood back, arms crossed. “A killer is roaming in your factory and we need you to leave immediately so that you do not become his next victim. Is that a satisfactory explanation?”
The man’s head bobbed. “Right, then. I guess we should be get
ting the fuck out of here.”
Lauren turned to the night manager once more. “Get these jokers out of here, now. Not in an hour, not after you’re done. Right. This. Second. Do you understand me?”
Jeff nodded, moving past her without another word. He ushered his people out, impeded by the head-turning and strange glances directed at the Lauren and Dominic. After the workers had evacuated, the factory seemed a much quieter, lonelier place. Machinery wound down, walls creaked.
Dominic walked to the edge of the darkness, just beyond the area where the workers had been standing moments before. “He was here.”
“When?”
Dominic looked at the air. “Not long. Minutes perhaps.” He moved into the shadows. Lauren heard the sounds of crates being pushed aside, glass breaking, and then his voice once more. “There is some blood here. It must be a gaping wound.”
At that moment Lauren saw a pair of eyes watching her from deeper within the darkness. A dead gaze fixated upon her. She drew her weapon. He ran, eyes disappearing into the labyrinth of shadows.
She ran.
Dominic heard footsteps as he continued to inspect the ground. He could smell that Lauren had dispersed, her scent drifting away from him. Moving around the side of the stacked materials, he saw only empty space.
He did not need to call her name.
His eyes blazed, a howl trapped deep within his chest. Back arched, his fingers spread out on the floor. Steam rose from his back. There was a loud tearing sound as the back of his shirt gave way; a jagged movement as he sat upright. Grasping the front of his shirt with uneven, growing fingers, he tore it free. The saturated fabric splattered against the floor.
Predatory eyes too large for his face stared out.
His skin darkened and tufts of silky fur erupted across his body; legs kicked out as muscles expanded, tearing through his pants, splintering and shredding the denim. The growl was terrifying, throaty and primordial. He stood at his full height, pants in tatters. Looking toward the darkness, he lunged and disappeared with a single movement.
Chapter XXII
Lauren weaved through the factory, dodging past cold machinery. The smell of chemicals permeated the air, something used to treat the materials she reasoned. The deeper she chased the creature, the darker her world became. Assembly lines of steel ringlets were stacked against one another for storage. She slowed as she reached them, a kind of industrial maze of wares and wires.
An overturned spool of black wire, half her size, stood just before of her. Her gun was extended out in front of her, reinforced with her other hand. Pressing a shoulder against the spool, she brought her weapon closer to her body, free from attack.
Her breath felt heavy in her chest.
She struggled to control her heartbeat.
Machinery restarted, thumping powerfully, reverberating within the thick walls of the factory. Lauren looked around in haste. The lights did not return, but automatons returned to their trade, their impotent waltz. Her mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding like a brilliant fractal of alternating colors.
Her eyes watched the space just ahead of her.
The assembly line stretched far out into the distance. Boxes of varying size were stacked beneath it, creating a path through the surging symphony of manufacturing sounds. A shadow dashed, disturbing the relative monotony of the factory’s percussion.
She followed the sound with her gun.
The barrel did not shake, but was held firm.
Looking beyond it, she saw the winding hall of stacked mechanized goods. “Come out,” she called, looking down the sides of the rows of materials formed alongside her. “I know that you are here.”
Something moved just above her.
Looking up, she leapt aside as a heavy box collapsed on the ground beside her. A shadow catapulted itself across the tops of the crates. Lauren fired, a round splintering another crate, spitting chips of wood and plastic into the air.
She could hear the creature flee.
His footfalls were not careful or deliberate, but haphazard. He fell, colliding though a plate glass window that was suspended by heavy straps. Bouncing off, the glass exploded into tens of thousands of pieces held together by a purple gel, near translucent even in the darkness. Like molasses oozing down a tree, the glass wobbled and slunk down the frame. The creature was on his feet in a few shuffling, stumbling steps and then back into the darkness once more.
Lauren fired a shot into the dark.
There was a heavy sound of impact.
Not the muffled sound of striking flesh, but the deep sound of steel. There was a low growl, a hurt sound, and then dragging: a limp leg, a wounded appendage. Her feet were quick as she kept her weapon trained out in front of her.
Low light hid dark stains that were the creature’s blood. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she approached the broken pane and a mosaic of the creature’s fluids brushed across the floor.
Some were from victims past, some fresh.
“Give yourself up, Mr. Winston. We know what happened. It doesn’t have to end like this,” she called, attempting to reason with a shred of humanity that might still exist within his mind.
But there was no response.
The factory was a funhouse without clowns or trick mirrors. Instead, she was answered by the haunting sounds that seemed to resonate from every corner, every inch of the stone building. Footfalls sounded as if they were right next to her. The trail of blood wound through darkened towers of bubble wrap and tightly wound plastic zeniths of indeterminate materials.
Icy winds assaulted the outside of the building; a chilling sound that echoed through the empty enclosure that was the expanse of Erickson’s. Her eyes watched the world above her, the very tops of the boxes forming an uneven skyline.
It was then that she felt the stinging sensation rip across her back. She fell forward, her hand colliding with the ground. Lauren watched as the gun spiraled out of her grip. Reaching back with one hand she felt the viscosity of her blood between her fingers, a thin gouge along her back.
The creature’s breathing echoed; it was close.
Gooseflesh traced her body.
She scrambled forward, arching her back despite the splitting pain that radiated throughout her body. Reaching out a hand, she felt a weight push down upon her back. An acrid odor filtered from the creature, the man once known as Briar Winston. She struggled, but the hot breath, reeking of vomit and blood, filled her senses.
MONTGOMERY LOOKED AT THE FRONT DOOR of the factory through a thin slit where the fabric and wool hat had not obscured his face, as if he were an arctic explorer. The temperature had slowly dropped.
The walk would have been leisurely at any other point in the year. As he approached the door, he could feel the pain in his left knee. It was an old injury that was clearly not thrilled with his little wintry excursion into the night.
He tried the door: locked.
Pulling his gun free, he crashed it through the glass above the handle. Reaching in through the newly formed opening, he turned the lock. Once inside, he pulled the fabric from around his face, peeling back the wool cap on his head so it revealed his haggard, tired features.
The interior was simple.
A long white desk with a clipboard on the counter created a valley behind which the receptionist would sit. It was the illusion of an office. He approached it, pushing it aside and sitting down in the receptionist’s black leather chair that was situated there, slightly off-center.
Grasping the handle of the phone, he began to dial. The line clicked several times and then Mrs. Meadows answered. “Locke Police Station.”
“This is Montgomery. I am at Erickson’s. I want all available officers to meet me out here,” he began. And then clearing his throat, he continued. “I want a transport vehicle out here as well in case we take this thing alive.”
“We were worried, sheriff. The tow got there and said you weren’t in the car. We thought maybe you crawled off and
died.”
“Glad to know you think I would crawl off and die. Westlake and wolf-boy are probably here already. They might need back-up.”
Mrs. Meadows paused.
“I am not sure they need much help with Dominic…”
He hung up the phone.
The good sheriff was quite miserable.
Just beyond the counter stood a set of double doors with round submarine windows that led into the factory floor. Pushing himself up from the chair, he grimaced. His knee had begun to throb angrily.
Limping, he drew his weapon again and pushed his way through. He saw cement floors with painted lines leading far off into the distance. Stacks upon stacks of materials, like cardboard and plastic buildings, obscured his view.
The factory was quiet.
He did not hear screams or wild shots as one might expect. As he stood there, he realized that the silence was much worse.
LAUREN TRIED TO MOVE, but the creature proved much stronger. He turned her over so that he sat on her chest. His weight was suffocating.
The smell made her gag.
His face was sliding free, the stitching no longer able to hold the ghastly visage of Wayne Joyce. The one eye that was exposed was bloodshot and dry as if he had been caught in a sandstorm.
“Get. Off. Of me,” she struggled to speak, huffing.
He loomed over top of her.
Touching her face with his mangled hand of garden tools, she closed her eyes and tried not to think of the disease that had dried upon the rusted metal. Shears and tearing tools were roped together tightly in a frightening glove of sadism.
He breathed on her as he lowered, the dried skin that he had stitched into his face dropped, almost touching her skin. His breath was hotter than it should have been and acidic like he would vomit bile at any moment. The skin continued to sag, the thread unraveling like an old ragdoll. He stuck out his tongue, puss-covered and bleeding, and licked her cheek.
She screamed, shaking her head, hair whipping around her face. Thrashing like a bull released from a chute, the creature held her down, driving the clawed hand through her shoulder. Her scream intensified and the man who had been Briar Winston recoiled. Half a face of revulsion and horror looked down at her.
