by Jason Murphy
“Teamwork!” Grunley said.
“Sure.”
Grunley leapt to his feet and nearly hit his potato-like head on the ceiling. He emerged from the bathroom, hands raised and bearing down on Roberts with a Frankenstein gait.
“Grunley! Grunley! One, two, three! Grunley! Grunley! It’s time to eat!”
Roberts screamed, his voice warbling and broken. He stumbled backwards and barely remained upright.
Zeke crouched behind Grunley for cover. Another shotgun blast tore through Grunley’s chest, dead center. Ectoplasm spattered down into Zeke’s mohawk.
“Goddammit,” Zeke muttered.
Just a little closer.
Roberts retreated from Grunley’s slow advance.
“Stay back! Get the hell away from me!”
Roberts fumbled with spare shells as Grunley drew closer.
Zeke made his move.
He jumped from behind Grunley and raced for Roberts before he could reload.
Roberts panicked. His legs flailed. He jogged backwards, past the edge of the park and onto black asphalt.
He raised the gun and racked it.
And he didn’t see the semi-truck.
It hit him with a bellow and swept him off is feet. Brakes screeched. The semi slid. The trailer jackknifed, and the tires spewed smoke. It came to rest fifty yards away.
There in the middle of the road was the shotgun and Roberts’ baseball cap. The rest of him was spread down the road in a chunky stain.
Zeke and Grunley looked at each other.
“Oh shit!” Zeke said.
Grunley shook his head. “That’s so fucked up.”
The trucker climbed out of his cab and vomited in the road while Grunley and Zeke watched in a stupor.
Grunley shrugged. “I thought it was just going to be a quiet night, you know? This has never —”
Zeke punched into the ragged hole in Grunley’s chest.
“Wha —” Grunley started to say.
Zeke worked his fingers into the flesh, digging and tearing. He found something hard and pulled. With his free hand, he gripped Grunley’s throat. Zeke planted his feet and tugged hard.
Grunley’s spine snapped loose. Zeke gave it a hard jerk, up and out. The spine tore up through the ghoul’s torso. The thing’s head snapped to one side and the jaw unhinged, disgorging a gout of white goo and foam.
Zeke pulled harder. He gritted his teeth, up to his elbow in slurry and ectoplasm. He planted a boot on Grunley’s stomach, held fast to the spine, and kicked.
Bones and tissue came loose with a wet rip. Zeke fell back onto his ass. The backbone twitched in his hand. He tossed it into the road.
Grunley writhed. His body folded in on itself before collapsing into a bubbling puddle in the dirt.
Zeke shook the sludge from his hands and arms and grimaced. Flecks of it congealed in his mohawk. In the distance, sirens wailed. He got to his feet and hurried back into the park.
Three kids emerged from the men’s bathroom. Zeke stopped. They looked at him, shellshocked, like they’d just woken up. These weren’t the kids from earlier. Those were teenagers. The youngest here wasn’t any older than seven. They were Grunley’s victims, the kids that played the game and didn’t escape. The nasty old bitch must have been keeping them in some sort of limbo or pocket dimension. Zeke didn’t want to know why. It didn’t matter now.
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” one of cried, looking around.
Zeke smiled and pointed at the swings. “Hey, y’all. We’re all good now, all right? Don’t worry. Just go sit on those swings. The police are coming to take you home, okay? Just sit right there and stay away from the road.”
***
With an old bath towel from the car trunk, Zeke did his best to wipe off the ectoplasm. He changed shirts behind the gas station and kept an eye on the road as cop cars blazed past. It was probably more excitement than this town had ever seen.
When he climbed behind the wheel, he just sat for a moment to catch his breath. It smelled like Grandma. She would have loved to hear about this. She would have laughed and clapped and made him a sandwich. He’d tell her all about it as he fell asleep in the back seat tonight.
But not here. He had to put Nacogdoches in his rearview. There was enough gas in the tank to get him down the road.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed.
MOM.
“Nah,” he said to himself. “Not tonight.”
He silenced the phone and tucked it into his red bag.
In the car’s console was about four dollars and change. That would get him a taco and a load of laundry. He’d earned it.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Murphy lives in Texas and spends most of his time writing novels, screenplays, video games, podcasts, and comics. When not researching or writing about tradecraft, the occult, or the fantastic, he can be found spending time with his family, reading, or watching movies. He collects records, PEZ dispensers, and Conan comics. He can occasionally be lured out of his lair with the promise of barbecue, tacos, and good conversation.
