“What the hell did you people do to us?”
“We sent you where no human being had ever been before…and returned from.” He stabbed another meatball. “You were all given the mixture. It took you to depths none of us could’ve imagined in our wildest dreams. You went to the core, the heart of evil, to its very soul. I must confess that until that night I hadn’t counted on it actually working. But it did. As we’d hoped, you weren’t alone in that boundless darkness, there was something else there with you. Something…alive.”
“Where did we go?”
He grinned like the demons in Rooster’s nightmares. “You touched the face of Lucifer, Mr. Cantrell. And he showed you evil in its purest, most savagely beautiful form, unbridled violence beyond comprehension.”
“The farmhouse,” Rooster muttered, “the scarecrows, the rooms beneath the house…”
“Props,” he said, waving at the air as if to knock the words away. “Familiar images that would elicit fear and discomfort were necessary so the mind would have something to reference. Interesting thing about the human mind, it fills in what is not there, often pulling images from a bank of previous experiences to fill the gaps. We simply helped you all with that, giving you something to experience in a pseudo-physical sense. Something terrifying that you could all relate to and understand.”
“This is bullshit.” Rooster stood up.
Poindexter continued eating. Candlelight flickered across the plate. The spaghetti was not spaghetti at all, and it was not drenched in tomato sauce. Blood…bile…excrement… worms…human eyeballs cooked to a crisp, burned nearly beyond recognition. “Technically the experiment was a success,” he said. “We did achieve what we’d set out to do, at least initially. But then it all went horribly wrong.”
“This isn’t happening.” He pressed his palms to his temples, his head pounding now and his legs weak. “This isn’t…this isn’t…”
“Once we realized what we’d truly tapped into, that it was the equivalent of accessing the literal power of existence, and the dark side of existence at that, we knew we’d overestimated our abilities. It was actually quite beautiful in its purity, but you were all torn to shreds by its profane glory. It became an orgy of violence and blood, an orgy of death.”
“You’re lying, you sonofabitch.” Rooster pointed the 9mm at him.
“Do you really think we could let any of you come back at that point? Or that there’d be anything left to bring back?”
“Then where am I? I’m standing right here!”
“The longer you struggle against truth, the longer the forces of darkness will bind you, Mr. Cantrell. There are some things human beings can never control. We’re not meant to, regardless of how badly we may desire it. Evil—true evil—is one of those things. I understand it’s hard for you to accept, but you were all thoroughly expendable, Mr. Cantrell, a bunch of hooligans and lowlifes, losers and drains on society no one cared about then or now.”
“It wasn’t enough that you used us as guinea pigs for your demented projects, crippled our minds and broke us to pieces. You had to wipe out our memories and send us back into the world haunted by nightmares you put there and with no knowledge of who we are or how we got here? You destroyed us—you admit it—and yet you still try to cover it up with bullshit stories about demons and Hell and—”
“Do you really believe telling yourself that long and hard enough will keep the terror at bay?” Poindexter placed the fork next to the plate and wiped the blood from his mouth with the napkin. “You all disappeared from the face of the Earth and not a single person noticed, much less cared.”
“Then why come to us after all this time?”
“Penance,” he said softly, the air of arrogance fading. “It’s what’s required of me now. Eventually, we all serve one master or another, Mr. Cantrell, whether we like it or believe in it or not. And I’ve come to learn that it rarely turns out to be the one we were counting on.”
“Who are the men that killed Snow, the men in the Crown Vic?”
He smiled blandly. “They’re not men.”
“What do I do?” Rooster leaned across the table so that the gun was only a few inches from the man’s face. “How do I kill these things in my head?”
He leaned further into the light, pulled his glasses from his pale and sickly face and pushed forward until his forehead met the barrel of the gun. “Deliver me from my sins,” he whispered. “Deliver us from evil.”
Rooster’s finger remained remarkably steady as it curled to the trigger.
The old man’s eyes rolled to white.
Everything else turned crimson.
-9-
The flashlight beam slides along the dirty floor to the door under the stairs. An inverted pentagram has been painted across it in blood. Above it and to the left, also in blood, are the numbers 666 and a series of words Rooster cannot decipher.
“Oh hell no, that’s Devil shit right there.” Snow backs away.
Rooster studies the words scrawled on the door. “What language is that?”
“Latin.”
They all look to Starker. The giant shrugs. “I took it in high school you ignorant motherfuckers.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.” Starker finds Rooster in the darkness behind him. “Supposedly that’s what it says at the gates of Hell.”
“Why would somebody put that there?” Nauls asks in a panic.
“Probably a bunch of drugged-out, loser, never been laid, douche bag, Devil-worshipping-wannabes.” Landon pushes past the others. “Who gives a shit? If we’re doing this let’s get it over with.”
With that, Starker steadies his stance then kicks in the door. It implodes and tears from its hinges with a loud cracking, splintering sound, tumbling away into darkness down another set of stairs. They hear it land seconds later as an enormous cloud of dust and dirt kicks up in response, wafting out the open doorway and bursting into the room. A stale mildew odor is followed by a pungent smell similar to rotting garbage and raw sewage. They cough, block their nostrils then huddle together in the limited light until the stench weakens and the farmhouse is returned to eerie silence.
No one speaks, but before anyone can motion Nauls to lead the way with the flashlight, he hands it to Rooster. With a sigh, Rooster takes the lead, the light in one hand and his 9mm in the other. He steps through, aims the light and sees a small set of wooden stairs. Beyond them is a cement landing and what appears to be a corridor he and the others were somehow already aware of.
He begins his descent. Starker is behind him, his weight shaking the staircase with each step. Next is Landon. Snow and Nauls pull up the rear.
They reach the corridor without incident. Rooster pans the light along the walls. Several doors line either side. The far end of the hallway is draped in a darkness that the flashlight is unable to penetrate from this distance. The fear and danger is palpable now, a spiritual entity unmistakably alive and horrific, real, it drifts and moves around them like liquid, invisible to the naked eye but without question, present. Rooster sweeps the light along one wall and then the next, as together, the crew slowly moves deeper into the corridor. All the doors are closed.
Except one. He places the light on it. This door is ajar.
Rooster uses hand motions to let the others know what needs to be done. He sends Starker to the left side of the doorway, Snow to the right. Rooster then crouches, facing the door head-on while Landon covers his back and Nauls watches the section of hallway and stairs behind them.
Starker holds the AK-47 in one hand and raises the other into the light so everyone can see. Slowly, he counts off, raising one finger, then another and finally a third. A quick nod, and the crew springs into action, rushing into the room with weapons at the ready and the flashlight leading the way.
Silence returns. A mocking silence…
The light trembles in Rooster’s hand. But they see. They all see.
A series
of metal slabs like something out of a coroner’s workshop, bodies atop them in hospital johnnies, IVs attached to their arms pumping some clear fluid into their veins, oxygen tubes implanted in their nostrils, wires running from their heads and chests and limbs to machines and computers along the far wall, all of it organized and functioning in the dark bowels of an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Six metal tables. Six men.
“God in Heaven,” someone says in a desperate whisper. “It’s us.”
* * * *
It might’ve been hours, might’ve been days.
He could no longer tell the difference.
The rain had stopped and the air was still, but it had gotten much colder. Bundled in a heavy coat and knit hat, the briefcase in his free hand, Rooster stood arm-in-arm with Gaby before a fresh grave. Dressed in a black dress and heels, her face partially covered with a lace veil, moments before she had placed flowers where a headstone should’ve been. Her lips moved in silent prayer behind the veil, dark eyes lowered. No one else was there. A life, Snow’s life, had ended. Here, at this unmarked grave. And no one cared. It was like he’d never really been there at all.
Gaby finished her prayers, and together, they turned to leave.
It was then that Rooster saw them. Across the sea of headstones, crypts and monuments to the dead, two men watched them, their breath converted to spiraling clouds rising from their bodies like fleeing souls.
Gaby saw them, too. “Do what you have to do.” She lifted the veil, rose up on her toes so she could reach, and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”
As she moved away toward the gates of the cemetery, the men started toward him. Rooster lit a cigarette and smoked it until they reached him.
They looked the same.
Landon stared at him, said nothing.
“Hey, Rooster,” Nauls offered, scratching at his beard and smiling nervously, eyes concealed behind the usual sunglasses. “Good to see you, bro.”
“Good to see you too, Nauls.”
“That is so precious—seriously—I think I just tinkled a little. How about we save the group hug for later and you two can finish jerking each other’s gherkins then, OK?” Landon stepped closer. “Paper said the hit-and-run was probably an accident, driver just panicked. I say kiss my celluloid-dimpled ass, whoever hit Snow did it on purpose. Can’t blame them—I would’ve run the prick over if he stepped in front of my car too—but sounds like somebody took him out to me.”
Rooster took a final drag on his cigarette then dropped it and crushed it out with his boot. “They did.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“I’m not sure yet, but—”
“You heard about Starker?”
“Snow said he killed his old lady and ran to Mexico.”
“He never got that far. Big bastard was hiding out in a fleabag motel right here in the city. They found him a few weeks back, in the bathtub, wrists slashed clear to the bone. Sorry, I’m not buying that one either. Same fuckers probably did him too.”
“I keep having these dreams,” Nauls blurted out. “Nightmares, I—”
Landon held a hand up like a crossing guard. “Let the grownups talk.”
“Fuck you, man! You’re having them too. Tell him. Tell him.”
Landon defiantly bit his lip and looked away.
“Rooster,” Nauls said, barely able to contain his tears, “I’ve been having these dreams. There’s all this screaming and yelling and blood and horrible shit. Then it gets dark and I can’t see. I can’t move, I can’t even breathe and it feels like I’m being smothered. I try to open my mouth to scream only I can’t. My mouth, it’s—somebody’s sewn it shut. Who would—the bad dreams won’t stop, they—I’m even starting to have them when I’m awake, I—”
“We all are,” Rooster said evenly.
Nauls ran a hand through his tangle of hair. “Every time I leave the house I see this chick and this older dude, they’re dressed like they work in an office or a bank or something and they follow me and want to talk to me, but there’s something not right about them. They look so familiar only I don’t know who they are. And Landon, he—he don’t drive no more. Landon don’t drive. He can’t. Every time he gets behind the wheel of a car he sees this lady holding a baby.”
“She’s on every fucking corner just staring at me.” Landon became visibly shaken as his resistance fell away. “I know her from somewhere but…I’m pretty sure the baby’s dead.”
“What’s happening?” Nauls asked. “What happened to us that night at the farmhouse? We can’t remember nothing but bits and pieces.”
“I’ve got something to show you,” Rooster said softly, as if the dead might otherwise hear. He held up the briefcase.
“What’s that?”
“The truth.”
* * * *
“This isn’t possible,” Landon mumbles.
As if in a trance, Snow approaches the last table, the only one covered with a white sheet which has apparently been thrown there to conceal Carbone’s body. “Carbone’s dead,” he says. “He’s dead, and he’s back in that van.”
Mesmerized, the others gawk at their likenesses on the tables before them, confusion and fear igniting as one and slashing at them like razorblades. Rooster cocks his head, studying his own face just feet away, eyes closed and face void of expression as if in the throes of a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Inches from the covered metal table, Snow pokes at the sheet with one of his .45s. The sheet begins to shake in response, as whatever lies beneath convulses. Horrified, Snow yanks back the sheet.
Sans johnny, wires and tubes, Carbone’s nude body lies quivering violently on the table. His lower abdomen and sexual organs are ripped to shreds, and the remainder of his body has sustained thousands of small but horribly deep serrated cuts, as if it’s been wrapped in barbed wire then torn free. The lacerations, many blackened and scabbed over, others fresh and still bleeding, form a crisscross pattern on his savaged skin that is as strangely alluring in its symmetry as it is appalling in its brutality.
As Snow backs away, both .45s locked on the body, Carbone suddenly sits up, vaulting forward. His eyes open but they are empty raw sockets. He continues to spasm uncontrollably in seizure. “He’s coming.” His voice is no longer exclusively his own, but many, and sounds as if it is stacked atop countless others, giving it an unsettling echo-like, inhuman tone. “He’s coming…”
Hands to his ears, Nauls stumbles back into the hallway like a terrified child.
“Shoot it!” Landon screams.
Snow is frozen in place.
“He knows who we really are,” it says. “He knows the things we’ve done. Our secrets, he knows them all. He’s coming…”
“God help us,” Rooster mutters.
“God?” Carbone turns what remains of his butchered face in the direction of Rooster’s voice. His split lips curl into a hideous, bloody-toothed grin.
Starker levels the AK-47 and unloads.
The discharge is deafening in such an enclosed space, and sends the body tumbling from the metal slab. It crashes to the floor as if boneless, flesh slapping cement floor as the impact empties the remains of its internal organs from the body cavity.
From the corridor behind them, Nauls begins to scream.
* * * *
At the outskirts of the city, on a lonely dirt road, Rooster leaned against Nauls’ car and smoked a cigarette. He’d waited as Nauls and Landon poured over the material in the briefcase, then he answered their questions as best he could. Both men exchanged uncertain glances throughout, and now stood watching Rooster as if expecting him to tell them what to do next.
“They used us like lab animals,” Rooster finally said. “They wiped our minds clean, and now that we’re starting to remember they’re taking us out one by one. They figure they can toss us aside like garbage.”
“We are garbage,” Nauls replied quietly.
“Maybe so, but we never even got the chance to make t
hings right, to—”
“What?” Landon interjected. “Repent? Save our souls? Deliver ourselves from evil like this Poindexter dude told you?”
Rooster stared at him.
“Maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing right now,” Landon said.
A breeze blew past, causing nearby trees to whisper and sway.
“We have to go back,” Rooster said.
“To the farmhouse, are you serious?” Landon gave a wry smile. “You want to go back there?”
Rooster nodded, smoke curling around his head like creeping vines. “You think you could find it again after all this time?”
“Yeah.” Landon looked to Nauls but he had his back to him. “I can find it.”
He hadn’t expected Landon to be so adamant. But then he hadn’t expected his and Nauls’ nearly blasé reaction to the things he’d told them either. Something had changed since they’d driven out here. The moment he’d agreed to go with them they no longer seemed quite as upset as they’d been initially. He dropped his cigarette and pushed away from the car. “You’re sure?”
Kingdom of Shadows Page 7
