Bottom Feeder

by Matt Cole

  “Sonnabitching monsters!” he hissed into the cold winter air, and the wind seemed to laugh and shriek at him, as if it, too, though him crazy. Why not, the whole town considered him a loon. Maybe it was good. He was not sure that Deros knew of his thoughts, but the creature surely could hear his words, and Mike had felt the wrath of the monster’s punishment many times before—headaches that would take a grown man—which he was now—to his knees.

  Crack!

  The sound, like the blast from a gun, came from under the ground. It had been muffled but clearly it was a shot.

  Those damned idiots with their guns.

  Now, those were the crazies.

  He kept walking. Though no one in Strafford believed his monster story, not even that cop, the detective, Gary Chapel, who had been one of the few people to actually listen to him.

  The snow was coming down in heavy flurries. About as bad as what he had feared his fate was to be: that he would be transported to the underground world that Deros controlled once again. At that thought his hands began to shake uncontrollably. Hell, he couldn’t go back there. Couldn’t! This time, he might not survive. Using his teeth, he tore off one glove, then reached into his jacket pocket and unscrewed the lid of his flask as the memory of his family encapsulated in gelatin-like slime cubes. They weren’t dead at the time, but Mike knew that Deros was only softening up his food, dissolving the bodies of his family in the slime and goo. Deros planned to then slurp them up as he had all the stray animals, squirrels, cats, dogs, that he had captured and delivered to the creature to eat.

  He took a couple of long pulls of whiskey, felt the warmth of the liquor slide down his throat. He was about to put the flask away, and then took another swallow. It couldn’t hurt. Not out here in this damned snow covered town.

  His skin crawled, being in the yard of his childhood house.

  Nothing ever good came from being close to the house; he was certain of it. One more swallow of whisky, then he capped the flask. It was damn near empty. He knew he’d filled it before he had started out tonight on this mission to only God knew where and why and truth to tell, he was beginning to feel buzzed.

  Jamming his glove onto his hand again, Mike crossed the yard to the backdoor, wondering why he let Deros manipulate him all these years later, why he’d been one of the ones chosen by the creature he did not know. He was certain that Frank Marsden had been one of Deros’ pawns as well.

  He didn’t have much time to speculate as he spied the kitchen. He stopped, realized he was alone in the dark inside the house, that he had helped turn his family into monster food. He took a step toward the light switch.

  Only a few lights came on. The house looked to be empty.

  Then he thought he saw something move—a movement to his left?

  His skin crawled and he squinted, patting the counter, searching for some sort of defensive weapon.

  There was nothing, not anything.

  The cops almost certainly removed everything from the house.

  He turned back to the door, and then saw movement again—just a blur in the darkness…like a shadow flitting through the darkened house.

  Mike Leopold froze.

  He caught his breath.

  He saw the movement again.

  Oh, hell no, not a ghost or moving shadow! Shit no! This huge figure ran awkwardly across the house. What was it?

  Heart thudding, he watched the mysterious figure, picking up speed, loped down the hallway, turned into the kitchen, then turned again toward him, zeroing in on him.

  On one knee he slid. Mike Leopold bit back a strangled cry. His damned heart nearly stopped. This was it. The massive shadow figure was sure to beat him to a pulp with the weapon in its hand…oh, hell, was it a pistol? Had the creature created another monster to do its bidding? He crawled backward, slid down the cabinet, and silently prayed like he’d never prayed before, a sudden believer.

  As if God spoke to the monster, it turned and sped away, running through the kitchen, its features visible.

  “Good lord,” Mike whispered, clutching his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart and feeling like a fool. He’d been foolish to think the figure to be one of the monster’s creations.

  He allowed himself a slight laugh.

  “What did you see down there, Detective Chapel?” he said to the darkness of the house. With that Mike Leopold relaxed and retrieved his flask once more.

  * * * *

  She was extremely exhausted, her wrist hurting, her body worn-out. Deena flopped onto her cot and wondered if she’d ever break free. It felt as if she’d been working to break the damned link for hours and all the while she had been afraid that at any second she’d hear her attacker return.

  You can’t give up; she told herself and began to shiver with the cold, the sweat on her chilling. Just a few minutes. I just need a few minutes to rest.

  She let out her breath gradually and gathered her strength.

  What if the weld doesn’t give?

  What if it’s stronger than you expect?

  “It will,” she whispered, refusing to allow in the doubts that plagued her. It was too easy to fall prey to fear in here. All alone. Cold. Totally dependent on the psycho.

  She could not let the isolation get to her.

  Letting out her breath, she heard the slap of wind against the high window, but nothing else. No rattling of timber, no shaking of walls.

  Why was that?

  And the small window, it was covered with snow, the view obliterated.

  She had looked around her gloomy room over and over again, trying to get some clue, a little insight, as to where she was, but for the first time, she thought she understood. The window was high and alone because this room was underground. Oh, dear Lord…she was in a basement! That would explain the mustiness, the feeling of moisture that made her skin crawl, the lack of sound from the outside.

  Images from her own basement and what Frank Marsden had done in it flooded her mind.

  She’d thought it was her imagination, but no…and that would explain, at least partially, why they, the police, or Maggie or Willard, had yet to find her.

  On the contrary they had captured Frank Marsden, right? Then who had kidnapped her?

  She had no idea where she was. She scarcely remembered the attack. She couldn’t remember. She’d been so out of it because of the hit to her head, and she hadn’t been able to fight as she had been pinned down. She’d almost retched, although had somehow kept the contents of her stomach down, knowing if she’d let go that she might drown in her own puke.

  Would it have been a worse fate than this?

  Of course!

  She could not let her mind wander down any crooked and dark path that suggested death was better than this. Surrendering to the seduction of the Angel of Death was only being a coward.

  Don’t even think like that.

  At the moment of her abduction her mind had been addled, but she knew he’d strapped her to some kind of stretcher—or had it been a canoe or some former hotel cot?—that her attacker had hauled through the darkness. Lying prone, unable to use her hands to brush away the snowflakes, she had stared up at brittle, naked branches of trees, frozen and white.

  Her eyes focused on the ceiling. Never had she heard anyone walk on it, but the window with its blurry glass, then across the ceiling to the top of the pipe that led from the wood stove near the door. Beside it was a stack of firewood and a poker—oh, that!—and there was an old bellows and some leather gloves as well, and even a barbecue lighter, probably complete with fingerprints.

  She studied the stove. Even in the darkness she could see it was an antique, the kind her great-grandmother had cooked on around the turn of the last century. Its pipe didn’t vent upward through the ceiling, save for turning at a ninety-degree angle to disappear into the wall where the door to the next room, her attacker’s room, opened.

  Her eyes focused on the door. It was thick, but cut a little short, so that a slice o
f light would slip beneath it when he was there, when his own fire was glowing, when whatever her attacker used for illumination was lit. She had watched his shadow, seen when he’d come near to listen and maybe look through what she thought was a peephole in the heavy panels.

  Crazy motherfucker!

  Deena let out her breath in disgust. She could not just lie here and wait, for God’s sake. He could return at any moment. Her skin slithered at the thought.

  She closed her eyes for a second, tried to find her strength, and thought about Detective Gary Chapel. He had been so kind when the whole Frank Marsden mess in the basement of the house she was renting had taken place. Chapel was a little older than most of the men she had dated, and seemed totally atypical from Joseph Hopping, her ex-husband. That was a major plus in her book. He was fit, had penetrating eyes. His personality had a way a making her seem at ease in those tense days after the discovery of the truth of Frank Marsden.

  The back of her throat caught.

  Oh, grow up, Deena, stop this! You’re being a fool! The kind of woman you hate! Come on, girl, you’ve got to get up!

  Stop daydreaming about that detective and keep working on getting free!

  Gritting her teeth, she started to roll off the cot when she heard it.

  An unfamiliar sound…

  Soft and broken.

  Deena froze and strained to listen.

  Was she imagining things?

  Then she heard it again—a whimper. No, more than that, a woman’s crying, pitiful sobs.

  And she wasn’t making them.

  Chapter 27

  The following morning, Gary Chapel was still crouched there on his kitchen floor, sitting in piles of dirt, from his underground expedition, still trying to sort out exactly what happened. He’d have probably been more comfortable in his bed after a long shower, but he was still unable to move until his mind cleared.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” Chapel said. “Yes, I’ll be there as soon as I get myself cleaned up. I’d rather not talk about it right now, if that’s okay?” He paused. “Sure tell the Sheriff I won’t be too long.”

  He hung up.

  Chapel after that forced himself into the shower. When he came out, he found Mike Leopold sitting at his kitchen table, drinking instant coffee.

  Leopold asked, “So do you believe me now?”

  “Better question is,” Chapel said, “is what do we do about it now?”

  “Go back down there and take the monster out,” Leopold said calmly.

  Chapel shivered. “You ain’t getting me back in that tunnel again.”

  “No,” Leopold agreed. “After that look on your face last night I suppose you wouldn’t be too pleased to venture back down there again anytime soon. I reckon we’ll have to come up with some sort of plan.”

  Chapel sighed. “Boy, there’s no one that is going to believe this. What am I going to tell the Sheriff about what I saw?”

  Leopold crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen wall, eyeing Chapel. “So are you going to tell everyone?”

  Chapel’s ears turned red. “I suppose I can’t…so no.”

  “Sorry.” Leopold giggled. “But now you know how I have felt over the years. Everyone believes me to be crazy, am I right?”

  “I suppose you are.”

  A shadow passed over Leopold’s face as Chapel trailed off. “Sorry, that sounds really whiney. I have tried to find a way to get everyone to believe me.”

  “And what about finding a way to kill that monster?” Chapel let his gaze roam around the kitchen. It lingered on his three houseplants, and he wondered if he could have been some sort of professional gardener one day. When he spotted his notes and some of the crime scene photos from the Frank Marsden arrest, he turned to Leopold.

  “What did Frank Marsden have to do with the monster? Is the monster working for Marsden?”

  “Unlikely,” Leopold scoffed. “It’s the other way around.”

  * * * *

  Was she crazy? Had Deena really heard a woman’s cry? She had spent what seemed like hours alternately trying to free herself, to escape while her attacker wasn’t around, and lying on her cot, straining to listen, trying to determine if she wasn’t alone.

  It made sense, Deena thought.

  Frank Marsden had kept several victims at one point, and then finally killed them. He had collected them, kept them in the basement, held them there in his liar, wherever that was, and then later killed them.

  But the police had captured Frank Marsden.

  Deena’s heart lay heavy as she thought there might be others like her being held against their will. Who knew how many? She remembered sitting on the porch of her rental home talking to Detective Gary Chapel as he mentioned the reports of the women and others who were missing. There had been numerous… She looked at the door separating her room from the area from which her attacker would appear, from where she instinctively knew her attacker resided.

  Or had she imagined the noise? Was her mind playing tricks on her?

  Had the mewling of the wind sounded like a woman sobbing brokenly?

  “Hello!” she yelled, not for the first time. “Is there anyone else here?”

  Her voice echoed, seeming to mock her, making her feel more alone than originally.

  “Hey!” she screamed, louder this time. “Anyone here?”

  Again there was no response.

  Deena, you’re losing your mind, girl; you’re all alone here; face it.

  Once more. “Is anyone here?”

  She waited.

  Deena heard nothing but the rush of the wind and her own thudding heart. Still, she knew her ears had picked up something earlier. And she had to find out. No matter what.

  If someone else was being held captive, Deena had to save that person as well.

  She considered the case, going over the events that had brought her to this point. At first the authorities had believed that the killer had been Frank Marsden and him alone. But obviously somewhat else had to be doing the same or helping him.

  She strained to listen.

  She heard nothing.

  Maybe it was just her overactive imagination. Tired, she closed her eyes. Working at the damned weld had proved useless. And her body screamed for relief. To rest. To heal. She took in a deep breath and could almost hear Gary Chapel’s voice: “Don’t give up? Would you like to go to dinner?” A derisive snort. “Hell, I had figured you to be a tough gal.”

  “Sounds just like Joseph,” Deena whispered, as if her ex-husband could hear her. But, of course, no one could. Her throat closed as she thought of him.

  She blinked hard against a rush of foolish tears, fought them back and told herself to quit thinking about the detective and concentrate on the task at hand. She had to fight through the pain in her wrists and free herself.

  Who knew when or if she would get this same chance to save herself and whoever else was trapped with her here.

  Setting her jaw, Deena threw herself into her task again and was rewarded with more pain. Mind numbing, excruciating, bone-rattling pain. Her wrist ached where the cuffs had cut into her flesh and her ribs and shoulders were on fire. She pulled herself to the cold floor and tried to kick at the welded joint without twisting her wrist even worse.

  She couldn’t give up.

  Not yet.

  Not ever.

  Chapter 28

  Somewhere a door creaked.

  Dammit!

  Deena slid onto the cot and closed her eyes, as if she’d been sleeping. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she heard soft footsteps. Her attackers’ footsteps. Her wrist was bruised and swollen. Though she had managed to work at the welded joint, saw that it was cracking, she hadn’t yet broken through the soldered seam. If she just had a little more time, a little more strength was all she needed.

  Come on, Deena, don’t give up! You survived living in hell with Joseph. You can do this!

  She felt the gaze of her att
acker crawling up her body. Deena recoiled inside and she was certain she was in the presence of raw evil. She didn’t care if he was off only a little. Depravity fed depravity and this son-of-a-bitch needed to be stopped.

  You must do it!

  If you cannot more will die and you will be a pawn in this sick game.

  Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the click of tumblers and sensed her door sweep open. Bile rose up in Deena’s throat as she thought of her attacker watching her. Though the remains of the women Frank Marsden had kidnapped and assaulted in the basement had not been recovered, everyone knew the women were dead.

  “I know that you are awake,” Deena heard a woman say. “You do not have to play like you are anything but with me.”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes; that voice was familiar. She was standing over her, Arlene Balleza.

  “Good morning, dear,” Arlene said softly. “Well, it’s really depends on your perspective of good, I suppose.”

  “What the fu—?” Deena began.

  “Watch your language, dear,” Arlene snapped.

  “Why are you doing this?” Deena pleaded.

  Arlene dropped a fresh liter of water onto the bedside table, along with some of a breakfast bars. “I think you will be delighted to know that I finally took your advice and severed my ties with Steve.”