by Anthony Izzo
Crowe had mentioned cutting his head off. That was one way to kill Rafferty’s kind. The other was fire.
The ability to self-heal from even the most devastating wounds made Rafferty’s kind superior to humans. If a regular man had taken those bullets, he would be lying on a morgue slab right now. His kind cut down by bullets rose to fight again in a matter of hours. Both the human skin that disguised him and the beast underneath were healing by the minute.
He stood up and looked in the mirror over the dresser. The skin on his face was flawless again, no sign of a scar or any trauma. The only signs of being shot were the black bloodstains on his face and the bulletholes in his uniform.
After picking up his revolver and holstering it, he left the apartment and walked around the block to where he had parked his cruiser. An elderly woman in a wool coat pulled a shopping basket as if it weighed as much as a Volkswagen. She looked at his tattered uniform and said, “Are you okay?”
“Mind your own business,” he said. She looked as if he had reached out and grabbed her tit. Scurrying away, she muttered to herself.
He plunked himself into the driver’s seat of the cruiser and called Clarence from his cell phone.
“Yeah, Chief.”
“Keep your eyes peeled for a red Chevy pickup. Fifteen hundred model.” He went on to describe Matt and Jill.
“What’d they do?”
“Put a couple new holes in me where I didn’t have holes before.”
“They shot you?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Well, where are they? Let’s go get them.”
“I don’t know at the moment, numb nuts. But I think they’re heading to a cabin in Pottsville.”
“You want me to set up a roadblock?”
“No. They left a few hours ago. We’ll let them get up there and then take them. We’re gonna do some hunting.”
“Before the Harvest?”
“Fuck that rule. Meet me at my house in an hour. We have a lot of people to take care of. But first call up to Pottsville and find out who owns cabins up there. It’s a small town, so someone should know.”
He hung up the phone.
The drive to Pottsville took forty minutes, most of it down Route 400. Pines and spruce lined the road, creating dense woods where sunlight dabbled through in places, but never really penetrated. Not somewhere you’d want to be lost, Jill thought.
They took the last exit on 400, Route 16 South, and made the first right down a dirt road cut out of the pines. Matt urged the truck up a hill, the road winding left and then back to the right until the cabin was in sight.
The cabin sat five hundred feet off the road, in among the pines and cloaked in shadows. They pulled up the stone driveway and parked the truck at the side of the cabin.
It was constructed of brownish-black wood, with red shingles on the roof. The chimney sagged to the right, and the bricks looked ready to topple. There was a four-foot wood cutout stuck into the lawn, painted like Uncle Sam and holding a small American flag.
They approached the front door and Matt reached into the mailbox that hung on the front of the house. After fumbling around for a moment, he pulled out a brass key and stuck it in the lock. He jiggled it left, then right, before the lock clicked and the door opened.
The cabin smelled of wood smoke but it seemed to have the things they would need to stay here for a while. A double bed faced the door, and next to the bed was a stand with a clock radio on it. The place had a stove, a card table and chairs and, to Jill’s relief, a phone.
“Looks homey enough. It’s got a wood stove in case we get cold,” Jill said.
“Don’t think we have to worry about that yet. I’m going to run outside, so why don’t you bandage yourself up?” Matt suggested.
They had stopped at a Rite-Aid and picked up gauze, tape and more Neosporin.
Matt headed for the front door.
Jill said, “Do you think they’ll come after us?”
“I think it’s a pretty safe bet.”
“Harry’s bringing guns, right?”
“Right.”
“Good,” she said. “I never thought I’d hear myself say that.”
She crossed her arms and rubbed them for warmth. The thought of things coming out of the woods to hunt them gave her the shivers.
Picking the Rite-Aid bag off the table, she went into the bathroom to put gauze over her wounds.
The bathroom was done in bubble-gum-pink tiles, and the toilet had a furry hot pink cover over its seat. It smelled a little damp, but the place was free of mildew, and the sink gleamed.
The door banged as Matt went outside. She liked the way he had insisted on taking care of her at the apartment—sweet, but not overbearing. He had applied the ointment to her stomach with such a light touch, careful not to hurt her in any way.
She was used to caring for others, putting in an IV or bandaging a wound, so it was nice to have someone take care of her, even in a small way.
As she took the gauze and tape out of the bag, she hoped this Harry was good on his word to deliver weapons to them.
Although she disliked guns, a firearm had saved their lives today, and it was a good bet that wasn’t the last time they would need one.
But could she bring herself to fire one again? That she didn’t know.
Matt walked around the back of the cabin. He had the hunting knife in the sheath on his belt and the gun tucked into the rear of his pants.
A cord of firewood rested against the back of the cabin, and there was a picnic table and a rainbow-colored lawn chair in the backyard. The yard sloped away from the cabin, a dirt trail leading down into the pines and the forest beyond.
They were on a hill, and that was a plus, because it was a good defensive position. The only ways to get at the cabin were the main road and that dirt trail. Matt hoped the creatures couldn’t attack from the trail. The possibility of a front and rear attack presented even greater problems.
Still, it made him nervous because he had seen Them in action, the way they tore out of the woods that day at the park. If they came at the cabin in any type of numbers, he and Jill wouldn’t last long.
He had a bad feeling in his gut, a gnawing, that the Chief of Police might have survived the bullets. Who knew how much damage one of them could take and still keep going? Despite his concern, he snickered to himself, visualizing Rafferty as an evil Energizer Bunny with pink ears.
Regardless of whether Rafferty was dead or alive, the Lincoln Police would be looking for the suspects, combing the area. Hopefully no one saw them leave the scene, and if Rafferty really was dead, he couldn’t describe his killers.
Even though they were nearly forty miles from Lincoln, it didn’t seem far enough.
He took another glance into the woods, where columns of sunlight broke through the trees. Not much light and plenty of darkness to conceal an attacker.
He hoped Harry was bringing them some heavy-duty weaponry.
Matt walked back around and went in the front door. Jill came out of the bathroom. A small Band-Aid covered the cut on her chin. She had also plastered gauze over the wound on her arm.
“You look like you just fought a war.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself.” Jill said.
“I know. Seriously, how are you?”
“It stings, but I’ll live. How about you? Rafferty clipped you good a couple of times.”
“Oh yeah.”
He was so high on adrenaline that he hadn’t felt much pain, but now that Jill mentioned it, he had a dull throb in his stomach where Rafferty kicked him. His left cheekbone also felt tender, and upon touching it, he knew he was going to have one hell of a shiner from getting clocked with the revolver. He already had a purple bruise under the other eye from the assault with the nightstick.
“Damn. I was just starting to feel better from the damage you did to me in the warehouse.”
She offered him a thin smile. “What are we going to do? We’re
fugitives. And God knows how many of those things are looking for us right now.”
“I figure we stay here at least until morning. See what Harry brings us, then decide from there.”
She moved in close to him and looked him in the eyes. “Whatever happens, I’m glad I found you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, careful not to press her belly against him. He could feel her heat, smell her scent. He hugged back, banishing sexual thoughts from his mind for now, trying to focus on what lay ahead of them.
“Ditto for me,” he said.
He would not lose her to Rafferty like he did his family.
Metal banging in the yard. Garbage cans being turned over?
Sally Perski set her Harry Potter book on the bed, got up and peered out the window. Nothing out there, save the darkness.
It was probably a neighborhood cat rummaging for scraps.
“Sally, turn that fan down,” her mother called.
“But it’s hotter than hell!”
“Watch your mouth, young lady. Turn it down.”
The window fan, old and yellowed, thrummed and rattled on the highest setting. Sally clicked the knob to Low and lay back on the bed with her book. She and her mom were alone tonight; Brendan was spending the night with her Aunt Katherine in Buffalo.
She would spoil him rotten for the evening, giving him one chocolate chip cookie after another and renting all the Barney videos that Blockbuster had to offer. She wished someone would spoil her like that.
Something thumped on the outside wall of the bedroom.
Again she put the book down and rolled off of the bed. She couldn’t look out that window because the fan was in the way. Something hit the wall again.
“What the hell?”
She had just begun to curse this past year, liking the sounds of the words but not brave enough to use anything other than “hell” or “damn” around her mother.
Drawing the miniblinds aside, she looked out the window that overlooked the yard.
Something like black velvet streaked toward the house.
“Mom!”
Glass shattered and the wood in the window frame gave with a hollow crack. The fan banged against the ground.
A creature from a nightmare stuck its head in the ruined side window. Sally moved away from the rear window, just in time, as a clawed hand burst through the glass.
The creatures Matt Crowe described had come for her.
The one at the side window crammed its lanky frame into the bedroom, ducking its head to avoid hitting the ceiling. Its amber eyes focused on her and it grinned, showing nasty teeth.
They smelled so bad she thought the SpaghettiOs she had for dinner would come back up.
She managed to take a step toward the door before it wrapped its arm around her waist and yanked her off her feet.
All she could think was that she was glad Brendan wasn’t here.
Across town, Lila Reese held a stinking bag of garbage at arm’s length. At their home in the Hamptons, they had a cleaning woman to handle menial chores like this, but not here. She would have to suffer through it.
She opened the garbage can lid and dropped the bag in. After replacing the lid, she rubbed her hands together, as if to get the filth off of them.
Arthur Reese was out of town, negotiating the sale of one of his hotel chains to some Texas millionaire. She could care less who or what as long as the money kept rolling in. Arthur was on the verge of becoming a billionaire, and damned if she wouldn’t try and spend every last cent of his money.
On top of it all, Carla still hadn’t come home. Her calls to the Lincoln police had gotten her nowhere. The officers told Lila she should give it some time. Give it some time! She had called Arthur, who put in a call to a private investigator.
She told Carla a thousand times a day to be careful, that she was a pretty girl, and there were a lot of creeps out there who would love to get their hands on her. In her heart, she always knew something like this would happen. Carla was just too pretty, and the world was full of weirdos.
She walked back to the side door and opened it.
Something smelled rotten in the hallway. Then she caught sight of it and felt a knot of fear in her stomach.
There was something big and black and hulking waiting for her. It growled like an animal. Twin yellow globes glared at her from the darkened hallway.
It moved forward and leapt down the stairs. It grabbed her arm and pulled. There was no initial pain, only a sharp tug and a popping noise, and she thought it dislocated.
When she looked at her shoulder, the spurt of blood and torn fabric told her different.
The last thing she saw was the thing coming closer, her severed arm in its claws.
CHAPTER 24
Nothing like a good stroke to kill the time.
Carl pulled his coveralls up and zipped the front closed. Even when he worked at night he still wore them—even if there were no cars, it made him feel more mechanic-like. He stuffed the August issue of Playboy magazine in his rear pocket and sauntered back into the office.
He sat in the squeaky chair and propped his feet on the desk, something Jimbo couldn’t stand him doing, but Jimbo was nowhere to be found. Carl and the other mechanic, Don Gerritt, had kept the place open without Jimbo.
Carl felt like a liberated slave. He could put his feet on the desk or sneak off to the john whenever he wanted. He had even managed to skim a hundred and forty dollars from the register in Jimbo’s absence.
Hell, no one had come looking for that salesman he had killed. The body had been consumed, and his Lexus was at the bottom of Lake Erie. By the time they found the car, the Harvest would come, and they would be on the move, looking for other towns to occupy.
“Fuck you, Jimbo. Carl’s running the show now.”
A crash came from the garage. It sounded like one of the toolboxes had been tipped over and everything had spilled out onto the concrete.
Carl shot up from the chair and grabbed the metal Swingline stapler off the desk, it being the only weapon available.
Facing the door, he tried scaring them off.
“Whoever’s in there, I got a loaded Magnum!”
He stepped back toward the glass door leading to the pumps.
The door to the garage bay squeaked open like a coffin lid in a Dracula movie.
“I mean it! I’ll fucking blow your head off!”
Something flew through the door and rapped him right on the kneecap. Pain flared, and he instinctively hopped on one foot. He looked down and saw the impact wrench lying on the floor.
A chrome revolver appeared in the doorway, its owner guarded by the shadows in the garage.
“Turn the lights off and put up the Closed sign, now.”
Carl didn’t want to argue with a loaded gun, so he flipped the lights off and turned the sign around.
“Now sit down.”
He hopped on his good foot to the chair and sat down, his knee a mess of throbs and aches.
Ed Rafferty stepped from the shadows, stark naked, his skin white as an eggshell.
Rafferty naked? If he was naked, that meant he must’ve been on a hunt.
“What do you want, Chief?”
Even as he asked the question, Carl knew it was a foolish one, because in his heart he knew Ed Rafferty hadn’t come here to wish him happy birthday. He meant to hurt Carl.
“Seen Jimbo around?” Rafferty said.
“Not for days. I been runnin’ the station myself.”
“Good for you. Have any more salesmen drop in?”
Oh, shit. “Salesmen?”
“Don’t play dumb, Carl. Jimbo told me about the salesman you offed. I hope it was a good one.”
“I didn’t mean to, Chief. But he was causing trouble. You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”
Rafferty reached over and clapped him on the arm. “Relax, Carl, I’m not going to kill you. Hey, you got a smoke?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
H
e’d never seen Rafferty smoke before. Maybe he only did it once in a while.
He pawed at his shirt before feeling the battered pack of Winstons tucked in the breast pocket. After removing the pack, he plucked a cigarette out with his thumb and index finger and gave it to Rafferty. Then he picked up his Bic from the desk and lit it for the chief.
Rafferty inhaled, the butt glowing in the dark office like an ember. He blew smoke over his head, and it circled him in a gauzy haze.
“That was a big mistake, Carl. Killing like that. You know the rules.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I’ll forget about it this time because you’re young and stupid.”
Carl didn’t respond, instead transfixed by Rafferty’s total lack of shame or embarrassment at standing nude in a gas station.
“Before I go, I’d like a favor.”
Carl swallowed hard. Was Rafferty going to ask him for something weird, like a blow job? He’d rather take a bullet in the guts than do that.
“What?”
“One of those little gas cans to keep in my patrol car. In case I ever run out of gas.”
“Oh yeah. Sure!”
Carl pursed his lips and blew out a breath of relief. He pushed himself up with his good leg and limped past Rafferty into the service bays. He remembered leaving a half full gallon can near the compressor.
He returned to the office and handed it to Rafferty.
“Even got some gas in it for you.”
He hoped that would satisfy the chief. Carl wanted him out of here.
“I’m not going to kill you, Carl. But you will have an accident. A horrible one.”
Rafferty set his weapon on the floor and unscrewed the cap and spout from the gas can. In one quick motion, like a quarterback flipping a shovel pass, he doused Carl’s face in gasoline.
It felt like liquid fire in his eyes and he screamed, rubbing his eyes and only succeeding in irritating them more.
Rafferty has a lit cigarette. A hot pinprick kissed his cheek and then there was nothing but searing orange light.
