Empire Of Salt

by Weston Ochse

  She ran first to Trudie and scooped the dog into her arms. As she headed for the door, she saw the creature pushing its torso up through the floor, yellow eyes fixated on her. Was it the only one? As she unlocked the deadbolt and slammed open the door, she knew it was too late to ask that question.

  She ran into the hall, dog in one hand, pistol in the other. She slid around the corner of the kitchen on the linoleum floor, hitting the refrigerator with her shoulder, caught her balance and began to fumble with the locks on the door to the back yard. She couldn't get her hands to work properly.

  She dropped to all fours, shoved Trudie through the doggie door, and began to crawl through herself. She heard the sound of crashing come from her bedroom. She knew she had only had a few seconds. Moving as fast as she could, she pushed herself through the tiny square door, but dropped her pistol.

  She reached back inside and searched blindly for it. The sound of pounding feet got closer. Her fingers brushed against the dustbin.

  She could hear the creature's wheezing breaths from the other side of the door. She knew she should flee, but she needed the gun. Suddenly she felt the skin of the creature, screamed and yanked her hand back. It held it for a moment, but then her fingers slipped free and she fell backwards. As she found her balance, she saw the top of the creature's head as it began to follow her out the door.

  Abigail scrambled to her feet, grabbed Trudie and hurtled down the stairs. It was night. Late. The only sounds she heard were from the occasional generator. She glanced back, running, and saw the creature glaring at her as it climbed out of the flap and got to its feet, half its jaw missing.

  Oh, if only she hadn't dropped the gun.

  The fence separating her home from the Klostermans' stopped her momentarily, it was so high that her old legs refused to clear it. So she leaned over the fence and flopped into the yard, winding herself and almost losing her grasp on Trudie.

  Somehow she managed to get to her knees. She wasn't used to this sort of activity. She crawled as quickly as she could. The Klosterman Kid's doghouse rose up before her.

  She found the bolt that kept it closed at night, lifted it, pried open the door and slid inside. She fell several feet; the floor was much lower than ground level. She was again surprised as she landed softly atop padded carpet.

  Curling into a ball, she held Trudie to her chest and began to rock back and forth. She'd run as far as she could. All she waited for now was for the creature to break down the door. But it never happened. The creature never came. Her sobs gradually subsided until she heard the sound of heavy breathing. In the darkness all she could think of was a bear in a deep, dark cave. But she wasn't in a cave, and nor was it a bear she was hearing. She was in the doghouse and the sound could only be coming from the Klosterman Kid.

  She wondered fearfully what he'd do to her.

  She wondered if she was any better off than before.

  Patrick woke drenched in moonlight and flies. He was slow to come around, his mind foggy with nightmares of birthday parties, bloody cakes, and Ode to Billy Joe playing unceasingly in the background while everything spun as if he was on a crazy carousel.

  He'd gotten a mouthful of sand while sleeping and the grit was caught between his teeth and his gums. He tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. He managed to open his eyes. He was on the shore. In his hand, he held a single card, from an Easter when he was fifteen; he searched his memory and wondered why he'd kept that one, but couldn't figure it out.

  He rolled to his knees and vomited onto the sand. Drool and saliva dripped from his mouth. There was more in his stomach that wanted out, but it wouldn't come. Until the stench of what had already come up hit his nostrils.

  It took a few minutes for him to collect himself. As he got to his feet, still a little unsteady, the moon slid behind a mountain of clouds, leaving him in gray darkness. On the ground in front of him were the remnants of a fire - pieces of cards, some singed, most blackened beyond legibility, in a pile that had been soaked by the tide sometime after he'd passed out.

  Patrick glanced at the card in his hand, and let it fall to the ground. Then he thought better of it, picked it up and shoved it in his back pocket. He looked around and spied the Old Crow bottle wedged in the sand like it had brought a message from a deserted island. There was an inch of booze left in it. He glared at the offending bottle for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the warm brown liquid.

  A sound came from down the beach.

  He switched his grip on the bottle, holding it by the neck, and peered into the darkness, but couldn't see a thing through the grit and tears in his eyes.

  The noise came again. Several people dragging something huge, a muffled curse, a harsh command.

  He blinked the tears away and saw several black shapes dragging a boat ashore. They were wearing masks and black clothes. One turned toward Patrick as he hit the sand and lay flat, but they appeared not to see him. After a few moments, they left the boat and headed inland.

  Patrick found himself following them. Part of him said it was a bad idea, but he wanted to see what was going on.

  He stumbled twice as the wet sand gripped his shoes, but was too far away for them to hear. He crept as close as he could along the seawall, then, when he thought the coast was clear, climbed over and slid down the other side. He tried to land on his feet, but when he hit the ground, he fell on his hip, crying out in pain.

  The men stopped and squatted at the sound. One turned in his direction.

  Patrick kept very still. He lay against the seawall and hoped that his form would blend into the darkness.

  Then came another sound, this time from the opposite direction. The men turned toward what sounded like a bottle skittering down the asphalt street. One brought up a rifle. The sight of it sucked the air from Patrick's lungs. The man sighted down the length of the weapon.

  A drunken voice spoiled the quiet with a refrain of Now or Never. The next verse was replaced with the sound of retching, then the sound of a gate opening and the clatter of cans as the Romanian waded through his alarm system. The trailer door closed and Patrick breathed easier.

  The man with the rifle lowered his weapon and the three were once again on their way.

  Patrick followed them for another half a block before they came to a burned_out hulk that had once been a double-wide. The top deck was nothing more than twisted wood. The chairs had melted to the roof.

  The leader used a radio; the static-laced conversation was too soft to understand.

  Patrick heard someone running behind him. He dove into the nearest yard, wedging himself beneath a propane tank painted like a jack-o'-lantern.

  Three more men raced past, dressed in black like the others, carrying a net between them. They ran to the other three and, after a moment's conversation, began to move towards the open glass door of the trailer.

  Patrick shifted to make himself more comfortable. His hangover had all but disappeared. He knew he shouldn't be seeing what he was seeing. If they were to catch him, there was no telling what would happen. The feeling both thrilled and terrified him.

  The three men continued toward the opening. They held the net between them, as if preparing to capture a wild animal. The halogen lights on their helmets came on, revealing something large retreating into the darkness of the trailer.

  The two riflemen took positions on either side of the men with the net. After a moment of hesitation, the net was thrown at the creature hiding in the trailer, but it missed. As the men were retrieving the net, a creature burst forward and knocked one of them down, before fleeing back into the shadows.

  The fallen man stood slowly, clearly shaken. His fellows, ready once more, feinted once, then threw the net deep into the shadows, and the one in the middle hauled on a rope and jerked it tight.

  Something was struggling in the trailer, furiously straining and rolling until the strangers closed in on the net.

  The lights were turned off and they headed back the way they'd c
ome, directly towards Patrick's hiding place. He tried to squeeze further underneath the tank.

  They came towards him in single file. The rifles came first, stocks firmly against their shoulders as the weapons swept back and forth along the street. Next came the two dragging the net. The thing inside writhed and struggled furiously. A third man held a rope extending from the net, keeping it taut. Last came the leader.

  As the net was dragged past him, Patrick risked a glance. What he saw was nothing like what he'd expected. It was a man, or what had been a man. His mottled green skin was peeling away, revealing putrid gray flesh beneath. He looked dead, except for his eyes, which glowed an unearthly yellow. The thing groaned once as it passed Patrick, but thankfully the men in black weren't paying attention.

  Patrick closed his eyes, desperate not to be discovered, and the footsteps faded in the distance. Patrick relaxed. All but the last man slipped over the seawall, presumably going for a boat. Once they were gone, the leader removed a rubber hood. He looked vaguely familiar, but from this distance, Patrick couldn't be sure. He took off his jacket as well, revealing a T-shirt beneath.

  He began walking back towards Patrick, striding purposefully and whistling a sea shanty.

  As he approached, Patrick recognized Hopkins. The man turned his head and looked right at Patrick as he passed, but didn't seem to see him. Patrick remained stock still, and Hopkins turned his head and continued on. Soon he was far down the street, the shanty echoing softly in the night.

  Patrick pushed himself away from the tank and struggled to his feet, his legs leaden and crampy. As he shifted to get the blood back into them, he clicked the bottle against the tank. The sound rang through the night like the tolling of a bell. Patrick froze. How he'd maintained his grip on the bottle, he didn't know. He dropped it like it was poison and, without waiting to see if the noise drew anyone, rounded the burned-out trailer and ran, not stopping until he was home. The door was locked; he knocked once, then instantly regretted it. He stood at the door praying that he hadn't woken anyone.

  Tomorrow morning he'd talk to his kids and tell them what he'd seen. He'd spent more than enough time feeling sorry for himself. Now he needed to act like a man, like a father. He needed to stop feeding his depression. Bottom line, he needed to stop drinking.

  He stood and stared at the trailer for a long time, working through it all. After a while, he stumbled over to the restaurant and poked around the back, eventually finding a window that had been left open. He slept in a booth with his legs curled beneath him, dreaming of Hopkins and the green man in the net...

  A Chevy Suburban rumbles down the street and stops at the front of the restaurant. Two men exit the SUV and kick open the front door, wood splintering and flying into the room. The men shine flashlights into the darkness until they find what they are looking for. They rush to Patrick, hit him, grab him, throw him into the backseat of the SUV and roar away.

  When they hit him the second time the dream dissolves. Only he's no longer in the restaurant curled up comfortably on the booth. He's in the SUV with two masked men. Hopkins is behind the wheel, his eyes laughing at Patrick in the rearview mirror.

  There was no way Natasha was going to get any sleep. She'd heard her father banging on the door and wasn't about to let him in. She was pissed at how he'd fallen so hard off the wagon. They needed him to be a dad right now, not a drunk.

  He hadn't set the most perfect example growing up. The idea that he could go missing for a few days and then return as the perfect dad had always confused her. But as she grew older, she understood that her father had a problem; something was missing in his life and he continually tried to fill the emptiness with alcohol.

  After she watched her father leave, she decided that she needed some fresh air, and went up on the roof to lay on one of the lounge chairs and stare at the stars. She tried to find sleep once more, but the quiet night was ruined by the roar of an SUV passing by the house doing at least eighty miles an hour. It raced towards sump pump #2, then down the access road to the desalination plant.

  She shook her head. The first sign of life in this dead little town and it was someone late to work.

  Natasha pulled a chair to the telescope, deciding to take in the town, just to see what she could see. Not that she was intent on spying on her neighbors, but it would be nice to observe someone having a normal life for a change, even in this second cousin to a normal town.

  But not everything was normal.

  She could make out the inside of the Romanian's home, his front room lit like a stage. He was passed out on the couch, fully clothed, a blow-up doll in his arms.

  She could distinguish Veronica sitting on her couch and watching a late night movie in black and white.

  On the other side of town, Kim Johnson stood on her rooftop porch completely naked. Cloaked only in moonlight and the warm salty air, her arms were open to the sky as if she were praying. Even from this distance Natasha could make out the tattoos covering the other woman's body. What had they said about her? She was a priest, or a reverend, or whatever they called the leader of the local church. She didn't say much, but she always seemed to be in the thick of things.

  Lu Shu worked by a small lamp in his garage, repairing his nets. Natasha appraised the old man and wondered if he might be the right type for her Auntie Lin. She wasn't beyond matchmaking, especially for the old woman who'd been everything but a real mother to her. How interesting would it be to have an Auntie Lin and an Uncle Lu?

  Natasha thought about this for a time as she looked in on every trailer within her vision. Here and there she saw signs of life but, for the most part, the town was asleep.

  So she turned the telescope on the sea. First she scanned the shoreline to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. Try as she might, it was too far for her to really make out anything. The lights on the far shore were dim in the hot night haze. She knew that more people lived on the other bank than on this one. There'd actually been planned communities, laid out in parcels, bought and paid for, then left empty when the sea had begun to rot. How many hopes and dreams had been shattered because no one back in the 1950s had been able to foresee what would happen to a lake with no outlet?

  She was about to pull away when the sea flashed a brilliant green for a split second. It happened so fast she wasn't even sure it had been real. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The sea flashed once more. This time she kept her eye against the eyepiece and saw a third and final flash. She remained fixed to the telescope for about a minute before she sat back and regarded the placid sea.

  What had that been?

  She leaned back in her chair. Everything had been so odd since she'd arrived.

  Natasha slept for a time, but was woken by the sound of buses passing in the night. She peered through the telescope, her eyes bleary.

  The moon illuminated two buses chugging slowly along the edge of town, down Isle of Palms Avenue and towards the access road to the plant, exactly like the ones she'd seen before. They crossed the quay and entered the plant through a gate. She recognized Hopkins standing there with a clipboard. He seemed impatient, speaking into a radio as he stared back down the access road.

  Natasha followed his gaze. The seawall must be blocking his view of the highway, but she was able to see it just fine. Sure enough, there was one last bus, but it seemed to be having problems. Smoke billowed from the engine as it jerked and jolted forward; it stopped and started, with a great grinding of gears.

  Like the others, the bus was an unmarked, uniform dark grey with tinted windows. That three busloads of people had come, in addition to the other two buses the night before, suggested that there was more going on at the desalination plant than anyone knew about.

  She corrected that thought: more than anyone except the Mad Scientist knew about. Natasha was convinced that he knew what was going on. She would talk to him tomorrow morning, and bring Veronica and Derrick with her. That would be safest. What could one man do against all three
of them?

  The bus continued to limp forward in jerks and starts, passing sump pump #2 to the access road, where it coughed, choked, and finally died. Smoke poured from the engine.

  The door opened and a man in camouflage fatigues jumped out and sprinted the two hundred yards to the waiting Hopkins. Shortly after the first man came another ten, twenty, then thirty men out of the bus; all dressed in uniforms and fleeing the bus. Each carried a dark green bag half his size, so their progress was much slower than the first one, who Natasha presumed was the driver. He was waving them on, urging them to follow him.

  Why were they in such a hurry?

  As if in answer to Natasha's question, man-shaped creatures surged from the water on the left side of the quay, scrambling up the embankment to the road to intercept the men. The driver looked like he was going to escape, but Hopkins closed the gate when he saw the creatures, locking it with an immense padlock and chain and flipping a switch on a nearby light pole.

  Screams drew her attention back to the men from the bus. She squinted into the telescope to get a better look. The creatures moved fast, and all she could see was an arm here, a leg there, and brilliant yellow, glowing eyes.

  She pulled back from the telescope, not believing what she was seeing. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. Her heart beating in her throat, she again put her eye to the telescope.

  She watched the hand-to-hand fighting. The soldiers seemed capable of defending themselves, kicking and punching accurately, but they had little or no effect. Each of them was overpowered and slammed to the ground, and the creatures followed them down, biting and gnawing...

  Eating.

  Her stomach turned. Bile leaped into her throat.

  A sizzling snap drew her attention to the fence around the desalination plant. The driver had tried to climb it and was now sparking and jerking as electricity ran through him. He finally fell to the ground, his body smoking.

  When Natasha looked back at the creatures, they were drawing their victims back into the water. The soldiers were still struggling.