by William Bebb
“Bull shit.”
Branson laughed and several more bubbles popped up through the mud bath. “Seriously, it's true and I really need to get out of this tub.”
Heller pulled out his Colt revolver and nodded. “All right, but don't do anything stupid old friend. Because whether you're speaking the truth or pure bull shit it's a good story and I'd hate to shoot you and miss the rest.”
Branson nodded and grabbed onto the chrome railing bar that was protruding up from the mud bath. He was an old man and a for a moment Heller felt more than a bit silly pointing his revolver at him while he struggled out of the large sunken tub. The gun wavered but the general never looked away as Branson climbed out and walked slowly over to the white tiled wall where a shower nozzle attached to a hose hung on the wall.
Rockford watched the old man rinsing off the mud for a few seconds before he felt moderately nauseated. I'm a patriotic American and I'll do almost anything for my country but watching an old man shower mud from between his flabby flapping ass cheeks isn't one of them, he thought, looking back at his notepad.
*****
The trauma surgeon was tired, bewildered, and more than a little annoyed at having been called to the emergency room at four in the morning. Her annoyance stemmed from the idiot colonel who had managed to melt off most of the skin on his right arm up to his elbow. When she arrived in the ER the patient was gibbering about large worms and how they had tried to eat him.
In her report, she attributed his ranting to shock and hysteria coupled with an immense amount of pain. How the fool managed to melt off his skin wasn't really any of her concern, she thought dropping off the paperwork at the nurses’ station.
She looked into one of the small rooms separated from the hall by a dull green curtain and was surprised to see her other patient staring back at her. Walking in, the doctor smiled and whispered, “Amalia, you're supposed to be sleeping. It's almost six in the morning. What's wrong, are you in pain?”
“I'm fine. I told the nurses I'm fine too, but they won't give me my clothes or my phone. Listen doctor, I know you guys are just doing what you think is best but I need to get out of here or at least give me my phone. I have duties and responsibilities. I've got agents out in the field. At least give me my phone, please,” Amalia said, hating the way it sounded like begging when she said please.
“The field office in Birmingham has gotten someone to look after your agents. I'm sure they're both fine. And if you'll relax and get some sleep I will get you your phone in a few hours. So, will you be good and get some rest or do I need to get a nurse to give you a shot of Mr. Sandman's good stuff?”
“How can I sleep? Damn sirens going off and the nurses won't tell me what’s going on.”
“There was a fire in the morgue trailer. Now you know. So, do you want a shot to help you rest?”
“Was anyone hurt? How did it happen?” Amalia asked, sitting up in bed.
The doctor pushed her back in bed saying, “There was only one person injured and I have no idea how it happened, so go to sleep.”
*****
“Shannon, I'm in here with a civilian and a bunch of pissed off snakes! Be careful!” Hicks yelled down from his perch on the rafters.
Sally heard voices outside but couldn't understand what they were saying. She looked at the man hunched over nearby away asking, “They're not going to break down the door are they?”
He looked back at her with barely contained contempt. “You're worried about the door? I'll buy you a new one after this is all over. Heck, I'll buy you a whole new garage.”
Shaking her head, she pointed at the cracked rafter over the door's frame that helped support the others. “If they bust down the door the whole roof is liable to collapse and we're gonna be down there with them snakes!”
He saw she was probably right and yelled, “Shannon, don't break the door down. Don't even open it or this whole damn shed's liable to collapse! Do you hear me!?”
Avery pulled off his hunting jacket and held it over Garvin's bleeding eye.
His old hunting buddy had stopped yelling, but his whole body was shaking as he slipped into shock. The ricochet bullet from when he'd tried shooting off the padlock earlier had embedded itself somewhere deep inside Garvin's head.
Mendez heard her partner's warning while she grabbed the deputy's radio and keyed the mike. “Sheriff Harrison, this is Agent Shannon Mendez with the FBI. One of your deputy's has been shot.
Orlando's gotta know we’re out here now.
Also, be advised, my partner and someone else are trapped in a small building near the house. It's unstable and we're probably going to need the fire department to help get them out. Apparently there's snakes inside with them.”
“What's Orlando doing?” Harrison radioed back, sounding out of breath.
“If he's still in the house, he's not doing anything I can see but the lights inside seem to be flickering. Looks like a fuse might be getting ready to blow or something.”
“Backup should be there any minute,” the sheriff said, panting. “My group should be there soon. Just keep Orlando in the house until we get there. Do not attempt to take the house. Understood?”
“Got it,” she answered while fighting back the temptation to mention she wasn't under his authority. Taking off her jacket she laid it over the deputy's chest, where he'd been shot, before looking at the other hunter. “What's your name?”
“Jerry,” the terrified looking man said.
“Okay Jerry, I want you to stay here and wait for help. Here, take the radio,” she said, handing it to him. “Try to keep everyone quiet. When the sheriff gets here tell him I went to check on the back of the house. Got it?”
He nodded and held the radio while looking at the deputy and Garvin lying in the mud.
Watching the windows, she ran stooped down low toward the backyard.
It was humid and the drizzling rain made seeing even more difficult than just being in the dark. The back porch was unlit, but a sliver of light was shining through the kitchen window.
Looking at the steps going up to the back door, she squatted behind the wooden picnic table and listened for anything coming from the house. There was a faint sound of a cat meowing and for a moment she wondered if Michael Jackson was creeping around nearby.
The cat's repeated insistent cries seemed muffled and coming from inside the house.
She tried to ignore it and kept her eyes scanning the rear windows for any movement. After squatting behind the table for a while her legs began to ache. Craning her neck to the side, she could just barely see the shed and some shadowy forms standing near it. Far off the sounds of sirens could be heard growing louder.
A face appeared in the window for a second and was gone.
The glimpse she caught was of the mystery girl she'd seen twice before- once near the football field and the second time riding in an old truck. The truck out front, that's where I'd seen it before. What's with that kid, anyway. She's like a trouble magnet. Did she see me and who the heck is she, anyway? Mendez wondered.
A flash of brilliant light outlined cracks in the cellar doors and for a moment she felt dizzy, like when someone snaps your photograph without warning. Watching the windows, she moved quickly to the back of the house and looked at the doors to the cellar. There was no lock. They shifted a little when she pulled on them, but the gap was so small and the space beyond so dark that she could see nothing beyond. About to let go of the handle, she heard a soft whining sound coming from inside the cellar and muttered to herself, “Fuck it.”
She grabbed one of the door handles with both hands and lifted using her knees. Looking up at the nearest window she grunted as her arm muscles flexed and tightened. Come on, you stupid piece of crap. Open up! She thought, as the faint whining sound grew louder.
The door creaked and a cracking sound came from behind it as she strained. Another bright flash of light blinded her but for a split second she saw in the gap between doors what looked
like a piece of wood on the other side. Whatever it is, it's probably slid through the handles on the other side, she realized.
Holding the left side door open, as far as possible, she pulled her gun and aimed where she'd seen the piece of wood. The sirens sounded like they were at the base of the McGee's driveway as she fired.
The first few shots had no effect but on the fourth one Shannon, who had been pulling on the handle, found herself unexpectedly falling on her back as the door swung swiftly open and crashed loudly against the wall of the house. Laying in the muddy grass, she wondered briefly if Hicks' day had been any better than hers.
She tried to jump up and felt a sharp stabbing sensation in her lower back that made her scream mostly in frustration but partly due to the pain.
She'd thrown out her back before and willed herself not to just lie there in the mud, thinking Orlando could be creeping up on her even now. Rolling onto her side the pain in her back eased up slightly. It was while lying there she realized her gun was gone. With her fingers outstretched she felt through the wet grass for its comforting shape. She felt around frantically as she heard someone's squishy footsteps coming closer.
She was spotlighted in the beam of someone’s flashlight and squinted up while struggling to get to her knees. Fuck the pain. I can do this, she thought, managing to get in a kneeling position. Her back muscles quivered and she bit her lip while trying to stand. A flash of agony as if someone stabbed her in the back with a red hot spear, forced a scream out of her but she managed to stand shakily and reached for her holster only to remember her gun was missing.
*****
He was alone and uncertain who or where he was. Trembling with fear, he looked around and saw behind him and on both sides a darkness so black it made his eyes hurt. Staring at the blackness made his eyes feel like they were shriveling down to the size of raisins. He looked away.
Ahead, there was a nasty smelling pool of faintly steaming foulness reeking of burnt pork and shit. In the liquid there were bones, lengths of intestines, and little white jagged balls that made him think of small cracked open bird eggs. The liquid was mostly dark brown with bubbling patches of what looked like blood here and there. A group of things he somehow knew were stepping stones protruded from the liquid within leaping distance.
On the far side of the pool he could see a small area with green grass, a barbecue grill and a checkered red and white picnic cloth spread on the ground. It was lit by a beam of brilliant white light coming from somewhere above.
A series of snorting grunts echoed behind him and he looked at the first stepping stone. He leaped for the closest one and lost his balance on the landing. Wobbling unsteadily, he let his momentum carry him on toward the next one and barely managed to stop. The stone was so small there was barely enough for both his feet to stand on it. Thrusting his arms out, he fought to keep his balance and grunted.
While tottering on the stone, a man he didn't recognize stepped into the patch of grass and walked over to the grill. The stranger was wearing a red apron with the words 'I love Miss Piggy' written on it and waving at him with a rack of ribs dripping blood in one hand and a barbecue fork held in the other. “Howdy! You should hurry on over to Aswan's Rib House and don't be shy! Eat all you want! Hell, go ahead and make a pig of yourself! We won't tell. After all, everyone else on Earth is doing it!”
A loud squeal came out of the darkness behind him and he jumped to the next closest stepping stone. It was a bit bigger than the last one and feeling more confident, he turned back looking for the source of the grunts and squeals.
The darkness was following him. It was so close he couldn't even see the last stone he'd been on only seconds earlier. He shuddered and looked forward again. There were two more stepping stones before he'd reach the other side and the grass.
A woman's voice made him look up. It was Amalia Armstrong walking toward the chef who was tending the grill. “I think he likes long pork shoulder roast better. Don't you, my poor mad Brad. You should really try some anger management courses, if you ever regain your sanity,” she said, grinning while ripping off her shirt. An ugly bullet hole just under her shoulder fought for his attention as he leered at her naked breasts. “Get it Brad? Shoulder roast?” She asked and laughed while pulling her right arm off at the shoulder. A fountain of blood flowed from shredded veins and arteries in her torso.
His mouth watered as he jumped for the next to last stepping stone. He slid and his right foot sank into the warm liquid. Yelling in panic, he yanked it back out and looked toward Amalia. Her chest was a sheet of crimson, but she only smiled as she waved at him with her amputated arm held in her remaining arm.
The stone was slippery and he again put his arms out struggling to keep from falling into the pool as he stood up again. As he fought for balance, the Vera Lynn song We'll Meet Again began to play.
Waltzing into the grassy area, beside Amalia and the chef who was sprinkling seasonings on the grilling meat, came Dr. Anniston and a woman he vaguely recalled but couldn't think of her name.
The old man was smiling as he called out, “Hello, colonel. I must say, it's a splendid affair you're putting on, but the pool seems more than a tad unsanitary to me. Perhaps you should hire someone to clean it up before you throw your next party.”
The woman dancing with him laughed, reached down with both hands and squeezed Anniston's butt before saying, “Give it up, Brad. You know everything is hopeless. Just quit fighting and dance.”
“Eat first then you can dance!” The chef yelled and laughed as he turned the grilling meat over.
He jumped for the last stone intending to continue and leap across to finally reach the picnic. The distance to the shore of green grass seemed to grow impossibly far away while he was in mid leap. He landed with his feet touching the edge of the pool and looked down while his arms whirled frantically trying to keep from falling backward.
From the shore someone was reaching toward him and he grabbed onto the offered hand. Gripping it tightly with both hands, he stopped falling back and sighed in relief. He looked up at Amalia's demonic looking smiling face with pig tusks protruding from her mouth.
“Thought you could use a hand,” she said and released her served arm which she'd used to stop him from falling.
“No!” He shouted, falling back toward the pool. Blackness swallowed him as he thrashed and fought to keep his head above the surface. The liquid felt alive, oily, warm, and something was grabbing him from under the surface pulling him down.
His right arm broke the surface as he struggled and a giant eel-like thing swam over, opened its mouth wide, and swallowed it up to the elbow. It felt like he'd stuck it into a roaring fire as he tried to swim for the shore.
He was so close he could smell the grass and see each individual green stem in perfect clarity. They were a deep emerald green except for a small brown one that was moving slightly.
He threw his eel encased arm toward the shore and kicked hard against whatever was pulling him under. The brown blade of grass moved closer as he screamed and clawed at the grass with his free hand. He saw it wasn't grass. It was a little brown roach.
Another wave of agony washed over him as he felt his arm being digested. One of the roach's tiny eyes glowed bright red and a cone of light shined out onto the eel. Its slick black skin quickly bubbled and dissolved.
Within seconds it was just a foaming sheen of black and white goo and through it Wilcox could see the skinless remains of his arm. He screamed and looked up as Dr. Anniston squatted down nearby, while smoking his pipe thoughtfully.
“You should have died, you know. Why they bothered to save a worthless worm like you I'll never know. Ah well, that's neither here nor there. Would you care for a hotdog?” He asked holding out a bun with a piece of burnt black meat in the middle.
On the monitor, Colonel Abrahms watched as Wilcox shuddered and jerked despite being heavily sedated. A nurse had secured him in bed with straps to prevent him from falling to the fl
oor. Abrahm's coughed before saying, “I hate to repeat myself, but when will I be able to talk with him?”
The doctor yawned and held up her hand before answering, “He's been through a lot. A lot of what, I don't know but right now he needs rest.”
“If I woke him up, do you think he could answer some questions?” Abrahms asked.
“You're kidding, right?”
Abrahms expression told her he was serious.
She looked at her watch before saying, “If, and I stress IF, you could wake him up he'd probably think you were part of a dream or more probably a nightmare. Anything he'd say would most likely be filled with gibberish and hallucinations. If he gets another three or four hours of rest he would be more lucid. I can't stop you from trying, but in my professional medical opinion it would be a waste of time trying to talk with him now.”
He stared at the monitor for several seconds before asking, “What is he doing? All the jerking and shaking, is that normal for someone in his condition?”
“The man somehow managed to melt the skin off his right arm from almost the elbow down. He's suffered some sort of mental breakdown at the very least. You should have heard him ranting when they brought him into surgery,” she said, before sipping more coffee.
Abrahms looked away from the monitor and asked, “Was there a recording, video or audio of the surgery?”
“Nope. It was a kind of emergency situation and no one asked us to make one anyway.”
“Okay, then you need to tell me everything you can remember him saying. I don't care how crazy it sounded. If he said anything, I need to know it,” Abrahms said, pulling out his notebook and digital audio recorder.
Sighing and shaking her head slowly, she said, “Alright but when I'm done, I'm going back to sleep.”
He nodded and turned on the recorder and held his pen on the paper waiting for her to speak.
“He was screaming when I got there, which was understandable given the circumstances. He said something about Aswan's body having dissolved or melted.” She shook her head before continuing. “When I asked him what had happened to his arm he started to cry.
