Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  Deputy Coggins gagged, and the puke he was desperately trying to hold in his mouth sprayed from between his pursed lips like a hot geyser. The liquid, which had the consistency of overcooked, runny oatmeal, covered a surprising distance. To Coggins’ dismay, one of the few large chunks bounced off the hardwood floor and struck the horrible, pink-and-green-striped thing.

  The suckling sound stopped.

  Coggins, with the crook of his elbow lowered to just below his chin and dripping with vomit, suddenly snapped to. As the beast slowly started to turn its head, the half-devoured corpse swiveling awkwardly in its mouth like the movement of an unruly appendage, Coggins raised his shotgun.

  Come Come Come

  The deputy heard this one word repeat over and over in his mind, but he had no idea if these were new words—new spoken words—or if he was just remembering them from an earlier time.

  Part of the abomination’s cheek and nose finally came into view, and to Coggins’ surprise they were both startlingly pink. He could also clearly make out what looked like ears, so fat and full that they were completely plugged, which explained why the thing hadn’t turned when he had barged through the doorway. There were giant tears at the corners of the thing’s mouth where it had stretched to impossible limits, and there were a plethora of small green splits like spider veins around the thing’s hairline and temples. But the cheeks and nose and eyes were surprisingly pink and flesh-like—undeniably, inexplicably human.

  Come

  “Come?” he shouted hysterically. “Come?! I’m here, you motherfu—”

  All of his preparation, even his timely, quirky comment, were for not as once again Deputy Bradley Coggins froze and he felt his arms and legs go numb. When the thing’s head finally squared up and Coggins stared into its eyes, recognition swept over the deputy. Even crouched on its knees, bizarrely prayer-like, even with a man’s head and shoulders buried in his fucking mouth, even with wet, red, sinewy legs hanging from its face, and even with hard green carapace showing through splits and tears of pink flesh, Coggins recognized those pale blue eyes: he was staring into Sheriff Dana Drew’s demented face.

  3.

  It Can’t Be. I made this up—like one of those times when I think about something imaginary for so long that I trick myself into believing it’s a real memory.

  The desire to use at that moment was so strong that it was almost palpable. The memory of the man stroking his penis, running, shouting for his H, came flooding back, but this time instead of forcing the image away, Alice let it flow right through her. Not because it made her feel any better—indeed, it had been a horrific sight—but because she wanted heroin so badly at that moment that just the thought of it, of someone other than herself yelling about it made her fingertips tingle and her heart race.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Alice Dehaust was trembling on the final stair leading up to the loft, staring into the face of the man she had spent last night with—or the night before, or the night before that; the days had so melded together in this strange, circular week that she did not know. It was hard to keep track of time, what with the power being out and the snow continually either falling or blowing; one day eked into the next like runny paint on a white canvas—but the paint was white, too, all of it, completely white, like snow. But she had no doubt that this was the man—the same man that she had spent the night with, but who’d been gone before she had awoken.

  “You like to do drugs too.”

  “Yeah.”

  Had he said ‘like’ or ‘liked’?

  Alice had almost completely forgotten about the man, and with it had gone her guilt of being unfaithful to Deputy Coggins and about relapsing despite her father giving her chance after chance.

  How is it possible? she wondered, staring into the photograph.

  But she knew how; it was possible because of the voice on the wind. It was possible because the deer, bears, wolves, and dogs had come—and gone—this way. It was possible because of Come—it was possible because of that fucking voice that they all heard, but were terrified to acknowledge. The storm had uprooted something ancient in Askergan County, something inherently and undeniably evil.

  A deep, racking shudder ran through her with such intensity that it broke the spell. She stumbled up the final step, suddenly needing the railing for balance, and hurried toward the partly opened door nearest the landing.

  She was dreading the smell—if it smelled anything like the other bathroom, she would surely vomit—but when Alice opened the door to the room and then quickly made her way to the ensuite bathroom, she was struck with a surprisingly floral odor. Despite the urge to pee, instead of going to the toilet, she went straight for the medicine cabinet, surprised to find it half open. She tore voraciously through the contents, mumbling various curses with every non-opioid bottle or container she found. There was toothpaste, a bottle of mouthwash, some Band-Aids, a half empty bottle of erythromycin, and about eight or ten individual packages of dental floss.

  “Who needs so much damn fucking dental floss?” she shouted angrily before sweeping her hand over the top shelf, not caring when a nail file and set of nail clippers clattered loudly into the porcelain sink.

  Nothing—not even some Tylenol with codeine.

  An image of the young girl on the couch came to mind, her eyes half open and fluttering, moaning in pain.

  There has to be something stronger in here.

  Alice checked the lower shelves of the cabinet.

  “Fuck!”

  Her hands slammed down on the countertop.

  What am I doing? she wondered again, rubbing her forehead roughly with one hand.

  When Alice opened her eyes again, it was right there: an orange medicine bottle at the back of the sink beside the glass that held two toothbrushes—one green, one blue. Her rapid breathing returned as she reached out tentatively, like someone stranded in the desert seeing a pond and not knowing if it was a mirage. She was grinning, and her cheeks started to hurt with the intensity of it.

  I’m sick, she thought, but it was quickly followed by, But that’s why I need the pills.

  The lid was not on the container, and when she didn’t hear the familiar cha cha cha when she grabbed it, her smile faded.

  Inside was one lonely white tab, roughly twice the size of her birth control pills.

  She shook the container again, trying to force that pill to multiply, to divide, to proliferate. When that didn’t work, she turned her attention to the label: Clonazepam, 3 mg. Without hesitating, she put the container to her bottom lip and tilted it back, allowing the white pill to flop onto her tongue. Despite its chalky nature, it went down easily.

  Alice was about to toss the container into the sink when she saw another pill, identical to the one she had just swallowed, on the edge of the sink beside the glass of toothbrushes. Her smile returned, and she swallowed that one too. It tasted a bit like minty toothpaste, but that was no matter; actually, it helped it go down more smoothly. When she saw another pill on the top of the toilet, she swept it up and put it into the container.

  What the hell?

  There was another pill on the closed toilet seat. She picked it up and then dropped to her knees to see if she could find the cap to the container. Almost immediately, her grin became a full-fledged smile and her eyes began to glow. There were at least a half dozen pills—probably more—scattered around the base of the toilet and the edge of the sink. Alice snatched them up hungrily, putting them into the container one by one. Whether it was the pills taking effect—she hadn’t eaten in many hours—or just the soothing and familiar cha cha cha they made when they joined their friends, Alice did not know, but either way, the anxiety that had gripped her when she’d recognized the face of the man in the last photograph—what was his name? Something stupid, like Bull or Chino—started to subside. Even the chill that wrapped her bones seemed to warm.

  The final pill was stuck to a thick yellow-brown goo right at the base of the toilet.
Cautiously, she used her nails to grab it, careful not to touch the offending substance in the process. It was yellow, and there was a curly black hair stuck to the underside, the sight of it which her stomach curdle. Blowing on the pill just caused the short and curly to flap, almost as if it were waving at her mockingly: “Oh, hi there, Alice, I’m here to stay.”

  She threw it into the container with the others, shaking the contents so that this one buried itself out of sight.

  “Where’s the lid?”

  Then she saw it lying—thankfully—top-side down on the bathmat. After shuffling her body to the left, still on all fours, she reached for it and was about to stand when she saw one more pill—a single, solitary beacon—on the edge of the tub.

  What the hell happened here? Did someone play ‘Toss the Little Downers Around the Bathroom’?

  On a whim, she grabbed the frosted blue shower curtain with her free hand and flung it open. Then Alice screamed.

  4.

  Deputy Paul White Yawned and closed his eyes for a moment. Sometime later, he opened them again when the phone next to his ear rang loudly.

  Was I asleep?

  It was possible—hell, it was more than possible, it was likely. It even seemed a bit darker in the office, but this was probably just a figment of his imagination; after all—he checked his watch quickly—it was only six thirty.

  Going on fifty hours straight—Dana is paying me overtime for this, I don’t care what he says.

  He had slept in the office—over Christmas, no less—for the past two nights, trying to keep abreast of all these calls. Trying to keep things in order until Alice or Coggins or the sheriff came back.

  The phone rang again. Deputy White picked it up and cleared his throat.

  “Askergan County sheriff’s office,” he said, not liking the way his voice broke with the word ‘office’. If he hadn’t been asleep before, he should probably invest in some soon.

  “Paul? Why are you picking up the phones?”

  The deputy’s mind snapped into focus and he tilted forward, allowing the chair to straighten from its incline.

  “I, ugh, I—I—”

  “Paul,” the woman’s voice on the other end repeated, slowly and evenly, “don’t lie to me, Paul.”

  There was a pause, as if the woman were giving him a chance to weigh his options.

  “Why are you picking up the phones at the office? Where are Alice and Dana?”

  Paul was too tired to come up with an intricate set of excuses or lies.

  “They’re not here, Mrs. Drew,” he replied robotically.

  There was another pause as Mrs. Drew waited for him to elaborate. Although he was not in the frame of mind to lie, he didn’t feel up to regurgitating everything he knew, either; he didn’t want to make the woman worry unnecessarily. The idea of ‘unnecessarily’ stuck with him, though; was worry at this point really unnecessary? It had been nearly three full days since he had seen or heard from the sheriff, and about half that long since Coggins had left. It wasn’t like either of them to stay out of touch, but with the power out and cell phones—

  “Paul?”

  Even though the voice on the other end was as direct as it had been before, Deputy White detected concern in it, buried just below the surface. Not answering would be as bad as telling the truth, it seemed.

  “Paul? What’s going on over there?”

  Deputy White settled for the middle ground.

  “Power and phones are out everywhere east and north of the city center,” he offered. “Sheriff Drew went out just shortly before the real storm hit.”

  “When did the power go out?”

  Paul pushed a thick thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes.

  “Couple of days ago—depends on where.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What’s he been doing out there for a couple of days, Paul?”

  Deputy White sighed.

  “Helping Mrs. Wharfburn and the other residents, I imagine. Listen, Mrs. Drew, I’ve called all of the volunteers that could get out of their driveways. Most of them are either snowed in, or they are out on Main Street, trying to help the firefighters deal with an eight-car pileup.”

  There was a pause that went on for so long that Paul thought maybe Mrs. Drew’s phone line had also cut out.

  “Mrs. Drew? You still—”

  “And Alice? Where is Alice? Both of them missed Christmas dinner. Now I know that she was going to spend the holidays with her father, but they usually stop by, if nothing else but to—”

  “She’s not feeling well,” White lied. “She called in sick on Christmas Eve, then got snowed in.”

  Paul quickly transitioned to talking about the current state of the roads, trying to circumvent any questions about the lie before they were even asked.

  Mrs. Drew was having none of it.

  “When’s the last time you heard from her?”

  “Christmas Eve,” Paul repeated, then he added, “I contacted both Darborough and Pekinish Counties to get some help out here, but of course they just replied by asking us for help. It’s going to be a few more days before things settle back to normal.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, maybe normal is a little optimistic. A few days at least until the roads are cleared and we can figure out the full extent of the damage.”

  Mrs. Drew replied as if she hadn’t heard a word Deputy White had said.

  “The staff over at the Quaint Quarry called: Elmira Coggins said that Bradley didn’t get out to her place for Christmas dinner. First time in nearly a decade.”

  Of course this Christmas of all Christmases was the one Coggins’ demented mother would remember.

  Fuck. Why would they call the sheriff’s wife… or is it ex-wife? Paul could never navigate his boss’ complex family relationships.

  “Like I said, Mrs. Drew, phones are out everywhere east of city hall; north is a disaster. Cell phones and radios are out, too.”

  White looked skyward, knowing that his weak attempt to circumvent her questions was an utter failure.

  “How is your power situation? Some people out in your neck of the woods are without power as well, and you never know—”

  “I’m coming down there,” Mrs. Drew said, catching Deputy White by surprise.

  “Umm, I don’t think that—”

  But this time when she didn’t respond, the line was definitely dead.

  She was on her way, Deputy Paul White knew, and he had no idea what he was going to say to her once she arrived.

  Please come back, Sheriff. Please.

  5.

  Oxford Couldn’t Breathe. It was as if someone or something was sitting on his chest, flattening his lungs so that the two sides kissed and could no longer inflate.

  Even though he had turned away long before Jared, a glimpse, a mere shimmer of light illuminating what that thing was doing to the naked man with the twisted knee, was enough to nearly break him.

  Oxford crawled into the farthest recesses of the broom closet and buried his head between his knees, his palms pressed so tightly against his ears that his wrists and temples hurt. Then, inexplicably, only moments after the man started moaning, he found himself moaning along with him, a dull, monotonous sound that he was only subconsciously aware was coming from him. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Please go away. Make it stop—go away.

  When the man’s moans eventually stopped, Oxford somehow mustered the courage to peel his hands away from his ears. Then he reached for his chest, fearing that he was suffocating, all the while his own moaning continuing on and on.

  What the fuck is that thing?

  Come

  It wanted us to come here—to unburden us of our goddamn skin and devour us whole.

  Oxford grabbed clumsily at the zipper of his second coat, and eventually, when the pins and needles left his fingers, he managed to pull it down a quarter of the way. Something fell out and landed on his knees with a soft plop. Oxfo
rd opened his eyes and stared at the object, his breathing all of a sudden coming more easily now, the pain in his chest not quite gone, but definitely subsiding.

  Yes, he thought, his mind racing, trying to grasp at wisps of reality that seemed to be floating by in the noxious smell that continued to invade the closet.

  Yes, yes—this isn’t real. I can make it go away. I can make this fictional reality disappear.

  A shout from Jared, so loud and so clear, and yet seemingly so far away and murky like words spoken underwater, snapped him back to his jumbled reality.

  “Run!”

  A single word, so benign on its own, but in this context it held so much weight, so much power—and it was all wrong.

  Who should run? Oxford thought absently. Surely not the naked man who was being—

  He banished the idea from his head.

  No, Oxford, that’s impossible.

  But then he heard the word again.

  “Run!”

  Flashes of pink and green strips.

  No—no, no, no. Don’t run, don’t come here, don’t let it know where we are. Don’t give us away. Don’t give us away!

  Images of the wolf skin and Mrs. Wharfburn flashed in his mind.

  “No, not up here,” Oxford heard someone say, but he wasn’t sure if it had been him or his brother who had uttered those words.

  “Not up here. Outside, go outside.”

  Who the—?

  Someone suddenly grabbed his open jacket and Oxford, who was still moaning, screamed.

  “Let’s go,” a voice he barely recognized whispered gruffly, and then he felt the hand on his coat start to pull.

  It was Jared. It had to be Jared.

  Go where?

  But instead of arguing—he was too weak, too confused to argue—Oxford allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, and a second later he was on the move. He felt something bang off his knee with the first stride, but the sensation barely registered.