Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  23.

  Graham Dekeyser wedged the crowbar between the window and the frame. Flecks of old white paint chipped away and reflected in the moonlight as they tumbled in the darkness like snowflakes. A quick twist of his wrist and the window opened a quarter of an inch without so much as a squeak.

  This is too easy, Graham thought.

  It was an unusually hot and quiet evening, and for a split second he debated pulling up his ski mask. At the last moment he decided against it, but not before taking a moment to scold himself for buying the thick wool mask.

  Why didn’t I get the nylon one, like in the movies?

  Problem was, on TV the nylon mask always made it look like the person’s nose was all squished, which would make breathing a difficult proposition for an asthmatic such as himself.

  But the wool mask was worse… it had to be worse. It was like burying his face in the fleece of an incontinent sheep and trying to breathe without gagging.

  Graham gulped air with his mouth and tried to distract himself by leveraging the crowbar. The window opened about three inches, more than wide enough to snake his gloved fingers in and pull it open almost all the way.

  Thank goodness for these old fashioned windows.

  He clicked on his flashlight and peered inside the home. The light bounced off a series of paintings bound by what looked like ornate, gold frames. The paintings themselves were a mystery to Graham—some sort of oily swirls, to his untrained eye—but he had seen enough to know that he had made a good choice in selecting the old, white Victorian to burgle this night on the basis of the frames alone.

  Thank goodness for old farts that don’t lock their windows.

  Graham placed a foot on the white brick wall and laid an elbow on the window sill with the intention of hoisting himself inside. But just as he was about to lift himself, he heard what sounded like someone stepping on a dry twig behind him.

  Collecting the flashlight in one hand and the crowbar in the other, he pulled himself from the window and spun around.

  The beam illuminated the dark forest that flanked the house—one of the other reasons why he had chosen this house—but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Squinting hard, he swung the flashlight back and forth across the trees.

  There was nothing there.

  His face twisting, Graham hooked the crowbar onto his belt—better keep it on me this time—and turned back to the window.

  A flex, a barely audible grunt, and he was inside the mothball smelling home.

  It was completely silent in the house, something that immediately put him on edge. He had been hoping for the hum of the air conditioner, a humidifier, anything to disguise his footsteps on the old floorboards.

  Oh well, here’s to hoping the old farts took their hearing-aids out.

  It wasn’t the ideal situation, that much even the inexperienced burglar that was Graham Dekeyser knew. But leaving now would be worse; leaving now would mean that he had chickened out. Leaving now would mean that he wouldn’t be able to upgrade the rims on his Firebird. Leaving now would mean he would still be a loser, a nobody. An asthmatic douchebag.

  Graham breathed heavily, once again annoyed at the way his hot, sweaty breath condensed on the inside of the wool mask.

  Then he took another step into the house.

  Even though this was the first house he had broken into, Graham was smart enough to know that the lower level held nothing of value to him; he was not interested in the television or VCR. No, his mission was to acquire only two things: money and jewelry.

  And money and jewlery were always kept in one place: the bedroom.

  I really hope they took their hearing aids out, he thought, dropping old farts from his vocabulary. His heart started to race as he slowly crept up the stairs.

  Partway to the top, he heard a crack that sounded eerily like the noise he had heard outside earlier. It was all he could do to ignore it.

  I’m losing it. Keep it together, G.

  Graham adjusted the crowbar that hung from his belt and quickly climbed the rest of the stairs, his worn sneakers not making so much as a scuffing noise as he made his way to the landing.

  There was a nightlight jammed into the socket near the bathroom, and although it emitted but a dim, pale yellow glow, it was enough illumination that Graham felt comfortable switching off the flashlight.

  The door closest to him opened to the bathroom; that much was apparent by the outdated paisley wallpaper that made him cringe.

  I hope their taste in jewelry is better than their taste in décor.

  He thought about that for a moment.

  Or maybe not. Gaudy jewelry is good—gaudy means money.

  Graham passed the bathroom in silence, making his way to the door that was partway closed at the end of the hallway. The recognizable sound of someone snoring from within was a relief; something to break the silent tension of the home.

  For some reason a calm fell over Graham, which was a welcomed feeling as this was the most dangerous part of the crime. He was but a small time crook—petty theft, forgery, small time drug dealing—and even though he had now extended his litany of crimes to include breaking and entering, the last thing he want to do was to hurt anyone. His plan was, and always had been, to flee if the homeowner woke up when he broke in. And running was one thing—the one thing—he was really, really good at.

  Another deep, moist breath, and he mustered the courage to open the bedroom door all the way with the back of his hand.

  As predicted, there were two individual humps on the bed wrapped in a floral duvet. Two individual lumps that rose and fell rhythmically every few seconds… two completely oblivious, sleeping individuals that were about to lose their jewelry and cash, if they had any.

  Graham’s searching eyes fell on the glass on the bedside table first, and he cringed: at the bottom of the murky liquid was a set of dentures.

  Well, they’re old—at least you got that one right, G.

  The second thing he saw was the jewelry box.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Graham Dekeyser is no douche… not anymore.

  Slowly easing the door wide, he stepped completely into the room, hesitating only long enough to make sure that the figures in the bed remained asleep. With that confirmed, he was encouraged to take a step inside.

  And then another.

  On his third step, he heard a sound and his chest tightened. The noise had come from the hallway behind him.

  Even before turning, Graham felt short of breath. His heartrate, already elevated, trebled.

  A dog! How could I have forgotten about the dog!

  His breaths digressed into wheezes, and he spun on his heels while at the same time fumbling with the crowbar that hung from his belt.

  Graham didn’t want to hurt anyone… or anything. But if a giant Doberman was on his heels, well…

  Something small passed in front of the nightlight, momentarily hiding its glow. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but he had seen enough to know that it was something small—something small and quick.

  Relieved that it was probably just a small toy dog, maybe a Chihuahua or a Pomeranian, his thoughts turned to something else.

  Please don’t bark.

  For a few, silent seconds, nothing happened, and Graham hoped that his luck had finally changed. Maybe the dog hadn’t seen him; maybe it had gone back to sleep somewhere at the other end of the hallway.

  What kind of—

  But then he heard the sound again, the same noise he had heard outside and then on the stairway: the strange, distinct cracking sound.

  What kind of—

  But again he was unable to complete the thought. A flurry of chitinous activity suddenly exploded through the bedroom doorway, catching him completely by surprise.

  His asthma kicking into high gear now, Graham had no choice but to pull the wool ski mask up over his head.

  It was a mistake; instead of fiddling with his mask, he should have been pulling ou
t the crowbar.

  A series of successive cracks later, a shadow launched itself through the air.

  Graham Dekesyer didn’t even react until after the baseball-sized object struck him square on the chin. He let out a startled yelp, and somewhere in the back of his mind he became aware of the fact that the bodies on the bed were stirring.

  But Graham had more pressing matters to deal with than the sound of old farts waking up.

  His flailing hands grasped at the thing on his face, his fingers prying desperately at the hard surface. It felt slick, but also cool as puffs of air shot from the surface.

  Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck—

  Before his fingers could gain any traction, the skin on the lower half of his face tightened as if his short beard was being twisted in a crank.

  “Who the hell…?”

  The words from the man in the bed were the last sounds Graham Dekeyser heard before the screaming started.

  24.

  “Hey, Sheriff, have you seen my keys anywhere?”

  The sheriff looked up from his desk with tired eyes. He had been at the station for a good twenty-four hours now, and dealing with Walter’s outbursts every twenty or so minutes had drained him of what little energy reserves he had left.

  “No,” he replied plainly, observing his deputy. “Haven’t seen them at all.”

  “And the Kent kid’s file? You take that?”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Weird, I left it right here, right on my desk…”

  Sheriff recalled the Lawrence girl, so insistent on meeting Deputy Coggins, but then rather quickly and unexpectedly simply agreeing to leave. And moments before that, the Griddle folder had been on Deputy Williams’ desk, only moments before Walter had…

  The sheriff stood so quickly that his chair toppled.

  “Andrew, check to see if your car is in the lot.”

  Deputy Williams looked at him.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Hurry, go check to see if your car is in the lot! Do it!”

  The seriousness of his words prompted the deputy to action. The man shot up and hurried down the hallway. Walter shouted something incoherent as he passed, but these insults went ignored.

  Please be there, the sheriff pleaded silently. The last thing he wanted was to have to arrest the girl for stealing a police car. Not a Lawrence girl, not after what they had been through.

  He heard the phone in the reception area ring and Mrs. Drew answered it.

  In a little more than twenty-four hours, all of Askergan County had seemed to have lost its mind, starting with the missing Wandry boy. And eventually he would have to deal with Tyler’s shithead father, who couldn’t stop yelling about some god damn insurance money.

  He drove his thumb and forefinger into his eyes again and closed them tightly.

  Where are you, Brad? Get the fuck back here!

  The door chimed as it opened. A moment later, it chimed again, but this time it was followed by Andrew’s curses and the sound of running feet.

  Mrs. Drew suddenly added her voice to this symphony of sound.

  “Sheriff! Grab the line, Sheriff! Something bad has happened out at Wellwood Elementary! Pick up! Pick up!”

  “My car’s gone, Sheriff! What the fuck—?”

  Walter’s cackle followed next, the grating sound echoing throughout the small police station.

  As a final crescendo, the radio on Sheriff White’s hip crackled loudly and he jumped.

  “Hello?” he demanded, removing his fingers from his eyes and squeezing the talk button.

  “Paul! Whitey, that you?”

  Brad. Thank God.

  “Brad, what’s going on? You need to get back here, shit is—”

  “Paul, get the fuck down to the armory and load up. They’re coming, man, they’re coming to town and you need to get the fuck ready.”

  What?

  Deputy Williams burst through the half door separating the reception area from the holding cell and their offices. As he sprinted into the office area, his face was white and covered in a sheen.

  “My car! Sheriff, my fucking car is missing!”

  “Sheriff! Pick up the phone! Wellwood Elementary!” Mrs. Drew hollered again from the front.

  So much was happening at once that the sheriff almost lost it.

  I’m not ready for this.

  It was Brad’s hysteria that brought him back.

  “Whitey! You need to get ready, get all the guns you have and get ready… they’re coming!”

  “Who’s coming, Brad? Who’s coming?”

  He was shouting now, standing at his desk and shouting into the phone while Deputy Williams desperately went through the drawers of his desk, pulling out papers and tossing them on to the floor.

  “Not who, Sheriff, what.”

  There was a short pause, during which Sheriff Paul White held his breath, his considerable chest expanding to an even more impressive size.

  “The crackers are coming, Sheriff. The crackers.”

  25.

  “Open the god damn door!” Coggins shouted as he continued to yank furiously on the handle.

  Jared reached into his pocket and tried to get his keys out while still juggling the two old-fashioned rifles, one slung over his shoulder and the other clutched in his hand.

  Deputy Coggins turned and aimed his pistol toward the house, his eyes widening in expectation.

  “Hurry the fuck up, Jared!”

  Jared finally pulled the keys from his pocket and opened the car door, throwing it so wide that it came whipping back again and smashed against his shoulder. He cried out and Coggins turned to him.

  “My door! Open my door!”

  The old Buick was parked on the gravel driveway off to one side of the house, giving Coggins a clear view of the throng of crackers that flowed out of the thin forest like a roiling white foam.

  He had been wrong; there weren’t hundreds of them, but thousands.

  Where the fuck are they all coming from?

  When they reached the back porch, some of them seamlessly turned toward the car like a school of fish while others clambered up the stairs and over the back porch, their legs cracking with every step as if someone were driving a paver over bubble wrap. The others would enter the house, Coggins knew, and pass through it before exiting through the front door.

  They were coming, and there was no stopping them.

  Jared finally reached over and flipped the lock to the passenger door and Coggins threw it wide.

  Despite the vehicle’s dilapidated appearance—Coggins’ fingers were covered with a layer of sap and other tree detritus from touching the roof—it started with a roar on the first try. Just as he was pulling himself inside the car, Coggins caught sight of a shape that looked like a barbecue tucked onto the back corner of the deck. It was covered in a black tarp, and as he watched, the crackers swarmed over it, making white polka dots on the dark fabric. Between their machinating bodies, he thought he could make out the familiar shape of a propane tank tucked beneath.

  “Does your barbecue have propane?” he yelled at Jared, hesitating before completely entering the car.

  He kept his eyes trained on the crackers that flowed out of the front of the house, spilling onto the lawn and merging with those that poured in from around the side.

  “What?” Jared screamed. His hand was on the lever beside the wheel, flexing, wanting to fire the car into reverse and get the fuck out of there, but he couldn’t because Coggins’ right leg was still firmly planted on the ground. “Barbecue? Get the fuck in here!”

  “Do you have a propane tank in your barbecue?” Coggins shouted again, aware that the first of the crackers were within jumping distance now.

  “Barbecue?” Jared’s voice was shrill, his eyes wide. “Barbecue? Why do you fucking want to know about the barbecue?”

  Coggins couldn’t wait any longer. He reached inside the car and grabbed the rifle off the seat. In one smooth mot
ion he rotated the rifle around and aimed at the area beneath the barbecue that was covered with a black tarp.

  “Just in case you were hungry for some seafood,” he muttered and then squeezed the trigger.

  The barbecue had a tank, and it was full.

  There was a dull, metallic thunk as the first round pierced the tank, followed by a hiss of gas releasing beneath the tarp. It was an odd sound, and yet it seemed to harmonize with the chitinous sound of the crackers’ movements.

  Coggins, surprised that the ancient rifle had actually fired let alone have true aim, reloaded and took aim again.

  An explosion erupted almost at the same time as the bark from Coggins’ rifle, blowing out the tarp and sending the barbecue flying at least six feet into the air. A billowing yellow-and-red cloud filled the atmosphere, showering Coggins in a wash of hot air and bright light. Squinting against the offending light, he jumped into the car and pulled the door closed.

  “Go!” he shouted at an awestruck Jared. He was acutely aware that his own expression matched his friends’; it seemed improbable—impossible even—that his shot would have been so perfectly placed and that the tarp had filled with just the right combination of gas and oxygen to explode. But why shouldn’t it work? Why on a day as fucked up as today, shouldn’t the most unlikely of shots work?

  Coggins shook his head.

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  When Jared didn’t react, he reached over and put his hand on top of the man’s hand on the gear shift. Then he pulled down, hard.

  Jared snapped to and slammed his foot on the gas pedal, spewing up an army of rocks and dirt that skittered across the thrumming shells of the closest crackers.

  Jared spun the car around, the rear wheels digging into the loose dirt by the side of the embankment that led down to the water below. Eventually the tires caught and the car shot forward. Coggins whipped his head around as they peeled down the dirt road, affording himself one more look at the carnage that was left in their wake.

  The entire back porch had been decimated, leaving in its wake a bubbling stew of white cracker corpses, as if someone had unleashed an uncensored barrage of white paintballs.