The thing that hung suspended in front of Wally’s slack-jawed face looked vaguely human—that is to say it had a skull and two bony arms, but that was where all resemblance to a once living person ended. A pair of wings—leathery, tattered, and black—sprouted from its back. They were somehow firmly attached despite the lack of viable flesh there, and they flapped steadily, the resultant breeze stirring up scraps of the ruined carpet. The bottom half of this loathsome creature was also skeletal, but certainly not human; a pair of fleshless cow’s legs made sluggish running motions in mid-air as the steadily flapping wings held the creature aloft. The bony jaw opened, laughing without sound, and bits of spider web and dried skin fluttered in its empty eye sockets. The dry finger bones rattled, making a sound like dice in a cup, as the creature’s hands shot forward, took Wally by the throat and pulled him back down through the hole in the floor.
Out in the deserted living room, the turntable on Wally’s stereo system began to spin by itself, and a record dropped from the spindle. The tone arm clicked into place, the stylus found its mark, and bright, bubbly disco music poured from the speakers as The Disco King was dragged into the darkest depths of the earth.
***
“Johnathan! Get your little ass out here and take out this damn garbage!”
His mother’s voice had that fuzzy edge to it again, and John knew it was not going to be a pleasant evening. She always got like this when she drank, something she’d been doing since early that afternoon. He was surprised she had been able to drive the big orange moving truck sitting in the driveway. “Hang on, I’ll be there in a minute!” John called back. He scratched the healing cigarette burn on his arm as he surveyed his new room.
A couple of girls had lived in this room before, or so he had been told, and he couldn’t wait until all the girl-smell was finally gone. Something weird had happened to the family that used to live here; the step-father had disappeared or something like that, and the girls had to go live with their grandma. That’s what his mom said, anyway. But none of that stuff mattered to John. What did matter was the cool thing he had just found in the closet. He couldn’t wait to play with it.
“Johnathan! You got about ten seconds to get out here and take out this garbage, or I’m gonna beat you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week!”
The Ouija Board he had found in the closet lay on his bare mattress, and John gasped in surprise when the planchette started to move by itself and spelled out some words.
NOT WORRY ARNOLD HELP
SLAYER
By Joseph A. Coley
The squeal of a guitar fades in and out; rain and thunder pound the background. The wail of the dying chord slowly gives way and the symphony of bass pedal, cymbals, and a crunching riff combine. The crescendo hits and the song blasts out of the speakers like a machine gun. The sound breaks loose, chugging the headbanging riff of Raining Blood.
Deejay Jeff Kerry kicked back in his spacious booth and put his feet up. The forty-year-old metalhead stretched out his left hand and chugged his right hand up and down, jamming his personal air guitar rendition of the Slayer classic blasting through his speakers. Jeff loved his job, and buying the radio station in the relatively small town of Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina was the best thing he did with the money he’d won.
He oftentimes lamented his choice of residence on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, mostly because of the limited number of listeners he encountered, but it didn't sway him from staying. His lone regular caller was an elderly Vietnam Vet named Reggie. Reggie wasn’t all there, but it made for interesting banter in between runs of Judas Priest and Black Sabbath. The islands had more than their fair share of eccentric inhabitants, and Reggie was no exception.
Jeff was a bona-fide multimillionaire, but looking at him the average person would never suspect it. The scraggly, long beard that he kept along with his shaved head was reminiscent of his favorite guitarist, Kerry King. Kerry King would often make an acronym of his name as “KFK” for “Kerry Fuckin’ King” and Jeff took pride in his own moniker. The name he came up with for himself was “JFK,” and not for the late president. “Jeff Fuckin’ Kerry” was what he preferred. His nickname worked quite well with the nightly metal block of songs that he did from 7 p.m. to midnight.
Like a bullet in the back of your head! It’s time for JFK’s brain-splattering Chunk of Metal!
It was a tagline that couldn’t miss.
Jeff chugged away at the riff as the carpal-tunnel-inducing solo signified the end of the song. He popped forward in his chair and grabbed the mic, ready to introduce his next selection for the night.
“For all you young rockers out there that think Asking Alexandria is metal, I am here to educate you! That was Slayer with the 1986 classic Raining Blood.” Jeff growled out the “Slayer” part of the introduction and cued up his next couple of songs. “Coming up next, we have Mandatory Metallica Hour followed by Megadeth, and some old-school Iron Maiden. Stick around for JFK’s brain-splattering Chunk of Metal, here on 96.6 on your FM dial–Kill Devil Hills’ music for the masses!”
Jeff selected the next several songs for Mandatory Metallica Hour and started the playlist. The Viking-like chant of Metallica’s “The Frayed Ends of Sanity” signaled the beginning of his much-needed break. He needed a stretch and a cigarette. As much as he loved his job, his butt got sore from sitting so long, and nicotine was calling his name.
Jeff spun his chair around and got up, grabbing his pack of Marlboros off the console as he did. He hated the fact that he couldn’t smoke in the booth, even though he owned the whole damn thing. The smoke might damage the equipment and even though he had an ample supply of cash, he didn't like wasting it. He grabbed the cinder block from just outside the exit and propped it open, Metallica carrying on in the background.
The end of Jeff’s cigarette glowed as he took a long drag and listened to the world around him. The steady crashing of the waves and roar of water relaxed even the most hectic of nerves, and it did so with him. He leaned his head back against the metal building and breathed in the salty air. It was warm June night and another day in paradise for Jeff Kerry.
Nevertheless, even paradise has laws.
Jeff smiled as he saw the car pull up to the back of the station like it had so many times before. He motioned for the driver to get out and come towards the back door. He let out the last lungful of his favorite addictive carcinogen and flipped the butt into the gravels. Jeff pulled a $20 bill out and handed it to the man in exchange for his stash.
“You know the Sheriff would have my ass if they found out I make special trips out here just for you,” the main said, handing Jeff a brown-paper bag. “That shit is gonna kill you faster’n those Marlboros will, by the way.”
Jeff opened the bag and took a deep inhale. The smell was intoxicating. Jeff looked back to his friend and smiled. “Yeah, but this shit is delicious! I don’t give a shit if eatin’ one takes a day off my life or not!”
The man in the tan uniform laughed and rested his hands on his duty belt. He was Deputy Gabriel Cairns of the Dare County Sheriff’s Office, or Gabe for short. He and Jeff made quite the pair. The clean-cut thirty-three-year-old Iraq War Veteran and the forty-year-old millionaire metalhead were the purest definition of the term odd couple. Gabe became introduced to Jeff after Jeff’s first night in North Carolina got a little out of hand and he ended up a little too drunk. Jeff wandered out into traffic and Gabe nearly ran him over. Gabe knew of the crazy metalhead that had won the lottery and taken over 96.6 FM to open it back up, but he didn't expect to meet him the way he did. Gabe went easy on him and gave him a ride back to his beach house. On the ride out, he connected with Jeff about music, women, and life in general. The past year they became inseparable friends.
Gabe made special trips out to the edge of town on a regular basis to bring Gabe food, smokes, or whatever the DJ called for. It gave both men a few minutes to relax and share a cigarette, a story, or both. Jeff motioned for Gabe
to come inside.
“So how is Dare County’s long arm of the law doin’ tonight?” Jeff sat his double-stacked burger and large fries down beside the console. He gestured for Gabe to have a seat. Gabe obliged, shifting his duty belt in the process.
“Ah, same old, same old. Had a couple calls for some homeless guy assaulting tourists, but other than that, nothin’ much.”
“Homeless guy? I didn't think we had much of a homeless problem around here. What’d y’all do to him?”
Gabe leaned back in the chair and put his hands on top of his head. “Couldn’t do anything. The guy had left the scene by the time we got there, and we searched around for a while and didn't come up with anything. Can you believe the crazy bastard actually took a bite out of one of ‘em?”
Jeff chomped down on a large bite of double cheeseburger and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bit em? What the hell, dude?” Jeff swallowed the bite and set the burger back down. “Hurt em bad?”
“Nah just sent em over to the Urgent Care for a tetanus shot. Rescue squad bandaged ‘em up and sent ‘em on their way,” Gabe leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “Weird thing about it was that they said he was gettin’ violent with ‘em, tryin’ to take a bite out of the guy on purpose. Beats the shit outta me.”
“Ah, crazy people and bad drivers are the reason you got job security, brother. If it wasn’t for them, then you’d have to come and work for me.” Jeff grinned slyly as he mockingly offered Gabe a job.
“Shit, I just might here before long. Amanda wants all kinds of shit for the wedding, and I just can’t work enough overtime here lately. Women and their weddings, man. It’s gonna be the death of me,” Gabe laughed.
“Dude, if you need the money …” Jeff trailed off.
Gabe held up his hand to stop Jeff. “It wouldn’t feel right for me, brother. I want to start this marriage out the right way, and borrowing money to get it started ain’t the right way to do it. Besides, I won’t have to go far for a honeymoon. She wants to go down to …” The crackle of Gabe’s shoulder mic interrupted him.
“DCC to 905. Deputy Cairns, are you 10-8?” DCC was short for Dare County Communications, the nerve center for the county’s 911 dispatch, and 10-8 was the 10-code for “in service.”
“905 to DCC, 10-4, whaddya have?”
“905, I need you to respond to Route 64 West in front of Food Lion. We have reports of a large number of assaults occurring in the parking lot, possibly gang-related. We have 907 and 900 en route as well. No reports of weapons.” The Food Lion was less than a mile away from the radio station, but Gabe bolted up and made his way to the door quickly.
“10-4, DCC, I’ll be en route,” Gabe replied over the radio. “Guess that’s my cue, Jeff. I’ll stop back by after I get off at eleven. Later, dude.”
“Later, man. And thanks for the burger!” Jeff hollered at Gabe as he went out the door, but he was already grabbing the door handle of his blue Chevy Impala police car. Jeff could see the blue LED lights turning on as Gabe roared out of the station’s driveway. Jeff kicked back and gnawed down another oversized bite of double cheeseburger, humming “Cheeseburger in Paradise” as he did.
He had nearly finished his late-evening meal when the toll-free line for the station rang. Jeff glanced down at his watch. It was 9:30. Time for his nightly call from Reggie. Reggie didn't like being on the air; his paranoia always got the best of him. He always thought that the government was listening in on his conversations. Jeff wasn’t entirely convinced that they weren’t, but he didn't want to give in to Reggie's delusions. Jeff picked up the ringing line.
“96.6, where the action never stops,” Jeff smiled as he answered.
“There’s a buncha goddamned zombies outside!”
“Bwahahahaha!” Jeff guffawed. “Reggie? You’ve been chuggin’ down Grandpa’s old cough medicine again, haven’t you?”
“Goddammit, Jeff, I ain't drunk! I heard some bangin’ around and shit, so I went outside. I was just about to go back in when I heard one of ‘em,” Reggie said, panting.
“A zombie, you mean?” Jeff stifled another laugh.
“Yeah, a damn zombie! I had to hit the sumbitch in the head four or five times before he quit movin,” Reggie said matter-of-factly.
The smile quickly left Jeff’s face. Had the old fart finally snapped? Or did he legitimately kill someone? “Reggie, do you swear that you just killed someone? Are they really there?”
“They as real as the blood, guts, and brain shit that’re all over my boots right now. Is that cop friend of yours there? Might wanna send him out here,” Reggie again stated very to-the-point.
“Gabe just left for some gang problem in front of Food Lion. He said he'd stop by after work …”
“Call him up and get his ass over here! I don’t want this dead fucker stinkin’ up the place,” Reggie said bluntly.
I'm sure that’s not all that’s stinking up your place, Reggie, Jeff thought. “Hang on, lemme get him on the other line.” Jeff put Reggie on hold and dialed Gabe’s familiar cellphone number. After several rings, he picked up. “Hey Gabe, Reggie said …”
The wail of the siren in the background interrupted Jeff’s train of thought. Before he could get it back on track, Gabe started talking. “Hey! I'm on the way towards you; I’ll be outside in about thirty seconds!”
A cold shiver ran down Jeff’s spine. He had never heard Gabe’s voice sound so high-pitched and distraught. “What? Why? What the fuck’s goin’ on, Gabe?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of mass-hysteria or some shit is happening. I went to the Food Lion and people just started bum rushing my car. When I tried to get out, they attacked me. I got back in and hauled ass outta there. One of the other units got overran and I swear to God it looked like they were tearing him apart and eating him!”
“Are you fucking with me, Gabe? First I get Reggie sayin’ that he's killed a zombie and now …”
“I’d bet my paycheck that the old fucker is right! I ain't seen shit like this before, Jeff. The radio is goin’ apeshit with attacks all over the island, some kind of riot breaking out. People are killing each other all over the fuckin’ place! I'm pulling in right now. I've already called Amanda and told her to be ready to bug out. We can discuss it further in a minute.” The line went dead as Jeff heard Gabe pull up outside. Jeff switched the multi-line phone back over to Reggie.
“Reggie are you still …”
Jeff couldn’t make sense of the sound that emanated from the phone’s handset. Grunts, growls, and other unintelligible sounds were in the background; the crashing of glass and something breaking near the phone. It went on for a few seconds as Jeff strained to listen. The line suddenly went dead as Gabe burst into the station.
It had only been about ten minutes since Gabe had received the call from Dispatch, but he looked as if he had aged ten years. His face was covered in sweat, his hair was mussed, and his uniform unkempt. He looked like someone had just put him through the rinse cycle. His service weapon, a SIG P226, was clutched tightly in his right hand.
Jeff tossed the handset back on the hook and a flare of anger quickly rose up. “Gabe, what the fuck, man!”
“I really don’t know, Jeff. I saw a couple dozen more on my way in. If they aren’t zombies, then I’d really like to know what the hell they are. The radio was going crazy with reports of people fucking eating each other. It’s some kind out outbreak! We need to get the fuck out of here–now!”
“I really don’t know if I can wrap my mind around this one, dude. What if you're wrong? We go out there and start blasting people in the head, and they are gonna either kill us or lock us up and throw away the key.” Jeff’s anger quickly dissipated as he realized that he was just as scared and confused as Gabe was.
“Then we’ll go to the loony bin together. I don’t give a shit,” Gabe said, trying to alleviate some of the tension.
“In that case …” Jeff walked around the console and reached under it
. He procured a large black shotgun from under the desk. It was a Mossberg 590, complete with a mean-looking bayonet on the end of it. “I think this should do. I have six shells in it, five on the sidesaddle, and a box of twenty. I hope that’ll do for, well, whatever you’ve got in mind to do.”
“Get Amanda and get off the island, preferably using your big-ass boat. Sound like a plan?”
“Nah, sounds like shit, but what the hell else we gonna do?” Jeff laughed out as he racked the shotgun.
***
Gabe pulled into Reggie’s driveway and put the cruiser in park. He still wasn’t sure about Jeff’s suggestion. Reggie wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but Gabe had to admit that Jeff raised a good point. Reggie was a paranoid old veteran and, according to Jeff, had an ample stash of MREs and other survival equipment. Plus, it didn't feel right to leave the old guy behind. Jeff only had a few friends on the island; he might as well save the ones he could.
Gabe killed the engine and got out, and Jeff followed suit. The house they visited looked inconspicuous enough; it was just like any other beach house in the Outer Banks. Most of the beach houses weren’t much to look at on the outside, but gorgeous inside. The first floor was off the ground, essentially a garage. An old Dodge pickup was parked there. The house officially sat on the second and third floors. The outside of the house was made of old barn siding, giving it an older look than what it actually was. The house looked much nicer than they expected from Reggie. Both men stood with their respective doors open.
“Are you sure this is Reggie’s place? Looks pretty nice for an old ‘Nam vet,” Jeff asked.
“Yeah, I'm sure. I've picked ol’ Reggie up a couple of times for public intoxication. He usually wanders out in his yard and starts yellin’ at traffic. It’s his place, I'm sure.”
Happy Little Horrors Page 9
