Jack Kilborn

by Afraid (lit)

  Then, abruptly, it stopped. When Bernie opened his eyes he was no longer grinning.

  “Charge,” he said.

  Streng had no idea what that meant, but Bernie stared straight ahead and didn’t say anything else.

  “Charge what?” Streng asked.

  “Charge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Bernie’s mouth began to move. But he wasn’t talking. He was chewing.

  When the blood began to leak out, Streng realized Bernie was chewing his own tongue.

  Someone knocked on Streng’s window, startling the hell out of him. He turned and saw Erwin standing there. Streng sought the handle and rolled down the window.

  “Josh and Fran—that’s the woman from the diner—they saved the boy.”

  “And Mrs. Teller?”

  Erwin shook his head. Streng pursed his lips. While he’d been screwing around with the car, the old woman had died. Could he have done anything to prevent it? How many people had died so far on his shift?

  Streng pushed the thoughts away. Guilt later. Right now he had things to take care of.

  “Is he okay?” Streng asked.

  “Josh wants to take the boy and Fran to the doctor. But I want to go to the junior high and find Jessie Lee. Olen wants to go, too, because of the lottery.”

  Streng considered his next step. He needed to see a doctor, as well. The throb in his kidney hadn’t abated, and the sweat on his forehead spoke of a fever. The nearest hospital was in Shell Lake, a forty-minute drive from here. But that lottery business smelled funny, especially with everything else going on. Could it be connected somehow? Then there was the matter of what to do with Bernie.

  “Help me put him in the Honey Wagon,” he told Erwin.

  Erwin studied his shoes. Streng understood.

  “This is a very bad man, son. One who tried to burn your face off. I would have messed him up, too, given the chance.”

  Erwin nodded, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to touch Bernie again and made an extra effort not to look at him. Streng had a squeamish moment, removing his belt from Bernie’s legs, but the killer just sat there, silently chewing his tongue. He remained compliant as they walked him to Olen’s truck, allowing himself to be buckled into the back seat.

  Streng called for Olen, who stopped spraying the burning house with sewage and set upon rolling up his hose. Josh, Fran, and young Duncan came around the side of the house, huddling close together. They were followed by a surprisingly fat dog, possibly a beagle. Streng approached Josh.

  “Head to the ER in Shell Lake. Take the Roadmaster. And tell as many people as you can about what’s happening here. The staties should be here soon, but I wouldn’t mind if the whole army showed up.”

  He handed Josh the keys.

  “How about you, Sheriff? You need a doctor.”

  “First I need to drop off this one.” He jerked his thumb at the cab. “I’m going to have Olen take me to Sal’s to get my Jeep and find my gun. Then our friend will go into the Safe Haven lockup.”

  Safe Haven didn’t have an official police station, but Streng kept an office in the Water Department building, and it had a small cell, mostly used for the occasional drunk and disorderly.

  “Could they still be at Sal’s?”

  “Don’t see why they would be. They’ve got other fish to fry.”

  Josh nodded, then extended a hand. “Be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  Streng shook it. The boy also held out his hand. Streng shook that, as well.

  “Thanks for coming to get us, Sheriff,” Duncan said. There were tear streaks on his dirty face, but his eyes shone clear and blue.

  “It’s my job, Duncan. You take care of Josh and your mother, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Streng didn’t know Fran well—he’d eaten at the diner only once and the meatloaf had given him fierce indigestion, making a return visit unlikely. But he knew what had happened to her and her husband. The whole county knew. The fact that she was able to get on with her life spoke volumes.

  Standing next to her, Streng sensed that inner strength, though he didn’t know how long it would last. Both Fran and her boy were black with soot, but she looked like she’d been shoveling coal in hell. As pressed for time as they all were, a quick debriefing still seemed necessary.

  “Fran, this might not be an appropriate question considering all that’s just happened, but are you okay?”

  “The man, the one who attacked Duncan, he dresses like a man who attacked me at the diner. His name is Taylor. He … killed Al and then tried to kill me. Over an hour ago.”

  “You came from the diner?” Streng asked. “Is your car around here?”

  “I didn’t drive here. I … swam. The river. That’s where Erwin found me. I had to get to my son.”

  Streng raised an eyebrow. The river was over a mile away, and the diner was several miles farther.

  “How did you know Duncan was in danger?”

  “Taylor told me.” She narrowed her ice blue eyes. “He wanted to know where your brother Warren was.”

  Streng flinched. More people hurt, because of Wiley. But why were these commandos going after Fran and her son?

  The sheriff stared at Fran, then at Duncan, and he made the connection. A connection that Fran obviously wasn’t aware of. Suddenly some things made sense.

  “And you’ve never seen either of these men before? You don’t know why they’re looking for Warren?”

  Fran shook her head.

  “Or why they went after you?”

  “I only met your brother once, Sheriff. At my wedding. He crashed it, got drunk, and started a fight with my stepfather.”

  Streng frowned. One more reason to hold a grudge against Wiley.

  “You’re safe now. Josh will take you to the hospital. I’m … sorry this happened to you.”

  Fran hugged Duncan closer.

  “We’re survivors,” she said.

  Streng had no doubt of it.

  “When you get out of town the cell reception should improve. I’ll call you from a land line. I need to take your statement, Fran. Yours, too, Duncan.”

  “And Woof’s?” Duncan asked.

  At hearing his name, the dog cocked his head to the side.

  Streng bent down to pat the dog on the head, and the motion brought blinding pain. He still managed to say, “And Woof’s.”

  Josh herded them toward the car, but Fran stopped and turned back.

  “Sheriff, do you know what happened to the mayor?”

  Streng shook his head.

  “I saw him in the fire truck. He was naked and tied up.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see who was driving?”

  “No. I thought it was Josh at first, but obviously …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Get to the ER,” Streng said. “I’ll call later.”

  They have the mayor, too? Streng said to himself. What’s his link to Wiley?

  Streng had no idea, but he sure as hell was going to find out. Right after he took care of Bernie, he was going to have a long-overdue talk with brother Warren.

  But first, he needed a gun.

  It wouldn’t be wise to visit Wiley unarmed.

  When Jessie Lee Sloan was six years old, there was a boy in her first-grade class named Lester Paks. Lester was a textbook full of emotional and mental problems. He laughed and cried for no reason at all. He poked himself with tacks and bit at his fingernails until they bled. He ate markers, and crayons, and glue, and even whole schoolbooks, tearing out a page at a time and wadding it into his mouth while their teacher wasn’t looking.

  Jessie Lee sat next to him in class. She used to watch him, equally fascinated and repulsed, as he did these odd things. And she always left him alone, until the day Lester reached into his desk and took out Mr. Smiley, the classroom hamster. He put half of Mr. Smiley in his mouth and had already begun to chew when Jessie Lee screamed for t
he teacher.

  Lester got in trouble. Big trouble. They took him out of school, and rumors were he went to a hospital for crazy people. But he came back after a few weeks, and when he sat down at his desk and stared at Jessie Lee he looked meaner than anyone she’d ever seen.

  It happened at recess. Jessie Lee was playing four-square with her friends and Lester ran over, dropped to his knees, and bit her on the leg. Bit her and wouldn’t let go.

  She kicked. She yelled. Her friends, two teachers, and the principal all tried to pull Lester off. But he clamped down like a pit bull, grinding her calf between his teeth, his cheeks puffing out with her blood.

  They finally got him off by holding his nose until he passed out.

  He never came back to school.

  Jessie Lee needed one surgery to stop the bleeding, and two more to fix the scarring. She still retained the mark, a dimpled patch that never tanned.

  She didn’t have any deep psychological problems after the attack, other than not being able to watch vampire movies. There were occasional nightmares, and a heightened sense of caution around strange dogs, but overall she recovered well. After that experience, Jessie Lee felt like she could handle anything. After all, what could be worse?

  Now, hanging upside down by her knees over a stack of corpses in the boys’ locker room, she realized that there were things worse. That point hit home when she felt Taylor’s teeth on her knee.

  Jessie Lee hadn’t been able to scream because of hyperventilating. Now she couldn’t get in any air at all. The psycho’s hands kneaded her bare thighs, and she felt his lips and tongue suck hard on her flesh, making hickies. Jessie Lee struggled to shake free, but her foot remained caught by her gold Omega anklet.

  Hot breath, on her calf.

  Then a nip; something a lover might do.

  Every synapse in her brain seemed to fire at once, and Jessie Lee felt as if she would actually go insane with panic.

  It got worse. The mouth moved higher, teeth and stubble brushing against her skin. Settling on the knee, opening wide to engulf the entire kneecap.

  She knew what being bitten was like. How the skin broke and tore. How veins got pinched and severed. How muscle fiber felt while being gnawed.

  And that’s when Jessie Lee Sloan began to thrash. Violently. Her body clenched and folded like a switchblade, her head and shoulders twisted back and forth, and a massive surge of adrenaline allowed her to flex her legs. The wire broke, and her foot finally came loose.

  There was a millisecond of relief—Taylor’s mouth off her knee, her legs stretching out above her—and then she fell.

  Jessie Lee landed, face-first, in a pile of her dead friends and neighbors. But she didn’t stay on top, nor did she roll off the side. The corpses shifted to accommodate her weight, parted, and she began to sink into the middle.

  She flailed out her arms, trying to climb up, but struggling slicked her in blood and slippery fluids, making her slide down farther. Gory, lukewarm limbs poked her. Pale faces with rictus grins kissed her. More shifting, and a cadaver fell on top of Jessie Lee, sealing her in a decomposing human tomb. This fueled her hysteria, prompting more wiggling, advancing her descent. By the time she exerted enough self-control to stop squirming, Jessie Lee had burrowed halfway into the pile.

  It was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that she couldn’t see. The dead were stacked all around, smooshing Jessie Lee on all sides. Her face pressed against someone’s lacerated chest. Her right hand became stuck deep in a fatal neck wound. And the stench … death smelled like rotten carnations, an odor so powerful she tasted it on her tongue.

  Jessie Lee tried to twist around and force her head into open air. She shoved the body above her—a man she recognized from church. His midsection bent upward and his head tilted down. Blood dripped from his mouth onto Jessie Lee’s face. She craned her neck, turning away, and it trickled into her ear.

  The weight on her chest made it hard to breathe. Being bitten was horrible. Suffocating to death in a pile of corpses was even worse. Jessie Lee kicked out and the pile shifted again, pushing her face into someone’s urine-soaked crotch. Then, abruptly, bodies began to topple, and Jessie Lee rolled toward the back wall of the showers, smacking her head against the porcelain tile.

  A moment passed, the dead settling into new positions. Jessie Lee’s legs burned now that the circulation had returned, and the bump on her head brought fresh tears. She moved her hand up to rub it but stopped when she heard footsteps.

  Someone was in the shower.

  She stayed still, eyes peering through bent elbows and twisted legs, straining to see the entrance. No good; her view was blocked.

  Do I call for help? she thought. It might be someone from the gym, someone who could save her.

  Or it might be Taylor.

  Lowering her eyes, Jessie Lee examined her clothing and found herself drenched in gore. If she didn’t move she would look like just another corpse. He probably wouldn’t even notice her. She held her breath, waiting for Taylor to leave.

  “… help me …”

  The voice, coming from directly beneath her, made Jessie Lee gasp. She tilted her head and saw she was lying on top of Melody Montague, her elderly second-grade teacher. Less than an hour ago they’d been talking about the wedding.

  Jessie Lee stared as the slash in Mrs. Montague’s neck oozed blood. But the wound hadn’t affected her voice, because again the woman said, “Help.”

  And she said it louder this time.

  Jessie Lee glanced back at the entrance to the shower, then to Mrs. Montague.

  “Shh.” She touched her finger to Mrs. Montague’s lips. The old woman didn’t seem to notice.

  “Please someone help me.”

  Footsteps. Closer. Taylor, or whoever was in the shower room.

  “… help …”

  “I’ll help,” Jessie Lee whispered, “but you have to be quiet.”

  Mrs. Montague’s eyes stared out into space, wide and unfocused. Her chin trembled. She began to shake her head.

  Jessie Lee didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Montague was going to draw Taylor’s attention, and then he’d find them and kill them both. She willed her old teacher to stay still, to be quiet.

  “… help me …”

  The footsteps stopped on the other side of the pile. Through the tangle of bodies, Jessie Lee could see someone standing there.

  “… please …”

  Squeezing her eyes closed, Jessie Lee placed a hand over Mrs. Montague’s mouth. Mrs. Montague fought against her touch, so Jessie Lee pressed harder.

  She needs to be quiet, Jessie Lee said to herself. She needs to hush, or we’ll both die. Please hush, Mrs. Montague.

  Mrs. Montague moaned. Jessie Lee adjusted her hand to also cover Mrs. Montague’s nose.

  Please be quiet, please be quiet, please be quiet …

  In the shower, noise echoed. Jessie Lee held her own breath, held it along with Mrs. Montague, willing the footsteps to go away and leave them alone.

  The moment stretched until it was spider-web thin.

  Just a little longer, just a little longer, just …

  Mrs. Montague stopped struggling.

  Jessie Lee shook with effort not to breathe. Bright motes appeared before her eyes even though they were closed.

  The footsteps receded, out the shower entrance, back into the boys’ locker room.

  Jessie Lee sucked in a breath, then removed her hand from Mrs. Montague.

  Her teacher’s lifeless eyes stared, accusing.

  I … killed her.

  Jessie Lee told herself she didn’t have a choice. They both would have died if they’d been found. Plus, Mrs. Montague was practically dead anyway.

  Right?

  A sob erupted from Jessie Lee, a long, hard sob that gained in volume until it became a scream.

  She continued to scream until the footsteps came rushing back. And it turned out they didn’t belong to Taylor, after all.

  “Hello
, missy.”

  “Oh, please … please help me …”

  Jessie Lee reached for the figure over the wall of the dead.

  The figure reached back—with a stun gun.

  Josh pushed the Roadmaster to 50 mph, which was as fast as he dared on County Road JJ, the only road in and out of Safe Haven. Like many northern Wisconsin roads it boasted knots of turns and hills, all penned in by the woods. Deer leapt out of the tree line on a regular basis, and hitting one bigger than a hundred pounds could prove fatal to more than just the animal.

  Josh snatched a look sideways. Duncan and Fran sat in the front seat with him. Fran now wore jeans and a sweater, both too large for her, and her thick blond hair had been tied back with a bright red scrunchie. Duncan’s attire fit better—jeans and a T-shirt from a boy his age. The clothes were loaners from a neighbor down the street. They hadn’t been home, but Fran watched their house when they went on vacation and knew they kept a spare key under the doormat. She was sure they’d understand.

  Prior to dressing, Josh had bandaged Duncan’s leg wound. A pellet had stung him, leaving a bleeding welt. Josh didn’t think there were any lodged inside, but an x-ray would show for sure.

  Fran’s injuries were harder to dress, especially without anesthetic. That psychopath Taylor had bitten off one of her toes and chewed much of the skin off another. Josh cleaned the wounds, taped gauze around them, and recommended Fran leave her foot shoeless. Fran met him halfway; she wore borrowed open-toe sandals.

  Josh tried his cell again. Still no signal. He should be getting one soon, as he got closer to Shell Lake. They’d attempted to use the neighbor’s phone to call 911, but repeated attempts resulted only in a busy signal. It didn’t matter. Josh estimated they were ten minutes away from the hospital.

  Though the evening had dished up countless horrors for all of them, the mood in the car was upbeat. As if they were heading for a carnival, or on vacation, rather than to a hospital and the authorities. Josh guessed their spirits were high because each of them felt ridiculously lucky to be alive.

  “There’s Mystery Lake,” Duncan said, pointing as they passed. “Dad and I used to go there to catch bass. Do you know why it’s called Mystery Lake?”