by Adam Millard
“That was quick,” said the man. “Thanks for the lift, and all that.” He reached down and opened his suitcase.
“So I was right,” said Richard as the man pulled out an axe. “You are a butcher or something.”
“Or something,” said the man, and buried the axe in Richard Goodnite’s face.
*
Was that entirely necessary? asked the mask as Larry tied the dead kid’s bandana around the lower half of his face. I mean, he did give us a lift to the outskirts.
“Fifty feet from where he picked us up,” said Larry. “And anyway, he was asking too many questions.” He climbed out of the car, wiped the bloody axe on the passenger seat and dropped it back into his suitcase. “Anyway, what did I say about it needing to be a higher body count?”
You said it needed to be a higher body count.
“Exactly,” said Larry. “So with the massacre last night, about thirty people, add this one, makes…” Maths had never been his strong point.
Thirty-one, said the mask.
“Alright, smartarse,” said Larry. “Look, there’s a sign. It says…” Reading, like maths, had never been his strong point.
Welcome to Haddon, said the mask.
“Exactly. Welcome to Haddon,” said Larry. “Which means we’re on the outskirts, but as soon as we pass that sign, we’ll be on the inskirts, and one step closer to finding that bitch and her boyfriend.”
It was going to be a good day. He could smell it in the air.
18
The Mayor’s Office
“What’s that smell?” Amanda said.
“Sorry,” said Sister Geoff. “Side-effect of the methadone, unfortunately. You’re lucky my guts haven’t dropped completely.”
“Is somebody going to knock the fucking door,” Freddy said, pinning his nostrils together.
Amanda knocked the door, and a lovely big door it was, too. So big was this door that Amanda’s knock echoed. “What if he’s opening new businesses this morning?” she said. “Ninety-nine percent of a mayor’s job is cutting ribbons, did you know that?”
Sister Geoff, clearly not amused, hammered at the door with both fists. “Mayor Ketchum, open this door right now! I’ve got a party to go to this afternoon, you cun—”
The door slowly opened and there, with a bag of frozen peas pressed against the side of his head, stood Mayor Ketchum.
“What the fuck happened to you?” said the nun, barging past him and into the office. Amanda and Freddy followed in her slipstream.
“Had a little incident at the church,” Johnnie said.
“Dangerous places, churches,” said Sister Geoff. “You wouldn’t catch me in one, not on your nelly.”
“What’s all this about?” said the mayor.
“I’ll tell you what it’s about,” said the nun. “It’s about a masked madman coming to Haddon.”
“Oh, that,” said the mayor, slumping into his huge leather chair. “We don’t even know if he’s coming to Haddon.”
“Oh, we do,” said Freddy. “He’s already here, or at least on the outskirts.”
“And you are?” said the mayor, shaking his head and dropping the bag of frozen peas onto his desk. And a lovely big desk it was, too. So big was this desk that…well, you get the picture.
“Freddy Crowley,” said Freddy. “And this is Amanda Bateman. And she’s a rather sweary nun we’re subcontracting some work out to.”
The mayor frowned as he searched his memory for something just beyond his reach. Then his eyebrows arched, and he clicked his fingers three times. “I know you two,” he said. “You were the idiots that went up to Camp Diamond Creek last year and almost got your asses handed to you by that lunatic in a pig-mask. What was his name again? Pigfuck? Hogface?—”
“Pigface,” Amanda said.
“He died up there, didn’t he? Only they didn’t find any remains in the burnt debris, only the remains of those he’d slaughtered.” The mayor opened his desk drawer – and what a lovely desk drawer it was, too – and pulled out a newspaper. There, right on the front page, was an artist’s depiction of Larry ‘Pigface’ Travers. It wasn’t very good as the artist had never had a go at a pig before, but the essentials were all there. The headline read: Camp Crazy Slaughters Stereotypes, Burns to Death…Sequel Possible.
“What does this have to do with anything?” said the mayor, for cottoning on to the obvious had never been his strong point. He was good at maths and reading, though.
“Pigface didn’t die up at Diamond Creek,” Amanda said, in that deadly serious way actresses do when explaining essential plot-points.
“What do you mean he didn’t die up…the police report said there was an unmistakable smell of bacon in the air. It says right here in this article, a woman by the name of Betsy Krueger lopped off all his limbs, and then his head, before the cabin burned to the ground.”
“That’s all true,” Freddy said. “But do you remember what happened over in Chicago with that ginger doll?”
“Who, Chucky?” said the mayor. “Of course I do. Never heard such nonsense in my entire life.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Amanda said. “The little fucker kept coming back, no matter what happened to him, and we think the same thing is happening here.”
Johnnie buried his face in his hands. “Oh, this is why you’ve got a nun, isn’t it?” he said, voice muffled. “You think this Pigface character has come back from the dead.” The derision in his voice was palpable.
“That’s exactly what’s going on,” Freddy said. “And if we don’t stop him, he’s going to come down on this shitty city of yours like a ton of bricks.” For dramatic effect, Freddy slammed both fists down on the desk. The mayor glowered at him for doing so, and he quickly peeled his hands away, apologising profusely.
“Look, kids, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking or injecting, or if you’ve just got some sort of weird STD, but I find it hard to believe that a man who was dismembered and burnt to death a year ago has come back to life and is on his way to Haddon as we speak.”
As if on cue, Amanda’s eyes rolled back into her head. She made a low thrumming sound in her throat.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked the mayor.
“I know. Fucking weird innit?” added Sister Geoff.
“Somehow, we don’t know how, she’s connected to Pigface’s mind.”
“What? Like Penn and Teller?” The mayor watched as Amanda swayed unsteadily back and forth.
“Who?” Freddy said.
“Couple of wankers from Vegas,” said the mayor.
“Oh, well in that case, nothing like Penn and Teller. She’s somehow tuned into him, as if part of his mind imprinted on hers when he reanimated.”
“Assume I believe you for a minute,” said the mayor, “and assume I’m not going to report all three of you to the police for partaking in illicit substances – I know Sister Geoff’s got past form.”
“I’m off it now,” the nun said. “Apart from the weed, the methadone, the booze, and the miaow miaow, I’m as clean as a whistle.” She looked ever so proud of herself, and rightfully so. No-one else in the room was.
“So let’s say I believe that this madman, this Pigface, has returned from the grave and has decided to lay waste to our fair city—
“Bit of an exaggeration,” Sister Geoff said. “It’s a shithole.”
“Stop interrupting when the mayor’s trying to get to a point,” Freddy said. He didn’t care if the nun had his uncle’s shotgun. She was liable to blow her own bollocks off trying to retrieve it from her tunic.
“What are we supposed to do about it?” the mayor finished. “And how long is she going to be like that?” he said, pointing at Amanda. “I’ve got a RadioShack to open in half an hour.”
“She’ll be out of it in a minute, hopefully with something we can use. You see, Mister Mayor—”
“Call me Johnnie.”
“You see, Johnnie—”
“I’ve changed my mi
nd,” said the mayor. “Call me Mister Ketchum.”
I’ll call you a fucking ambulance in a minute, Freddy thought. “We’re of the mind that Pigface’s soul can be, what’s the word…?”
“Buggered?” said the nun.
“Deported,” Freddy said, “from its vessel. All we need to do is capture him, tie him up, and let Sister Geoff go to town on him with her Bible and whatnot.”
“You’re talking about an exorcism,” said the mayor.
“If you want to put it like that,” Freddy said.
“You might want to get your white-eyed friend checked out while you’re at it.” Johnnie motioned to Amanda, who was muttering something incomprehensible under her breath. “Splash a bit of holy water on the both of them.”
Freddy hadn’t thought about what would happen to Amanda once Pigface was out of the picture. What if, in killing the lunatic, part of Amanda died, too? What if she ended up cabbaged, like Stephen Hawking or that ginger one out of Girls Aloud? What if—
“Aye aye,” the mayor said. “Looks like she’s coming round. And not a moment too soon. Did I tell you I had a—”
“RadioShack to open in half an hour,” said Sister Geoff. “Glad to see you’ve got your priorities in order, Johnnie.” She added extra emphasis to his name, knowing full well it would royally piss him off.
“He’s here,” Amanda said, rubbing at her eyes as if a honeybee had just wanked polled all over her face. “He’s in the city. I saw him walking toward…” She trailed off.
“Well this is awkward,” said Sister Geoff, poking and prodding Amanda’s arm. “I think she’s had one too many vacancies.”
“Will you stop bloody poking me?” Amanda said. “I was thinking.”
“What did you see, Amanda?” Freddy said.
“Lights. Flashing lights. Lots of them. I couldn’t make it out clearly through the eyeholes of his mask, but I think I’ve seen the place before.”
“Where?” said Freddy.
“The arcade,” Amanda said, and then with a bit more oomph. “The arcade! He’s heading toward the arcade!”
“I guess he’s heading toward the arcade,” Sister Geoff said, pulling the mayor to his feet.
“Now hang on a jeffing minute,” the mayor said. “I’m not chasing some masked maniac halfway around the city. That’s what the police are for.”
“Haven’t you been listening to a damn word we’ve been saying?” Freddy said, surprised at the tone of his own voice. “The police can’t stop him. At best they can slow him down. Without a nun, they’re fucked.”
“I’ve never felt so wanted in my entire life,” Sister Geoff said, winking at Freddy, who vomited a little in his mouth.
“You send cops after him, then…then you’re going to be burying a lot of cops at the end of the week, and I’m pretty sure those big flags you drape over their coffins aren’t cheap. Think about all the money you’ll be saving.”
The mayor considered her words. “Okay, but let it be known that I’m only doing it for the flags, and if the shit hits the fan, and you kids end up with your heads on backwards or not on at all, then I won’t be held responsible.”
“Fair enough,” Amanda said. “Now can we get over to Armand’s before it’s too late?”
But part of her knew it already would be.
19
Armand’s Arcade
Larry stepped in off the street and glanced about the place. Everywhere he looked there were flashing lights. It was a good job he wasn’t epileptic; he’d have been on the carpet, doing the worm-dance. Music, loud and distracting, assaulted him from all directions. Every now and then, an 8-bit bleep would surprise him. As a child of the woods, he had never seen such craziness, such garishness, such unadulterated filth. Young people stood in front of flashing machines, bashing at buttons with both hands. In the middle of the room, a pair of kids bashed a disc back and forth with hovercraft paddles. Beyond them, a man sat in a wire cage, as if he was afraid of being pelted with bottles.
She’s not here, said the mask. We’d be better off…what are you doing?
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Larry said.
It looks like you’re taking your axe out, said the mask.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Put it away before somebody sees it, said the mask.
“I want them to see it,” said Larry, placing his suitcase against the wall. “Not only do I want them to see it, but I want them to feel it.”
How is that keeping a low profile? asked the mask.
“It really isn’t,” Larry replied. “I’m a slasher, not some clandestine serial killer. Slashers don’t concern themselves with such things a low profiles. When that big bastard with the hockey mask took Manhattan a few years back, did he sneak around in the shadows, keeping a low profile? No, because he was a slasher, and slashers don’t particularly care if they’re spotted out in the wild.”
“Excuse me,” echoed a voice. It seemed to come from all around. It took Larry a few moments to realise the voice belonged to the man in the cage, who was speaking into some sort of plastic handset. “No axes allowed. If you want to come and play the machines, you’re going to have to leave your axe at the door.”
We should go, the mask opined.
All eyes were now on Larry, though only briefly. These kids were too caught up in their videogames to care if someone had an axe.
“Buddy, I’m not going to tell you twice,” said the man behind the wire mesh. “You either leave the axe at the door, or you find another arcade to break the rules in.
Larry reached up and removed the hood and scarf which had been concealing his face. His grin was so broad, it met somewhere at the back of his head.
“Jeeeeeesus Ch…what the fuck is wrong with you, bro?” said the caged man, clearly perturbed by this new development. It was almost as if he’d never seen a maniac in a pig mask wielding an axe before.
Oh dear, said the mask.
“Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” said Larry. He hobbled forward a few feet, bringing the axe down on some kid in a baseball cap. As the kid’s head split in two, the words GAME OVER flashed up on the screen in front of him, proving once again that synchronicity was everywhere.
Larry pulled the axe out and swung back toward the door, where a set of identical twins (or a glitch in the Matrix) were making good their escape. As soon as they realised their path was blocked, they cowered back against the wall.
“Don’t kill us,” said the one on the left.
“Please!” gasped the one on the right.
“We’ve got so much to give!” they said in unison, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, for there was nothing more terrifying than identical twins. Larry swung the axe down, embedding it in the plastered wall. The doppelgangers looked up at it, fear in their eyes, and were still looking at it when Larry grabbed their heads in his huge hands and slammed them together as hard as he could. Eyes and teeth flew everywhere. For fuck’s sake, they even gargled in harmony…
A loud bang echoed about the place, and Larry’s right shoulder seemed to explode. He released the twins’ heads and they slumped to the ground. Turning, he quickly realised where the bang had come from. Standing there, out of his cage, was the man, the proprietor, Armand – though Larry didn’t know that. In his tremulous hands he held a shotgun; its barrels smoking. He looked terribly nervous, did Armand.
“Don’t you move, asshole,” said Armand. “The cops are on their way.”
See, said the mask. This is why low profiles exist, and if I remember correctly, it didn’t end terribly well for the hockey-mask guy over in Manhattan, and you’re hardly him, are you? I mean, you’re twice as old as he was—
“I don’t think age matters once you’re dead,” said Larry. “Anyway, shut up for a minute. Things are about to get very interesting.”
“Who the fuck are you talking to, man?” Armand said, scanning the surrounding area. He saw kids – his customers – cowering everywhere he l
ooked, and he wanted to tell them all to run away as fast as they could, but he had control of the situation now, and it wasn’t good business telling your punters to scarper, especially when you had the upper hand. “And who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here and chopping up my clientele?” He pulled the trigger again. Larry’s left shoulder exploded in a cloud of blood and bone, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn’t hurt, not at all, not even a little sting, nosiree…
The man, Armand, must have been expecting Larry to drop to his knees, to start begging for mercy, and please, whatever you do, tell the police he was remorseful for what he had done. When none of that happened, Armand’s expression dropped like a lead balloon, and he began fumbling nervously into his pocket, no doubt to replenish the spent shells in his shotgun. “You’re not r-right, man,” said Armand, walking slowly backwards but keeping the useless shotgun trained on Larry.
Whatever gave him that idea? said the mask. Will you just finish him so we can get the fuck out of here? I don’t hear sirens, but that doesn’t mean the pigs…sorry, the cops aren’t on their way…
Larry turned and pulled his axe from the wall. Plaster rained down on the squashed twins below. Armand was still trying to load his shotgun when Larry threw the axe. There was a meaty thump as the blade embedded in Armand’s chest, and then he was flying backwards, his face contorted with shock, wondering how very strange it was that a day which had started off okay had taken a remarkable turn for the worse. He clattered against the cage and slumped to the carpet, blood spewing slowly from the wide gash in his chest.
The kids hiding behind pool tables and arcade machines collectively inhaled. Their hero was dead, butchered in the most beastly manner. At least three of them, however, were already eyeing up the position, and would – should they survive the next few minutes – pop off home and begin work on their CVs.
In the distance, sirens wailed.
That sound means we have to go now, said the mask.
Larry walked slowly across the room, retrieved his axe from the proprietor’s still-twitching corpse, before leaving the arcade in a much worse state than when he’d arrived.
