He was sweating and sat still for a moment, trying to catch his breath.
“I can’t believe this shit,” he said, and felt like crying. “You piece of shit!” he shouted, referring to the deer.
He tried the ignition again, but the car made no sound, just a dead clicking noise. The nose of the Jeep was buried into a wall of dirt and mud. He wouldn’t be able to lift the hood. If someone came from the other direction, going back toward Old Hartford, they wouldn’t be able to see him in time. He would have to leave the hazards on. He still had a ways to go before he reached the top of the hill.
He looked around. He could see nothing through the windows. All he could hear was the steady downpour. He beat his fists against the seat, then the steering wheel and finally stopped when he realized how badly he was hurting his hands.
“Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Why does this shit always happen to me!”
This kind of thing didn’t happen to him all the time, but Carrie liked to pretend it did. His ex-girlfriend, Miranda, said the same thing. He could be quite the little diva when he wanted to, a real drama queen. It was just a matter of time before he started putting on lipstick and high heels, she’d said.
Miranda had been the classic man-hater. She had more testosterone in her body than most men Carrie knew. Sure, he could be sensitive at times, but at least he wasn’t made of stone. When things got bad, like this, for example, he had a tendency to think about her, making him feel worse, and, of course, less manly.
“I always wondered why your mom named you Carrie,” she once told him. “Now I know.”
That had been one of many parting blows. She’d enjoyed that. He would never forget the smile on her face, either, when she’d turned and walked away, knowing she’d got the best of him.
He tried the Jeep again, but it was useless. The fucking deer had killed it. He wished he could find the stupid deer, so he could choke the ever-living shit of it. It was probably prancing around happily through the valley sticking its tongue out at him.
He looked over to where his laptop was sitting in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t have much of a choice. He was going to have to hoof it into town through the rain. That made him think about the umbrella he hadn’t grabbed. He had two, in fact, but they were just sitting in the entrance of his apartment.
“This is unbelievable,” he said, and felt like crying again.
He grabbed his phone and dialed the police station where Wally had called him. He had the number stored, but there wasn’t even a dial tone. He couldn’t get any service. When it rained, it poured, he thought, no pun intended. But it was true. The storm had wiped everything out.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, and realized how hungry he was suddenly. He should’ve grabbed a snack, but he hadn’t thought about that, either. He was operating on hardly any sleep and adrenaline, and it was cold outside.
He felt the tears eking into his eyeballs. He pounded on the seat, throwing a minor tantrum, and saw Miranda’s mocking smile. It wasn’t fair! It simply wasn’t fair! He saw her sashaying out of the room, turning and sticking her tongue out at him like the deer was probably doing.
Carrie grabbed the laptop. He didn’t want to leave it behind, and the neoprene case was waterproof. That would protect it.
Heaving the heaviest, most dramatic sigh he could, Carrie opened the door, and stepped out of the car.
~
“Hoofing it out here like a goddamn donkey in the middle of fucking Mayberry RFD. What the hell did I do to deserve this?”
He hadn’t done anything that he was aware, but he was already soaking wet and pissed off. His blood pressure was rising, and he was cold and tired. The excitement for the story had worn off considerably. His glasses were fogging up from the chill. It was a giant, soggy world out here, a big fucking mess. If he’d known this was how it was going to be, he would’ve stayed home in his cozy bed and listened to the rhythm of the falling fucking rain outside his stupid window.
It wasn’t one of Carrie Dewhurst’s more shining moments, and if Miranda could see him now, she’d be laughing her sashaying ass off. He was a pretty good journalist, a decent columnist, and he was young, still grasping at the bigger, higher paying world of global reads: Time, Newsweek, Foreign Affairs, maybe. He had big dreams. He had no doubt he could get there with a little luck, even if every other aspect of his life was a shambles.
He walked along Highway 48. Hoofing along, the rain pummeled him, so hard it actually hurt. Looking off to his right, the land dipped below to agricultural developments shimmering black under several feet of water. His eyes adjusted. It was not terribly difficult being on the road, but there wasn’t another driver, nor had anyone passed him in all this time. It was just he, the darkness, the thunder and lightning, the pouring rain, and the endless road.
“A goddamn nightmare, in other words,” he grumbled to himself.
The laptop dangled by his side, the strap slung over his shoulder. The water sluiced past his feet as he climbed the road, mixed with mud and soil, which he kept slipping on because, like a dolt, he’d worn his Italian shoes, which had about as much traction as a pair of skies. The more he stumbled and slipped, trying to catch his balance, the more he cursed and felt like crying.
But he kept walking, trying to reach the crest of the hill, which wasn’t far now. He took a step, slipped slightly in the muddy water, and came down hard on his right knee. Pain blossomed, and he slipped to one side. The laptop hit the ground hard, and he heard a distinct crack from within. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he’d just broken the screen.
“Goddamnit!” he shouted.
He sat down completely in the mud in the middle of the road, holding onto his knee and crying. Part of the laptop inside the case was moving more freely. He must have separated the keypad from the screen.
“Why do you hate meeee!” he cried, and couldn’t help weeping uncontrollably now. He saw Miranda smiling in his mind’s eye, and shouted as loud as he could, “SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING BIIIIIITCH!”
His glasses were getting fogged up from the chill again, and he took them off, wiping them as best he could, then slipped them back on. He had mud on his face. His knee was bellowing at him now, his pants torn, blood pouring down his leg, and he was cold and soaking wet. If a car came from the other side of the crest, he’d be killed instantly.
Carrie sniffled, pouted, wiped his nose, and stood up, dragging his now broken laptop. Eventually, he made it to the top of the hill and was not surprised to see only more rain and darkness.
There was no sign of Shepherd’s Grove.
~
Miles went to the switchboard and grabbed the microphone. Here, he could send out warning sirens to keep the town vigilant and informed, play recorded voiceovers informing the town of dangers, or use his own voice. There was a dial on the switchboard that he could turn to ‘siren,’ ‘voice,’ or ‘recording.’ He chose ‘voice.’ There was a speaker mounted to a lone pole in a central location downtown. There was also a speaker mounted on another pole by the police station.
The microphone was nothing more than a mic on a small base so it could stand on its own. He turned the volume on as high as it could go and smiled. Miles figured he would test his vocal chords with song, so he sang:
“FRANKIEEEE? FRANKIEEEE BOOOOOOONER? ARE YOU THEEEEEEERE? ARE YOU LISTENIIIIIIIIIING? YOUR MOTHER’S CALLIIIIIINNG YOOOOUUUU! WON’T YOU COME HOME, LITTLE MAAAAAN! I GOT YOUR FAVORITE! FRESH OUT OF A CAAAAAN! OH, BOOOOOONERRRRR! WON’T YOU COME HOME? CAN YOU HEAR ME, CAAAALLIIIIIINNNG!”
He smiled, hearing his voice echoing over the town. It wasn’t American Idol, but it was okay. He was having fun, and that was good. He wondered if any surviving members of the Grove could hear it. Were they asleep? Awake? Were they staying up, playing games, waiting for the storm to pass? Swimming for their lives?
“FRANKIEEEEE? FRANKIEEEEE SPANKIEEEE? CAN YOU HEAR YOUR MOTHEEEEER CALLIIIIING?”
He changed the fluctuation in his
voice, making it gravelly dark, like some kind of Halloween demon, then chuckled, the sounds reverberating through the speakers and across Shepherd’s Grove.
~
Carrie walked up the road, slipped again, and hit the pavement. This time, he tried to protect his laptop, and twisted his ankle.
He winced and bit his lip, drawing more blood.
This was turning into one of the worst days of his life.
His ankle was hurting now, a wrenching pain spiraling through his lower foot. He didn’t think he’d sprained it, but he’d twisted it pretty good.
“Fucking piece of shit story, cocksucking cry baby, worm-ridden, heartless bitch!” He threw this last piece in, thinking of Miranda, because the pain of that memory was still fresh, and he wanted to blame her for all his miseries and misfortunes, which were piling up quite nicely at the moment. She deserved some genuine hatred thrown her way.
“BOOOOONE! FRANKIEEEEEE BOOOOOONE!”
He looked up, furrowing his brows. He was in the middle of nowhere in the rainy dark, miles away from civilization . . . or so it seemed.
He’d come up on another rise. Carrie picked up the broken laptop and limped along the road as fast as his wounded knee and twisted ankle would let him.
There was a glow from the other side of the next rise. When he reached the top, Shepherd’s Grove spread out below him. The lights of downtown were lit. It felt like he’d been walking for hours. He could see the Miramac was no longer the Miramac River but the Miramac Lake.
His eyes widened at the sight. The place was flooded. In the illumination from the downtown lights, it was a shimmering pool of darkness under the constant falling rain.
Carrie continued down the road, descending into the first neighborhoods and businesses, where Highway 48 turned into Main Street. He was wading through water halfway to his knees, but it was still.
“FRAAAANKIIIIEEEE BOOOONNE! YOUR MOTHER’S VERY UPSET WITH YOOOOOU! WON’T YOU COMME HOOOME, FRANKIEEEEE! WON’T YOU COME HOOOOMMME?”
Someone was on the emergency siren. Frankie Boone? He couldn’t mean Frankie Boone who’d killed his mother all those years ago, could he?
Something was going on here, and what Wally had said came back.
There wasn’t a whole lot he could do. He was in a desperate situation, tired, hungry, cold, and in pain.
Carrie tried to hurry as best he could through the rain and the water.
~
Boone stood over the dead, wet from rain, and covered in blood. The carnage was all around him. It took a bit of work to create silence, but he was doing a pretty good job under the circumstances.
But something happened to him that had never happened before. The head of the old woman he’d just decapitated turned toward him. Her eyes were open. There was life there, and she spoke: “You’re the devil’s child!”
Boone’s eyebrows came together. He cocked his head. One of the dead kids turned toward him as well: “Why are you doing this, Frankie? You’re not silencing anything. We’re still alive.”
The old woman’s head rolled back and forth, chuckling. There were others at his feet, the whole family. They all turned toward him, mouths opening and closing. Their heads turned to 13-inch television screens with mouths, laughing at him. Hands reached out, grasping his leg. One headless body tried to crawl up toward his waist.
“There’s only evil in you,” the old woman said. “That’s all you’re made of. You should be ashamed, Frankie. This is what people get executed for. You’re warped. You’re not right in the head. You’re seeing things. You know that, right? All these people screaming, the things people are telling you . . . they’re not real. You’re imagining it all. You’re hallucinating, Frankie. You’ve been hallucinating your whole life. But that’s okay. You can get help, once they lock you up. You can get help or the gas chamber.”
The woman laughed, a horrible, grating, chuckling sound.
“You’re killing innocent people, and you don’t even know it. God isn’t guiding you like you think He is, so why don’t you turn the axe on yourself? That’s the only way you’ll have any peace. You got it backwards. Your mother really fucked you up, Frankie. All you’re doing is proving that you’re a devil child, just like she said you were.”
He took the axe and brought it down onto the old woman’s face, splitting her skull in two. He raised it and brought it down again, trying to smash it, but it was still chuckling at him.
He did the same with the others, their heads turning toward him, but he could still hear them chanting, calling him devil child, laughing. Their lips were moving. Hands clutched his legs, and the sound was growing.
He looked down. The claw of the gnome-like child he’d seen in the asylum was grasping his leg. A shadowy face smiled at him.
He could still hear the old woman: “Your mother should have killed you long ago. She should have cut you out of her womb and drowned you in the Miramac before you even had a chance to breathe.”
Boone looked toward the front door.
Water was pouring in from outside.
~
“FRANKIIIIIEEEE! FRANKIIIIEEEE! FRANKIE BOOOOONE!”
She was calling to him from beyond the Miramac, her voice a gurgle of bubbles coming up from the deep. It was her corpse, reaching out, her flesh masticated and decayed, covered in moss. He could still feel that hate-filled stare boring into him. Bony wet fingers reached out to touch his face.
He saw all this in his mind. He would’ve never believed it, but she’d made it back from the grave, from the river. And hadn’t he always known? That even though she was out there tied to some branch, some tree, all she’d ever wanted was another crack at killing him.
“FRAAAANKIEEEEE SPAAANKIEEEE! PULL ON MY WANKIEEEEE! OH, PLEEEAAASE! OH, PLEEEEEASE, WON’T YOU COME HOOOOOME! I’M WAITING FOR YOU, FRANKIE! YOUR DAD WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT WHIPPED CREAM ON YOUR COCOA! THERE’S SUNSHINE FOR YOU, SON! LET IT BLOSSOM, LET IT LINGEEEEEER!”
She crawled up the banks, her bony spine covered in dark leathery flesh, her voice echoing over the water. She’d start screaming soon, demanding he come upstairs RIGHT NOW! She would make him eat fly-kabobs, Jesse’s remains in the backyard. She would stuff his face with ashes.
How far was he from downtown? He didn’t know, but the voices began to grow again. The fingers clinging to him turned to mouths, and they were speaking.
They were like that at the asylum. He remembered now. They’d been calling his name. Boone was their master and minister.
But the past was reaching up for him. He saw his mother’s decaying body leaning against one wall of the house he stood in. Her hand clung to the windowsill. The mouths of the heads he’d destroyed were still talking to him.
“You’re father knew. He knew what kind of devil mother raised a devil child, and he wanted no part of it. That’s why he left, Frankie. He couldn’t bear the burden.”
He would kill her again. It was the only chance he had. Just because she was dead didn’t mean anything. He would drag her from the Miramac and chop her to pieces. Yes. He understood now. In order to be free, he’d have to kill his mother again.
Chapter 13
Carrie followed the voice for almost an hour. He walked all the way into town, and though his ankle hurt, he could no longer feel it thanks to the freezing water. He had begun to think of himself as some sort of bipedal amphibious creature. The rain had beaten him in every sense of the word, and it took all of his strength to make it the last mile into town. He was exhausted and starving, and for all he knew, on the verge of a mental breakdown.
The voice, whoever it was (though he had some inclination to believe it was a lunatic or the town drunk, or perhaps some kids playing a prank), had been guiding him. Regardless, he would thank the man once he found him. The voice, as crazy as it sounded, had been urging him into Shepherd’s Grove, giving him the strength to keep moving. They would see he was cold, wet, and hungry. They would help him. They would dry him off, give him a hot bath, and some
thing good to eat.
Carrie walked by the shops along Main Street. The idea of getting some pancakes at Sunny Side Up made his stomach rumble. If it was open, he would’ve walked in easily, gotten something loaded with cholesterol: bacon, eggs, maybe a skillet with hashbrowns, hot sauce and eggs. That sounded delectable, or maybe a cheeseburger, a big jalapeno burger with curly fries. His mouth watered.
But all the shops were closed. He’d hoped there was a 24 hour convenient store, but no. He couldn’t even pick up a damn candy bar.
He didn’t care about the story now. He just wanted to get to the police station, which was all the way on the other side of the Grove. It would take another twenty minutes to get there.
He’d been cursing himself for picking up the phone. He was cold, pissed off, slightly injured, and he felt ready to break the window of the nearest fast food joint, just so he could make himself a cheeseburger.
The weather only made things worse. The thunder rumbled, lighting flashed. Carrie had been so frustrated before he’d made it into town, he’d actually stopped and shouted into the sky: “Quit fucking raining already!”
Yes. He wished he’d never picked up the phone, and when he saw Wally, he . . . well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but he’d think of something.
The truth, however, was that he’d brought it all on himself. He knew that. Maybe he should’ve gotten the story out. He could’ve called Nora and let her know what Wally had said, but he’d been greedy, plain and simple. He’d wanted the story all to himself, and now he was paying for it.
The water was pooling into the downtown area. Carrie had never seen so much water in his life, raining down from the sky, moving in from below. The whole place had turned into a small town Biblical flood, and like a goshdamn idiot, he’d decided to go traipsing about in it, and in the middle of the night, no less.
“Not one of your brighter moments,” he said to himself.
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