William––still lying on the road––tilted his head slightly, sneaking a dangerous glimpse.
Beth shifted her eyes.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. But what was she going to do with it? How could she exploit the moment? One false move might push Nicolas over the edge, so where did that leave her?
Nicolas grinned. He didn’t turn towards the vehicle or hide what he was doing. He didn’t step forward or back or do anything at all. His eyes were locked on Beth. Big Beth. He was forging a new plan and feeling good about it.
“You ready, Big Beth?” He said, holding the shotgun low. “You ready to see something exciting, something you’ll never forget? After therapy and nightmares and drinking yourself to death you’re going to remember this one. Are you ready to see a gun go off? Ready to watch people die?”
The minivan approached with headlights gleaming. It slowed, presumably to see what was happening.
“No,” Beth said.
“No what?”
The van was almost beside them now. The passenger window was lowering and the wheels were coming to a stop.
“No daddy,” Beth said.
She wondered why the van was stopping. Couldn’t the people inside the damn thing see they were in the presence of a maniac? Couldn’t they see the shotgun, or William lying facedown on the road like a hostage?
William’s heart raced and his mouth became drier than sand. If there was ever a time to run, or hide, or fight, or scream––the time was now. Right now. He had to do something. His hands began to shake.
Get up, he thought. Get up. Get up. Get up!
Still standing at the side of the road, Beth began to cry. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to fight the man but she was afraid and she didn’t know what do.
“No daddy” she said again, hating the fact that she sounded like a child now. And she did. Oh God, it was impossible to sound like an adult while calling someone ‘daddy’ as the snot built up inside your nose. “I’m not ready for this. Please don’t do anything unpleasant. Just leave everybody alone. Please!”
She was unraveling. She knew it and Nicolas knew it too.
The van stopped.
A window rolled down.
“It’s too bad you feel that way, Big Beth,” Nicolas said. “You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, my love. Do you know that? Of course you do. Watch this.”
Nicolas turned quickly, marched towards the vehicle, and rammed the shotgun barrel through the open window.
There was a man and a woman in the front and a baby girl in the back. The man’s name was Brett Adkins. His wife’s name was Tara. The baby girl was Michelle Rose Adkins. She wore a pink jumper and was fast asleep.
The shotgun barrel smacked Tara in the nose and her face became instantly pale. Brett’s eyes popped open and his jaw dropped. Tara raised a hand from her lap and––
Nicolas pulled the trigger. A gigantic outburst erupted within his hands and Tara’s head exploded. A fountain of blood shot from her neck. Skull fragments, meat, brain, hair, and skin, tumbled off her shoulders.
Nicolas pumped a new shell into the chamber.
Brett, covered in gore, wore an expression that said: Tara’s head didn’t really get wiped off the face of the earth, did it? This can’t possibly be real! This must be a dream!
He managed to say, “Wait!” then Nicolas pulled the trigger again and his head burst into a sea of brains, bones, and blood––splashing against the windows and doors, the seats, the dash, floor, ceiling, and everything else in the car.
Beth, standing at the side of the road, watched in horror, pulling at her hair with both hands. Her mouth opened and closed pointlessly. She was trying to say something that would stop the madness but had no idea what that something might be.
Baby Michelle woke to the sound of her mother and father being murdered. She began wailing and kicking her feet in the air; little bubbles of saliva grew from the corner of her mouth. Tiny fingers stretched apart, desperate to latch onto something warm and consoling.
Nicolas had a furious grin carved upon his face. His gaze was cold like frost; his eyeballs glistened like diamonds. He pumped the chamber, pointed the muzzle into the baby seat and pulled the trigger again. A third blast came, somehow louder than the previous two. And with that, the crying ended. The family had been extinguished.
Beth was screaming.
William put his hands into the gravel. This lunacy had gone on long enough––too long, in fact. Too long. It was time to get up, time to show the psychotic fucker a thing or two about being human.
16
Dan pulled a fresh clip from his pocket. He didn’t need it yet but he wanted it in his hand. If he remembered correctly he already pulled the trigger twice, which meant his Charter Arms .32 automatic was now holding five bullets.
Five bullets, he thought. I’ve got to remember this. The amount of bullets I have is important. I need to keep track ‘cause if I don’t I might soon regret it. And I don’t want to regret it. Regretting means trouble.
He walked towards the crates eying the cocoons on top of them.
Creatures scrambled with mouths wide. They looked absolutely horrifying, not completely unlike a batch of mutant spiders that had grown to enormous magnitudes.
Daniel slowed his pace, ensuring that his feet touched the floor quietly. His fingers were stinging as he gripped the clip. He was nervous, but not overly scared. He figured he could kill all the creatures, no problem. Three seven-bullet clips, plus the five bullets in the gun––quick math said three times seven was twenty-one, and twenty-one plus five was twenty-six. Twenty-six bullets could slaughter a couple dozen crab-critters if his aim was true. And his aim would be true. He’d make sure of it.
Crab-critters, he thought. Killer-crabs.
They didn’t look like any crabs he’d seen before, but somehow killer-crabs fit the bill almost perfectly.
Dan stopped walking, fifteen feet away from his nearest enemy, give or take a few inches. He raised the gun up and took three more steps, gently and watchfully. The crab he was creeping towards didn’t notice him. Or maybe it didn’t care. Either way, in today’s little shootout this fella was first in line.
As the creature moved across a crate, Dan almost felt mesmerized by its black bubble eyes and the way its legs danced, the way its mouths opened and closed. The creature was so distinctive, so unique. He watched the crab-critter lift itself high upon its legs and prance around in a semi-circle. Living art: that’s what it was. Standing before him was the planet’s most exceptional species, brilliant and extraordinary––an utterly rare breed in every way. Mouths opened and closed in harmony; he had never seen anything like it.
Oh well, he thought. Bye, little fella.
Dan pulled the trigger and the sound blasted, disrupting the silence.
The slug hit the creature square. Thick white puss and dark sticky blood splashed the critters behind it as the wounded critter tumbled backwards with legs twitching.
This is going to be easy, he thought. But then he changed his mind.
Legs clicked together. Mouths opened and closed faster then before, screeching a thin hollow screech. Crabs he hadn’t seen crept out from behind boxes and crates in singles and in bunches; some moved towards him, some away. A few rushed from an open cocoon. Suddenly, they seemed to be everywhere. Quick math said twenty-six bullets would be cutting it close now. Or might not be enough. And Dan had already fired once so quick math said that he had twenty-five bullets left, not twenty-six.
He swung the weapon to the right, picked out another victim, and pulled the trigger again. A slab of meat went flying. The creature spun around in a circle before it flipped onto its back. Something green poured out of it. Next to the green liquid, blood pooled in the shape of a valentine heart. Long black legs came together like a jellyfish swimming against the current. A different crab scurried through the fresh pool of blood, put a leg upon the fallen creature and stood high upon its claws. I
t had a thin white stripe running an arched line between its mouths. Dan took aim and pulled the trigger again. Another hit. The creature tumbled off one crate and landed on another, making a SQUAWK sound as it landed.
Dan’s focus wavered.
Crabs seemed to be all over the place now. Most were black but some were brown, white, and insipid. And with every passing moment there appeared to be more, lots more. They were running quickly, running in all directions too.
One of the bigger crabs caught Dan’s eye. He followed it with his gun and pulled the trigger earlier then he intended. The creature slammed against wall with a severed limb and a hunk of meat missing from body, but it didn’t die. Dan only winged it.
“Take it easy,” Dan whispered, knowing he had almost missed the crab-critter completely. “I don’t have bullets to spare.”
Hearing himself speak was soothing. It made the situation more manageable, if only in his mind. He recognized this oddity and embraced it. He said, “Go for the ones that are just standing there. Don’t be shy.”
Daniel picked out a crab that seemed to be sleeping and yanked on the trigger again, scoring another bull’s-eye.
Two crab-critters crawled off a crate and scrambled towards him, one in front of the other.
Daniel held his breath, steadied his hand and aimed for the nearest one. He pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit dead center and the critter’s legs became instantly limp. It flopped onto its belly like a string-puppet after the show. Critter number two never slowed or changed direction. It crawled over the dead body like it had a job to do. Nothing, it seemed, would stand in its way.
Daniel lined the crab-critter up, smiling uncomfortably. He pulled the trigger again, confident of landing another hit.
CLICK: the gun was empty.
The crab was less than eight feet away now.
Three more scurried off of the crates and ran in his direction. Another crawled from a cocoon. This one wasn’t black, nor was it brown. It was nearly transparent with a single red spot in the middle; looked like it had been born early.
Dan stepped back, pulled the empty clip from the gun and dropped it. The clip bounced off his shoe and onto the floor. He slid the next clip into place, clicked the safety, angled the weapon and pulled the trigger.
The shot went wide, way wide.
I’m not aiming, he thought. Oh shit, oh shit… I’m panicking.
He had a terrible flashback: the big creature devouring Roger’s head, blood spraying like a fountain, arms and legs kicking, giant teeth chewing.
He didn’t want to panic, couldn’t panic. Panicking would be the death of him and he damn well knew it. Somehow––even as he was telling himself to keep it together––this information didn’t stick.
Another thought went astray: he wondered what it would feel like to have a dozen of the little guys chomping him into pieces, laying eggs in his skin. Without question, it couldn’t feel good. It couldn’t possibly feel good.
Stop it, he told himself. Just stop it! Stay focused on the job at hand!
He eyed a single crab, the closest crab, the one that was less than five feet away now. He took a deep, calming breath and aimed. It seemed like weeks slipped past in that moment, and when the moment was over and the time had come to pull the trigger, he yanked on it twice very quickly. His aim was true both times and he hit his intended victim, spot-on. Twice.
It was dead. Thank heaven it was dead.
He was glad to have killed it but he felt like crying. He didn’t need to shoot it twice. Only once. He was wasting bullets now. Oh merciful God above save us all, he was wasting bullets! How could he be so thoughtless, so careless? How could he throw away ammunition at a time like this? Wasting bullets was almost a sin. And not only that––he was freaking right the fuck out––that’s what he was doing. He was FREAKING OUT, losing his poise, and forfeiting his edge in the battle. He had a hot case of the cold sweats and was turning into an unbalanced bundle of emotional nerve-endings.
Squandering my composure, he thought. And that’s not good.
Mumbling, he aimed his gun at a pair of crabs and pulled the trigger twice more: a hit and a miss.
A translucent crab fell from a cocoon, a small one. It rolled into a ball, then got onto its feet and ran in a circle.
For no real reason, Daniel aimed at this crab. He pulled the trigger and shot it dead. It was a good shot, maybe even a great shot––but why-oh-why on God’s green earth was he aiming at that one? It was at least twenty-five feet away. Why not focus on the two that were getting ready to crawl up his leg and gnaw on his belly?
I’m freaking out!
Four more creatures jumped from a cocoon, together in a loose bunch. Three of them were brown. One was black with little green dots on its back.
Three translucent crabs scurried up a wall.
Dan aimed at the nearest troublemaker. It was big and black and its long stalks moved very quickly. Teeth were snapping. Bulbous eyes were bouncing up and down.
He pulled the trigger twice and the gun fired once. It was a hit, but he was out of bullets. Again. He needed to replace the clip.
Two clips left.
While backing away from the nearest crab-critter he reloaded, dropping the empty clip indifferently.
A couple of black crabs crawled across the ceiling, capturing Dan’s attention. He looked up, then away, trying not to think about them. He needed to stay focused on the nearest critter, which was three feet away. Two feet. One foot. He aimed and fired; half of its little body exploded. Strange round balls rolled from the wound. Most were soft and white; a few were black. All of them were coated in puss, mucus and blood.
And the crabs were on the ceiling now? How the hell did that happen?!
This was bad news, very bad news. He had to be realistic. He had crabs on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the crates––crabs were everywhere! And here he was, wasting bullets with thirteen left. Or was it fourteen? No––he just pulled the trigger. It was thirteen, thirteen. He’d have to remember that. He had six bullets inside the gun and one clip left.
New questions came: Did I count the crab-critters wrong? How many bullets do I have?
He pulled the trigger again, killing another crab.
Pink mush splashed into the air.
Count wrong? He thought. I didn’t count the crab-critters at all! I made a quick estimate and started shooting, didn’t I? Oh God, what kind of plan is that? And how many of those things are around me? What the hell am I going to do once I run out of bullets? They’re still crawling out of the cocoons! Is that what is happening here? Oh man, I’ve made a terrible mistake! I’ve got to get out of here!
He noticed something from the corner of his eye. Turning his head left, he saw four more crabs scrambling towards him. One began flapping a large set of wings. A moment later it was airborne, flying erratically.
“Where did you come from?” he barked loud enough for the whole world to hear. His voice wasn’t soothing now. It sounded high and nasally, dreadfully troubled and plagued in fear. Things were turning bad fast; it was time for a new plan.
He squeezed the trigger three more times and all three shots went wide.
He wasn’t aiming now, just shooting, which was absolutely the worst thing he could do. How many bullets did he still have––three in the gun and seven in the clip? Was that right––ten bullets… maybe nine, maybe eight?
What happened to counting?
He fired at the new batch of predators and scored himself a hit. A winged critter zipped past him, making a humming noise. He turned away and––
Oh dear lord. Big mamma had returned. It was pulling its body from the hallway one leg at a time. He had forgotten its size. The thing was massive, bigger than a truck.
One crab pounced onto his shoe and tried to spear him with a stinger.
Daniel kicked it away and the thing went tumbling. He fired recklessly into a cocoon. Something large and white and covered in hair fell from t
he ceiling and opened up like a flower, releasing thousands of tiny red spiders-crabs and a stench so bad the air seemed poisonous. The smell was a bit like a dog in need of a bath, but that wasn’t completely accurate. Somehow it smelled like walnuts too.
I’m getting out of here, Dan thought, but when he looked through the open door, towards the exit, he wondered if he could.
The ladder was in bad shape. There were crab-critters all around it, at least twenty of them. Some were flying. Some were the size of a wolf; others were small like rats. Where they came from, he did not know.
Like it or not, crawling up the ladder wasn’t an option. It was suicide.
And once again his gun was empty.
Shame he didn’t realize it.
17
Nicolas spun around, screaming, “LAY DOWN!”
William, still all fours and in no position to argue, did what he was told. He cursed himself for being too slow, knowing he should have jumped up quicker. He was bigger than the trigger-happy psycho, probably faster too. So why did he wait? Why did he hesitate? Was he that much of a chicken-shit? Is that what it boiled down to… was he was afraid of this asshole?
The asshole has a shotgun, he reminded himself. And the asshole likes to use it.
Nicolas spun his gun towards Beth.
Beth was standing still, a zombie. The smooth-talking lady that rolled her words like butter across toast had packed her bags and gone the way of the dinosaur. Like the family in the car, the social worker was gone-baby-gone. All that was left was a frightened girl in a woman’s body.
Nicolas said, “MOVE.”
Beth walked towards Nicolas’ car with tears in her eyes. She looked inside the trunk and felt sick. Pauline’s corpse might have been dead but the things living in it, on it, and around it, were not. They were very much alive.
Terror Town Page 16
