Terror Town

by James Roy Daley

  31

  Tony Costantino killed the siren and parked behind Holbrook’s Corvette. “Four cars,” he said. “Four, not two.”

  “Let’s take a look.” Joel Kirkwood stepped onto the road. He waited near the hood of the car for his partner to join him. The night seemed terribly quiet. And dark.

  Tony walked past.

  The men removed flashlights from their utility belts and turned them on. Beams of light scored the air in long funnel-shaped tubes. Joel allowed Tony to gain some distance; then he walked to the far side of the street, towards the car in the ditch.

  “Hello,” Tony said. He listened. There was no reply. Pointing his flashlight inside the Corvette he found nothing.

  Now it was Joel’s turn to speak: “Is anybody here?”

  “Look,” Tony said, approaching Burton’s charger. “There are two dead bodies in here, nope, wait… three dead. Someone’s in the backseat.”

  “And here,” Joel said, pointing his flashlight into the minivan. “Oh God. Come look.”

  Officer Tony Costantino stepped towards the minivan. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but two people with their heads blown off wasn’t it. And when he looked in the backseat, and he saw the splattered remains of the newborn, he turned away horrified.

  “Oh man,” he said, putting a hand to his mouth. “This is terrible.”

  Pointing his flashlight towards the big lump of meat beneath the Charger, his eyes widened, his face flushed white and his stomach turned against him. His hands began shaking. The world became blurry and he realized he was stumbling. Didn’t fall though. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet.

  “There’s another one,” Kirkwood said. He walked around the minivan and took a good long look at the corpse beneath the wheel. “This guy’s head is beneath the wheel. What’s going on here?”

  Costantino mumbled, “I don’t know.”

  Kirkwood saw that his partner was hurting. He hurried across the road and put a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

  The two men exchanged a strange, authority-shifting glace.

  Costantino was the veteran, not Kirkwood. He was forty-eight years old; Kirkwood was only twenty-seven. Yet it was Kirkwood handling himself like a chief. Costantino was almost ashamed. On top of that, he was on the verge of being physically ill.

  Kirkwood said, “Let’s go back to the car, Tony. It’s okay. Let’s just sit and collect ourselves a bit, shall we? We’re can’t help these people now. Whatever happened, happened. These people are dead.”

  Costantino may have been overwhelmed, but he knew what needed to be done. He said, “We need to check pulses, make sure they are dead. We need to call it in, and search the area and look for survivors. We need to check license plates, block off the road and notify the F. B. I. We need, we need…”

  His voice escaped him. It was replaced with a quivering lip and tears in his eyes. He always considered himself a tough guy, a guy that could take anything. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “And we will, Tony. We will. But right now we need to breathe again, okay? Do you know these people? Do you recognize ‘em?”

  “Have you looked inside the van, Joel… or beneath the car? How do you recognize that, huh? How do recognize someone with a head beneath a tire? I’ve been on the force twenty-three years, Joel. Twenty-three! I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Tony, you need to relax. Come to the cruiser with me, okay? Will you do that please?”

  “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Just give me a minute and I’ll be fine. I’m just… God, I don’t even know what to say.”

  Kirkwood nodded. “‘Kay then. How’s this? You take a minute; do what you have to do. When you’re ready, verify the license plates and call ‘em in. I’m going to check pulses and see if we have any survivors.”

  “Be careful.”

  “What?”

  “I said be careful. Whoever did this might still be around.”

  “Okay,” Kirkwood said, looking over his shoulder. He felt a strong sense of nervousness that simply didn’t exist before Costantino stated the obvious. And it was obvious, that was the funny thing. Joel Kirkwood had been viewing the scene like it was an accident. Then when circumstances suggested otherwise, he assumed they were standing in the aftermath of the event. But he didn’t know whether this was the aftermath or not. He had no reason to assume the bad times had finished. No reason at all. It was a terrible thing to consider, but what if this wasn’t the aftermath? What if it was a break in the conflict? And somebody was watching? It seemed possible.

  Kirkwood drew his weapon, slowly and nervously, like a first time gunslinger. He stepped away from Costantino.

  “Don’t go crazy there, Joel,” Tony said with a bead of drool on his lower lip. His nerves began to stabilize. He could see his partner’s fear now, and somehow that helped. “I’m just saying be smart. We don’t know what happened here.”

  Joel heard the words but he didn’t acknowledge them. The area had changed somehow. This was no longer a street he had been up and down a million times. This was a horror movie, a setting straight from the pages of Creepy Magazine. And it was creepy. Nighttime in these parts was creepy as hell, when viewed in a certain way. It really was. And exactly, how was he viewing things now that Costantino stated the obvious?

  The bugs were buzzing, the moon was full; the trees were rustling. Animals and reptiles (and who knows what else) were just beyond his ears perception. The road was littered with the butchered dead. And worse than that, this wasn’t an accident. Oh no. This was a killing spree, a multiple murder, a massacre. Someone decided it was time for bloodshed. And maybe it wasn’t a someone. Maybe there were two of them, or three of them. Or a whole fucking gang of them.

  Joel unlatched his safety, whispering, “Is anyone here? Is anyone alive?”

  He walked towards Burton’s car and eyed the corpse beneath. Then it clicked. Just like that: click.

  He turned towards Costantino.

  “That’s Holbrook’s car,” he said, pointing his finger. “Right there, the Corvette. Nobody else in town has one and I think Peter Holbrook is the man with his head stuffed under the wheel. Oh God, I think it’s him for sure. My dad has been friends with Peter for twenty years!”

  “What?” Costantino staggered towards Kirkwood. Then he began running, pulling his gun from his holster. He didn’t look sick now. He looked like a man that realized he was sitting in a boat that was tumbling over the edge of the world. “That can’t be Holbrook,” he said. “He’s the one that called this in, right? Right? Oh shit… how could it be Holbrook?”

  As the puzzle started fitting together a bat swooped between the two men, making them both jump.

  “Christ!” Costantino said. “That’s all we need.”

  Kirkwood dismissed the pest while his partner complained. He could hear a siren in the distance, maybe two. He dismissed them as well.

  Flipping through the pages in his mind, he said, “I figured there was an accident, you know? I figured the guy under the tire was on the road for some reason. And one car swerved to miss him and the other didn’t. I was thinking the tragedy brought out the worst in these people and someone pulled out a gun or something, and… I don’t know! If that’s Holbrook under the car, what the hell is going on here? How did he make the phone call with his head stuffed under the goddamn wheel?”

  The sirens grew louder.

  “I don’t––”

  Kirkwood glanced inside Burton’s car and let out a sharp, high-pitched scream, cutting Costantino’s words short.

  “What is it?” Costantino asked. But then he knew.

  The corpse in the car was grinning.

  32

  Daniel looked down the shaft, and said, “Oh no.”

  Pat didn’t hear him. He was dizzy, thinking about closing his eyes and letting go. He couldn’t help it. His pants were hanging off and blood was pouring from his severed finger ca
using his vision to fade in and out. But he was moving. His feet pushed onward and upward and for that he was grateful. It wasn’t an act of determination. It was just something he was doing. It was almost miraculous, really––considering the fact that he wasn’t holding the rungs. With his arms wrapped around the ladder he was hugging them at best.

  He heard a voice, or a least he thought he did.

  The ladder shook; he wondered why. A moment later it shook again.

  Voices.

  Voices.

  Looking down he couldn’t see much, just the ladder, the walls, a few crab-critters and––oh shit. It was the big one, the mother. Damn. The big one was in the shaft, coming straight for him.

  “Patrick!” Daniel yelled. “Hurry!”

  The cloud that was fogging Pat’s thoughts cleared like a bell. He realized where he was, what he was doing, and what the stakes were. He remembered the creature devouring Roger and his adrenaline doubled. He thought about getting eaten alive and his adrenaline doubled again: he was next in line and would die a painful and horrific death if he didn’t get his ass in gear. He knew it, and knowing such a thing helped.

  His feet moved faster.

  Looking up, he could see the top of the ladder. It was right there.

  Daniel looked down with teeth clenched; his face was dirty and his eyebrows were raised.

  Something flew past.

  Patrick lifted a mangled hand and Daniel grabbed it, causing Pat to scream.

  Blood gushed along his arm. Again, he thought he might faint. In fact, it seemed like a certainty.

  Daniel pulled.

  Pat’s chest scraped against the ladder. His feet kicked. The cold air turned warm and he was out. He was being dragged across the floor and it hurt like hell but he was out. Daniel said something but Pat didn’t understand. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t decipher the message. His eyes closed, opened, and closed again.

  Dan slapped Pat across the face hard, with resentment and concern bubbling from his emotions. He wasn’t nice about it. He hit him like he was pissed off.

  Pat’s eyes blasted open. He heard the words and understood their meaning.

  “That thing is climbing up the shaft, Patrick! It’ll be here in a few seconds! GET UP! GET UP, YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD! GET UP! WE’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE!”

  With the help of Daniel’s strong grip, Pat sat up.

  The room spun, tilting on one side.

  Three crab-critters crawled through the opening in the floor: a black one, a brown one and a grey one. The black one scurried up the wall. The brown one backed into a corner and crouched into a ball. The grey one moved towards them.

  Daniel kicked it into the shaft. He ignored the other two, yanked Pat to his feet and led him across the room. From there, they made their way past Hellboy’s corpse and up the rickety staircase, holding each other like drunks after the bar stopped serving.

  Something the size of a toaster flew overhead, banging into the ceiling. It had two long tentacles hanging from its belly.

  “What’s happening?” Pat mumbled, pulling his pants up with his thumbs. His face was pale and his eyes were hollow. He needed medical attention and rest. He needed water, a doctor. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you out of here, buddy. Don’t worry; the police are coming. Help is on its way. We made it Pat; we made it. Everything is going to be all right.”

  The big creature crawled into the room, one giant leg at a time.

  SQUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

  Daniel snatched one last glance of the monster and slammed the basement door. He helped Pat walk down the hallway, and led him outside.

  The outside air was nice and warm. It tasted good in his lungs.

  “Where’s my car?” he whispered; then he remembered. William and Beth took it.

  A crab-critter scurried past him and Daniel wondered how it got outside. Was a window broken? Was a door open?

  Didn’t matter.

  With a great amount of effort he led his friend across the yards, opened the door to Pat’s cottage, and brought him inside. He dragged him into the nearest bedroom and laid him on a bed. The cuts in his fingers and hands, which he earned while renovating, throbbed from the strain. But Pat’s hands were worse; they were awful.

  Daniel wondered how long until help arrived. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much longer.

  “Hold on buddy,” he said.

  Pat’s eyes closed.

  Inside a bathroom Dan found a first aid kit, antiseptic cleaner, and painkillers. He wet a couple facecloths, washed his hands, and popped a couple pills. He returned to the bedroom with a bunch of supplies, forced painkillers into Patrick’s mouth, and convinced him to drink some water. Once that was taken care of, he cleaned Pat’s face and hands and wrapped some gauze around his wounds.

  Then he entered the living room.

  On the couch, his head fell against a cushion and he found his energy draining. The day was catching up with him. He was tired and ready to fade into dreamland.

  What a day, he thought.

  Then he imagined being at home with his wife, and drifted into slumber. It would be his last, filled with no dreams. Only nightmares.

  33

  Nicolas watched the pig-mobile stop and two pigs step outside. One was an Italian pig with a fat gut and fingers like sausages and the other looked like an accountant. They oinked at each other awhile and approached the carnage cautiously.

  Nicolas smiled when the flashlights turned on and he smiled again when the bodies were found. A giggle snuck free when sausage-fingers stumbled across the road like he wanted to cough up his lunch. A full-on laugh snuck out when the accountant came running. Goddamn he looked funny; watching the pig unload a mouthful of Captain Crunch would have been the best thing he’d ever seen.

  Tears appeared in sausages-fingers’ eyes. The accountant said something consoling. Oh sweet herpes, hand-jobs, and hand-grenades, those two fuck-knobs looked like they were going to kiss. They were putting on quite a show. Oh yes they were. Then the most amazing thing happened: a pig looked Nicolas right in the face. What a rush. It was hard for Nicolas to act dead when his grin was crawling past his eyeballs in an attempt to circle his head.

  “You got me boys,” Nicolas said, smiling like a lunatic. He pointed his gun it at sausage-fingers; wasn’t fast about it either. He just did it.

  And pulled the trigger.

  The booming sound shocked the silence of the land. The bullet entered Sausage-fingers’ eye. Blood sprayed. A chunk of white skull ripped from the back end of his head and bounced against the minivan.

  Sausage-fingers fell.

  The accountant stepped back with his mouth hanging open. As he lifted his weapon Nicolas shot him too. The bullet went into his open mouth, destroying a bunch of teeth and a whole lot more. This was good, but not good enough. So Nicolas shot him again. The second bullet erased his nose and everything buried behind it.

  Blood sprayed out of the accountant’s face; his gun fell from his hand and he tumbled to the ground like he was putting on a comedy routine.

  Nicolas pulled himself from the car, ran a hand through his hair, and sat down on the road.

  The sirens grew louder. Soon more pigs would arrive.

  Nicolas untied his laces and took off his shoes. Then he took off his shirt and his pants and he placed them in a pile. Once he was down to his socks and underwear he yanked the jacket off the accountant pig. Blood ran from the pig’s head; some went on the jacket but most went on the road. Nicolas took off his shirt next, followed by his pants. The pig’s pants proved to be tough. The belt was new, heavy, and hard to manipulate.

  Nicolas considered the plight of the approaching authorities. What if they arrived while he was standing around in his underwear, fondling a pig, surrounded by dead people? They would think he was crazy!

  He needed to hurry.

  Nicolas dressed himself in the pig’s attire. The clothing was small but it didn’t matter. Again, the belt was
hard to work with.

  Pig belts are a pain in the ass, he thought, struggling to fasten it. Why do those dick-wads put up with such bullshit?

  Flashing lights appeared in the distance.

  He hooked the belt, put on his shoes, and dusted himself off. Then he picked the pig’s gun off the ground, checked the safety, and slid it into the empty holster.

  “All right, I’m ready,” he said to nobody. Followed by, “Oh shit! No I’m not!”

  Nicolas grabbed the naked pig by the hair, dragged him to the side of the road, and tossed him in the ditch. Then he grabbed his stack of clothing and tossed it in the ditch too, but what about sausage-fingers? What was he supposed to do with that waste of meat?

  The flashing lights grew brighter.

  Nicolas cursed under his breath, stuck his fingers into sausage-fingers’ mouth and dragged him as far as he was able. The man was heavy, very heavy. After a few feet Nicolas’ grip slipped from the gaping maw, ripping lips apart.

  “Fuck!”

  Nicolas grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled. It was easier, but not much. Nicolas gave up after dragging him a few feet. But he didn’t want to leave the pig lying on the road, so he walked away from the corpse, hesitated, and went back for one last attempt. He took hold of the pig’s boot, spun him around, and dragged him to the ditch. If the authorities saw what he was doing, so be it. At this point, he didn’t care.

  A fire truck rolled over the nearest hill. It parked behind the police car and the siren turned off. Firemen started pouring out of the truck.