Leanne lifted her hands in front of her face, opened her mouth and screamed.
Then Tabitha knocked her down and landed on top of her; blood drained from her arm-stump. She grabbed a hold of Leanne’s shirt and ripped it halfway off her body.
Leanne screamed again. Breasts exposed, she pushed Tabby’s chest and tried to get away––but it was hard, impossible even. Tabitha was clinging to her like hungry on a crocodile.
She screamed, “Get away from me!” And it seemed to work.
Tabby scurried off, resembling a three-legged dog.
Leanne shifted her position. But before she had a chance to get off the floor, she saw Father Galloway standing above her with gore hanging from the place his face had once been. She looked away, only to find Kyle Van Ryan standing there too.
Galloway grabbed her left hand.
Van Ryan grabbed her right.
Feet kicking, she screamed at the top of her lungs. She was getting dragged outside now, but why?
She knew both men. Galloway was her priest.
And Kyle––oh God, she knew Kyle from the Yacht Club. He was a nice guy, a gentleman. He was a Goddamn sweetheart for crying out loud and she often wondered what it would be like to date him. But that didn’t matter! Not now. What the hell was happening here? This wasn’t Kyle. This was some kind of monster!
The concrete steps pounded her body as she was dragged across them. The stone pebble driveway scrapped skin from her ass, back and legs.
Van Ryan released her right hand.
Galloway released her left.
Leanne flopped against the driveway. As she tried to get up, Tabby jumped on top of her, pinning her arms with her knees, clutching her neck with her only hand.
Leanne had been doing a good job of keeping her wits; she was trying, still trying. But she was beyond scared now; she was terrified. Her heart was racing, her blood was pumping; she was on the verge of wetting herself.
She said, “What are you doing? Stop this! Stop this all of you! Are you crazy? Have you all gone mad?”
But when she looked at Galloway’s face, and Tabby’s missing arm, and the void in Kyle’s eyes, she knew they hadn’t gone mad. This was something different, something utterly ludicrous.
Kyle stepped away; he returned a moment later with a spear in his hand. He greased the tip with the blood from his neck and knelt down beside her.
Leanne saw the stick and went wild. Her fear intensified fifty notches. Feet kicking, eyes bulging, she screamed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT? STOP! OH DEAR GOD, STOP! ARE YOU INSANE? LET ME GO!” Galloway forced Leanne’s legs apart and reached between them. He grabbed her underwear and yanked them to her knees.
Leanne couldn’t believe it. She said, “NO! FATHER GALLOWAY––NOOOOOO!”
Kyle forced the tip of the spear into Leanne’s anus and started pushing. And there was a moment––before her blood squirted onto the stone pebble driveway, her cervix was destroyed and her sigmoid colon was sliced into sections––when her fear hit its all time high.
Fear of the unknown is great.
But the fear of evident torture and anguish is much, much worse.
Leanne’s protest became agony. She screamed as loud as she was able; she screamed with all of her might. She screamed as the spear shredded her rectum and poked a hole in her uterus. She screamed until the spear crept into her intestines, between her lungs, and into her throat. Then her screams turned to gags, and her gags turned into a sick, knowing horror. There is no combination of words to describe her emotional and physical amalgamation of suffering. Her pain was a description unto itself.
Galloway continued holding her legs and Tabby continued holding her neck but there was no need. Leanne didn’t want to kick and thrash––it made things worse. When she tasted the wooden spike in her mouth––mixed with blood, acid, and shit––she began thinking, Kill me. Kill me. Oh please… why won’t I die?
But she wouldn’t die. Not yet.
The interesting thing about being impaled: the pain goes on and on. Sometimes it can last for hours. Sometimes it can last for days.
The spear scraped the roof of Leanne’s mouth and she opened wide; there was nothing else she could do. A moment later she could see the wood sticking out of her face. It had entered one end and come out the other.
Kyle Van Ryan, Father Mort Galloway and Tabby Smith began hoisting her up.
She slid down the pole another few inches, getting splintered from the inside. She couldn’t scream. She made no sounds that were louder than a moan.
They planted the spear in the ground, somewhere between Tabby’s garden and the road, near a ceramic frog that stood on a painted flower, holding a sign that said: RIBBIT - YOUR PAD OR MINE?
She had a nice view of the neighborhood. Not that she enjoyed the view.
Tears rolled from her eyes.
She heard somebody scream. Several lights turned on and a fight erupted in a neighbor’s driveway. She watched in horror as an eight-year-old child she didn’t recognize was strung up like she had been. The poor kid had been impaled on a stick with his arms and legs clearly broken.
Tabitha Smith, Father Galloway, and Kyle Van Ryan weren’t the only ones acting like savages. More spear-carrying, bloodthirsty zombies wandered the streets every passing minute.
She saw ‘odd-job’ Martin West drag Lizzy Backstrom out of her wheelchair and across the road by her hair. He then proceeded to stab her with a shovel and hoist her into the air. Leanne closed her eyes and cried. When she opened them again she found Lizzy impaled on a long stick in the garden next to her. She was coughing and gagging. The spear went in through her vagina and out through her neck.
As the night marched on, so did the insanity.
She watched Azul Bunta, the cook that worked for Roger and William over at the Big Four O, have his ribcage ripped open and his lungs torn out. She watched Stephen Pebbles, the man who lost his home in a fire a few years back, be eaten alive by old Jay Hopper and his half sister Emily.
Leanne closed her eyes again, not being able to turn away. She thought about her late husband Simon, remembering the day he died. She felt so bad for standing there like an idiot, doing nothing as he drowned in eight feet of water, a stone’s throw from where she had been standing. She didn’t think there was anything worse than drowning. Now she knew differently. Some things were worse. Some things made drowning seem wonderful.
Once she was done thinking about Simon, she wondered why her friends and neighbors had turned into bloodthirsty savages. She wondered if things were bad all over. She wondered when her suffering would end, and if the time she spent in St. Peter’s Church was time well spent. She wondered for a very long time.
And in time, she wondered no more.
∞∞Θ∞∞
∞Θ∞
~~~~ CHAPTER FIVE: THE PAUL THREAD
1
Paul LaFalce sat behind the counter, drinking a Coke and reading a paperback novel someone had deserted the better part of a week ago. The book was old and battered; it had yellow pages and a broken spine. Paul wasn’t much of a reader; he liked Batman comics and magazines loaded with female celebrities. Reading a book with no pictures wasn’t really his style. Truth be told, it seemed like work. But he was bored, the night was long, the magazine rack needed an update and instead of tossing the book into the garbage he decided to give reading a whirl.
James Herbert’s The Spear was a fictional tale about a man battling Neo-Nazi cultists that practiced a strange and evil religion. Paul tried and tried but wasn’t enjoying the story. It was too descriptive and for the most part, over his head. Girly books and comics: that’s what he liked. Only he didn’t think of them as girly books and comics; he considered them men’s magazines and graphic novels whether they deserved such labels or not.
Mid-sentence, Paul stopped reading and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 3:26 am but time moved slowly; in ten thousand years he figured it would be 3:27 am.
He considered
watching a movie.
There was a small television beneath the counter. It didn’t have cable but it did have a DVD player, and Hopper’s Gas rented movies. The selection wasn’t great but there were a few titles that hadn’t been watched yet. Of course, there was a reason. Romantic comedies, movies about animals playing sports, and stories where old people rediscovered their youth, were not considered essential viewing for a guy like Paul. Most nights he’d rather mop the floor and smoke cigarettes.
Headlights brightened the parking lot.
This was both good and bad. Patrons made the time roll faster but they were a pain in the ass too. Some hung around asking stupid questions and counting nickels. Others made a mess everywhere they went.
Hey lookie, chips! I want ‘em! Naw, maybe I don’t want ‘em. I’ll just put ‘em over ‘ere. Oh wow, chocolate bars! I’ll take this one, this one and this one. Oh wait––I don’t ‘ave ‘nough money fer three chocolate bars. I’ll put two of ‘em over ‘ere, by da magazines. Maybe I’ll get ma-self a drink insteada chocolate. Where’d I put ma chips? Don’t matter… I’ll getta ‘nother bag from da rack.
Assholes. That’s what they were. Complete fucking assholes. And guess who cleaned up the mess? You guess it: Paul LaFalce. Then there were the jackasses, halfwits and morons that tried to steal stuff when he wasn’t looking. Nobody will notice if I hide a bottle of Coke in my shirt! He hated those scumbags. The only guys he despised more were the small town, hip-hop, wannabe thugs.
Can I get a yo, dawg? Werd.
Give me a break.
Paul didn’t want to be working, that was the truth of it. He’d rather be bored than bothered. If it were up to him he’d lock the door, spark a joint, and fall asleep in the back room listening to Bob Marley. Good thing the decision-making wasn’t up to him. The place would go under in a month.
The car in the parking lot was a cop car, he noticed. It was parked right next to his piece-of-shit Honda motorcycle.
Should have known.
Cops were always popping by, just as bored as he was. Most nights they weren’t too annoying, he had to admit. At first he felt guilty, seeing them up close, talking to them like buddies. He felt like he had done something wrong just because they were around. Needless to say, he didn’t like cops, but what could he do?
It occurred to him one afternoon, while watching The Best of Jerry Springer and eating ice cream straight from the tub, that if he were robbed––or heaven forbid, shot––the cops would be there quickly. Might save his life too.
Looking through the car’s front windshield, he tried to see which cops he’d be dealing with. Couldn’t tell. Not yet. Not until the car’s interior light came on and he could see who was behind the wheel. Of course, it didn’t matter who was out there. Cops were cops. They were all condescending, self-centered and egotistical.
The phone rang. It was sitting on a counter next to a stack of cough syrup and cold medicine. Paul turned towards it and lifted the receiver, which felt greasy in his hand. “Hopper’s Gas.”
“Hi Paul, it’s me… Julie.”
Paul smiled. He was currently juggling two girls and Julie Stapleton was the latest. “Oh, hey babe,” he said. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”
“Woke up, couldn’t get back to sleep. You know how it is. You busy?”
Paul glanced over his shoulder but didn’t investigate what was happening outside. He didn’t care what the cops were doing; sometimes they’d sit in their car for fifteen minutes or more, taking their sweet-ass time. He wondered if they did that to freak him out… probably not. They were likely just killing time. Didn’t matter. The door had a buzzer; he’d know when it opened. Besides, with Julie’s unexpected phone call he wanted the cops to sit in the parking lot. They could jerk each other off for all he cared.
He said, “I’m never busy at four in the morning. Sometimes two hours will go by without a single visitor.”
Julie giggled, trying not to wake her family.
Outside, a car door opened.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Cameron crept from the driver’s seat, naked and disgusting, smelling like something that crawled from the river. She moved slowly, not unlike a zombie from a Lucio Fulci flick. She had dried blood on her face, across her exposed chest and along her belly. Red-dot eyes were unblinking. Her feet were swollen and bruised. Greasy flakes of skin hung off her legs and back. Both hands were stained in gore.
She could hear Paul talking; she could hear Julie Stapleton talking too.
Julie will be next, she decided. Julie has to be next. That girl thinks she’s so smart, so clever. Steal Paul from me and get away with it? Think again, Julie. Think again bitch!
She opened the front door; the store-buzzer rang.
∞∞Θ∞∞
Paul ignored the buzzer. He also ignored the sound of the door opening and closing and the footsteps inside the store. He was busy. Besides, cops were cops. They weren’t going to rob him. They were just killing time.
He began telling Julie about the book reading in an attempt to sound smart. He was saying the story was okay but not really his thing. Then he noticed Cameron in the fish-eye mirror. Spinning towards her, his mouth snapped shut.
The vampire stood before him, mouth open, knife-like teeth exposed. Inside her right hand was a long wooden stick. One end was rounded; the other was jagged, broken. It looked like a snow-shovel without the scoop.
The phone slipped from Paul’s fingers and banged against the counter.
From the other end of the line, Julie said, “Paul? Paul? Are you all right? What’s happening?”
Cameron made her way to the counter, pressed her belly against it and leaned towards her Paul. A bug scurried across her chest and fell into the ‘take-a-penny/leave-a-penny’ tray. A flake of skin dropped from her face and fluttered to the counter.
Paul backed away, thinking about the button he was supposed to push if he found himself in a jam. He needed to push it. Oh God, he really needed to push it.
This wasn’t Cameron English. How could it be? This wasn’t Cameron and even if it was, he didn’t do anything bad to her. He never said he loved her. He never said she was the one. He was still finding himself for crying out loud. He was barely out of school and every time he saw a nice pair of tits he wanted to run home to the spank-bank in his hard drive and shoot a handful of knuckles-babies onto the screen––so what the hell did she want? What was she thinking? Did she want to get married and raise a family together, ‘cause that was just crazy! They had only been dating for three months! What type of irrational bitch would want to start a family with a guy after dating him for three months? And what the hell was wrong with her? How can anybody look the way she does? What’s with her teeth? They look like walrus tusks! And where is her clothing? What the fuck is going on?
Get away from me, he thought flatly. Get away!
And that was his last rational thought, because after that he looked into her eyes––her cold and haunting red-dot eyes.
And it was over.
She whispered, “Hang up the phone.”
With tears rimming his eyelids he reached out, lifted the receiver, and did what he was told.
She said, “Come to me.”
And God above have mercy, he did that too. His left foot moved forward; his right foot followed. And all the while his eyes were the size of baseballs. Tears dripped from his face. And now, he realized, he was screaming. Long words without meaning were escaping his throat, rushing past his lips, polluting the air. But screaming wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
As her cold hands touched his skin he felt himself getting hard. He wanted it; that was the worse part somehow. He wanted her to bite him and rape him and rip the lungs from his chest. He wanted her to shred his muscles from his bones and stick her fingers into his eyes. He wanted her to snap his spine and yank hair from his scalp in large, bleeding chunks.
And Cameron knew this. Oh yes.
Paul felt this way becaus
e Cameron demanded it; she was different now. She knew things; she could see things, hear things. Make people think things. And she was willing to accomplish Paul’s needs.
And in time, she would.
She’d fulfill his needs most adequately.
∞∞Θ∞∞
When Cameron was finished with Paul, she picked up the phone and enjoyed a nice conversation; then she enjoyed another. After that she continued her journey. She had places to go, things to do, people to see: like Julie Stapleton.
It was time to visit Julie.
2
Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee pulled into the Hopper’s Gas parking lot. Andrew was driving. Dean was riding shotgun.
Andrew said, “I’ll pay for the gas but you’ve got to pump it, dude.”
Dean said, “Fair enough. How much do you want?”
“Put in twenty.”
“Have you got twenty?”
Andrew lifted an eyebrow and smiled. He had twenty.
Dean got out of the car, unscrewed the gas cap, lifted the nozzle, and pumped twenty bucks worth of gas.
Andrew scratched his head and pulled his wallet from his pocket. The wallet was made of hemp and had a poorly drawn pot leaf on both sides. It said, THIS BUD’S FOR YOU! beneath each leaf. He pulled four five-dollar bills from the wallet and handed Dean the money through the open window. Each bill looked like it had gone through the wash several times.
Terror Town Page 26
