Terror Town

by James Roy Daley

  Dean entered the store with his oversized Nike sneakers grazing the tile floor, thinking about buying smokes and munchies, only to find Paul LaFalce lying on the ground by the counter. Seeing the man was startling, causing Dean to stop dead in his tracks. Seconds passed. He slid the bills into his back pocket and forgot all about them. Then slowly, somewhat carefully, he walked towards Paul. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was serious, very serious. But he wasn’t scared, not yet, just curious. And excited. Yes, a little part of him was excited too.

  He often wondered why nothing thrilling happened to him, why his life was drifting past without something worth remembering dropping in for a visit.

  But this––

  This was something worth remembering. It wasn’t a good something, but it was something he’d talk about, something he’d be asked about: Paul, lying on the floor in a large pool of blood, arms broken, eyes closed, stomach obliterated, intestines sitting beside him in a lump, neck chewed, nose and lips missing, pants and underwear pulled to his ankles, a wooden pole stuffed so far up his ass that it shot through the side of his neck. The kid had been impaled with a broom handle, which in Dean’s mind meant one thing: this will be front-page news in the Rock for sure!

  Dean stood next to the body. Looking at the place Paul’s lips and nose had been, the blood and the gore, he was amazed. How could such a thing happen? he wondered. Then it hit him: this was no accident; it was a murder. He was standing at the scene of a crime.

  Dean released a crooked smiled.

  The police would want to interview him, newspapers too. He’d probably get his face on television and be the talk of the town for the next few weeks. He would probably get famous. Suddenly he felt special, like he mattered, a celebrity.

  People are going to ask me what I did when I saw the body, he thought. And what am I going to tell them? The guy was dead so I robbed the place. Got three hundred bucks and bought a used couch off my step-dad.

  Dean shook his head.

  “No,” he whispered. “I’m not going to rob the place a buy an ‘effing couch… that’s a stupid idea.”

  Dean decided to check the kid out, make sure he was dead. He looked like a corpse, no question there. And surely he was a corpse, but making a thorough investigation seemed like the right thing to do. Plus it was something he could tell people about later. It was a better idea than robbing the place.

  He knelt down, put an ear to Paul’s lipless mouth and listened for signs of life. He was careful not to touch it anything. This was a crime scene after all, and everybody knows that you need to be careful at a crime scene.

  There were no signs of life.

  Of course, he thought. The kid’s intestines are on the floor. Do I expect the dude to jump to his feet, dance the wango-tango, sing a little song, and ask me about my love life?

  Dean sat up, noticing Paul’s teeth for the first time. They looked strange, hiding behind the mangled and bloody remains of his face. They looked like they belonged in a shark. They were uncanny and bizarre, like something from a bad dream. But as weird as they seemed, Dean shrugged the teeth off and placed his fingers on Paul’s chest. Because Paul was dead, right? He couldn’t do anything. Teeth or no teeth, his intestines were sitting floor like an overturned bowl of spaghetti. So what could he do?

  Nothing, that’s what: nothing.

  Dean felt movement beneath his fingers.

  But how was that possible? Was this guy alive?

  He put his ear close to Paul’s mouth a second time.

  Listening.

  He thought about the teeth again. Oh God, those ‘effing teeth. They were big and sharp, looked like could bite a carburetor in half, like they could––

  Paul’s corpse moved again; the eyes opened.

  And suddenly Dean was scared. Really scared. Fear swirled inside his belly, chest and throat. His blood felt like it was getting thicker by the moment. His right leg quivered and the fingers in both hands squeezed together. His eyes opened a little wider then they were before, and then––

  And then––

  Paul growled, opened his mouth as wide as he was able and wrapped his broken arms around Dean’s body. The shattered limbs wiggled and flopped as they circled his back, but somehow managed a slight grip.

  Dean screamed. And Paul bit into him with his outlandishly massive fangs, ripping Dean’s ear from his head.

  Blood sprayed.

  And as Dean put a hand on Paul’s face and pushed himself away, a little piece of his mind was thinking, I knew it! I knew it! I knew those teeth were dangerous! Why don’t I listen to my instincts? But a bigger piece was thinking, AHHH DUDE! What the hell is this?! What just happened?!

  A warm stream of blood squirted from the place Dean’s ear should have been, and had been his entire life. And as the red liquid sprayed, Dean’s fingers slipped into Paul’s mouth and Paul did the same thing the crab-critter did to Patrick Love hours before. It was almost funny, when looked at from a certain angle––almost, but not quite. And Dean would see no humor in the fact that Paul LaFalce was chomping down hard, severing two of his fingers at the knuckle. He would see no humor at all. But it happened, and now blood poured from Dean’s hand and his head. The world spun. Vision diminished.

  Paul chewed.

  Dean fell onto his back and lifted his gnarled hand in front of his face. Gore ran from his digits like a faucet––hitting him in the eyes, nose, neck and chin. It was on his lips and in his mouth; it was in his hair; it was on his chest. It splashed the floor around him. It was everywhere, reaching comical proportions, and every moment that passed more leaked free.

  “Oh shit-dogs,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m not a witness, I’m part of the story!”

  He rolled across the floor, leaving a thick red trail on the tiles. Hot and cold flashes came in waves. A thin line of liquid shot from his knuckle and made it all the way to the ceiling.

  The Paul LaFalce zombie-monster tried to stand up, but with his arms broken and the wooden stick impaling his body, it was impossible. He grunted, slinking across the tiles, still chewing Dean’s fingers like a ravenous dog.

  Dean hauled himself to his feet, ready to pass out––ear gone, two fingers gone; blood rolling out of him in a stream. It was definitely time to get going. Standing, he lost his balance and stumbled into a display of snacks.

  Potato chips tumbled. The rack fell over.

  The monster kept coming: Paul crawling, looking like an insect on a fishhook, grabbed Dean’s ankle and pulled his feet from under him.

  Dean fell, smashed his head off an industrial-sized ice-cream freezer. He saw a cartoon drawing of a kid licking his lips. Yummy, the kid seemed to be saying. Yummy, yummy… good for the tummy! Then everything went black, quiet, calm––and slowly, too slowly, senses returned. He could hear again, smell again; think again. His eyes opened.

  Paul was on top of him, chewing his throat.

  Dean tried to scream but only managed to squeal. He pushed Paul away with his ruined hand, discounting the pain in his fingers. The pain raged in a new place anyhow. The pain was in his neck, burning him like fire.

  Paul flopped in the opposite direction; he tried to bite the floor. He howled and hissed and slammed his broken arms together pathetically.

  Dean lifted himself to his knees, then to his feet. Blood poured from his neck in quantities he didn’t want to think about. His witty ‘MY OTHER SHIRT HAS A SKULL ON IT’ t-shirt was covered. His ripped jeans were covered. His shoes were covered and when he stumbled towards the door, through chips and chocolate, dizzy and disorientated, the color drained from his face like a magic trick.

  Moaning, Dean pushed the door open with his shoulder and made his way across the parking lot, leaving a trail of bright red splotches that were big enough to see from thirty feet away.

  3

  Andrew had greasy hair, dirty fingernails and food stuck in his teeth. He sat in the car, in the driver’s seat, wearing a Misfits t-shirt that sai
d Die, Die My Darling, and a pair of work boots that had the laces untied. He was completely oblivious. Not just now, but always. He was the type of guy that would wear the same pair of underwear eight days in a row and then try to pick up girls. He had big bushy hair and nicotine stained fingers. He had a habit of going on welfare because he didn’t like to work, and a girlfriend that was five months pregnant. He had three cats he didn’t bother naming and a litter-box so loaded with turds that more often than not the cats shit on the floor. He had a dusty black flag with METALLICA – KILL ‘EM ALL printed on it, hanging in front of his bedroom window like a curtain. And he had a best friend: Dean Lee, who was running towards him, covered in blood, lost in terror.

  Andrew was looking for something good on the radio but having no such luck. He turned the power off in disgust and was about to pick his nose when Dean slammed a bloody hand against the passenger window and said: “Open the doooooor! Open it dude, quick!”

  Andrew froze.

  Dean screamed, “OPEN IT!”

  Andrew leaned across the car and opened the passenger door with his eyes wide and his mouth wider. “What the hell happened?”

  With blood splashing everywhere, Dean plunked himself inside the car, gurgling: “Just drive man! Drive!”

  Andrew didn’t. Instead, he looked at his friend in awe. Then he looked towards the store and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He scratched his head and considered the getting out of the car. He figured he should go inside the store and buy some bandages, because bandages would come in handy now that his good buddy was––

  Dean screamed, “GET THE ‘EFFING HELL OUT OF HERE!”

  “Okay dude,” Andrew said, startled. “Don’t freak out… I’m only trying to help!”

  Andrew threw the car in gear and drove, causing the passenger door to slam shut. Then he started shooting out statements and questions faster than anyone could respond. He paid little, if any, attention to driving.

  He said, “Oh shit man! What the hell happened, Dean? Are you okay? Who’s inside Hopper’s? Who did this to you? Did you see ‘em? Are you hurt? How bad are you hurt? Is it bad? Are you hurting really bad? It’s bad, isn’t it? Oh shit dude… it’s bad! I know it’s bad! Look at you, man! Look at you! You’re bleeding all over my car! I don’t care about the car, even though I just cleaned the ‘effing thing, I care about you, but look at you, dude! Just look! You’re going die man! Oh shit! Are you going to die? Please don’t die on me man! Please don’t die! I’ll take you to the hospital; I’m taking you right now, see? That’s where we’re going… to the hospital; I’m taking you to the hospital so just hang in there Dean, just hang tight good buddy! Everything will okay if you just hang on and don’t die on me! It’s not so bad! It just looks bad. Oh shit man… it looks really bad, Dean! It looks REALLY ‘EFFING BAD!”

  Dean’s eyes opened wide. A red bubble appeared on his lips. He took his hand off his neck; the blood was wet and glistening. He tried to point at the road ahead but his finger was gone. He said, “Loooook out!”

  Andrew Cowles glanced at the road just in time to see a stop sign he didn’t know existed, and the car they were about to sideswipe. The car was a blue Mustang with a lot of bodywork. He saw two people inside: a guy and a girl.

  The driver turned towards him; looked about twenty. Her mouth dropped open.

  Andrew cranked the wheel left and slammed the brake. Too late: he clipped the mustang’s trunk.

  Andrew’s seatbelt locked.

  Dean wasn’t wearing one, and in his final moment of life he closed his eyes and hoped for the best. Then his face smashed into the windshield and his neck snapped; sounded like a campfire crackle.

  Spinning.

  The whole world was spinning.

  And when it stopped spinning Andrew saw nothing but darkness. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. The steering wheel was in his hands. The windshield was fractured and speckled with cherry splotches. The hood was crumpled and a thin line of smoke was sneaking out from under the car. Looking through the smoke he could see the Mustang: the driver’s door was open, the driver had a crushed head, but worse than that, his jaw had been pulled from his face.

  Andrew turned away.

  There was a girl lying on the road leaking generous amounts of blood from her mangled legs. Her legs were broken, so terribly broken. They looked like they had been smashed apart with a sack full of scrap metal. Beyond the girl, he could see a wooden stop sign post that had been snapped in half. It looked like a broken stalk of corn now, dry and forgotten at the end of a season. There was knapsack next to the sign, sitting up straight as if nothing had happened. Its contents were spilled across the intersection.

  Andrew’s eyes closed again. And when he opened them he looked at Dean and felt his heart break.

  Dean’s head was rammed into his chest. The passenger door was hanging open and there was blood everywhere.

  Dean was dead, undeniable dead.

  And a moment later, he wasn’t.

  4

  Dean opened his eyes for what seemed like the first time. He smelled blood, dust, rotting food, gas, sweat, smoke, and dirt. He shifted his weight and his head rolled around his broken neck like a golf ball circling the hole. He looked at his friend and grinned.

  Things became clear.

  Dean had been given a seat at the Master’s table. He was one of the chosen few, a disciple. Andrew, unfortunately, was not a disciple. He was to be made an example of: a warning sign for others. There was a new law, a new power.

  All hail the new regime.

  ∞∞Θ∞∞

  Andrew, still shaken from the accident, couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His friend was alive; Dean was alive! He was hurt badly (Oh so badly, how can anyone be alive when they’re hurt so badly? It’s not possible, is it? No! It can’t be possible! It just can’t be!) but he was alive! Thank heaven! He said, “Thank ‘effing Slayer dude; you’re alive! I figured you were dead meat for sure!”

  Dean growled, revealing the animal-like teeth growing inside his mouth. He reached out, grabbed Andrew by the hair and pulled.

  Andrew, surprised and distressed, tried to say something half-funny. Something like: Hey man, don’t squeeze the merchandise. Or: You broke it you bought it! But all that came from his mouth was ARRRAGHHHH!

  Dean yanked hard, ignoring the fact that Andrew wore a seatbelt.

  Andrew slapped at Dean’s hands. He managed to say, “Don’t asshole! That hurts!”

  Dean let go. He opened his door, pulled himself from the wreckage and walked around the car, favoring one leg. Blood ran from his face, neck and hand. His head rolled around his shoulders in a slow moving circle; his neck was clearly broken.

  Andrew watched in shock, thinking his friend’s teeth were best suited for a saber-toothed tiger. Once he realized that he was in danger, he tried to roll up his window. Too late: Dean reached through the opening and grabbed Andrew by the hair. Then he pulled, really pulled.

  Inundated with pain, Andrew waved his hands frantically and slapped at nothing, screaming: “The seatbelt’s on! The seatbelt’s on!”

  Dean pulled harder.

  Andrew tried to unlock the belt. He was willing to do anything to relieve the pressure in his head, which seemed to be getting torn from his body.

  Dean yanked in sharp violent surges. Seatbelt or no seatbelt, Andrew was getting out of the car.

  Andrew gained a new fear: he thought his neck would snap. It seemed more than possible; it seemed unpreventable. His fingers danced around the seatbelt switch. Every time he thought he had it, Dean jerked him and his thumb slid off the button.

  He began crying, kicking his feet. Drool hung from his bottom lip. A long red crack appeared just below his hairline. The crack his skin crack widened; then widened again. Blood poured down Andrew’s face and into his eyes. He tasted it in his mouth and realized that his forehead was being torn apart.

  Dean yanked again and again.

 
Squiggly-cracks emerged like miniature earthquakes, cutting across Andrew’s brow. Screaming, he slammed his thumb onto the seatbelt button and pushed it hard. This time it worked; the seatbelt released. The belt slithered across his waist.

  Dean pulled on Andrew’s scalp one final time, heard a RRRRRIP and stumbled back. He tripped and fell, holding a flap of hairy skin. Looked like a rug, or a flattened puppy. He dropped the pelt and stood up.

  Andrew was bald now; he was scalped. His bony white skull glimmered beneath the car’s interior light. There was hardly any blood on it, except around the fault line, the place the skin tore free.

  Andrew saw himself in the rearview mirror. In a different set of circumstances he would’ve looked funny. His haircut was preposterous. It was clean-cut, right to the bone. He put a shaky hand on his head, knowing but not really knowing––not really believing. His eyes widened. His mouth crept open.

  He whispered, “No.”

  It didn’t hurt, not the way you might imagine it would. It was stinging and it was numb; it felt itchy, cold, and just plain wrong. But pain wasn’t the right word. All of his nerve-endings were sitting in the dirt like road-kill, so no––there wasn’t much pain at all. It felt terrible though. It felt worse than anything he had ever imagined.

  Dean reached into the car, grabbed Andrew’s shoulders and dragged him––squirming and begging––through the open window. He dragged him past the injured girl, the girl with the broken legs. He dragged him past the corpse inside the other car, whose skull had had been crushed, whose jaw had been torn from his face. He dragged him towards the broken stop sign, scalped head reflecting in the moonlight. Then he lifted Andrew up and fulfilled his Master’s commands. He slammed Andrew’s body on the broken STOP sign pole, growling insanely.