Then she looked up.
What she saw made her gasp and flinch.
Her mother’s fingers were clutching her jaw.
Her father was on top of Mary O’Neill. His eyes were different now, silver––no black, centered with a crimson dot. His hands were forged into talons, having just raked them across the officer’s face.
And Mary O’Neill––poor, unfortunate Mary O’Neill––she was on the floor, half in the hallway and half in the bedroom. Her gun was still in its holster. Her neck was twisted strangely. Blood drained from her throat, eyes, nose and mouth. Half of her face was lying on the floor in a pile.
She coughed and gasped for air.
Gina shrieked.
Ron licked his lips and growled. He sounded like a wolf. He bit into Mary, ripping the remaining half of her nose off.
Gina screamed again.
Mary screamed again.
Now sixteen-year-old Julie was screaming. Screaming, with both hands at her ears, fingers digging her scalp, watching the chaos in absolute horror.
Ron bit a piece from Mary’s throat. He rammed her head against the floor and snapped her neck.
Gina turned away from the violence, no longer looking like a mother with all of life’s answers. She looked like a victim in shock. She said, “Run Julie, run!”
Julie nodded, mumbled and ran into the kitchen.
Gina followed.
Suddenly Julie slammed on the brakes.
Cameron was there, inside the house, blocking the exit. Ron’s blood was on her face and chest, wet and glistening. Gleaming.
In her hand she held a very long stick.
“Hi Julie,” she said, smiling like an angel that lost her way. She tapped the stick against the floor. “Hi Mrs. Stapleton. Remember me? We talked on the phone. I said I’d drop by and… here I am. Glad to see me? I hope so. I’m here to see your daughter, Mrs. Stapleton. I’m here for revenge. I’m here for murder.”
“Get out of my house,” Gina said, her voice anxious and terrified. “I mean it. Just turn around and go.”
“And if I don’t? What then? What if I decide to stay for a bite?” She smiled, purposely flaunting her teeth.
Gina gasped.
Then she heard Ron coming down the hallway. She didn’t want to turn around and face him. After what she had witnessed, she never wanted to see him again. But she did turn. She did.
My husband looks like a rabid dog, she thought. He looks insane.
Then Ron leapt onto her, biting and scratching and out of his mind with rage.
Gina tumbled back, away from her husband, the man she had fallen in love with, the man that needed to work in the morning. She fell into Cameron’s arms and screamed one final time and then it was over. The last thing she saw was Ron slamming his blood-soaked hands inside her mouth and ripping her face apart.
∞∞Θ∞∞
∞Θ∞
~~~~ CHAPTER SEVEN: TUESDAY MORNING
1
4:15 am. Sunrise.
4:44 am. Cameron entered Patrick’s cottage, licking her lips through teeth that had grown a full inch during the night. They looked like they belonged inside the mouth of a rattlesnake now; they were sharp, thin and strong. Above the slender of her nose, dark and haunting red-dot eyes were locked on Daniel, fixed on him like a mother to a newborn child, watching his chest rise and fall as he lie helplessly asleep on the couch, lost within his private world. Time mattered. In eight short minutes the sun would rise, burning Cameron to a crisp, wiping her from existence. She understood this, but did not subside to the spoils of fear. She had enough time to bite Daniel and turn him into her slave while staying clear of the morning sun. Doing so only took a moment; a single bite and she’d be off. But there was a problem: she didn’t want Daniel to be a slave; she wanted him to be more than that. She wanted an equal, someone to spend eternity with. She wanted Daniel to be her mate. Instinctively she understood that forging any man into her likeness took three nights, despite the fact that her transformation only took one. Why were the rules of becoming a vampire this way? Because. Because she was bitten by the source of the infection, and he, if things played out the way she wanted, would be bitten by her. And now she had to drain him in modest amounts and infect him progressively, augmenting his contagion over time. Then on the third night he would become like she was––an equal, a vampire, immortal. Only then could they be together. Otherwise he would be a ruined shell, an empty husk, no better than all the other senseless zombie hybrids that were obeying her every will and command. No, this was not the Hollywood way, but this was the way that it was––the truth behind the vampire legend. A single bite meant Zombie. A triple bite meant Vampire.
4:46 am. Six minutes remained. By now the town would be free of the zombies that had terrorized every home, every building. The zombies would have found shelter, in an attempt to hide from the sunlight. They would have crept into the basements and cellars, the closets and the attics. But Cameron, naked and filthy, had not. She still had a job to do. Dropping to her knees she pushed apart Daniel’s legs. She crept between his thighs and tilted his head to the left. Leaning in, she put her mouth to his neck. Her cold tongue licked his warm flesh, tickling him, tasting him, enjoying the moment for as long as possible. Her fangs slid deep and his blood entered her mouth. Her nipples grew hard as her pussy turned hot and wet. She wanted to devour him, consume him; she wanted everything he had to give and more.
Daniel felt the bitter lips sucking the life from him, the acidic teeth inside his flesh. As his eyes opened his neck turned numb and his heart began racing. He didn’t know what was happening but fear crashed upon him like an ocean wave to the shore, saturating him, overshadowing his will. He wanted to push her away––needed to, but his body wouldn’t respond. He was powerless, becoming feeble and immobilized. Blood ran down his neck in a dark, thick channel, a liquid rope. The room seemed to spin on one corner. Stranger still, he felt himself growing hard. Part of him didn’t want the moment to end, wanting instead to seize hold of more pain and fright, disorientation and confusion. Thoughts flipped end over end, falling apart before he could comprehend their value. What was happening here? What horrors sat before him, poisoning him, exterminating the very spirit of the man he was born to be?
Cameron sucked more blood from her victim’s body. Running her fingers through his hair, she pulled away. Her fangs slipped from his skin, releasing him from her deadly hold. A string of blood dangled between them, shinning like silk, glimmering in the moonlight before its integrity was compromised.
“Sleep,” she said. “Close your eyes.”
Daniel did what he was told; his heart rate slowed immediately.
4:49 am. Cameron stood up, wiped a line of blood from her mouth and licked Daniel’s taste from her lips one final time. Her chin was covered. She had blood on her breasts, dripping from her nipples to the floor. His flavor was nothing short of ecstasy, bliss. She wanted to swallow another mouthful but wouldn’t chance it. Drinking more could turn him into a zombie and spoil everything; it wasn’t worth the risk.
4:50 am. She left Patrick’s cottage and made her way to Daniel’s place. As she stepped through his front door she saw a multi-legged creature with numerous eyes and an abundant amount of jaws. It crawled across the floor on stalks that were fourteen inches long, snapping its teeth at random. She walked past the beast calmly, blood glistening on her naked flesh, knowing she was safe, knowing the creature wouldn’t attack, for she had become one with the critters, a queen among the hive.
4:51 am. She entered Daniel’s basement.
4:52 am. Cameron made her way down the ladder. Once she was deep in the earth, in the place the others believed was a bomb shelter, she curled her body next to a large cocoon and closed her eyes. For this new version of Cameron, the first of many nights had ended. The time for sleep had come.
2
5:23am. Nicolas Nehalem woke, shifting into a different position as he held his pillow tight. His eyes opened,
closed, and opened again.
The babies were crying.
He rubbed the sleep from his face, lifted his librarian-issue spectacles from the nightstand and slid them into place. He sat up, putting his feet on the floor one after another. CLUMP. CLUMP. For no real reason he looked over his shoulder, lifted his feet and dropped them down again.
CLUMP. CLUMP.
He put his hand into the empty space on the far side of the bed and gave the sheets a squeeze. They felt soft and nice.
He stood up, stumbled across the room and entered the bathroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face very thoroughly before pouring himself a glass of water. The glass had a cartoon dog on it. The dog was wailing its tail and smiling happily. He drank the water from the glass and emptied the remaining few drops on the floor. After returning to his room he lifted his brown-checkered housecoat from the shiny brass hook and pushed his furry blue slippers together on the floor with his foot. He put the housecoat on and tied the cotton belt in a cute little bow. He slid his feet inside the slippers and stumbled down the hall. With a yawn and a fart he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.
Last month’s turkey sandwich was still there. So was the empty carton of orange juice. He lifted the empty carton, shook it and tossed it in the garbage.
There were no bottles of formula; if he wanted to feed the babies he’d have to make a new batch. Or––
He grabbed the sandwich from the bottom shelf and sat it on the counter. The green and black moon craters inside the plastic wrap were bigger now. The plastic felt squishy beneath his fingers.
The babies kept crying. Or was it just one?
Nicolas opened a cupboard door and grabbed a box of powered formula. He lifted a spoon from the sink and licked it. He opened the container of formula and rammed the spoon inside. From a different cupboard he found six baby bottles. He opened them, put a spoonful of formula in each and filled the bottles with water. He capped the lids and shook them all; then he put four in the fridge and two in the microwave. He turned the machine on for nine minutes. After five minutes he opened the microwave door. The formula was boiling. When the bottles were cool enough to handle he lifted two of them up and headed downstairs, formula in one hand, sandwich in the other.
5:31 am. At the base of the staircase he clicked on a light. Several large cockroaches made for the shadows. He walked across the room that was filled with shoes and coats, jeans and shirts, wallets and belts. He opened the cellar door and flicked another light switch.
Today the crying didn’t stop. It became louder.
And yes––only one baby was crying. Still, he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. It might be time to teach those babies a lesson; he wasn’t sure.
Nicolas slid the bottles of formula and the sandwich into his housecoat pockets. He walked down three stairs and stopped. There was a cupboard on his left. It was deep and dirty and the perfect place to store paint cans, mason jars and all the other stuff people hold save but rarely use.
He opened the door.
Somewhere inside, a mouse squeaked and ran for cover.
The cupboard was home to a wide assortment of things that made his babies quake with fear: a pair of pliers, a wrench, a long hunting knife, gasoline, razor blades, a nail gun, a chainsaw, hedge clippers, a blowtorch, a hammer, a sledgehammer, vice grips, a curling iron, a cattle prodder, a cork screw, an electric sander, rat traps, an ax… the list went on and on. Today he reached for one of his favorite items: a medical scalpel he bought off the Internet. It was neat and clean, fun to use and easy to work with. And boy, was it sharp! Sharp enough to slice through leather.
The crying continued.
He walked down the remaining six stairs, crouched down and entered the room with the low ceiling.
William was gone. In his place was a large puddle of hardened blood and a severed leg. Connected to the puddle of blood was a trail that led to Cathy Eldritch’s cage. It was empty.
Cathy’s cage was empty.
Nicolas couldn’t believe it. That cage hadn’t been empty in fourteen years. And Nicolas, completely surprised, looked at the cage for a long while before his eyes finally shifted to another trail of blood, which led to Olive Thrift’s cage.
It too was empty!
Nicolas dropped the scalpel; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And he could hear screaming now. Not crying but screaming. But why? Who was making that noise?
He turned his head towards the sound and found Cathy sitting in the corner, naked and wilted and covered in scars. She wasn’t alone. William was beside her with eyes open, his mouth agape and his skin white like a sheet of paper. The man’s legs were destroyed, his hands were drenched in blood, his fingers were opened and facing the ceiling like overturned spiders, like he was expecting something to be placed in them. Cathy didn’t seem to notice. She was holding onto William, arms wrapping around the dead man like a blanket. And she was screaming––screaming and screaming; a woman that had finally lost her marbles.
Nicolas said, “Where’s Pumpkin?”
But Cathy didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t think. Being set free from the cage was the final straw that caused her sanity to crack apart in a way that could never be salvaged. She was lost; her mind was elsewhere, drifting, floating; reliving the horror…
3
Cathy watched Nicolas lead William inside the room. She knew what would happen next. Will wasn’t the first man to be led into the basement over the years––led to the slaughter, as she often thought of it. He was the twelfth.
The unfortunate souls were always dealt with in a similar fashion: Nicolas would walk his victims down the stairs, force them to strip and allow them a nice view of the cages. Then after a brief reaction he’d pull the trigger. On two separate occasions Nicolas shot his victim in the head. Twice he shot his victim in the stomach. Three times he shot his victim in the back. Three times he shot arms and legs off, one at a time. And on one terrible occasion––an occasion that haunted Cathy’s thoughts still––he shot his victim in the groin, and when the man went down screaming he shot him again in the neck, lopping the poor bastard’s head clean off.
After his victims had fallen Nicolas would do the unthinkable: he would eat them, or cut them into pieces, or set them on fire, or suck out their eyes, or dismember them with an ax. Often times he made intestine soup and fed it to his babies. Other times he’d strip the victim naked and have sex with the corpse. One time he chopped a man apart with a hammer; one time he operated with a chainsaw. One time he covered a man in chocolate and licked him semi-spotless. But he had never––as far as Cathy had seen––never, shot a man in the legs and left it at that.
Until now.
Cathy wondered why.
Perhaps Nicolas was tired. Perhaps he was out of shotgun shells.
Cathy didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. Truth was, she didn’t care any more. She hated thinking about Nicolas and all of his crazy bullshit. It was too much. He was too much.
After Nicolas shot William he went upstairs to scream in his closet or piss in the sink or do whatever it was that he was doing, and Cathy watched the wounded man screech and cry and pass out where he lay. She thought he was dead.
He wasn’t.
Somehow William found the strength to open his eyes and drag his body across the floor, one leg dangling by a pair of tendons and a rope of meat, the other leg left behind, dribbling blood on the floor. Then, with his teeth clenched and his fingers quivering, he unlocked Cathy’s cage.
She knew what William wanted. He wanted her to save him. He wanted her to crawl from her coop and hunt down the medical attention he needed––but how? Didn’t he know how mistreated she was? Couldn’t he see that she had been abused too?
Cathy was in no position to help. She was under enough strain without being asked to play hero. And besides, that part of her personality died years ago. She couldn’t resurrect it now. Not for him. Not for anyone. She wasn’t
a hero; she was a psycho’s plaything. Didn’t he know that?
In the other cage, Olive cried and begged. She said, “Come this way! Come here! Open this cage! Set me free!”
William turned away from Cathy, squealing in pain, fading in and out of consciousness. He crawled across the floor leaving a trail of blood three feet wide. And in time, somehow, he unlocked Olive’s cage.
Olive pushed the door open, crept from her cage and lifted her head high. She started to laugh. It was a terrible sound. There was no humor in that laugh, no happiness. She looked at her hands, her fingers, her bony little stubs… and the strangest thing occurred: she laughed louder than before.
She was almost free; she could hardly believe her luck!
Cathy, however, was not free. She remained in her cage, far away from the wide open door, afraid to step through, afraid of the future. The reason was easy to understand: she was institutionalized now, with her cage being her establishment. Leaving the pen meant leaving the safety of her home. Not to suggest that her home was a safe place to be. It wasn’t. And she knew that––but home was home and the cage was it. Stepping outside meant God knows what, and she was simply not ready for it.
Did stepping from her cage mean a daring escape followed by a barrage of questions from policemen, doctors, news crews and talk shows? Did it mean being captured by Nicolas again, and a punishment so severe that all of her past penalties would seem pleasant in comparison? Or did it mean something worse? Like seeing her family again, for that was the one thing she wanted least of all. Looking into her mother’s eyes now would be a torment she couldn’t possible handle. The very sight of her family would break her heart into pieces. And her mother wouldn’t cry. She would run away screaming in terror. She would run from the monster that Cathy had become, wishing her child had never been born. She was a living nightmare now, an unsightly ghoul. Cathy knew these things, and that’s why her home inside the cage was good enough. She knew her place. Escaping the cage was opening a door to an entirely new brand of nightmare she wanted no part of.
Terror Town Page 30
