THE DAMNED

by William Ollie

  Then he fired up his Harley and roared off with the rest of them into the coming dawn.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was the buzzing of flies that woke him, the buzzing of flies and a smell Scott had been a party to only once in his life, back at the pit where the scent of blood and rendered flesh had wafted through the air along with the nauseating stench of a roasted human being. He opened his eyes, dreading what he what he might see. And it was bad, worse than he could possibly have imagined. Blood, which had crept out from Davey like an oil spill, soaked the carpet around him. When Scott looked down, he saw the knees and right leg of his grey sweatpants were sticky with it. There was blood on his t-shirt and blood on his thighs and lap—his hands, which had been bound tightly together when the blade pounded home, were also covered with it.

  Above him sat Lila, perched in death on the sofa. Head thrown back, her lifeless eyes gazed up at the ceiling as if admiring its textured whorls, the jagged scar on her face visible in the dull light streaming through the front windows. Behind her was a plate-sized hole, put there by the last desperate act of the pint-sized psychopath, mere inches from the Carnival clown, whose picture frame now sat cockeyed on the wall as he stared across the room with that same look of benevolent wisdom glowing deep within his eyes. Scott wished the guy could toss some of that wisdom his way.

  Flies flitted in and out of the wide, ragged gash across Lila’s throat, which smiled down at him like something out of a horror movie, which was what his life had become now, a horror story straight out of one of those Richard Laymon books Sandi used to go on about.

  Scott turned to see Davey lying sprawled on his back on the blood-soaked carpet, both hands clutching the shotgun that lay across the gory, fly-infested pit Scott had carved into his belly and chest. A sight which made Scott feel guilty—not that he had done such a thing, but because having done it he felt no remorse. A further illustration of what his life now was: the pitiful existence of someone unsure of how he had come to be stuck in a veritable nightmare factory, where fourteen-year-old kids got what they deserved—not a slap on the hand or a kick in the ass, but gutted and left bleeding out on the carpet.

  Scott got to his knees. The candle and matches lay unwanted in the middle of the living room, useless now that morning had arrived. If it even was morning; no telling how long he’d slept—nowhere near long enough, judging by the way he felt. For all he knew it was mid-afternoon, or maybe the sun was about to drop from the sky, dragging a curtain of darkness along behind it, and Scott would end up spending another night in this charnel house. And where was he going, anyway, out into the street to wander aimlessly along… until what? What exactly was he going to do when he left here? And make no mistake about it: Scott was leaving here, and soon.

  He got to his feet, and there was Lila on her blood-soaked throne. Scott quickly looked away, at the jug of water lying uncapped in front of the couch. He’d seen enough of her wounds from his place on the floor. He didn’t need to see them all. He made his way to the jug, picked it up and guzzled a mouthful. The warm water felt great washing down his throat, so he took another drink before carrying it with him down the hallway on his way to Rat-boy Warren’s food stash. Because even though the horrific scene before him dictated that he forego food, his stomach demanded nourishment. He had to eat, for who knew what the coming hours might bring, or the minutes, for that matter. On his way to the bedroom he stopped at an open doorway, the same one Lila had followed her gun into yesterday after Warren made his escape and the thump thump thump had drawn them deeper into the house.

  He found himself in the family bathroom. To his left was a shower and tub, to his right, a mirror and sink. Straight ahead, parted curtains of black skeletal leaves on a burnt sienna background framed another open window. Three sets of toothbrushes dangled from the slotted ceramic holder affixed to the wall. And just like yesterday when he and Lila and Warren made their way past the backyard swing set, Scott wondered what had become of their owners. He stepped up to the sink, and for the first time since he’d come to in the rehab center; saw himself reflected in the beveled glass of a mirror. His body was emaciated; his eyes, dull and lifeless and sunk into his skull like a holocaust survivor’s. Brown stubble covered his cheeks, and Scott wondered why not a beard—if he had been unconscious for seven weeks, why not a beard? His hair was longer, falling across his collar now. If someone had shaved him, who were they and where had they gone? He stared at the dimpled, hairless indentation on the left side of his head, a couple of inches above the ear. Where that guy had shot him. It felt like a bruised spot on a banana when he brushed his index finger across it, which made Scott think of the soft spot on a baby’s head, even though he had never felt one himself.

  Scott took it all in: the dull eyes, the sunken spot on his head, the bloody shirt and pants, the dried and crusted blood on his hands. He lifted his shirt and his heart sank. He really was nothing more than a concentration camp survivor, one of those poor unfortunate souls he had seen haunting The History Channel and figured they were better off dead; like Scott, better off dead than facing the nightmare world they inhabited. But history had shown they weren’t better off, that death was something you went clawing and scraping to while holding with bruised and broken fingers onto whatever shitty piece of existence you had left. You fought ‘til the end, you fought to survive, and if you survived and the nightmares came for you, at least you were alive. You don’t give in. You go down swinging, just like Lila had said. And Scott wasn’t about to give in, because giving up would dishonor the friend who had so recently kept him alive. He went back into the hallway, back down to the food supply. Strands of rope still hung from the four corners of the bedposts; Scott wondered briefly what the kid had done for Warren to have tied him up like that. But it didn’t matter, not really. Scott had more important things to consider, like where he was going and what he would do when he got there.

  But first things first.

  He found the can opener on the floor, beside the bed. A can of beef stew sat next to it. Scott sat on the bed. Moments later the can was open and he was shoveling down its contents, chewing and swallowing, stopping every now and then for a mouthful of water before starting the cycle over again. When the beef stew was gone, he opened a can of peaches and spooned them down with the plastic utensil he’d found on the bed. Finished and full, he carried the half-empty jug over to a cherry-stained chest of drawers that sat beside the window. He found an old, faded Van Halen t-shirt in the bottom of the second drawer he rifled through, probably handed down from someone who had actually attended the 1988 World Tour concert, or maybe dear old dad himself had been an attendee all those years ago. Another drawer filled with short pants, much too large for Scott’s narrow waist, was opened and quickly shut.

  Scott shrugged out of his own blood-stained garment and into the Van Halen memorabilia. He sat down on the bed, took off his shoes and slipped into a clean pair of socks he’d found. He had put the shoes back on and was about to stand when he noticed Lila’s backpack sitting on the floor beside the empty leather sheath Davey had left behind when he’d decided to relieve his boredom by carving up the woman who had been kind enough to free him from his bonds earlier in the day. Scott shook his head. It would have been nice to have had Lila around. She had barely gotten into her story of how she’d come to be here when Scott drifted off to sleep. There were many questions he would like to have asked her, questions which now would remain unanswered.

  On his feet now, Scott grabbed an unopened gallon jug of water and headed back to the bathroom, where he uncapped the jug and placed it by the washbasin. He knew there was no electricity to run the pump that drew water through the lines, and turning the faucet bore that out. But he had to try—it seemed silly not to. He felt better seeing his new shirt in the mirror, the faded black border framing a flaming rendition of Mother Earth, superimposed behind the trademark steel Van Halen insignia, and he’d feel better still once the blood was rinsed from his hands. T
he sliver of soap he plucked from the sink had been worn nearly paper thin, and once again, Scott thought of the family who had walked these hallways. He hoped they were safe somewhere, that they hadn’t been home when Rat-boy Warren and his psychotic sidekick barged in claiming the property for their own.

  With the soap in one hand, he poured water over it, and quickly began using both hands to lather up. The dried blood softened, and the soapy mixture turned as brown as the curtains billowing in the slight breeze blowing through the window. Scott doused his hands and started the process over, until the blood was gone and his hands were clean. He cupped some water and splashed it onto his face. It felt great, cool and soothing, so he did it again. God, what he would’ve given for a cold beer and a hot shower and one of Sandi’s home-cooked meals. The blood off his hands now, he swung open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and snatched a rolled-up tube of toothpaste from it. It felt weird, using someone else’s toothbrush, but the inside of Scott’s mouth was like a sewer, so he spread the toothpaste and went to work. Moments later, the mouthful of water he’d rinsed with spiraling down the drain, Scott ran an appreciative tongue along the front side of his teeth, moaning with absolute pleasure.

  A cold beer and a hot shower and one of Sandi’s home cooked meals.

  “Sandi.”

  Scott missed her terribly. He needed to know what had become of her—he had to know. He walked back to the bedroom, to Lila’s backpack, picked it up and dumped its contents onto the bed. Hostess Twinkies and pens, shotgun shells and a wallet and a smattering of trinkets fell freely onto the mattress, and a Harper’s Bazaar magazine, which Scott picked up, somehow knowing he would find Lila on its front cover. And there she was, a pre-scarred Lila, smiling, her brilliant blue eyes twinkling as long raven hair fell across her narrow shoulders, a woman packed with as much or more beauty than any actress Scott had ever seen, the same woman who hours ago had told him she was evil, only to find true evil lurking a mere heartbeat away.

  Scott tossed the magazine and gathered up some canned food—mostly the tasty beef stew he had come to enjoy, and a couple of cans of peaches—and stuffed them into the backpack. The shotgun shells and Twinkies followed. Then the can opener was tossed in as well. Now all he needed was the shotgun and Lila’s holster and gun, but not the knife Davey had slain her with. That morbid article could stay embedded in the arm of the couch where Scott had left it. Regardless of whether or not it would be useful, he could not bear to bring it along. He picked up the backpack, looping its straps around his shoulder and arm. It was heavy, but not unmanageably so. Now he could get the guns and leave this slaughterhouse behind him.

  He was halfway down the hallway when the thrumming roar of motorcycle engines startled him. Not the distant sound of a lone biker traveling down the roadway as before, but a howling pack of steel beasts pounding right up his street. Scott hurried through the kitchen and into the living room, to the front windows, where he peered cautiously through the parted curtains, and saw eight or more tricked-out chrome Harley Davidson motorcycles lined up single file at the curb, a platoon of modern day horse-soldiers calling their enemies to battle as Dub and his pack of Devil’s Own Neanderthals dismounted. Standing front and center was Warren the Rat Boy with a dog-choker wrapping his neck. Just as Scott had pictured, Dub and his boys pulled a frightened Warren like a reluctant mongrel across the yard. Scott ran to Davey. He grabbed the shotgun, but the kid, whose small hands wrapped it in a tightly-held death grip, would not release it. Scott put a foot against Davey’s bloody chest and a black cloud of flies rose up, whirling around his leg and scattering as he grabbed barrel and stock and wrenched the shotgun free. The laughter and gruff voices drew near as he moved quickly to the coffee table, and Warren said, “All right, already!”

  Lila’s holster was still on the coffee table, the pistol beneath it. Scott grabbed them both and hustled quietly down the hallway. In the bedroom, he grabbed a couple of 12 ounce bottles of water, stuffed them into the backpack and hurried to the window. He leaned out the window, dropping the pack and the holstered gun to the ground, then, propping the shotgun against the side of the house, he slipped through the window and into the yard.

  A chest-high row of hedges separated the adjoining property. Scott, who had scooped up his backpack and weapons, made his way to them. He forced his newly acquired belongings into a narrow gap at the roots, and then followed them through, pushing and shoving until he had joined them on the other side. From the front porch came Warren’s voice: “I don’t know!” Then an anguished cry that surely had come from Warren, too. The sound of a door being kicked in as Scott gathered up his belongings. He shrugged into the shoulder-harness and slung the backpack on as well. Then he ran bent over along the hedges, until he found himself standing a foot or so from the street, peering through the foliage at a monster of a man who stood with his back to him, guarding the motorcycles while he looked up at the house, where a multitude of shouted curses, swearing and threats seemed to hold the outlaw sentry spellbound.

  Scott backed gingerly away, one foot behind the other, softly pressing down on the grass. His eyes never left the hedges as he moved toward a concrete driveway. Then he was on the driveway, moving quietly down the street as the shouts grew louder and Warren called out, “I didn’t know!”

  Scott, holding the shotgun before him, knew that Davey had fired it last night. He knew it needed to be cocked, and he was ready to do it, willing and able to take out as many as he could. He stopped at the property line where hedge met road, so close he could reach out and touch the cold metal barrel against the creep’s neck. On the porch, Warren was being held spread-eagled against the doorframe, surrounded by a bunch of laughing and cursing bikers. The leader, Dub, held a hammer in his hand; his other hand clutched a nail. Like a carpenter toiling lazily away on his jobsite, Dub poked the nail into Warren’s child-like palm, eliciting a series of high-pitched groveling from the midget, who struggled vainly against the men holding him in place—back to the closed front door, he stared down at Scott, who stared back, strangely fascinated as he stood watching and waiting to see what would happen to the despicable little prick who surely would have left him dead on the side of the road had Lila not happened along.

  Warren nodded toward the street. He opened his mouth to speak and the hammer came down, drawing from him a blood-curdling scream that rose higher and higher as the hammer pounded him again and again, until both hands were nailed and Warren the Rat Boy hung suspended from the doorframe, wide rivulets of blood streaming down his short forearms as his legs kicked and his heels bounced off the front door, and Scott—Scott, who had noticed a key in the ignition of the chromed-out Harley the behemoth stood beside, jacked the handle, touched the barrel to the guy’s neck and pulled the trigger; bloody chunks of raw-red meat splattering and spraying as the shotgun boomed and guy’s head flopped sideways against the outer portion of his right shoulder, held in place by taffy-thin strings of bloody tendon while he collapsed to the ground like a human Pez dispenser, blood pumping from the ragged stump of his neck as the bike roared to life and Dub and his crew ran screaming and yelling from the porch, far too late to catch Scott, though, who laid down a smoking patch of rubber as he shot off like a rocket away from the bloody mess he’d made.

  Down the street and through the neighborhood he went, the backpack hanging from his shoulder as he straddled the shotgun which lay beneath him, the stock under his rump, the barrel snug against the gas tank… a right and a left and then another, running stop signs as if they weren’t even there. And why not? It wasn’t like any traffic was out, other than the pissed-off bikers who were sure to chase after him. But Scott didn’t care—this was his town, twelve years and running, and once he got to the familiar downtown streets, he knew they would never catch him. Then it was on to the freeway, leaving Dub and his boys chasing their tails and wondering how some skinny little prick had gotten the drop on them. Maybe they’ll go back and take it out on Warren. Scott smiled a
t the thought. Then he thought of Lila lying dead on the sofa, and wished he had burned the place to the ground and left before they’d arrived. No telling what they would do to her, what kind of perversions or desecrations they would inflict upon her corpse—Scott wouldn’t put anything past them.

  On the Interstate now, he left all that behind him, and turned his thoughts to Sandi.

  A cold beer and a hot shower, and one of Sandi’s home cooked meals.

  Sandi.

  Scott had to know what had become of her. He had to know. He could no more leave this town without seeking her out than he could stop himself from breathing.

  He roared down the highway, still straddling the shotgun.

  Heading for home.

  Heading for Sandi.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Scott found himself traveling down the same stretch of highway that had kicked this whole sordid affair into gear. As he passed the exit ramp he’d taken on that sweltering hot day, he thought about the guy who had shot him, and what might have become of him. He wondered if the police had tracked him down and tossed him in jail. Or maybe he hadn’t run at all. Maybe he felt justified in the action he’d taken. After all, Scott had beaten him senseless. Mostly he thought of everything he’d been through: waking up next to that bloated corpse back in town, the carnage of the pit, Lila and Davey and the thump thump thump that had precluded Rat-boy Warren’s headlong drive through the open window.

  Warren…

  Scott fully intended on swinging back by that house, just to see if he was still hanging in the doorway—he hoped like hell he was. He wanted him to be alive so he could see the pained expression on his face as he squirmed like a moth whose wings had been pinned to a specimen board. He sure looked surprised when he saw Scott slipping up behind that biker, couldn’t wait to give his position away, couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Fortunately for Scott, he didn’t get those words out at all—that split second may have been the only thing between Scott riding down the expressway with the wind in his face and being pinned to the wall next to the pint-sized prick.