The Scourge

by R. Tilden Smith

  Dogs! Ray thought, Run! Get to the gate!

  He reached the gate and without slowing, pulled the gate closed behind him, slamming the door shut and dropping the fork latch down over the fence post in one continuous motion. He backed away from the gate just as a pack of dogs crashed into the fence, teeth bared, climbing over each other, and tearing at the rusted chain-link in an attempt to get at him.

  “What the hell is wrong with you animals?” Ray said, hands on knees, exasperated, and out of breath. He counted six dogs, all of them looked like mutts. They all looked malnourished and mangy. He was surprised they could muster up the strength to stand, never mind give chase the way they did. He noticed that the dog that attacked Terp—the one with the busted snout—was not among them.

  “Shit!” he said, quickly scanning both ends of the building to see if anyone—or anything—else was coming after him. He took a couple more deep breaths. I’d better head toward the bayou, he thought, suddenly aware that he was in a defenseless position with crazed dogs between him and the street.

  Then he saw it.

  It leapt out of the restaurant’s dark doorway and onto the concrete pad at a full trot. Its bare feet hit the smooth concrete with a rhythmic slap-slap-slap sound, its gait and the noise made it seem larger and heavier than it looked. Then Ray saw its hands; the same hands that caressed Terp’s face. They were abnormally large, with long, bony fingers tipped with nails that had morphed into formidable-looking talons.

  That’s the monster that dragged Terp away.

  It was about five feet six inches tall. It had blond hair that was tangled and clotted with dirt, knotted strands swung like ripped curtain in front of its face. Ray stared at the thing in disbelief. It looked human, its body was vaguely female, and it was wearing clothes. Is that thing human? he thought, and why the hell is it wearing a bikini? He blinked a couple of time to be sure, but there was no mistaking it. The monster was wearing a yellow bikini. The top served to cover two deflated, misshapen breasts that hung on its chest at an odd angle. It looked as though it had a breast surgery go very, very wrong. The bottom was worse. The briefs were yellow but stained almost black at the crotch. Several large veins on its chest and stomach descended and converged at a point just below the bikini’s waistband, forcing the bikini briefs to bulge out like those worn by male underwear models.

  Oh my god, he thought, that thing is...used to be, a woman.

  When it spotted Ray, it broke into a full run, rapidly closing the distance between them. Ray took several steps backward before he turned and ran, galloping and loping through the tall grass, desperately trying to stay upright. The sound of grass being trampled seemed to be all around him. He glanced to his right. Something too small to see was running next to him, etching a parallel path in the grass. It was angling toward him. Their paths would intersect at any moment.

  Shit! It’s going to catch me!

  The tall grass abruptly ended, spilling him onto a five foot wide asphalt path that ran atop the bayou’s embankment. One of the dogs, a small one, burst out of the grass to his right and slid to a stop on the asphalt. Hair on end, lips pulled tight across its teeth, it let loose a deep, menacing growl and took a step toward Ray’s right leg. Another dog appeared on the path to his left, about five feet away.

  “Fuck!” Ray said, then sprinted across the path and down the steep embankment. He ran down the side of the concrete trench, the smell of decomposing fish filled his lungs. The small dog dove at his feet and grabbed hold of his pants leg. Ray lost his balance and fell, landing on his back and sliding head first down the steep slope, his head coming to a stop mere inches from the water’s edge. The dog, tangled in Ray’s legs, rolled, regained its footing, and then lunged, mouth open, directly at Ray’s face. He threw his left arm up to intercept the dog’s attack. It buried its teeth into his forearm, tearing the sleeve of his jacket and piercing his arm just below the elbow.

  “Aaaah!” Ray screamed in pain. He swung his arm down and out, knocking the dog into the black, brackish water.

  The other dog, an emaciated, hairless pit bull, leapt at Ray’s midsection and bit into the hem of his jacket, missing his crotch by only a couple of inches. Without thinking, Ray locked his hands around the dog’s neck and squeezed as hard as he could. The dog yelped but didn’t let go. It whipped its head back and forth, tearing the bottom out of one of the pockets on Ray’s jacket.

  “Let go of me!” Ray said, “Get off me!”

  The dog fought to get closer to ray’s groin, tearing wildly at Ray’s jacket and pants. Though the dog looked weak, it took all of Ray’s strength to keep it at arm’s length. Past the dog, in Ray’s line of sight, he saw the woman and several more dogs appear at the top of the embankment, carving a gray-black silhouette into the backdrop of the pre-dawn sky. Ray couldn’t hold the pit bull off any longer. He pushed his thumbs into the dog’s throat, trying in vain to cut off its air supply, to tire it out. But the animal didn’t slow its advance or appear to get weaker. The dog, using its hind legs as leverage against the concrete slope, pushed Ray backward into the water. He could feel the lukewarm water sloshing against the back of his head and neck. There was only one thing he could think to do. Ray bent his knees and, planting both his feet firmly against the concrete, launched himself and the pit bull backward into the bayou. They plunged into about six feet of the rancid, muddy water. The dog immediately aborted its attack and broke free of Ray’s grip. Ray sank backward into the water in a sitting position. Sediment, trash, and the carcasses of several dead fish swirled around his head as his water-laden jacket dragged him downward. He bent his legs and kicked, struggling to regain his footing on the slime and trash-covered bayou floor. He tried to stand but his jacket got caught on something.

  No! he thought.

  He couldn’t see and he couldn’t spin around. He reached his right hand around and felt along the small of his back, until he touched the obstruction. It was a piece of twisted metal, hard and thin, with ridges embossed on it.

  A piece of rebar, I’m stuck on a piece of rebar.

  He yanked on the jacket but it wouldn’t come loose. His lungs burned, begging for oxygen. He looked up. Dawn glinted off the surface of the water, less than five feet above his head.

  Take the jacket off you stupid shit! Take it off before you drown! he told himself.

  No! he thought, despondent. I am not leaving this money behind! It's mine! It was meant to be mine! Everything was just too perfect, his girlfriend getting the combination, the explosion, finding willing partners in Spuds and Terp, all of it came together too perfectly just to be a coincidence. I’m supposed to have this money. God damn it, I’m supposed to have it! When he was lying under that pile of dead bodies in Afghanistan, waiting for death to take him, he asked God to spare him, to let him live so he could come home and give his girl Shelly the kind of life she deserved. When he woke up alive in the base hospital, he knew God had answered his prayer. And when Shelly told him about the safe full of cash and how she could get the combination, he knew it was a sign from God.

  Don’t take this from me! Please! he thought.

  He struggled with the jacket, but all his efforts just seemed to make it worse. It wouldn’t budge. The toxic water burned Ray’s eyes and tongue. He couldn’t hold his breath for much longer. He unzipped the jacket, it traveled as far as his waist and then stopped. He felt along the bottom of the jacket, looking for the zipper teeth. They were mangled and broken. He wiggled his shoulders and arms out of the jacket and twisted himself free. He reached the surface and gulped a lungful of air. The sun had not yet crested the horizon, but the sky burned a deep reddish gold, chasing away the last of the night’s shadows and tinting everything with a splash of sepia. He thrashed about as he fought to keep his head above water and look for any sign of the monster and its dogs. Through squinted eyelids he saw the blurred shape of the monster at the spot where he entered the water. He was separated from it by no more than twenty feet, but it only glare
d at him and paced along the concrete bank, as if it were waiting for him to come back to the embankment. No bitch, I ain’t coming back over there to let you and your pets eat me alive. He twisted his head around to spy the opposite bank. If I can get to the other side I’ll be safe, he thought.

  He treaded water while moving slowly backward toward the opposite side of the bayou, keeping a watchful eye on the monster and the dogs. As his eyesight cleared, he saw that the pit bull had survived its swim and rejoined the pack. The dogs stood quietly, panting and looking disinterested, totally devoid of their prior zeal to rip him to shreds. As he paddled backwards, putting more distance between him and the mutant hunting party, a thought occurred to him. Maybe they’re scared of water or sunlight or some shit like that. He stopped paddling and felt around until his feet found solid purchase. Maybe they’ll stay there long enough for me to get my jacket back. Though he was more than halfway to the opposite bank, he took a few strokes back toward his submerged jacket. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted some movement. About one hundred yards to his right, three figures, one human-like and two large dogs, were crossing the bayou via a narrow pipeline bridge. They were already more than halfway across, their progress slowed only by the fact that the bridge, not designed for pedestrian traffic, had only minimal decking, so they were forced to pick their way across using only the cross beams.

  “Shit!” Ray exclaimed as he waded as fast as he could to the opposite side. He felt the upward slope of the bank beneath his feet just as the distant figure leapt the final few feet from the bridge span to solid ground. It didn’t wait for its animal companions, it loped up the embankment and out of view, hidden behind an outcrop of shrubbery located at a bend in the bayou halfway between Ray’s location and the bridge.

  Ray immediately recognized the gait, That thing is running just like the monster that chased me out of the restaurant.

  He dragged himself out of the water and clambered up the embankment, reaching the path at the top just as the creature with the strange gait came lumbering around the bend, about fifty yards from him. Ray could clearly see that it also looked female. The jet black hair on its head exploded and then died around its shoulders, like a tired afro. It looked like one of those tortured plastic dolls his baby sister used to drag around the house. Its hair bounced in rhythm with each step it took, bobbing up and down and twisting back and forth, obscuring a clear view of its face. And just like the monster that killed Terp, this one was wearing a bikini bathing suit—a pink one underneath some white yoga pants.

  Ray hurried across the path and pushed his way through a stand of head high shrubs just off the path to his right. Time to put some distance between me and whatever these things are. When he cleared the hedge he found himself at the edge of a golf cart path. The path undulated and dipped out of sight toward a stand of distant oak trees, following the berms and curves of sand traps and fairways sprinkled like breadcrumbs over the landscape. The hedge behind him shuddered violently then parted vertically as a taloned hand ripped through the dense branches. Ray ran, following the cart path, heading toward the cover of the oak trees.

  Get to the trees, I just have to get to the trees!

  Two dogs, the Collie-Shepard mix with the broken snout, and a pure-bred Doberman Pinscher, were digging and scratching frantically at the thick bark at the base of the shrubs, looking for a way through.

  Though the sound of their pursuit echoed across the golf course green, Ray didn’t allow it to distract him. He was back in Afghanistan, running for his life. Then, like now, he couldn’t hear anything except the rapid thrum of his own heartbeat and the tortured rasp of his own breathing. Then, like now, he ran with a singular purpose—to live.

  24

  Slow down! Darryl thought between labored breaths as he sprinted across the ink-black meadow, his feet slicing through the dry grass. If I keep making all this goddamn noise, he thought, those fucking stormtroopers are gonna blow my ass away, just like they did Brute. He slowed then fell to his knees, burying himself in some tall weeds. His whole arm felt swollen and numb, but the pain was there, stabbing at his brain, demanding his attention like a jealous side chick. You’ve got to clear your head Darryl Strickland, or you’re going to die. He never thought he could go out like this, cut down like a fugitive in a hail of bullets, like so many of his homeboys back in the projects. He wondered what it would feel like. Would he hear the pop of gunfire before he felt the first bullet? Would it hurt or would he just fall over like a felled tree, lifeless, before his head even hit the ground? He shook his head. Fuck that, he thought, I ain't going out like that. These motherfuckers going to have to find me first.

  He forced his breathing into a slow, even cadence and listened for signs of the soldiers approach. It was so quiet he could hear the roar of the distant fire, and the occasional pop of overheated material punctuating the acrid air. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, but the trees were still no more than giant charcoal mushrooms against the starry backdrop. I can't be more than fifty yards from the tree line, he thought, once I get there I'm home free. He stayed low, running as fast as he could in a crouched position, cradling his injured arm like a newborn baby. As he approached the edge of the meadow, the trees became distinct and separate, revealing on their far side a well-manicured promenade, adorned with a crushed gravel walkway that meandered along a two-lane road, choked with abandoned cars in various states of distress. What the fuck happened here? he thought as he carefully maneuvered his way through the stand of trees, across the walkway, and onto the road.

  Cars blocked all lanes in both directions. Many were left with their doors open and headlights on. None, as far as he could tell, were occupied. “Looks like everybody left in a hurry,” he said as he quickly began to inspect each car, “there’s gotta be keys in one of these motherfuckers.” He had searched several cars when he noticed a flash of light in the distance—immediately followed by the pop, pop, pop sound of rapid gunfire. He instinctively ducked behind the open back door of a late model Impala, pressing his back against what remained of the interior door panel. Tempered glass beads from the door’s smashed window rained down, peppering the back of his neck and trickling down the collar of his shirt. He slowly lifted and turned his head, peering through the door frame to see if he could tell where the shooting was coming from. It’s too dark, I can’t see shit, he thought. He looked back from where he had come, contemplating retracing his steps but wary that the men chasing him might be close behind. Maybe those shots are coming from the good guys. Maybe if I hook up with them they can help me get to Moji. He sighed and slumped against the Impala’s glass-riddled back seat. Don’t be stupid Darryl, you’re a black man in a lily white neighborhood. Those motherfuckers are probably shooting at people like you.

  He was about to continue his search for car keys when he heard a sound. A faint tap-tap-tap sound, like fingernails slowly tapping on a desk. It was coming from a point on the road, too distant for him to see the source, but definitely headed in his direction. Now what? he thought. The sound grew louder and more ominous, each series of taps swallowed by the next, rolling toward him like an angry thunderstorm sweeping across hot pavement. A deep fear overwhelmed him. I need to get out of sight! shot through his mind. He crawled into the back of the Impala, then slowly closed the door. He ignored the pain in his arm and the sting of the glass pebbles lodged in his back and forced himself to lie down on the floor, face down between the front and back seats. Lying prone, with his face buried in a musty carpet that smelled of urine and week old french fries, he hoped that it was dark enough that he couldn't be seen from the rear or side windows. Just be very, very still and they won't see you, he thought. The tap-tap-tap was drowned out by a deep rumble, a rumble that got louder and louder until it crashed like a wave over his hiding place. The car began to shake as something—not one, but many—stampeded past the vehicle. He could feel the pounding of their footsteps and smell the stench and sweat of their bodies. Darryl's mind struggled
to decipher what his senses were telling him. A herd of cows? he thought, No, they're moving too fast. Escaped animals from the zoo? No, too many. After several seconds, the rumbling subsided, receding like the distant thunder of a dying storm. Darryl breathed a sigh of relief and started to unwind his body from the cramped space.

  Suddenly, the car rocked violently and the roof buckled as something heavy landed on it. Darryl froze. His heart pounded in his chest and the taste of metallic bile crept up his throat. There was a noise coming from the roof, a sharp hiss, like air escaping from a tire. The stench of the air inside the car intensified, it was the smell of rotting flesh and raw sewage. He fought the urge to gag. Lord, don't let them see me. His prayer was interrupted by more gunshots, the air boomed with sound of shotgun and semiautomatic fire. The car jerked as the weight on the roof suddenly lifted, and there was a soft thud as it landed heavily on the pavement. Darryl could hear breathing on the other side of the car door, a soft wheezing sound, like a child with a stuffy nose. Go away! Oh god please go away! he thought, too terrified to move in fear of making himself known.

  Another burst of weapons fire ripped the night air, much closer than the last salvo, and this time it was accompanied by voices. The fight was still too far away for him to be able to tell what they were saying, but he could sense their terror. He heard crosstalk, shouting, and something else...a chorus of sinister growls; the sound hungry pack animals make as they encircle their prey. Dogs! the realization suddenly hit him, it was a pack of dogs than ran past the car. They're shooting at dogs. It sounded like a full on assault. He could hear bullets ricocheting off of nearby cars as the barrage of gunfire continued for several seconds.