“Kyra?” His whisper sounded lonely, empty in the large, quiet room. Except for the voices mumbling behind a jade-struck door. Footsteps tramped toward him, light footed with a short stride. Kyra.
He flicked the lighter on. A white face darted toward him, contorted with fury. The blonde’s savage eyes fixed on Winston, her teeth exposed like a dog’s. Filthy hair snapped like whips as she jumped. Fingers clawed his face. Startled, he dropped the knife. Winston caught her hair and pulled. She stumbled outside the small circle of light. Her growl rose from the shadows. Something tugged at his arm. Winston turned fast, the lighter blowing out.
“Stop, Dave,” Kyra whispered. “We need to help her.” After several flicks, the lighter held. Kyra closed her eyes at the sudden light. Winston switched it back toward the woman. She had closed in, cowering, hands covering her face. Across the room, he saw an open door, meager light trickling in.
Winston tried to piece together the situation, but now wasn’t the time. The voices behind the closed door rose, not in a friendly way. A pulsating sound, something he couldn’t place, drowned out their words. “Kyra, we need to get you out of here. Now. Your mommy’s looking for you.” He gestured toward the open door. “That the way out?”
“The funny man went out that way. When he heard you.”
No doubt who the funny man was. More reason to hurry. Perhaps Winston could still salvage his family’s life if he collared Carsten and retrieved the cash. “What about her?” He jutted his chin toward the strange woman. “You know her?”
“Someone trapped her.” Kyra’s explanation made no sense, not that it mattered. But the woman bothered him, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Only wild, cornered animals attacked like she had. When he turned the lighter back her way, she no longer appeared afraid. Her fists bunched, her shoulders up, ready for battle. Winston didn’t need another enemy. “You follow us,” said Winston. “Once outside, get into your car and leave. Don’t stop until you’re in the next town.”
“I don’t have my keys.” Saliva flew from her lips.
“Fine. Go to a neighbor’s house. But don’t stay here.” He hustled Kyra toward the door. As an afterthought, he added, “Count to thirty before you leave.” Having someone trail you is always unsettling; having someone who’s clearly insane behind you is plain suicidal.
Winston snatched Kyra up in one arm and peered through the door. A crack of light brightened the top of the stairs. Bitter coldness swept past him. Fresh snow dusted the upper steps. At the top, he pushed open a storm door. Snow swirled, a needed slap in the face after the cellar’s stale air. The blizzard raged on.
He hefted up Kyra, who somersaulted into the snow. She scrambled to her feet, withdrawing into her heavy coat. Before he could climb off the top step, someone beat him to it. An arm wrapped around his neck, a hand snatching the back of his shirt. Kyra screamed while Winston flew toward a snow drift.
*
Domenick was sleeping, a cold, uncomfortable slumber. Still, it was sleep, something he hesitated to give up. Dampness chilled his leg as if he’d wet himself. In his half-lucid state, the thought horrified him. Wearing his own waste, all sorts of germs onboard. He chipped away at the walls of consciousness, compelling body over mind. With startling clarity, the memory of the old man knocking him out rushed him into the here and now.
His eyes opened briefly, then the shades lowered again. Shudders coursed through him, his pants undeniably wet. He lay on something soft, his cheek pressed against something bristly. This time he forced his eyes open. He wished he hadn’t.
Calvin lay beneath him, eyes open and milky. Dead, rotting with germs. Cheek to cheek with his nephew’s body. And Calvin stank, the odor of death in his flesh. Revolted, Domenick imagined bacteria swarming off his nephew’s body, infiltrating his organs. He threw himself back, his rear slamming down onto Calvin’s legs. His feet scrabbled, slipped, then achieved a foothold. He backed into a wall. A cool, yielding wall that crumbled behind him. Dirt clumps fell upon him. He gagged, forced his mouth shut, afraid of throwing up on himself.
Several feet above, a rectangle of green light pulsated, high then low, strong then unhealthy. Something hummed, the earth singing around him. On his knees, he clawed the walls, his fingernails collecting dirt. Trying to climb. He split a worm in half, its body oozing and vile. Releasing toxins. More dirt slid down onto his head, his shoulders, into his mouth. He spat, did it again, stabbing his tongue out repeatedly hoping to cleanse his mouth. He was in a grave, something he never expected to see from this perspective.
The old man’s head poked over the top. Emerald light cast shadows over his eyes, a geriatric grim reaper. His smile revealed a cob’s worth of yellowed teeth. “Mother, he’s awake.”
“Get me … the hell outta here!”
Like a gopher, an old lady’s head popped into view. “Won’t be awake for long, I reckon.”
“What … get me the fuck outta here! Now, goddammit!” Enraged, Domenick climbed to his feet and straddled his nephew. With raised arms, he jumped. The hole was deep, deeper than the traditional six feet he usually ordered. He couldn’t reach the top, not like this. Calvin’s body added a little more height. He jumped off his chest, thumped down, launched up again. More dirt dribbled into the hole. He paused, regaining his breath. “You don’t know who you’re fucking dealing with!”
“My, such language. It’s been some time since we’ve heard so many eff-bombs.” The woman reminded Domenick of his own mother: sugary, plump, flaky skin, a real walking pastry. Except his mother never tried to kill him. Not that he knew, at least.
“Reckon that’s right, Mother. Listen up, Mister Domenick…” Immediately, Domenick patted down his pockets for his wallet, his lifeline. Old bastards stole it. “… we don’t rightly give two hoots and a holler who you are. Makes no difference to us. But we don’t much appreciate folks bringing guns into the Dandy Inn.”
“Such nasty business, guns.” The woman clicked her tongue, her gray head wagging.
Domenick’s pulse banged away in his ears. His stomach threatened to expel his dinner, adding to his misery. The geezers weren’t a threat; he could dispose of them in seconds. But he had to get out of the grave to do so. No matter the cost. Away from dirt, germs, bacteria, viruses. His filthy hands shook. He steadied them against his belly. Dirt smeared his shirt, the final indignation. His stomach knotted. Panic rose. Tremors began low, working their way up through his chest, his shoulders. Worst of all, his voice sounded warbly, a goddamn crybaby. “Please. Have mercy … get me out of here. I’ll give you anything. Anything you —”
“Look, mister, all we want to know is why you’re here,” said the old man.
Domenick clamped up, trying to snatch back the dignity the old bastards stole from him. They wanted information? His way out of the seven-foot grave. “Okay … I’m, ah, I’m a Fed. Looking for Harold Carsten, wanted criminal. He —”
The old lady swatted a hand over the grave, all smiles, and disbelieving ones at that. “Pshaw. That Mister Carsten? A little peculiar, I’d wager, but he ain’t no criminal.”
“‘Fraid I have to go along with my wife, Mister Domenick. I’d bet my bottom dollar you’re lying. Didn’t find no badge or F.B.I. identification on you. And that gun you was fixin’ to use? I’m no expert, but it looked to me like it was fit with a silencer. Don’t think that’s jake with the ol’ F.B.I.”
Domenick realized his mistake. He should’ve begun with money, something that never failed. “Fine. Okay, whatever, you got me.” Although it pained him, Domenick attempted a shamefaced grin. “I’m not a Fed. I’m a businessman. Carsten stole money from me. I just want it back. Now if —”
“Who knows you’re here?”
Blood froze in Domenick’s veins. Familiar with this line of interrogation, he’d seriously underestimated the old couple. But he knew the proper answer. “Practically everyone.” He started ticking off fingers. “My wife, my associates, the police —”
“Pr
etty much ‘spect you’re lying again.” The old man vanished while the woman shook her head, self-righteous pity on her wrinkled mug. Old or not, Domenick couldn’t wait to blow off her face.
“Wait! I’m not lying! Call my —” A shower of dirt muffled his words. The shovel blade reappeared, flipped over, dumping another load. He sputtered, blowing the filth from his lips. “Stop! My God, what’s wrong with you people? You can’t just —”
“Oh, hush now, Mister Domenick. Ain’t a thing wrong with us. Maybe you oughta think about your own issues, shootin’ people and what not.”
Just like his wife. Always about personal issues. “Goddammit! You can’t bury me! I’ll give you money, more money than you’ll ever see in your shitty lives!”
Tump, scratch … Another shovelful unloaded.
“My, my, that’s certainly no way to ask for mercy.” A second shovel head appeared, smaller than the man’s. His and Her shovels.
“Jesus Christ! How’s one hundred grand sound? I’ll give that to you as soon —”
Flump, ritter, shoosh …
“We don’t want yer money.” The old man laughed. “We don’t need no money.”
“Two hundred grand! How’s that? You want more? Three …” Like an auctioneer, Domenick raised his offer. But the dirt kept falling. “Half a million bucks! More money than —”
“I think it’s about time for you to shut your piehole, Mister Domenick. Money don’t matter none to us.”
“You said it, Poppa.”
The shovel whisked above, sighing, dirt crying down on him. At the bottom, only Calvin’s nose poked through the mounting dirt, a flesh-covered anthill.
Domenick snapped, his mind retreating. Tears unleashed, something he hadn’t allowed — swore he’d never do again — since childhood. Civilized pleas swam into maudlin soup, bawled out in a voice that couldn’t possibly be his. Forgetting his all-too-human phobia, he crouched like an animal, leaping at the walls, claws digging in. “Don’t do this, please, God, don’t bury me, don’t …”
“Poppa, shut him up already!”
“Sweet Mary, don’t bury me alive, please, let …”
Thunk.
Domenick didn’t see the blade end coming this time. Swirling stars lowered him to the ground. He lay on top of his nephew, a bunk deathbed. The green rectangle above twisted, blurred, expanded, then closed in, smaller, smaller. Physically paralyzed, he remained mentally aware. Unable to speak. Impossible to move. But horribly alive. Watching the shower of dirt fall onto him, bit by bit.
“Here ya are, Mister Domenick.” The old man pitched Domenick’s pistol down. It thumped onto Domenick’s chest and bounced next to his arm. “Why don’t ya take that with you? We certainly don’t have any need for guns.”
“That’s right, Poppa.” Swoosh, clatter, tsssss … “Nasty ol’ things, I swan.”
Black spots buried his vision. His eyes watered from irritation, turning the specks into running, disgusting mud. He swore he felt a worm slither over his forehead. Dirt fell into his mouth, filling it, packing it. And he watched his burial, unblinking.
“Like I said earlier, Mother, this is truly the best date night we’ve ever had.”
He couldn’t see much. Black polka dots connected, filling in the blanks. His open mouth filled, his throat blocked. Only his nostrils sustained him. Until they too were covered. Finally, the green light turned off.
Underground. Buried in dirt along with deadly microbes, invisible microorganisms of death. And still alive.
Oh, my God, I’m still alive.
From a distance, he heard the old couple laughing, exchanging hoots and hollers. And from very far away — could be he imagined it — he heard another scream, possibly a child.
Inside his mind, his screams raged the loudest, though.
Chapter Eight
As soon as the man and the demonic girl left, Heather dropped to her knees. Fingers sifted through the dirt, searching. A prick to her finger released a drop of blood, God’s precious life essence. The blade felt corroded and rusty. She’d have to work at it, but it’d do.
Idiot. The man had dropped his knife. Big mistake. Ironic, really. She’d use the blade on the man when she caught up, no looking back. Telling her to count to thirty, belittling her like a hide-and-seek playing child. God’s work waits for no one. And the first man, the coward, he’d intended on leaving her for dead. Another soul she looked forward to ushering into Hell.
But the girl, she was the worst. Just being in her presence had proven a challenge. Definitely not one of God’s children. The girl’s whore of a mother had blatantly admitted as much. Said it arrogantly, too, as if she couldn’t wait to lie down in Satan’s welcoming arms.
If Heather had the knife when the demon spawn released her, she would’ve carved her soul loose right there. She deserved no better than to swim with the other sinners in the cellar, Hell on Earth. Heather didn’t fall for her sweet act, not one bit. Now more than ever, she knew the devil donned sheep’s clothing.
She had her work cut out for her. And there’d be a lot of cutting tonight in God’s war. When she finished with everyone else, she’d come back for the gay abomination. Then the Dandys. Excitement kissed her like fluttering angel wings.
Heather flew up the stairs, unaffected by the cold. God’s spirit kept her warm, His righteous blade her weapon. Then she heard the girl scream.
Perched on the top step, she peeked over the cellar door.
Out in the yard, the queer had his back to her, an easy target. Leaning over someone. Once again, God had delivered. Knife up, she ran …
*
“Run, Kyra!”
Christian jumped on Winston, crushing the air from his lungs. His arm wrapped around Winston’s neck, tightening. He pulled Winston’s head up by the hair. Winston gasped, his face cold from the snow, Christian’s panting breath warm on his neck.
Kyra stood in three feet of snow, screaming. Winston tried to warn her again, but his voice erupted into a cough. He plunged his hands into the snow, digging deep for a rock, a stick, anything. A helluva time to remember he’d dropped the knife in the basement.
Winston jacked his head back, his skull striking Christian’s chin. Christian grunted. His hold loosened. Even though Winston’s head spiked with pain, he did it again. This host fell back, snow tossing up around him.
“Kyra, run!”
She didn’t move, possibly didn’t hear him. Winston scrabbled for solid ground, pulling himself up on all fours. His skull throbbed. Dizziness lightened his head, but he couldn’t give in. He stood, his balance wavering. Bear arms locked around him. He jutted his elbow back, hoping for a lucky punch. But his luck had run out.
A human steamroller, Christian drove him back into the snow. The crook of his arm took Winston’s neck, his hand firmly placed on Winston’s temple. He intended to break Winston’s neck and no doubt had the strength to do it. Winston pulled at his arm, tugged at his hand. His teeth sunk into Christian’s hairy forearm. Delaying the inevitable, nothing more. Winston thought of Jules, his daughters. How he’d let them down.
A shrill sound overtook Kyra’s screams. A banshee’s wail, rising like whistling wind. A sudden impact forced Winston’s face back into the snow, cold and suffocating. Christian’s arm swept away, and he gasped. Winston raised his head, panting. Then Christian wheezed, a gate swinging on rusty hinges. Warm wetness coated Winston’s neck. Christian leaned back, his knees still pinning Winston in the snow. Hard bone pushed into Winston’s legs. Winston lifted up on his elbows and craned his head around.
Christian’s mouth opened and shut. His hands clamped around his neck. Blood spurted between his fingers, dribbling down onto his shirt. Behind him, a bony white hand raised in the air. Holding Winston’s knife. The wild woman’s head bobbed and vanished behind Christian’s shoulder. Then she stood. Examined the knife. Then thunked it into Christian’s back. She smiled, let out a chilling laugh. The words she yelled were incomprehensible. But the rage in th
em couldn’t be denied.
Christian toppled. Snow clouded around his body. Kyra had stopped screaming, shaking in her solitary stance. The blond girl stood over her kill, enjoying the moment like a seasoned hunter.
Winston’s throat burned. When he tried to speak, his voice cut like razor blades. He jumped to his feet, his body aching. But guarded and ready for another threat.
“Kyra!” Rebecca rounded the corner, running, defying the snow. Carrying his gun. Thank God, the gun. Maybe he still had a little luck left after all.
*
Harold had made good time through the snow, much faster than he thought possible. Really just a matter of determination more than anything else, physical prowess need not apply. He had everything he needed in his briefcase.
In front of the inn, he spotted his car, or at least the huge, white lump where he had parked it. It looked like it had been partially cleared.
Now he just needed to hightail it through the front yard without being seen. No signs of Calvin or Domenick. He had no idea what had happened to them either. But the gunshots he’d heard earlier gave him hope. Yet he hesitated. Might they be hiding, waiting for him? Of course, he could take the long way around. Double back through the street, slip into his car, no one would ever see him. But the thought of trudging through all that snow just sounded like another unnecessary obstacle.
His car called to him. The cash in his hand urged him on. So close, yet so far. One short jaunt through the snow, then bam, he was out of there. On his way to living a king’s life. King Harold. Sounded proper, somewhat regal.
But something held him back. His getaway seemed too easy. The inn was quiet as a tomb, most of the lights off. With the gunfire, the host taking Calvin outside by the throat, a chained girl, and who knew what else, the place should’ve been abuzz with the fuzz. Or at least gangsters.
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