Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  “And with me bein’ barren and all …” Dolores spread her hands, clearly seeking understanding, sympathy. “We just couldn’t accept the loss. So we been tryin’ to find a daughter again since. And a granddaughter.” She leaned over, all smiles and grandmotherly warmth, attempting to ignite a spark from Kyra. “The other gals — the other Jodies — just didn’t understand. Not one iota. But … now we’ve found someone special in you, Jody. You and Kyra.”

  As Jim’s tears drained dry, so did Rebecca’s nausea. While the story revolted her, a numbness of mind triumphed over her physical upheaval. A coping device.

  Plain as day, the Dandys had been kidnapping women, little girls. Holding them captive. And if they didn’t comply? They were buried beneath the Dandy Drop Inn where no one could ever mourn them.

  The last thing Rebecca meant to do was stir the pot, tip over the Dandys’ stew of insanity. But their casual demeanor, their blithe acceptance of kidnapping and murder infuriated Rebecca. She demanded justice. For her, for Kyra, for the past, forgotten victims.

  She jerked a thumb behind her, spitting bile in her voice. “And if these other …‘Jodies’ didn’t go along with you? You … killed them?”

  The Dandys shared a look, not one of guilt. Contented smiles spread, a post-coital comfort.

  Dolores said, “That’s not how we prefer to look at it, Jody. We was lucky enough to find Christian early. The only man we ever considered takin’ into our family. Soon enough we found out he was different. Like us.” A momentary flicker of sadness drew her jowls down. “Became a son to us. And, as we opened up our hearts to him, he taught us to enjoy certain … things.”

  “Put a spark in our love life,” said Jim.

  “Jim Dandy! Not in front of the little one.” Dolores placed wrinkled fingers over her lips, pretending, not succeeding, to murder a laugh. “We got to where we considered it ‘date night’. Somethin’ we looked forward to. Then Deputy Gurley kept bringin’ in more and more. Folks who didn’t have no family to speak of. Gals who rightly shoulda loved to join our family.”

  Sudden fury blew away any empathy Rebecca had for the Dandys. She knew they were insane, absolutely so. Driven that way by their daughter’s death. A small defense, but something to hang a sliver of humanity on. But with a great deal of pleasure, they’d just admitted to killing people. And enjoying it. Date night.

  Rebecca forced herself to look at the tank. This time she saw a means to destroy the Dandys, even if just emotionally so. Her last recourse. Kick the tank over, smash the glass, destroy their shrine and what might be left of their shriveled hearts. But why stop there? She’d grab a sliver, poke their eyes out, cut their throats. Perhaps next to impossible while holding her daughter, but she had to try. And she wouldn’t let go, either; not of Kyra, her sanity, or their chance for survival.

  She jumped up, the chair crashing back. Her scream swelled, flying through the cavern like a howling wind. The scream fortified her, building her inner strength.

  Behind them, the door opened. And a small voice, nearly lost in the depths of the room, said, “Stop.”

  *

  Immediately, Harold regretted his decision. He tried to bind reason to the scene before him. Just the way his brain operated. But his brain fizzled, refusing to lock these grotesque puzzle pieces together.

  “Stop,” he repeated, but much less forcefully.

  Rebecca held Kyra, screaming. The Dandys flanked them. Sitting in front of a skeleton in a tank. Totally irrational.

  “What the hell? Rebecca, Kyra, let’s go. I’ll save you.” His confidence blew him away. Such power, such controlled domination over the room’s inhabitants. A real Alpha male waving his gun around. Or maybe the money in his other hand empowered him. Either way, he liked what he heard. Not so much what he saw.

  Mr. Dandy bolted out of his chair, all six-foot-scary-plus of him. The intermittent, flashing green light tracked him as he galloped toward Harold. But like a distrustful strobe light — missing frames from a film print — half of Dandy’s approach slipped into darkness. Time jumped as Dandy ran. He loomed close, closer. One blink away.

  Harold locked his arm and pulled the trigger. The recoil jerked his arm back, knocked his teeth together. His glasses dropped, his vision crippled.

  A red-and-blue blur of flannel swam up on Harold. A hazy comet trail followed Dandy. Harold planted his feet, fired again. The moving target dodged. With a roar — an extremely macho one, he thought — Harold swept bullets throughout the cave, merciless in his approach, mercenary in his haphazard aim.

  A bullet thunked into wood. Glass tinkled. A scream — the old woman? — flared, a gaggle of shrieking old ladies echoing off the walls. Harold fired another arc, his arm sawing back and forth.

  When Harold lowered the gun, Jim Dandy rose in front of him. Now in focus. A very undesirable focus.

  Dandy’s arm flashed. Something thumped into Harold’s chest. It didn’t hurt. Not really. Until he looked down and saw a hatchet handle dangling from his chest. A power tie that really killed.

  The gun dropped. Harold’s hand flew to his chest. Warm life’s blood dripped from his fingers. With a hand bracing Harold’s shoulder, Dandy tugged the hatchet out of Harold’s chest. Pulled his arm back. Harold raised the briefcase. The hatchet attacked his cash, chopping into the leather. The briefcase opened. A kaleidoscope of green paper butterflies fluttered through the air, turning and twisting. Wafting gently to the ground. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

  As Harold fell, he snatched one in midair. On his knees, he clutched the bill to his chest. And fell down on top of it. Contrary to the saying, he had every intention of taking it with him.

  More screams rose. Agonized howls. Enraged cries. Strangely muted sounds from faraway shores. Perhaps even Caribbean shores. Somewhere along the coastline, he thought he even heard Kyra crying out his name.

  “Harold.”

  Harold Carsten, hero.

  *

  When the accountant came in, gun blazing, Rebecca wasted no time. Jim Dandy hurtled through the cave toward Harold, one less immediate obstacle. Clearly shocked, Dolores tried to haul herself up, scooting along the chair’s edge. More than happy to help, Rebecca grabbed the back of the chair and pitched the old woman forward. Even one handed, it only took a nudge. Green dust rose beneath Dolores’s body as she writhed in the dirt.

  A bullet zipped by Rebecca. So close, a small breeze brushed her cheek. The glass at her back shattered. She whirled. Green water sloshed out of the broken tank. Jagged glass teeth caught the corpse as it tried to escape. The body rose and fell with the moving water, its arms dangling down.

  Rebecca held Kyra, tucking her inside Harton’s coat. Keeping her innocent mind, her eyes, from witnessing the chaos.

  More bullets cracked, a succession of explosions.

  On all fours, Dolores crawled toward the tank. Her arm stretched out, wavering hand reaching for her daughter’s remains.

  Rebecca’s opportunity, the one she’d been waiting for. She latched onto Dolores’s arm, dragging her to her feet. Rebecca turned Kyra aside. Then plunged Dolores’s head down. Glass ate into the old woman’s neck. Dark liquid iced the shards. Dolores’s bun of hair provided the perfect handle. Rebecca grabbed it and steered Dolores’s neck across the glass.

  At the far end of the room, Jim bayed, a terrible sound. He stared at Rebecca, square jaw unhinged, then again at his dying wife.

  Dolores’s feet stopped jerking. Her shoulders sagged against the tank’s frame. Her last gasp of breath sounded like a cat spitting up a hairball. Yet she’d managed to wrap her arms around the skeleton. Both of them. Bobbing next to her daughter’s remains. Three generations of Dandys reunited in death.

  With jacking fists and giant leaps, Dandy ran back toward Rebecca. With Kyra in tow, she tore down the opposite side of the cavern, the graves separating them by six feet. But Rebecca knew he only had eyes for his wife. For now. An edge of time, one she wouldn’t squander.

  Reb
ecca hopped over Harold’s body. The only time Kyra braved a look. She murmured his name into her mother’s arm, “Harold … Harold.” Then hid again beneath the coat’s folds.

  In the next room, Rebecca nearly tripped. She toed the object, felt rigid skin and muscle bounce, then snap back into place. A body. Two of them. Harton and Gurley. Harton must’ve taken Gurley out, reason enough for her gratitude. Not that he needed it now.

  “Kyra, I’m gonna put you down. Just for a minute. Shut your eyes, baby, ‘kay?”

  Kyra slid down Rebecca’s body, her feet tapping the ground. Rebecca dropped onto Gurley, her knees on his chest.

  From the green room, Dandy wailed, moaning his wife’s name. “Dolores … no, oh, God … Mother …”

  Shivers settled into Rebecca’s spine.

  Don’t listen to him, time’s running out, hurry.

  With shaking hands, she patted down the dead bastard. Something he no doubt would’ve enjoyed had he been alive. Her stomach pitched as she entered his pocket, grazing his groin through the thin material.

  A clink. Success. She yanked the keys out, jangled them to hear their reassuring solidity. She’d hoped to find his gun, too. But maybe that was the one Harold had used. No time to go back, too dark to search the floor. She snatched up Kyra again.

  Dandy’s crying slowed. But his muttering built, steeping into anger. Seconds before he exploded.

  “Outside?” Rebecca pointed toward the door Dolores had closed earlier.

  Kyra peeked and nodded. Rebecca launched up the narrow steps. Near the top of the steps, her foot slipped. Terrified, she thrust an arm above her, catching herself against the cellar door. Pain wrenched her back, but she needed to stay ahead of the pain. Keep going. She threw the door open and lifted Kyra into the snow.

  Below, Dandy’s screams escalated. Footsteps thrummed across the floor. Louder, faster, deadlier.

  “Hurry, Mommy!” Kyra squatted in the snow, her arms outstretched.

  Rebecca climbed out, shook off the cold. As soon as she kicked the cellar door shut, she slid her fingers down the splintered exterior until they found a latch. Her fingers froze, numb, practically useless. Harder than threading a needle, she hooked the latch.

  The lock on the outside. Unlucky for past victims, good luck for her and Kyra.

  The door cracked, banging up an inch, then snapping back.

  Dandy’s fingers slid through the opening. White snakes slithering over the hook. “Goddamn you, woman! I’ll see you die a long and —”

  “Don’t listen, baby.” With Kyra in her arms, Rebecca pushed through the snow. One last haul. She had to beat Dandy. Beat him to Gurley’s cruiser. As long as Dandy kept banging at the cellar door, she stood a chance. Small, but possible. If he doubled back through the inn, though, he’d gain on them.

  The snow didn’t give, not without a fight. Her legs strained, scooping snow up on her ankles like shovels. Lifting fifty-pound weights with her feet. Kyra grew heavier. Her arms shook, weakening. And still the snow fell.

  “Hurry, Mommy. Faster.” Kyra’s voice grew distant, a tired whisper as if she’d given up hope.

  Rebecca said nothing, reserving her strength. Willing it into her legs.

  One step at a time, keep going, don’t stop …

  Her foot stumbled into a small trench. A recently plowed path. She moved faster, almost at a sprint.

  Dandy’s stream of threats stopped once they reached the corner of the inn. Terror filled her. Her bladder tightened. Don’t hesitate. The cruiser sat in the drive, a stallion to whisk them into the sunset. If they lived to see another sunset.

  Behind the inn’s curtains, Rebecca glimpsed a shadow swim past one window, vanish, fly over a second. Stretching beyond human size and running toward the front door.

  One final surge. She quit battling the snow and, instead, adapted to it. Her legs lifted high, rising above the drifts, chopping down like jackhammers.

  Faster. One chance. Keep going. The final leg.

  Six feet to the car, six long feet. Six feet under, the alternative.

  She held the keys in her hand before she reached the car. A ring of keys. Not enough light available to read an automobile make on any of them. She started with the biggest one. It fit in the door, didn’t turn.

  The Dandy Drop Inn’s front door banged open. A rectangle of light lengthened across the snow.

  The key ring jangled an awful tune as Rebecca fumbled for another key. The lock flipped up. So did hope.

  “Gonna make you suffer, woman. Suffer like —”

  Dear God, help us, just a few more seconds.

  Snow didn’t slow Dandy. His legs cut through it like butter, knees pitching high.

  The car door opened. Rebecca hoisted Kyra inside like a pillow. As she slipped behind the wheel, the key scratched at the ignition, found its mate. The engine fired up as the locks went down.

  Bam.

  Kyra screamed. Dandy flattened his hands against the passenger window, howling. A red fist banged the pane. Then the hatchet appeared. His damned hatchet. The blade screeched across the glass, leaving a slug’s trail of scratches. The next blow cracked the window. Kyra turned away, shielding her face in her hands.

  Rebecca dropped into reverse. She floored the pedal, the tires sizzling. The back end wobbled, going nowhere. Something caught, the magic spot. Like a rocket, the cruiser shot back. Dandy drew sparks across the hood with the hatchet’s edge until he fell face first into the snow.

  Rebecca craned her head, looking back, steering the car in a straight line. She risked one quick glimpse up front for Dandy. Gone.

  At the foot of the driveway, a thump stopped them. Rebecca’s heart stuttered. The tires spun, the back end bouncing.

  Runch.

  Dandy sprawled out on the hood, clawing his way toward the windshield.

  “Don’t look, baby.” Rebecca’s back hooked with pain again as she nudged Kyra down. “Hug the floor and hold on.”

  Kyra slid down to the floorboard, tucking beneath the glove box.

  Rebecca dropped the gear into first. Then stepped on the pedal. The engine’s roar grew. With a lurch, the car jumped forward.

  Dandy’s eyes widened. He slashed the hatchet down onto the hood. The weapon opened the metal like a can opener. His hand slid into the gash, and he held on.

  “Hold on tight. Cover your head. Brace yourself.”

  Just let Kyra be safe.

  Rebecca’s foot met the floor. The car barreled forward. The front end plowed through a snow-covered hedge, slowing the car. But the inn’s wall stopped them.

  Rebecca launched up. Her teeth gnashed as her head banged the roof. The steering wheel caught her chest as she dropped. Her ribs felt like they split upon impact. The car bounced back a foot, stopped, the seat reclaiming her.

  She shook dizziness away the best she could. A hand clawed up in front of the hood, poking through a snowy grave. Then another hand. Finally, Dandy’s leering, bloody face.

  With a strange calm, Rebecca applied a remarkable accuracy of pressure to the pedal. The car reversed over the flattened hedge, delivering safe passage into the driveway. With one arm over the seat, Rebecca backed up to the driveway’s foot.

  The headlights caught Dandy on a stage of snow, the inn his backdrop. Drunkenly staggering to his feet. One arm crooked up as if for protection.

  Good luck with that.

  “One more time will do it, baby. We’re almost safe. Hang on again.”

  No pain, no gain.

  Now at an advantage, Rebecca strapped on her seatbelt. She stomped the gas. Like a beast, the car roared, bounding toward Dandy. His wide-eyed panic made Rebecca smile. This time the impact had a buffer, a human buffer to soften the blow.

  The front end crunched. Just like her car from the other night, a wisp of smoke curled up from beneath the hood. But unlike her car, the cruiser was built to last.

  She backed up. Beneath the car’s fallen bumper lay Dandy’s corpse. One hand stuck up, fingers d
angling, a farewell wave of how-do-you-die hospitality. Blood smeared the front wall. Jim Dandy’d left his final mark on the Dandy Drop Inn.

  Rebecca checked Kyra, saw she was fine. Even had her answer some questions about her name, the date, silly medical questions. She double-checked her seatbelt with a tug and a lengthy hug.

  It took a little effort to get out of the driveway.

  The snow had stopped. At last, the storm had ended. Black ribbons of clear sky marbled the cloud coverage. Stars winked, blinked, and promised blue skies ahead. Rebecca turned on the heater, let it blast until they toasted. The first warmth Rebecca’d felt in some time.

  She intended to keep driving until they reached the next town. After Gurley, the Dandys, everyone, she didn’t trust Hilston, Missouri, its inhabitants, anything about the town. But once she crossed the border, she’d light up the cop cruiser’s cherries, blast the siren, throw an attention-grabbing parade. Until the local cops pulled her over. Or a battalion of truck drivers escorted them to safety.

  Rebecca smiled at Kyra. Asleep. Enjoying good dreams, she hoped. She’d earned them, certainly would need them. Especially once she finds out about her father, a topic Rebecca’d rather not face. Or have Kyra face. But after tonight, she knew her daughter could live through anything.

  Hell, for that matter, so could she.

  *

  Heather sat on the cellar’s dirt floor, legs crossed. Cradling in her lap the baby’s empty shell she’d found, stroking its tiny bones. God’s little lost soul.

  Even though Heather couldn’t see much of anything — the witch had seen to that by pulverizing her eyes into swollen ham hocks — she still felt the baby’s soul lingering in the cellar. Finally, she watched its spirit soar, taking wing to Heaven.

  Another one delivered.

  She struggled to stand. Her entire body hurt, one big, walking wound.