The Wide Game

by Michael West

  Cindi hooked her fingers around one of the birds and yanked it free, locks of her naturally blonde hair still clutched in its claws. The crow was soft, like a bag of mashed potatoes, and she realized she’d crushed it. She tossed it down, did the same to its fluttering twin, then resumed her crawl through the darkness.

  This is what it’s like to be blind.

  Her hand darted to her eyes to make certain the crows hadn’t plucked them from her skull. She still had them. Cindi screamed into the void, tried to be heard above the commotion of the birds, “Nancy?”

  No answer.

  “Deidra?”

  The corn remained silent.

  “Come on, you guys, where are you?”

  Cindi managed to stand. She waved her arms around, made certain there were no more crows to grab at her hair, then ran into the fog.

  “Anybody? Come on, where’d you go?”

  She could see Robby and the other guys abandoning her, but not Nancy, not Deidra. They would have come to her aid. They wouldn’t leave a girlfriend out here in the dark.

  Maybe they’re just being quiet. Maybe Sean’s screaming is what made the birds attack. And here I am yelling my head off! I need to be quiet. Yeah, yeah, that’s what it is. They’re being quiet and they turned out the light so the crows will go away. As soon as the birds go away, we’ll get out of this fucking cornfield. I swear to God, I’m never gonna even look at corn again! Not even Green Giant in a can!

  Then something else occurred to her, something that made her shiver in the darkness. Before the crows came, Danny had been serious about Dale Brightman. Dale was dead. They’d found his body. Maybe whoever killed Dale had killed everybody else.

  Some Fangoria-loving dweeboid is out here trying to be Jason. He’s killed them, one by one, until now there’s just me. I’m like his next victim. I’m all alone.

  Except, she wasn’t alone.

  Cindi sensed movement in the fog. She wheeled around and saw ... nothing, a blanket of charcoal covering a black abyss. And yet, she could not shake the unpleasant feeling of being surrounded by strangers –

  By things!

  – that faded in and out of the darkness. Cindi thought she sensed fingers graze her hair, and she let loose the reins of a scream.

  ***

  The crows still screamed in Nancy’s ears.

  When the flock attacked, she ran as fast as her tired legs would allow. Now, she looked back over her shoulder, saw the cornrows disappear in a V shape behind her, saw the transparent mist become opaque and impenetrable to her eyes. How long had she been running? How far?

  I’m lost, she thought. I’m lost out here in this fog and they’ll never find me. They won’t even know where to look.

  Nancy retreated down the row, retraced her harried steps.

  “Guys?” she called out, or at least, she thought she did; she could not hear the voice outside her own skull.

  The crows’ echo faded from her ears, from her mind, and the world seemed to have gone mute. All night, the steady background noise of insects had been absent. Now, even the faint rustle of corn leaves seemed less audible. She sat next to a huge rack of speakers at a Huey Lewis and the News concert last year. Afterward, her ears felt as if they were full of cotton and she had to yell to hear her own voice. She had that same feeling now. The birds had made her deaf.

  “I’m out here!” she screamed. “Don’t leave me behind, don’t leave me –”

  Something appeared out of the fog, a dark, towering silhouette; a crazy shape, like some abstract sculpture Deidra might craft for art class. It seemed to have an elongated trunk, but its arms and legs were too slight, its body far too bony for it to be an elephant. It had fingers, long sticks of charcoal dangling from shadow hands, and a hunched back outlined by a jagged length of naked spine.

  It’s a tree, an old, creepy tree. Nothing to freak out about. Nancy started to look away, but her eyes drifted back, questioning. Why would a farmer leave a seven foot, gnarly lookin’ tree smack dab in the middle of his field? How could he till around it?

  The night sounds roared to life, as if someone plugged them in, an earsplitting chorus of chirps, whistles, and twitters.

  Nancy’s entire body tensed.

  On her leg, the sensation of tiny pinpricks across her naked skin, a million crawling legs. She looked down and saw a black, segmented coil, rapidly spiraling its way toward her crotch. A pair of antenna jutted from its round, bulbous head; they swayed up and down, beat out a rhythm on her shorts.

  Nancy screamed, shook her leg violently, but the millipede clung fast and refused to let go. Finally, she reached down and curled her fingers around the loathsome insect; she found it hard and slimy, clamshells coated in Alfredo sauce. Nancy stripped the millipede from her limb and it writhed in her hands, its tiny claws, sharp as sewing needles, stabbing her palms until they bled. She flung the creature at the corn, then broke into a sloppy, staggering run.

  Each step brought a hollow popping sound, as if she were dashing across a carpet of bubble pack. And, when she glanced down, Nancy saw the furrow had filled with cockroaches. They climbed up her sneakers, latched onto her socks, hissing and biting the naked skin above her ankle. She swatted them with her fists, smashed them into pulp, but more rose up to take their place and continue the attack.

  Nancy screamed for her friends, for help, just screamed.

  Spiderwebs hung across the row in a lacy curtain. She ran headlong into it, strands plastered to her face, to her bloodied arms and legs. She cringed, swiped at her body, pulling sticky, cotton candy clumps from her flesh.

  The web’s architect blocked Nancy’s path, a brown spider the size of a man, eyes like a string of black pearls, all focused on her. Hairy legs radiated from its thorax, disappearing into the corn on either side of the row; they lifted the body, suspended it a foot above the dirt. Its dripping fangs rubbed together in anticipation, and then ... it spoke. “Nancy!”

  It crawled toward her.

  Nancy shrieked so loudly she thought her throat would burst open. A football-shaped rock sat in the dirt at her feet; Nancy picked it up in both hands and brought it crashing down on the creature’s furry head. She smashed it again, and again, and again ... listening to the spider’s bones snap, listening to the moist thud of rock against newly revealed anatomy.

  Only later would it occur to Nancy that spiders had no bones.

  ***

  Skip Williamson laid in the dirt, thinking of all the animals he’d killed.

  There were squirrels too numerous to mention. He’d stake out a sniper position with his BB rifle, watching through his sight as they disappeared from branches in a red mist. Sometimes he took the carcasses and nailed them to fence posts, taking pleasure in the imagined disgust of passers by.

  There was the calico, no more than a kitten, really. It wandered through his yard, lapped up water from a puddle. He’d offered it a slice of ham, coaxed it up to his back step, then he scooped it up – stroking its wet fur, hearing it meow and softly purr. The microwave had been a few steps away, and he took each one with excited glee. He’d heard animals would explode in there, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. He put the kitten on the revolving glass plate and shut the door. He couldn’t remember how long he’d set the timer for – a minute, maybe two – but he remembered the power setting was high. When the light came on, the kitten paced wildly, like a tiger in a circus cage, then its purr became a shrieking growl. It touched the pad of its foot to the window in the door, its claws scratching at the glass. Skip wondered how it must have felt. Could you feel your blood boil? Could you feel your organs cook inside your gut? The window fogged, and then he heard a loud pop. When he opened the door, Skip had a momentary urge to gag. That reflex was pushed aside by rising laughter. He’d snapped a few Polaroids, then cleaned it up as best he could before his Mom saw the mess.

  Last, and most relevant to his current situation, was the crow. He’d lobbed the stone at it without a thought. He wanted to sho
w those pussies there was nothing to fear. Now, however, he was afraid. As he watched the flock fly into the light, as he dove to the ground and felt the sting of claws and beaks on his back, Skip wondered if animals could seek revenge. But what could crows do? Sure they could peck, they could scratch, but they couldn’t really –

  A crow landed a foot away from him; a length of gristle dangled from its bloody beak.

  His mouth went dry.

  “Look ...” Skip rose up on his hands and knees, eyeing the bird between the sweaty tails of hair draped across his face. “I’m sorry about your little friend, all right? Tell all your brothers and sisters I didn’t mean to –”

  The crow jerked its head and the glossy pulp in its beak flopped over. An eyeball stared sightlessly from the wet tangle of flesh, reflected light from the camcorder spot growing distant in its dead pupil, then disappearing all together.

  Raw panic clawed at what remained of Skip’s self-control, impelled him to leap up and run screaming into the dark like a madman. He fought the urge. After all, he reasoned, if he couldn’t see the bird, maybe the bird couldn’t see him either.

  He became very still and closed his eyes, waiting for the crows to go away. Somehow, listening to the busy flock was worse than the visual. He heard their squawks, heard the flapping of their wings, the noise their beaks made as they pecked and sawed on bone, the wet ripping sound of Sean’s musculature being torn away. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he heard the birds take flight.

  Skip opened his eyes; amazed he could now see details in the dimness.

  Sean Roche lay a few feet to the left, recognizable only because of the stretcher they had made. A shadowy jungle gym of ribs rose from a mulch of feathers and torn flesh. Arm bones ran down the length of the carcass, and naked vertebrae ended in a ragged stump where a head should have been.

  Skip looked away, but disbelief pulled his eyes back to the remains. A school of piranha might have done this, but not a flock of birds. Skip had lived in Indiana all his life, but he’d never seen, never even heard of a crow attack. Normally, they’d take flight as soon as they saw you coming.

  “Christ,” Skip said aloud, almost in the tone of a prayer. He managed to stand, his knees creaking audibly as he did so. They’ll come out here and kill all the crows now, he thought, just like they did rabid dogs and mosquitoes that carry disease. They’ll –

  Sean’s hand jerked; the ravaged fingers tensed and relaxed, some electrical shock working through them. Blood flowed from his body with sluggish deliberation, as if it were fleeing something, and then he sat up. His head was gone, but he sat up just the same. The organs that remained in his open chest slid onto his lap as a wet clump.

  “No,” Skip said aloud, his mind unwilling to accept the feed from his eyes. He was about to tell himself that he’d done too many drugs when the corpse stood; innards, connected by the remnants of muscle and tissue, unraveled onto the ground, forming a demented red carpet.

  The dead thing took a step and retrieved its missing head; it slammed the skull down on its wriggling spine, then tested the connection. Where eyes had been, ruined sockets now cried streams of blood, but Skip felt the weight of its stare just the same. The jawbone opened and closed, and a sluggish, clogged voice broke the silence into grating shards of words. “This is your fault, Skip!”

  “No, it was the crows.”

  The dead man shuffled toward him, herded him back toward the cornstalks. If he had any imagination at all, the very idea would have driven Skip insane. “You pushed me, broke my leg so I couldn’t walk!”

  The thing seemed to be walking fine now. It took a step, dragged the splinted mangle of bone and sinew forward, then took another step.

  Skip thought, If that thing could run, it’d be on me in a second ... biting me, swallowing my flesh, turning me into a zombie too. I’ll walk around yelling “Brains! Brains!” like a fucking gimp and they’ll have to chop me into little bits just to get rid of me.

  Terror shot through Skip’s body like animal tranquilizer. It paralyzed him, made him unable to run away, forced him to stay and listen. At that moment Skip wanted there to be a God, and he wanted said God to get rid of the dead thing advancing on him.

  But the thing did not go away. It stood there, a cancerous tail of organs between its legs, a bony finger pointed at Skip. “You killed me!”

  “It was an accident!”

  “There are no accidents,” the carrion teased. “You think you’re out here by accident?”

  At that point, Skip didn’t know why he was out there at all.

  “You came out here to play the game. So let’s play.” What was left of Sean’s face pulled upward, formed a shredded grin. “I’ll give you a running start.”

  Tentacles squirmed their way out of Sean, slithered from every wound and imperfection in his flesh. The corpse began to convulse, trembling and rocking as whatever had taken up residence within worked itself free. And then the tendrils seemed to boil away, evaporating into the mist. There was a moment when Skip had the sensation of something standing between them, something cold and horrible, then a light breeze whipped past him, blew through the sweaty locks of his hair, and it was gone.

  The body fell forward, its arms outstretched, grabbing for Skip. When it hit the ground, it was still and thankfully mute.

  Skip did not wait around to see if the thing would rise again. He turned and hurried across the rows. The stalks brushed against him, their leaves closing in to hide his path. He tried to remember which way he’d come, which way he’d been going, but the only thing his mind had to offer was an image of the half-eaten zombie reaching out for him. The thought made him run faster into the corn.

  Someone stood in the row ahead. He slowed his pace, stepped cautiously forward, wondering if he should be walking toward the dark figure at all. When he got close enough to see who it was and what they had in their hand, he exhaled noisily.

  “Oh ... fuck!”

  ***

  Mick turned and faced the bodiless voice from the mist. He blinked, saw the gray linen stain, saw the stain move forward. How he longed for his glasses.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “You know damn well who this is, now put down that knife!”

  There was no mistaking that voice.

  It was Skip.

  Sheriff Carter said they’d found the bodies he’d left behind. Now he’s come for you, Mick. You’re next!

  Mick shook his head, held the knife out in front of him like a cross to a vampire. “Stay away from me!”

  “What the hell happened to you?” Skip pointed an indistinct finger at Mick’s chest. “Whose blood is that?”

  Reflex made Mick look down, then he jerked his eyes back up to Skip. He’d nearly fallen for the oldest trick there was. Mick chuckled. “Nice try.”

  Skip held out a shadowy hand. “Gimme the knife.”

  All the better to stab you with, Mickey, my dear.

  Mick took a step back, Deputy Oates’ words buzzing in his brain.

  Skip took another step toward him, his voice filled with frustration. “Gimme the knife.”

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on with you? Where’s everybody else?”

  “If you didn’t kill them, Sheriff Carter and Mr. Cupello are getting them right now.”

  “Sheriff Carter and ...? They’re out here?”

  Mick nodded. “They’ve got orders to shoot you on sight.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Skip took another step forward, closed the distance between them. “Gimme the fuckin’ knife.”

  Mick shook his head no.

  Skip took a final step closer, reached out to take the knife away.

  Mick ducked and lunged, sank all seven inches of the blade into Skip’s chest, and a jet of blood caught him squarely in the face. Skip’s jaw hung open, his wide eyes stunned, almost dreamy. Mick withdrew the blade and stabbed him again, struck something hard
beneath the flesh, probably a rib. Skip gargled now, rosy drool streaming from his lips. Mick pulled the knife free and watched Skip fall to his knees.

  You didn’t expect this, did you? Mick found himself thinking. Didn’t expect me to ever stand up for myself without Danny around? Well how do you like this?

  He drew back the knife and gave a hard swipe, caught Skip’s throat and ripped it open. A gigantic splash doused Mick and the surrounding corn in a shower of red rain. And, when Skip Williamson fell over onto his side, what was left of his cruel and miserable life drained into the dirt.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Mick looked up, a bright spot of light blinding him. He raised a bloody hand to shield his eyes from it. It must be Mr. Cupello and Sheriff Carter, he thought, coming back with Danny and the others in tow.

  “I got him!” Mick sang. “I got Williamson!”

  ***

  Nancy smashed the spider’s skull with her rock until she heard the voice call out from the corn.

  “Oh ... fuck!”

  She looked up with a start, nearly dropped the oblong stone on her own foot. Skip Williamson stood one row over. In the dim, diffused light of the haze, she could tell he was horrified.

  “What the fuck are you doin’?” he asked.

  “I hate bugs!” Nancy threw the rock down, heard another crack and squish, then lifted the stone, ready to bring it down for another blow. “Goddamn spider!”

  Skip rushed her; he grabbed her arms, squeezed her bloodstained wrists until they ached. “Crazy bitch!”

  As the stone fell away, a thought was born from the folds of Nancy’s mind, filling her brain with terrors. He’s gonna rape me! Right here in the dirt! Right next to this huge, squashed –

  Her eyes had trouble focusing in the fog, but they eventually let her in on the surprise.

  At Nancy’s feet lay the body of a teenage girl, her head a confusing mess of flesh, hair, and fractured bone – a pink slug of brains worming through the jagged opening in her skull and onto the dirt. The sight robbed Nancy’s lungs of breath and drew her stomach up into her throat. She looked at her own hands. They were black in the darkness, gummy with blood and raw matter. Now, they shook uncontrollably, flung heavy droplets left and right.