Time stopped; the air thickened to water. It’s a scorpion, Clifton thought. A giant mutant scorpion with three tails. He screamed. It was a terrible sound. He ran, the scream still issuing from his mouth. The thing’s tail caught his ankles, spilling him forward. Its many legs pierced him like daggers as it scurried up his back. With his mouth full of pine needles, his nose full of dirt, Clifton let loose his final scream. Something long and sharp stabbed him in the neck at the base of his skull. His scream was cut off against his will.
Clifton prayed for death. But the gods that he didn’t believe in didn’t hear him.
Town Secrets
Just as Casper Brown and his children stood hypnotized by the eeriness of The Pine Belt, and right about the same time that Clifton Arnold’s screams were squeezed to silence, a man named Arthur Pummel drove his blue 1953 Chevy pickup toward Rogers River.
The burlap sack shuffled next to him in the seat. They were squirming and whining again. He had half a mind to speed up to about 60 miles-per-hour then whip the bag into a road sign. But they had a date with Penelope, and that was just too much fun to miss.
Art leaned on the gas bringing the old beater up to 45 mph. A speed limit sign indicated he was doing fifteen above and he shot the sign the bird as he passed. His stomach rumbled with hunger to the point of pain. He pushed the truck up to fifty. Damn if he wasn’t starving. His brother Gordy had made him babysit the guests all night and he hadn’t gotten a single bite of dinner. Then, when he was relieved of that duty, he thought he would finally get some breakfast, but Gordy sent him to get Penelope a treat instead.
“It’ll get our point across to our guests,” Gordy had said when Art complained. So, Art did what he was told. When it came to his older brother, there was no other choice.
Art was so focused on his hunger pangs that he didn’t see the county sheriff’s car until it passed him.
“Shit.”
He checked his rearview mirror. The police cruiser’s lights flared as the car made a quick U-turn. Art sped around the curve in the road and out of the cop’s line of sight. He couldn’t outrun the cop, but he had to get enough distance between them to get rid of the burlap sack. He couldn’t afford any questions. Gordy had warned him not to get caught.
The police sirens cut through the roar of the truck’s sputtering engine but the cop had yet to turn the bend. Art smiled when he saw the one lane bridge before him. If he could time this right, he might get off with just a speeding ticket.
With his foot still on the gas, Art leaned over and grabbed the squirming, whining burlap sack. He slid to a stop at the center of the bridge, making sure to be well over the water. He heaved the sack out the passenger window and over the concrete barrier just as the cruiser rounded the turn. Art put his foot back on the gas, rolled to the end of the bridge and pulled over on the shoulder. He could only hope the cop didn’t see him throw the bag.
Art killed the engine as the cruiser pulled to a stop behind him. The cop swaggered up with his hand on the butt of his pistol. Art ground his teeth in anticipation of the insipid speech that was sure to precede the ticket. Art’s hand itched for the gun hiding at his lower back. It would be so easy to shoot the cop and tossed him in the river. But that would defeat the purpose of flying under the radar. The business depended on laying low.
“Going a bit fast weren’t we?” the cop asked as he leaned down to the window.
Art choked back his contemptuous bile. “Sorry about that. I’m late for work.”
“You look familiar.” The cop (whose name was Wicket according to his name badge) scanned not only Art’s face, but the entire contents of the truck’s cab. “Don’t you work at—”
Several simultaneous screams rang up from below the bridge. The voices sounded terrified, but Art couldn’t make out much of what they were screaming about. The cop ran to the bridge’s wall and peered over. Art opened his door, stood on the edge of the floorboard and looked out over the roof of his truck. Three kids were stumbling along the river bank. Art scanned the river. The water was rushing so fast he almost missed what they were chasing. Then he spotted the man in the water as he made several failed attempts to stay above the surface. The river made a bend and the man vanished among the trees.
The cop was shouting addresses and code-numbers into his shoulder radio as he slid back behind the wheel of his cruiser. He kicked on the sirens then sped off without even a second glance at Art.
Art watched the river for another minute or so, drumming on the roof of his truck. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. The number was the landline phone in the office. Art swiped the touch screen activating the call.
“Gordo,” he said. “Hey man, I don’t have them, yet. I wasn’t able to find what I was looking for.” Art was a natural liar; sometimes they just came out without him meaning to. “Give me a bit and I’ll be there.”
A woman’s voice spoke. “Most people say hello when they answer the phone, Arthur.”
“Oh, hello, Nan. What’s up?”
“Change of plans. We need you to come back to the Center.”
“‘Kay. I can do that. But what about Penelope?”
“She’s not hungry anymore.” Nan paused for a moment to let that information sink in. “However, she’s made quite a mess. We’re gonna need help with cleanup.”
Art didn’t argue or even ask questions. Never on an open line. “Be there in twenty.”
Nan ended the call, and Art got back in the truck. As he drove toward the Center, he mulled over the short conversation with his sister-in-law. Something had gone wrong. Nan was the queen of clandestine conversations. It wasn’t likely the lines were tapped; but if they were no one would get much information, especially since it fit so well with their business front. But Art understood the lingo. Hopefully it was just a minor glitch and wouldn’t affect the main event. The seats were already sold, and these weren’t the types of people you canceled on. It was the make-or-break moment of their new business.
Art continued away from Shadeland into the thick forest that encompassed it. Shadeland was somewhere between a big town and a small city. The college thinned out the blue collar population and added a bit of class.
But despite the restored century old buildings, museums, theatres, and mansions that were spattered about, it couldn’t hide the fact that is was still just a backwoods, Indiana town. For every mansion there were three trailer parks. For every museum there were five limestone quarries. Corn and soybean grew everywhere, like fucking weeds, and the forest was a green coffin sealing it all up tight.
Art missed the noise of the big city, the sight of concrete scratching at the sky. He hated the town of Shadeland, but at least it was a town. Nothing could be worse than where he was living now.
He pulled up to the service entrance to the Center. A twelve-foot high chain link fence, topped with razor wire, enclosed the property allowing only two points of access: the service entrance and the customer entrance. Both gates were formidable compliments to the fence, complete with video surveillance. Given the nature of the business’s front, this garnered very little attention. Most of the local-yokels in Shadeland heaped praise upon the Pummel family for their spare-no-expense attitude toward safety.
Good ol’ Gordy Pummel. He was brilliant. And the best part of all was that they had the market cornered. There wasn’t anything even close to this niche.
Art put his key into the speaker box, turned it, punched in his code and the gate rolled back. Art stopped just inside, waited for the gate to close. A guard named Walter Coining stepped up to the window and glanced inside the truck. Walt wasn’t a man that would stand out in a crowd. Medium height, dark eyes, dark hair, kind face. No one would ever guess that in his short thirty-four years he’d killed fourteen people.
“Walt,” Art said, shooting him a little salute.
“Hey Art. How’s things?”
“Good so far, but it’s early. You know Murphy and his fucked up law.”
“I hear y
a.”
Walt waved him on then went to an electric golf cart charging near the guard shack, and sat down. He gave Walt the Killer another little wave before zooming off down the path toward the office.
Art parked the truck in front of the office. It was the only building on the grounds, other than the guard shacks and the ticket booth. It was a large limestone structure at the center of the grounds, housing a few offices, a warehouse, and everything else needed for the day-to-day operation of the Center. It was built shortly after the Pummel family moved in, and Gordy had had a few extras added during construction. It had cost a pretty penny, and had taken some crafty manipulation of multiple construction crews, but keeping a good secret hidden is worth the price.
Art entered through the dock door into the warehouse. He moved past the tall steel racks, went down a wide hallway to a room full of industrial freezers. After passing through this room, he entered into a large stainless steel kitchen. At the back of the kitchen was a shallow closet full of cleaning supplies. Art went to the closet, opened the door as if looking for something, checked to make sure no one was around, then stepped inside and closed the door.
There was barely enough room between the closed door and shelves of cleaning supplies for Art to stand. He reached up and pulled the string for the overhead light. He searched beneath the bottom shelf with his foot until he found the switch disguised as a mouse trap. He tapped the paddle and there was a soft click. But instead of snapping the trap on his toe, a small puff of air escaped from an open seam where the wall met the floor. Art grabbed the bottom shelf and pulled upward. The entire back wall, shelves and all rose into the ceiling, giving him access to a concrete stairway.
Art stepped into the stairway then pressed a large red button mounted to the wall. The back wall of the pantry returned to its place, giving another soft click as the lock reengaged. The stairs, walls and ceiling were all concrete. Art ran his hand across the gray, pocked surface as he descended, occasionally batting at the lights hanging down in yellow plastic baskets. By the time he reached the bottom, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees.
The cloak-and-dagger part of this facility was impressive, but Art wasn’t too keen about being underground. The long narrow hallways brought an acute sense of claustrophobia; Art knew that if he didn’t pay attention, he could get turned around and spend hours trying find the exit. As if to prove this point, Art started to turn left at a crossways.
“Other way.” Gordy’s voice came from a speaker in the ceiling.
Art forgot that he had come in from the warehouse. Left would lead to the arena. Right would take him to the office. He looked up at the surveillance camera and gave it a sheepish wave.
Dammit, he couldn’t understand why Gordy wouldn’t paint some goddamn arrows on the walls. He didn’t have to put up signs; just a bit of color coordination would be nice. You know, green goes to the arena, yellow to the office, red leads to Penelope’s cage, something like that.
Art made his way to the office, wishing there was something on the floor he could kick, or something on the wall to swat at. The day was turning out to be shit. No breakfast, no lunch, the whole morning wasted because of some dick of a cop, and now Gordy was going to make him clean up after Penelope.
As Art approached the door there was a click as the lock disengaged. He pulled and the heavy door glided silently on its hinges.
Nan Pummel, Art’s blonde and beautiful sister-in-law, sat at her desk painting her nails a shade of red that should be illegal for married women. She flashed Art a quick glance then returned to her fingertips. Art’s brother, Gordy, stood at the observation terminal pointing to something on the monitors and talking with Tom Wexxel, the head of their little criminal security force.
The observation terminal was located on a raised circle of flooring in the center of the room. The crescent row of TV monitors, computer towers and keyboards, lent it the look of a sci-fi starship. Gordy always fancied himself a captain, Art thought.
None of the three seemed at all concerned with the badly beaten man sitting at an empty desk just to the left of the observation terminal, strapped to a chair.
His name was Bobby Bastion, a three-time nobody from Chicago. Bobby had taken out a loan from them for some bullshit investment. When it didn’t pan out and he couldn’t make payment, he’d tried to run. He didn’t get too far. Gordy had brought Bobby and his wife to the Center to talk out payment arrangements.
“What’s going on?” Art sat down and kicked his feet up on the desk.
Gordy turned to face Art. He smiled a genuine brotherly smile. “Hey kid. Need your help. I need you and Tom to dispose of Penelope’s leftovers in the crematorium.”
“What’d you feed her?”
No one had to say a word. Bobby Bastion’s sudden sobbing explained everything. Bobby’s wife had been introduced to Penelope.
Art reached over and smacked Bobby in the back of the head. “Can you shut up the blubbering for a minute?” He turned back to Gordy. “Why can’t Sly clean up the mess? He owns this dump. It’s his responsibility.”
Nan looked up from her drying nails. “Sly is dealing with Penelope.”
There was an irritated edge to her voice that Art wanted to slap out of her.
Art looked away from Nan without response. “How come you didn’t call me? I would have liked to watch, too, you know.”
“Geez, sorry, kid,” Gordy said. “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”
“Besides,” Nan said. “You get too excited by the carnage. It takes days to calm you down. You’ll see plenty soon enough.”
“So that’s how it is, huh?” Art stood up, knocking the chair backward. “I’m the bastard step-child that can’t be trusted.
“It’s not like that,” Gordy said. “Nan didn’t mean anything by what she said. We just needed to make sure Bobby was telling us the truth.”
“So, was he?”
“I’ve seen some cold assholes that would rather hold onto their money than their wives, but I don’t think Bobby is one of them.” Gordy walked over and patted Bobby on the head as if he were a faithful dog. “I’d say he really doesn’t have the money.”
Art chanced a glance at Nan, but she ignored him. “Are we calling Bobby’s debt square then?”
Gordy laughed. “Oh, lord no. We’re going to give Bobby one last chance to pay us back.”
“In the arena?”
“That’s right.”
Voices Within
Clifton Arnold still had access to all of his senses. He could hear the songs of wrens and sparrows calling out to their mates. The patches of sky that could be seen through the canopy of trees overhead were changing from blue to orange and pink. He could smell poplar logs burning in a fireplace somewhere off in the distance. The taste of dirt and pine needles still lingered in his mouth. And he could feel the many legs of that impossible beast clinging to his back.
Awake and aware, yet not in control. The beast had shoved something into the back of his skull and up into his brain. He knew this not because he could feel it, but because he could sense the creature’s mind inside of his own. He stood entombed within his own body, a mere spectator; he could only watch as the thing dictated where he walked, what he grabbed, even where he looked. But worse than the intolerable claustrophobia this caused was the savage mental assault he was enduring. The creature flipped through Clifton’s thoughts and memories as though they were pages in a manual. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse into his captor’s thoughts, but much of what he saw was too vast or confusing to comprehend. Clifton sensed not just one mind dwelling within his own, but generations upon generations of them.
He watched, helpless, as the thing ripped through his understanding of Shadeland’s topography. The pain was crippling. He wanted to collapse but the thing would not allow it.
What are you looking for? Clifton shouted within his own mind. Stop. Tell me what you want and I’ll help you find it.
The p
ain ceased, as did his shuffling feet. Though the creature was on his back, Clifton could clearly see a shadowy version of the thing within his mind. The dark presence turned to look at him. A sudden wave of panic over took Clifton and he tried to look away. But it wouldn’t let him. Although the creature’s natural body seemed monstrous and primitive, its mind was a wellspring of dark intelligence.
A female, it said. The voice within his head seemed an amalgam of all the voices he had ever known. Show me a breeding female.
Clifton caught a sudden glimpse of the creature’s intentions. He tried to turn away from the image, to squeeze his mind off and withhold the desired information. Every nerve ending fired with a message of pain. Clifton wanted to faint, but was ordered to stand. He wanted to die, but was forced to endure. He tried to scream, but his mouth was locked shut.
Though the creature had no face to reveal emotion, its shadowy twin within his mind darkened and skittered about angrily, as though Clifton’s pain irritated it. Resistance will only bring torment, the beast said within his mind. Obedience, however, will yield rewards.
The pain halted and behind it came a wave of pleasure so intense that he felt washed away. No drug could bring such euphoria. No orgasm could deliver such release, such a surge of adrenaline. Clifton’s existence rushed outward, out of body, through his skin, leaving his mortal frame behind, latching onto the essence of all living creation. For a moment all thought and understanding bled into nothingness.
Clifton awoke on his knees, weeping. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his chest. His pants were wet with release and a dull ache invaded his groin.
Will you resist or will you obey?
The memory of the pain haunted him. There was no way he could endure that again, not even for a few minutes. His flesh still tingled from his divine orgasm, rolling in waves of goose bumps like a turbulent sea. He was weak and spent but his body called out for a renewed experience.
Predatory Animals Page 3
