by Jeff Orton
Disregarding everything the apparition had just told me, I raced down the stairs to the front door, undid all the locks and made it outside just in time to see the gray van coming around the side of the house, engine roaring as it struggled to shift from first to second gear.
I knew I couldn’t shoot up the van without risking that girl’s life, so I aimed for the tires. But as I squeezed the trigger, the UZI seemed to decide against that. It pointed itself down towards the lawn and my trigger finger refused to unclench until every last bullet was emptied from the clip. Bits of dirt and grass were springing into the air like popcorn.
The van never even slowed. It careened down the curving driveway, building speed, as if oblivious to the sound of automatic gunfire. Disgusted, I threw the gun at one of the white columns that supported the roof of the porch. I knew exactly who was responsible for that little trick, but I’d have to deal with him the next time I saw him, which might be years from now or later tonight. Why in the fuck did he do that!
I did the only thing I could. I directed all of my focus upon that van and took a peek inside. The girl was lying on her side on the cold, metal floor of the cargo van, wrists bound behind her back with gray duct tape, a piece of which covered her mouth.
The girl’s head popped up. She appeared to be looking around, although at what I couldn’t imagine since she was blindfolded with a filthy rag covered in motor oil stains. I didn’t realize that she felt my presence until she began to telepathically shout at me.
I KNOW YOU’RE THERE! I CAN FEEL YOU! PLEASE HELP ME! MY NAME’S TESSA COLLINS! FIND MY FATHER! HIS NAME’S RICHARD! HE WORKS FOR THE Effbh—
Suddenly, an intolerable din rattled around inside my head. I fell to my knees the pain was so exquisite, but through it I still heard one last bit of info as the van crashed through the front gate onto the street.
FIND MY BROTHER, AARON! TELL HIM LOUIS HAS ME!
I heard other sounds after the cacophony inside my head died down, but none of them were intelligible. She was getting too far away.
Way off in the quiet of the night, I heard police sirens. I sprinted back through the front door and backtracked my way to the theater. All the various Halloween decorations seemed laughable and asinine just then, as if Frankenstein or a werewolf could ever be as scary as the thought of being condemned to Death Row and sentenced to a lethal injection.
As I was running through the long tunnel again, I heard music. Rock music. It had to be. I could feel the bass vibrating through the stone floor. By the time I made it to the door, I recognized the band as Korn, now one of my personal favorites. I’d checked them out after Eli had told me about them that night at the Hunter’s Den.
I opened the door to the theater that George had torn open only a few minutes prior, and the bass from the fully cranked speakers pulsed through my body. I recognized the song now. It was an uplifting little ditty called, “Dead Bodies Everywhere.”
It seemed the man in black and I shared the same musical preferences; or perhaps he’d tapped into my mind and had chosen to play this particular song as an ode to the carnage I’d wrought upon this place.
A quick scan confirmed everyone in the miniature auditorium had indeed passed on. As I climbed onto the stage, I retrieved my black pullover cap from among the empty bullet casings my feet had slipped on and tucked my hair inside it again, stretching the hat firmly down over my ears so it reconnected with my black face paint.
I located Mr. Da Vinci. The key was easy enough to find, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the gaping, ravaged hole in his throat. His hazy eyes, still halfway open, stared at me as if to say, What the fuck you lookin’ at?
I ran up the stairs into the den and was breathing pretty hard by the time I made it back to the sliding two-way mirror of the library. It seemed the supernatural energy I’d been granted had decided to take leave once its proprietor had vanished. My adrenaline supply was thinning out as well, I think. I noticed for the first time how acutely thirsty I was. That and the invisible pins of nicotine withdrawal were puncturing my temples, just in front of my ear canals.
I tried to push the sliding glass back the same way it had gone before, but it was useless. It had somehow locked behind me. I didn’t really feel like taking the extra time to mess with it, so I snatched a wooden antique chair from behind its matching desk and hurled it through the glass. The broken shards crunched underneath my work boots as I hurried into the spiraling gothic stairwell.
As I descended, I incrementally absorbed both the fear and the hope emanating from the three who were trapped in the cell beneath me. They hoped it was me they heard coming down, but feared it was one of the heartless thugs they had come to know.
I was glad to find the wall was still raised. The kids were overjoyed when they saw me hit the bottom of the stairs with the black iron key in my hand.
I inserted the key in the cage door and turned it, maybe a little too hard, but I felt such satisfaction when I heard the pop inside the lock.
“Where’s Tessa?” the youngest girl asked, “Is she okay?”
I thought about lying, but I felt these kids deserved better than that. I motioned for them to follow me. I explained as we hurried out the way I had entered.
“Some of those men got away and they had Tessa, but she’s still alive. She’s okay. It’s gonna be real important that you tell the police everything you remember so they can find her... Have any of you heard of a man named Louis?”
The oldest girl shook her head no, answering for the group, “They don’t call each other by their real names around us. They use their stupid code names... At least they won’t kill Tessa.”
That last comment struck me as odd. I was about to ask what she meant, when she pointed out something ahead of us, “What’s that?”
At the end of the corridor was Troll’s dead body. I felt like such an insufferable asshole leading them down this way.
“Okay,” I said, turning around and motioning for them to stop. I stepped to one side, obscuring their view of the large corpse down the hall.
“I want the three of you to hold hands and walk single-file with your eyes closed. There’s some stuff in there you guys don’t want to see. Can you do that for me?”
The kids regarded each other for a moment with uneasy expressions. But then they linked hands and complied with my request. I lead them to the door and into the wine cellar, giving a generously wide berth to the bloodpool congealing around the carcass of their former captor.
The boy was the only one who dared to open his eyes, but it was only a brief peek that he chanced. Just a half-second. All he knew was he saw a lot more blood than he cared to, and shut his eyes quickly, scrunching up his face like a toddler tired of being spoon fed.
We made it through the darkness of the cellar. I was pushing up the doors to the outside when I saw the red and blue flashing lights out of the corner of my eye. I wondered why they weren’t using their sirens. The squad cars were hanging out by the scrapped pieces of the downed wrought iron gate.
I scanned them. They weren’t looking this way. Not yet at least. I climbed out of the cellar, sliding one leg out, then the next. I kept low to the ground and had each child do the same. My stomach was burning with apprehension as I watched the police cars just sit there for several long seconds. Were they blocking off what they knew was the only means of escape from this property? It was hard to get a good feel for them at this distance, but I doubted that. How in the hell did I plan on getting out of here?
I was beyond panic. I was having a panic attack. My mind was wallowing in the shit. My brain felt as though it were bouncing around inside my skull AND GOD ALMIGHTY I NEED A CIGARETTE!!!
My mind was trying to conjure up these insane, impossible methods of escape as the children and I were lying chest down on the soft grass of the lawn. One of the cops opened his car door and got out. His movements were careful and deliberate. He was half-afraid that whoever had fired those shots might be lurking out there somewh
ere, even though he knew the laws of probability stated the shooter had already fled the scene by now.
He picked up one of the gate halves and dragged it along the street, away from the driveway. The metal scraped loudly along the pavement in the quiet of the night. I realized he was clearing the way so they could safely pull their cruisers into the driveway.
I looked over at the kids and whispered, “I need you to do me a favor.”
I heard one of the squad cars creeping up the drive. I lead them to the back of the house and found a sliding glass patio door near the covered swimming pool. Just for the hell of it, I attempted to open it in the traditional manner. But of course, it was locked.
I was bracing myself to perform a roundhouse kick to take the door down when I heard something click from within the door’s black metal handle. I remembered the locks of the front door when George had tried to open it. It seemed the apparition’s influence was still at work in this house.
I slid the glass door open for the children, then crouched down a little to get eye-level with them. “Okay, I need you guys to run straight ahead to the front door. There’ll be some police officers there—“ I looked the oldest girl dead in the eye, “I need you to tell them a man was playing with firecrackers upstairs and you think he may be hurt. Can you do that for me?”
I know my eyes must have looked desperate and imploring. The girl nodded her head.
“But whatever you do, don’t go upstairs!” I added.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked. He was getting scared and really didn’t want to go inside that house, especially without a trustworthy adult nearby, “I thought you were a policeman too. Why aren’t you staying with us?”
I winced. I didn’t know what to say and had almost no time in which to say it. One of the cops had pulled up to the front of the house and I could hear a car door opening.
“Alright,” I whispered, “I’m not a cop. But I am one of the good guys. Ya’ll already know that. Those cops wouldn’t like me being here, so I hafta go.”
And like a coward, I turned and bolted back around to the side of the house, sparing only one look over my shoulder to see the oldest girl ushering the other two children inside.
I slowed as I approached the cellar doors and made my way over to the corner where I had spied on the cops earlier.
I listened as one of them knocked on the door. It struck me as unusual that he would knock without saying anything, without announcing himself. I felt there were only two of them, one for each squad car. But I knew there would be more. There’d be a whole squadron of them once they found the underground theater.
I prayed the kids would do what I asked of them and not give me away to the police. My stomach was cramping and boiling with anxiety.
The cop turned the knob and found the door locked, but just after that I heard the front door open.
“Well, hello there,” the cop said, surprised to be greeted by three young children.
“There’s a man upstairs,” the girl said, “I think he’s hurt. He was playing with fireworks I guess.”
Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I silently cheered.
One of the cops radioed for an ambulance, and they both stepped inside, now almost completely certain the “shots fired” call was just the result of someone hearing the distant pop of firecrackers.
I emerged from around the corner I’d been lurking behind and was about to make a mad sprint for the gate and embark on a hopeless trek on foot back to my vehicle, which was just over a mile away. But then I noticed something. Something very tempting.
While the first parked cruiser was turned off, the second one behind it still had its engine running. The blue and red lights were washing over all the white of Milton’s estate.
I knew on foot I stood a damn good chance of getting caught, but if I took one of their squad cars, they’d surely just chase me with the other one.
It didn’t take me half a second to figure out a solution to that problem. I took the knife out of my duffel bag and ran up to the first police cruiser and planted it in the side of its left rear tire. A loud hiss escaped the impaled Uniroyal as I pulled the knife free. I had to shake the hilt back and forth to get the rubber to let go of the blade. I thought about slashing another tire, but decided I shouldn’t risk the extra seconds it would cost me.
Still keeping low to the ground, I scurried over to the idling cruiser, slipping my survival knife back into my bag. I opened the driver’s door and tried to chuck the bag into the passenger seat, but it was blocked by a video camera which was in the center of the car between the driver and passenger seats, pointed straight at the center of the windshield.
Cursing under my breath, I tossed the bag into the passenger floorboard, got in and closed the door slowly, but firmly. I put the gear in reverse and let the police car coast backwards a bit. As I was turning the wheel so I could pull the car around and put it in drive, I heard a loud, “HEY!!!”
A pudgy cop sprung out of the front door running. His thumb was unsnapping the button that secured his sidearm. I yanked the gearshift into drive and floored the accelerator, hoping to God I didn’t end up getting shot for this.
I could feel him aiming for one of the rear tires as I flew down the driveway. My senses listened for the moment when the trigger would be pulled. When I felt the little pop inside my head, I jerked the wheel to the right a little to throw off his aim.
And I’m pretty sure it worked. None of my tires blew out. But even if one of them had, it would have only slowed me down. I wasn’t stopping for shit.
I hung a right after careening out of Milton’s property onto Walnut Creek Drive, my heart seizing up when I saw a dark figure leaning against the edge of the ten foot wall. But I pressed on. The sight of him only startled me—I just hadn’t expected to see the man in black again. I thought he was done with me for another couple of years or so.
He gave me a quick salute with his right hand as I passed. He was using his left arm to hold up the half of the wrought iron gate the cop had leaned against the wall.
The blue and red lights of my misappropriated car were spinning around the quiet dark of the sleepy Mansfield neighborhood, pouring over all the quaint suburban homes I passed. I found a thin gray switch on the dash by pure luck and flipped it. The lights fell dead. I was relieved that at least I wouldn’t attract any attention on my way to the shop. I just hoped I could make it there without passing any cop cars on their way to Milton’s.
Buster’s Paint & body was getting closer. An automotive repair shop, the perfect place to leave your car late at night where it won’t be noticed! Just a little ways down the road and two quick left turns and I’d be there. Then I remembered the camera sitting only a foot away from my head. If that camera got a shot of my truck’s license plate...
I tried turning it, but it seemed designed to stay in its proper position. I pulled over, stopping just short of the parking lot to Buster’s. I pushed and pulled on the damn thing, desperate to get the job done quickly.
But then I thought to myself, fuck it. Just fuck it.
Standing outside the vehicle, I braced myself by grabbing the roof of the car and karate kicked the front half of the camera. The lens shattered as the mount snapped, sending the camera toppling over into the passenger seat. If it was still able to record anything, it would see nothing but the glove box from here on out.
Shutting off my headlights, I eased the cruiser onto the fresh white gravel of the shop’s parking lot. I hated this kind of gravel. It was like driving on a road composed of ten million golf balls.
I was ecstatic to find my truck sitting where I’d left it. No break-ins this time. I leapt out of the car, pulling my truck keys out of my pocket and not giving a shit if I’d left the vehicle idling the same way the cop had.
But something was wrong. The familiar weight of the duffel bag wasn’t on my shoulders.
“Ah, hell,” I muttered as I raced back to the squad car to retrieve it.
Wh
ite rocks crunched beneath my feet like granola as I fast-walked back to my truck and hopped in, throwing my bag into the narrow extended cab behind me. The truck started up fine (never in my life was I so grateful to be rid of that piece of shit Nova) and I sailed out of the place, proceeding north to I-20, not daring to go even one mile over the speed limit.
When I got to my first red light, I unscrewed the cap off a bottled water and emptied a third of it onto a large towel I had left in my truck just for this purpose. I was able to wipe most of my face paint off before the light turned green. I went over my cover story should a cop for some unforeseen reason decide to pull me over: I had just left a Halloween party where I had dressed as a burglar, and no sir, I did not consume any alcohol, not even a sip. I was raised Christian, fine and proper.
As I approached the freeway, I got brave enough to light a cigarette. I relished the sweet intake of nicotine into my bloodstream. And as I merged onto the highway, a low-flying helicopter soared overhead, chopping up the night air with the pulsing bass of its spinning blades.
I couldn’t help but notice it was heading south.
Chapter 12
November 1st, 1997. All Saints Day. I had spent the rest of the night not even trying to sleep. I knew I was too wired for that. My blood pressure had to be near stroke-level. I took a shower about once every hour, did a load of laundry (paranoia prompted me to wash the same load of black clothes three times in a row) and smoked one cigarette after another on the back patio, anxiously anticipating the six AM news. I figured my little adventure would probably make the top story, at least locally.
I was flipping across the channels a little after five in the morning and found the news was already on.
“...police are calling this a mass execution,” a female anchor stated, stressing “mass” with a typical news reporter’s gravity.
My stomach sank into my groin. “Here we go,” I whispered.
