Creekers
Page 1
CREEKERS
Edward Lee
Necro Publications
— 2010 —
— | — | —
Kindle Edition
CREEKERS
Creekers © 1994 by Edward Lee
Cover Art © 2008 Travis Anthony Soumis
This digital edition 2010 © Necro Publications
Assistant Editors:
Amanda Baird, John Everson, Jeff Funk, C. Dennis Moore
Cover, Book Design & Typesetting:
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a Necro Publication
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Also available as a trade paperback:
ISBN-10: 1-889186-77-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-889186-77-1
— | — | —
Prologue
Roughened hands disrobed her before the cracked mirror.
“You are the most perfect of all of us,” came the equally roughened whisper to her ear. She could feel the heat of the breath, and of the words themselves.
But then more words oozed through her head:
So perfect…
So worthy…
So beautiful…
“Yeeeeesss,” keened the voice behind her.
So beautiful…for Him.
Only a few crooked candles lit the downstairs parlor. In the mirror she could see herself, and she could see the Reverend standing behind her like a queer, tall shadow in its black raiments and drooping hood which hid his face.
“So beautiful for Him,” he whispered.
Beautiful, she thought. Yes, she was. Much more beautiful than the other girls. Clean, they called her, and the few others who were born like her. A clean baby. A clean child. A clean woman. So few were ever born clean…
The Reverend’s large hands peeled away her threadbare dress like a shift of rotten cheesecloth. She did not flinch. Being stripped at any given moment was nothing new to her; she was used to it, and she was used to the things that always happened afterward. Now her naked flesh shone starkly in the mirror’s dark veins: sleek, womanly curves, unblemished skin, long legs and high, full breasts. Hair shiny and fine as black silk framed her youthful, striking face. Once she asked why the men from town paid so much less for her. “‘Cos you’re clean, child,” she was told. “You ain’t all uglied up like most the others. Cain’t hardly even tell you’re Creeker, ’cept fer yer eyes…”
She never understood this at all. They should pay more, shouldn’t they, since she was so much prettier?
But tonight was different. Somehow she knew that. There were no men from town in the house, and something in the air made her skin feel all crawly like that time she fell asleep out near Croll’s field and woke up covered with ladybugs.
We’ve finally done it, after all this time—
“—finally,” whispered the Reverend.
And then the other voices continued to churn in her head:
On-prey-bee!
Us-come-too!
On-prey-bee!
When she’d been fully stripped, the Reverend’s hand stroked her raven-black hair, brushing it off her brow. Her eyes gazed back at herself in the mirror…
They were bright and clear, their large irises revealing only the slightest tincture of red…
««—»»
Next, she was being ushered…up. She felt dizzy and strange. The old wood stairs creaked beneath her feet as the Reverend’s hands guided her toward the landing. The hands of the others reached out to touch her as she passed.
And the heat of this midsummer midnight drenched her in sweat in moments.
“Yes, you are the most perfect of all of us—”
—so go forth now and bless us.
The door closed behind her. All that lit the long, high room was the moon in the window. She smelled something funny, and as her vision grew accustomed to the dark, she noticed strange shapes inclined on the dusty wood-plank floor.
Then something stirred.
And the man walked out of the great gulf of darkness.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Tall and slender, with chiseled muscles, strong arms, sturdy legs. The kind face looked back at her.
He never said a word.
He was nothing like the men who usually came to her: men who slapped her, pulled her hair, spit on her and bit her nipples till she shrieked. This man was sweet, gentle. His soft hands on her breasts filled her with warmth, not revulsion.
And when he kissed her…
Visions swam. Sensations. Waves of love more intense than the heat of the noonday sun. His caring hands lay her down on the floor; his smile seemed lit, like a halo. Without ever talking, he told her things. He told her how beautiful she was, how important, and how he loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone. All the things she’d yearned to hear for so long: the dreams buried in dust, the promises that never came true.
But now they were true.
Now…he was with her.
««—»»
Her pleasures were untold. Her orgasms quaked. Each release of his semen into her sex was a gift to be revered. It filled her to overflowing—with rapture and compassion and real love. I’m in love, she thought with each beat of her heart, and with his. He delved into her far deeper than any man of her past, and far longer, unlocking sensations of joy she’d never thought possible. At one point, he knelt upright between her spraddled legs, the beautiful penis throbbing yet again for her. It was huge, curved, and gorgeous. In anguish, her hands reached out to touch the reality of its hardened flesh.
So hot, it nearly burned.
Her eyes pleaded to him. She was crying, she was so happy, so replete in her love. Without words, he assured her that he would love no other woman but her, ever.
You are the one, he vowed.
She grasped the stout, hot shaft, then guided it down to enter her again. Her breasts heaved; she gasped aloud, squealing her bliss to the night. Her arms and legs wrapped about the fine, hard body, and pulled him deeper into her.
Give me your love, her thoughts panted.
Oh, yes, his own thoughts answered. I will…
««—»»
Hours later she lay exhausted in her own ecstasy. Her sweat drenched the warm wood floor beneath her, and his seed trickled from her. He’d rolled off her now, and gently kissed her throat and breasts. Then he moved away…
Her plea sounded powerless, feeble; she could barely speak at all.
“Don’t leave me!” she cried out.
He stood near the corner by the window. The sweat on his muscles shined in the moonlight—he looked silver.
He looked like an angel.
Alas, my curse…
Then she noticed the odd shapes again in the corner. What were they? Why were they there?
The door opened quickly. The others came into the room bearing candles, and the meld of voices rushed:
On-prey-bee!
Redeemer…
Thanks we give you!
Bless us…
The Reverend stepped forward in his coal-black robe and hood, then knelt before the naked man at the window.
Bless us and sanctify us. Show us your way and keep us whole, we beg of Thee.
Her eyes shined wide in the wavering c
andlelight as her lover very slowly turned. He seemed to have changed. His radiance—that lovely halo—had darkened to a sour hue, and the beautific muscles turned ruddy now, swollen and coarse. The handsome face shifted into corrupt angles, while deep, lumpen furrows grooved the high forehead.
It can’t be, she thought. It must be the darkness. Of course, the darkness, her blissful fatigue, and the strange way the candlelight tinted the room.
Give us this day our daily flesh…
The others lifted her up. They were carrying her out of the room now, but not before she was able to finally detect the odd shapes in the corner.
They were—
Bodies, she realized. Dead…bodies…
On-prey-bee! rejoiced the twisted voices. Give-ona-us-beg-thee-wee!
Aloft in the others’ arms, she stared, caught one last glimpse, then fainted dead away, for in the previous moment, her lover—once beautiful, now hideous—had knelt down before the fresh dead bodies and begun to eat.
— | — | —
One
Lt. Philip Straker double-checked the cylinder of his Smith Model 65. Paranoid, Phil? he asked himself. What, the rounds are going to disappear? The good fairies going to take them when you’re not looking? The stainless-steel cylinder shined, still full of six Remington +P+ .38s. It snapped shut with an oiled click. At least rank had its privileges; everyone else packed Glocks.
Phil was cooking in his Second Chance Kevlar vest, but a guy’d have to be crazy not to wear one on a narc bust. Red night-vision lights bathed the inside of the tac van—they called them “War Wagons”—one wall lined with commo and DF gear, the other with an array of weapons: AR-15s, a sniper rifle with a night-scope, MP-5s, and enough pistols to start a gun show. Two tac guys from S.O.D. waited with him: Eliot, one of the team leaders, and the “shooter,” some ex-Marine with the unlikely name Cap, who sat stolid as a carved-wood figure, cradling a 15A2. Phil had heard this kid could pick cherries at 800 yards—a grim assurance tonight—because Phil realized full well there’d probably be some shooting. There always was during a lab bust. The bastards know they’re caught, but they fight anyway. When you shoot at tac men, you die, and the fuckers don’t even seem to care. It was like a VW Bug playing chicken with a D8 bulldozer. The Bug will always lose…
“Commo check, Bob,” Phil instructed Eliot. “What’s Dignazio doing all this time—”
“Probably spitting on his dick, sir,” Cap, the kid-sniper, suggested. “Or consulting Mr. Johnny Black first.”
“He keeps stalling, I’m gonna miss the Yankees game.”
Eliot pulled a squad communications check. Dignazio’s team was going in first, to block the exits they’d gotten off the building’s blueprints. Then Phil would take his guys in the front and break bad. Dignazio had always ticked him. Probably stalling on purpose just to make me cook a little more in this vest, Phil thought.
Phil Straker, at thirty-five, would be up for captain next month; it went without saying that he’d make deputy chief by forty. He had three valor medals, plus a Distinguished Service, not to mention the half-dozen letters of commendation from the mayor. Hard work on a B.A. in Criminology had taken him out of the depressed, redneck burg he’d been born in and gotten him his dream job with a major metro police department. He’d taken it from there, grabbing his Masters at night, using his brain on the street, and moving up the ranks faster than almost anyone in the department’s history. He’d busted his ass for the transfer to District Narcotics, and now he was calling the shots.
Phil hated dope.
Five years driving a beat in District 3 had shown him the truth. Movers and shakers who didn’t give a shit about anything. Street gangs hiring fucking lawyers from the biggest firms in the country. Crack stools hung upside down and gutted like deer for spinning, and distro rings addicting six-year-olds to skag. Phil had never conceived of such evil in his life…
“Roger on the commo check, sir,” Eliot announced from his perch in the red-lit van. “Sergeant Dignazio says five more minutes, then they ram the door.”
“He’s just busting our chops, sir,” offered the kid.
“I know,” Phil said. “It’s because of me. The old bastard’s had a hard-on for me since the day I met him. I guess I’d be a little ticked myself if it took me nineteen years to make sergeant.”
“Word is, sir,” Eliot jumped in, “Dignazio sees it he should’ve gotten your job.”
Phil laughed, reholstering his piece. “Tell me something else I don’t know, like gorillas are hairy.”
He didn’t care. If Dignazio deserved the promo to luey, he’d have gotten it. I ain’t crying for him, for Christ’s sake, the busted hump. Maybe if he spent less time drinking and more time busting his ass, then I’d be taking the orders from him
“Green light,” Eliot interrupted the thought, and dropped the headphones.
They burst out the van’s back doors. “Technical Services has already cored the lock. We go in quiet and clean,” Phil said, leading his men. “Watch your target acquisition and watch for crossfire. And for Christ’s sake, watch for kids.”
The U-Street Crew, like all the dope gangs, used kids for spotters and dealing because their testimony wasn’t admissible, and they could not be tried as adults. A couple years in juvie and they were right back out on the street again. You had to be careful.
“What if some eleven-year-old points a piece at me?” Cap asked.
“You’re an ex-Marine sniper, Cap, not a creamcake,” Phil said. The question ruffled his feathers. “You scared of kids?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you fire over their heads. Aim for hips and shoulders if you gotta, but don’t be killing any kids while I’m running this team. Shit, Cap, you’re wearing a titanium-plate vest that’ll stop a seven- point-six-deuce, and you got one-mile kills in the Gulf War. Ain’t no excuse for you to be dropping kids. You gotta problem with that, Cap?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
Then Eliot, charging his Heckler-Koch MP-5, said, “These U-Street assholes pack Uzis and MACs and all kinds of other shit. What about adults?”
Phil stared at him. “This is a PCP lab, Bob. These fuckers trash lives faster than Dignazio goes through pint bottles of Scotch. Either of you guys—any adult who even looks like he’s gonna point a gun at you, redecorate the wall with his brains.”
Cap nodded. Eliot said, “Gotcha, sir.”
Then they slipped in through the door.
The stench of hydrocarbons kicked Phil in the face. The intelligence boys called this one right. Unless they got a license to manufacture ether in a closed warehouse, Phil thought. All the signs were here; this place was a lab.
And darker than all hell.
“Quiet,” Phil whispered. He had his 65 at the ready. “And don’t scuff your feet. We don’t want to ring the doorbell, do we? And, Cap, keep that laser-sight down till we get into the shit.”
It was almost too easy. Down the main corridor, then a left and a right, just like the intel blueprints read. At once, they were on a ten-foot catwalk overlooking the biggest PCP lab Phil had ever seen. About a dozen skell were hard at work below, beneath flanks of fluorescent lights. “Don’t fire if they run,” Phil whispered, “only if they start popping caps at us. Dignazio’s crew is at all the exits.”
Phil’s two tac men nodded in silence, and acquired protected firing positions behind the roof and catwalk props. Time to grow some balls, Phil thought. He stood boldly in the middle of the cat, raised his megaphone, and calmly announced: “EVERYBODY FREEZE. MY NAME IS LT. PHILIP STRAKER OF THE METRO POLICE NARCOTICS SQUAD, AND IT TICKLES ME PINK TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU’RE ALL UNDER ARREST. I’VE GOT FIFTY TACTICAL POLICE OFFICERS SURROUNDING THIS BUILDING AND TWO GUYS JUST ITCHING TO KILL SOMEONE AT EVERY EXIT. PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND STAND STILL. ANYONE WHO EVEN THINKS ABOUT MOVING LEAVES IN A BODY BAG.” And then he thought, These guys must be getting soft in their old age. Each and every skell looked up, gaped,
and raised their hands. Nobody moved. And not one gun was fired.
It was like a freeze-frame. I ain’t gonna miss the Yankees after all, Phil thought. Several seconds later, the tac team moved in, covering the paddy boys. No one moved, and not one gun was grabbed for or even seen.
“Shit, sir,” Eliot commented. “We’ll be out of here in time to catch all ten dancers at Camelot.”
“I think you’re right, Bob. And I’m buyin’. Just give me a minute to find Dignazio. We’ll let him do the paper, and we’ll blow.”
More labware than a college chemistry class, Phil observed after taking the stairs down and walking through the aisles. The paddy boys from District 6 were cuffing the skell so fast they’d honed it to an art form. Guess they’re Yankees fans, too. Dignazio, sided by a pair of golems with MP-5s, stood back by the delivery concourse.
“Hey, Dig,” Phil said, trying to be at least cordial. “Looks like we pulled this one off without a hitch.”
“My guys pulled it off. All you did was take a walk and talk shit.”
Phil smirked. Typical. “Fine, Dig. Look after the cleanup. Your guys check all the halls?”
“You ain’t gotta tell me how to do my job, Straker.” Dignazio glared, torqued-up, wiry, and with a face with more cracks in it than the original Mona Lisa. Then the sergeant walked off, taking his two gunners with him. Then:
chink
Phil jerked his head.
He strained his eyes down the concourse and thought he saw something flutter. A shadow? No…
A glint?
What the hell is that?
Not a dozen steps into the dark concourse, and Phil realized it wasn’t what but who.
A small shadow seemed to whisk from one open doorway to another
A spotter, he thought. A kid.
Phil slid his Kel-Lite from his belt, then began down the dusty, linoleum corridor. His light roved. Then—
“Jesus!”