Lewis felt the breeze and heard the deadly projectile sizzle past his right ear. Pissed off and desperate, he let fly his last potato, and last hope of winning the war. Still crouched, Paul saw it coming and sprung erect to avoid being struck, only to take the impact straight to the testicles. Grabbing his crotch, Paul released a high-pitched squeal and collapsed to the ground in a fetal position.
Cheers erupted from the wall of spectators as Lewis raised his fists in victory.
The raucous and unsportsmanlike celebration lasted until the adrenalin wore off and the pain from the stinging projectiles set in. Lewis and Clinton's team were all smiles despite the aches they felt.
Lewis clapped Clinton on the shoulder. “Thanks for taking those hits for me. I owe you one”
Clinton shook his head. “If you hadn't nailed them then you would've owed me. But you did, so we're even. Nice shot by the way, Paul's balls must be killing him.”
Lewis and Justin laughed as Clinton mimed Paul's moment of testicular agony, the other members of the winning side pumping their fists in the air, chanting, “PAUL'S BALLS … PAUL'S BALLS … PAUL'S BALLS.”
Lewis interrupted the routine. “Anyone seen Jerry? We need to tell him we won.”
“He probably took the trail back to the field,” Clinton said. “I’m sure he’s home right now with an icepack on his head.”
Lewis glanced to the sky as a shadow consumed them. Ashen, gunmetal clouds tromped overhead. Thunder grumbled in their wake. “Yeah, I guess so. I hope he didn’t get hurt too bad.”
8
Inhaling the humid air, slumped over with their hands on their knees, the twins stared at the ominous mouth of the overgrown path.
The boys had walked the other trail for at least half an hour, trying to coax Jerry out of hiding to no avail. They finally worked their way back to the fork to rest, catching their breath under the darkening sky.
Andy glanced at his brother, frowned, and shook his head as if he could read his twin's thoughts. “That little pussy wouldn't go that way. He probably hid and made his way back to the neighborhood. We should get back too, before the rain starts.”
“Besides,” Jason said, trying too hard to sound brave. “He's expecting us. I want to surprise that little shit when he least—”
“Shh. Did you hear that?” Andy interrupted, raising his hand to silence his brother.
Jason shrugged, and whispered, “What?”
“I heard someone laugh. I bet it's Asthma Boy … there it is again.”
They both heard it then, from somewhere in front of them, in the thick bushes lining the path—a child giggling.
“Is that you, spider-fag?” Andy hollered, hoping his brother couldn't see the gooseflesh the laugh had raised on his sweaty arms.
Another evil titter answered him, a taunting giggle. The brush to Andy’s left shook with a soft rustling, the palm fronds swaying in a benign come-hither gesture. Andy crept to the stirring bushes, his steps slow and unsure. He stopped within arms reach as the thickets froze.
“Come on out, man. We're not gonna hurt ya, I promise,” Andy announced to the still woods.
Infuriating silence greeted his command. Andy parted the thick tangle of palmetto leaves before him, bent over, and stuck his moon face in the shadowed opening. “Get your ass out here you little shit or I'm coming in after ya.”
Jason, lurking behind Andy, tried to see past his brother's broad back. “You see him, Andy? You see the little asshole?”
Instead of an answer, Jason heard his brother's quick intake of breath, followed immediately by a soft thump like a baseball hitting a catcher's mitt. Andy snapped upright, hands chopping down to his thighs as if standing attention to an invisible drill sergeant. He staggered backward, hands convulsing, his back stopping inches from Jason's face. A thick gargle filled the air around Andy's head, like a child blowing bubbles in a glass of milk.
“You okay, Andy?” Jason asked, resting a hand on his brother's twitching shoulder. Andy dropped to his knees, his teeth clicking together with a hollow pop, and then fell forward onto his face, sending up a plume of dirt.
Initially unseen by Jason, the jagged branch skewering Andy's throat erupted from the back of his neck as his face met the forest floor. The collar of Andy's t-shirt tented for a second, then tore, revealing the lethal point jutting from the left of his spine.
Jason gawked as syrupy blood jetted from the gaping wound, strangely reminding him of the cherry Slush Puppie machine at the Minute Mart. Strands of deep red and yellow-white flesh swung from the tip of the long spike as Andy convulsed on the forest floor. An overwhelming coppery scent filled the damp air.
“You okay, Andy?” Jason repeated, staring in wide-eyed shock and disbelief, his courage leaking away along with his brother's blood.
Jason heard the wicked laughter again and lifted his head in slow motion, his neck muscles disobeying his mind’s command to not look. A face leered at him from the bushes with an evil rictus grin stretched ear to ear—a grimace of sadistic satisfaction. A face that reminded Jason of Jerry Harris, the puny kid from the neighborhood, but instead conjured every horrible nightmare his fractured mind could recall.
Locked into Jerry's gaze, Jason felt his strength drain away; he fell to his knees behind his prone brother. Seeing his brother die had been bad enough, like watching a film of himself being murdered. Those eyes, however, were even worse.
The sclera of Jerry's eyes blazed blood red; the iris—once hazel—now shone a vivid yellow, the diseased yellow of infection. Matching black pits of absolute despair made up the center where the boy's innocuous pupils once resided.
Jerry parted the foliage and stepped out into the fading light, the storm clouds now shading the sun, hiding the horrific scene from its innocent, comforting glow. He reached down and pulled the stick from Andy's neck with all the emotion of a fisherman removing a hook from a fresh catch; it slid out with a wet sucking sound like a sneaker being freed from mud. The body lifted slightly, then slumped back to the dirt, twitching twice before falling still again.
Jerry admired the gore-soaked stick, and once again bore his fiendish stare into the terrified eyes of the supplicating twin. He savored Jason’s fear, as the bully-turned-coward released the contents of his bladder, darkening the front of his jeans.
“You okay, Andy?” Jason mumbled under his breath, shaking, the dark stain spreading down his legs.
The large hunting knife on Andy's belt drew Jerry’s attention. The blade whispered with mischievous gratitude as it slid from its sheath. Jerry held the weapon up to his face like a discerning shopper checking the quality of the merchandise. The waning light reflected from the blade's smooth surface as he turned it in his small hand. He held the bloody stick next to the blade, comparing the two. Jerry licked the sharpened stake, slurping up the large morsel of flesh at its end, and tossed the inferior weapon into the woods.
Chewing the meat with a complacent grin, the thing that is now Jerry stepped in front of the quivering Jason, placed a cold left hand on the boy's shoulder as if to comfort him for the loss of his brother, and slammed the knife into the bully’s soft belly. Jason whimpered, his expression one of surprise, as Jerry twisted the knife and sliced upwards, unzipping the boy's substantial abdomen, the tearing of cloth and ripping of flesh indistinguishable. Jerry's grin broadened and his eyes widened as hot blood showered his jeans, and slick intestines splashed onto his navy blue Vans.
Still grinning, Jerry slid the knife free, enjoying the sound the blade made as it exited—like a wet kiss between lovers. Jason's eyes rolled back into his skull, showing nothing but white. Jerry backed away and beamed with delight as Jason fell forward next to his twin brother with a grotesque squish.
The thing that had once been little Jerry Harris admired the pathetic bodies as if they were priceless works of art. The blood and gore fanned out onto the trail, wrenching a chuckle from the horrible thing residing in the reanimated body of the puny asthmatic.
9
&nbs
p; Lewis and Clinton were still at the battlefield enjoying the victory when the first fat raindrops began to fall. They both looked to the sky, then each other, and began their short trek back to the neighborhood without saying a word. The other kids, Justin among them, moaned their disapproval and scattered to seek shelter from the approaching storm, fleeing in different directions to their respective homes.
They heard Jerry's name riding the swift breeze, meeting them as they stepped onto the swaying grass of the connecting field. A woman—Jerry's mother, they presumed—shouted the name, drawing out each syllable into a melancholy dirge.
Lewis looked at Clinton and saw his own feelings of confusion and alarm reflected in the boy's features. It was the first time either one of them had heard Jerry's name called before. It felt strange and disheartening.
“Jerry isn't home yet,” Lewis said, the tone of dread apparent in his voice. “We should go talk to his mom and let her know what happened.”
“No way,” Clinton protested, shaking his head. “She'll be pissed off as hell. Remember the last time he got hurt on his bike? She yelled at me for that. What's she gonna do this time?”
“Yeah, but what if something bad happened to him?”
Still shaking his head, Clinton agreed, “Okay. Let's go.”
Jackie Harris stood on her front porch as the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like a giant bowling ball, never quite reaching the pins at the end of the lane. She called her son's name again.
Jerry had been so excited this morning, telling her he was going to meet Lewis and some other friends to play softball. This seemed a little odd at the time since Jerry hated sports and didn't have any friends—besides Lewis—that she was aware of, but she sent him off to play anyway, making sure he had a full inhaler.
She’d been working in the garden when the first drop of rain hit her on the back of her gloved hand. She stared at the wet spot where the drop had soaked in, and felt a sudden surge of panic.
Where is my son?
Now, standing on the porch, she spied Lewis and Clinton jogging toward her. She started shouting questions, wringing her hands together as if trying to wash something filthy away.
Clinton kept quiet as Lewis recounted the story to her, expecting her to lash out and blame him for her son's absence.
“Which way did he run?” she asked.
“He went into the woods but he should've been home by now,” Clinton said.
“I'm sure he's fine,” Lewis reassured her. “Don't worry, we'll go look for him before it starts coming down hard.”
Lewis grabbed Clinton by the shirt, dragging him off the porch, leaving Jerry's panic-stricken mother there, calling for her son.
As they jogged back to the woods, Clinton asked, “What do you think happened, dude? I mean he didn't seem like he got hurt that bad. Do you think he had an asthma attack or something?”
“I don't know. But I've been thinking. You know who we didn't see all day?”
“Who?” Then, as it struck Clinton, his steps quickened. “Oh shit. The Twins from Hell.”
10
Twins. A good omen.
It seems a hundred and fifty years of imprisonment has not weakened her much. She dispatched the oafish twins with surprising ease considering the pathetic, scrawny vessel she found herself in. It felt wonderful to kill again. To once again see, smell, and taste the blood of her favorite game: humans. The minuscule taste of flesh left her yearning for more, but she knew from experience she must be careful; she must control her bloodlust if she wanted to stay in this realm. She must protect the body of the child she resided in, and to do that, she needed slaves.
First, she needed to move these bodies. She must carry them back to the clearing and her tree so she can make use of them. The brains of the boys were not damaged in her brutal attack, this she had made sure; she needed them intact if she wanted the boys to help in her quest for vengeance—her quest for blood. The mess she’d made of the boy's abdomen shouldn’t be a problem, but she must remember to control her enthusiasm in future converts. It would be a bit messy, but he would serve his purpose.
She knelt down, grabbed Andy by the armpits and picked him up, slinging his corpse over her shoulder like a sack of flour. The unbelievable sight of the puny boy hefting the stocky teen went unseen, the quiet woods void of any living human eyes. Andy's cooling, congealing blood rolled down her back. Her vessel's thin legs quaked beneath the weight but managed well enough as she marched off down the forbidden trail toward the tree, the source of her power. She reached the wall of vines—a new renovation to her home, constructed by whom she did not know, or care—and dumped Andy's body to the dirt, leaving it there while she fetched his brother.
The rain started to drop and thunder rolled across the sky just as she reached the disemboweled corpse of Jason Reed. She grabbed an ankle and dragged the body down the trail to reunite him with his brother. His intestines—a knotted tangle of muddy rope—followed along like an obscene wedding train.
Reaching the wall of vines, she carried each boy through the gap separately, lying them face up in the white sand. The brothers could have looked like they were sleeping if not for the mortal wounds they each displayed—Jason's much worse than his brother's.
She looked at the tree through Jerry's eyes. A single leaf stood out against the black wood, growing from the tip of a thin branch. The large leaf's contrast was gorgeous, bright green with crimson striations coursing through its rubbery flesh. She marveled at its beauty, anxious to add more of the stunning leaves to the many branches of her tree.
Kneeling next to the bodies, she hauled in Jason's gritty intestines and shoved them back into the jagged cavity of the boy's belly like stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey. She then opened his mouth wide, a silent scream frozen on his pale face. She repeated this with Andy's mouth and scooped up a large heaping of sand, the fine granules slipping through the small fingers of her vessel. She raised her cupped hands above Andy’s yawning mouth and spread them apart, letting the sand fall down the dead throat. She repeated the ritual with Jason. She used her fingers to push the sand down their mouths before forcing them shut. She stood and backed away, waiting, the rain pattering on the foliage around her the only sound, like the ticking of an enormous clock.
She didn't have to wait long.
First, Andy's eyes opened and he sat up like a catapult. Then, his brother's eyelids rolled up and he too sprang into a sitting position, spilling his muddy guts into his lap. The dead brothers turned their heads in unison to look at their creator with eyes glinting yellow like hers.
Jerry—or the thing now piloting his corpse—smiled with delight as two more gorgeous leaves bloomed on the tree. She looked at her dead boys, the first of many to do her bidding, beaming with joy. A proud mother.
The things that were once Andy and Jason Reed smiled back at her as the sky opened its veins, baptizing the newborn evil.
11
Lewis and Clinton—with help from a curious Justin—searched the woods, shouting their friend's name, the notion that something terribly wrong had befallen Jerry seeping into each of the boys' minds. Thunder and looming clouds covered the sky above the searchers, fueling their morbid thoughts, their calls becoming louder and more anxious as the rain fell harder.
They searched the area close to the battlefield, knowing Jerry wouldn't venture too deep into the woods. After a quick circuit of the main trail, Lewis emerged from the brush, his shoulders hunched against the annoying raindrops as he walked to the edge of the potato-littered ditch. He hoped Jerry was just hiding, maybe embarrassed about crying in front of everybody. The dark maw of the drainpipe caught his eye, but he shook the idea from his head—Jerry would never go in there. The twins were the only kids Lewis knew of that braved the tunnel; he’d seen them exiting the drainpipe on several occasions. They would hide in there to smoke weed or drink booze and do whatever felonious things they do.
Lewis could feel and smell the charge in the air as
he surveyed the area. The heart of the storm was almost here, and it promised to be a good one, of that he was sure. Clinton and Justin appeared on the opposite side of the ditch, both shrugging to Lewis, their frowns telling him all he needed to know. He motioned for them to join him, the increasing thunder and wind making it impossible to communicate across the wide ditch.
The brothers trudged up to Lewis, their hair plastered to their scalps.
“Nothing?” Lewis shouted to the pair.
Clinton shook his head. “Nothing. We didn't go that deep, though.”
Lightning flashed, the boys cringed, and an earthshaking clap of thunder followed a second later.
“We need to get outta here,” Clinton yelled.
Lewis nodded. “Yeah, you guys go home. I'll stop by Jerry's house to see if he came back. Call you later.”
The boys ran to the field and split in different directions: Clinton and Justin toward their home, and Lewis toward Jerry's. The rain pelted Lewis harder now as he hurried his way to the house, hoping Jerry had snuck home during their failed search.
Lewis knocked, waiting for Jerry to open the door with a grin on his face like nothing had happened. The door flung open and Jerry's mother stood in the doorway, her tight look of concern melting into tears when she saw the disappointment on Lewis's face. From two streets over, above the clamor of the quickening storm, Lewis could hear his own mother shouting for him to come home. He backed off the porch into the rain as more tears flowed from the eyes of the sad woman standing before him.
“I gotta go, Mrs. Harris,” Lewis said. “I'm sure he's fine. We'll find him,” he added, feeling the familiar pang of guilt he suffered whenever he deceived an adult.
The giant bowling ball rolled across the sky once more, this time slamming into the pins with a deafening crack, tearing the fabric of the sky. Lewis and Jerry's mother looked upward with frightened anticipation, as if they expected the heavens to come crashing down.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 5
