Lewis nudged him with his foot. “Shoo, Stretch. Go hide, buddy.”
The cat obeyed, darting out the open front door. Lewis closed the door behind Stretch and thought how pissed his father would be if he knew the cat had gotten into the house.
His father!
What would he tell his father? Would he believe him? … Blame him?
Maybe this is all my fault. Lewis felt tears roll down his cheeks again at the thought of his mother. If I had just told someone instead of trying to handle this myself she would still be alive. I guess I should have listened to Clinton.
Clinton!
He'll help me. I'll get the gasoline, go get Clinton, and we'll torch that ugly tree to ashes.
Lewis wiped his eyes and made his way through the gloomy interior of the house to the open door of his parents' bedroom. The darkness made his progress painfully slow, but turning on a light could attract unwanted attention. He entered the bedroom, thankful for the deep shadows now; he did not want to see the bed where his mother must have been murdered. Shuffling his way past the dark shape of the bed, he came to the garage entrance. A wreath of fake flowers adorned the door to the garage—his mother's attempt to make the plain entrance more appealing. It was another sad reminder of her, but it propelled him forward. He had to destroy that tree; his mother's death would be avenged. He opened the door and entered the garage
The darkness inside the room was impenetrable. He desperately needed a light in here, but feared it would leak from the base of the garage door. He would just have to creep through the clutter and try not to make any noise—or break his neck. The image of the naked man flashed in his head. There could be someone in here with me. That same man could be in here, hiding, just like at Mr. Boyd's house. Lewis fought the urge to turn on the light, waited for his fear to subside, and began the slow process of navigating the minefield that was the Frazier garage.
Arms outstretched as if playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Lewis blindly felt his way, forming a map of the cluttered space in his mind, the intimate aroma of exhaust, oil, and old cardboard boxes soothing his frayed nerves. Familiar objects brushed his stretching fingers: bicycles, punching bag, his father's massive toolbox on wheels, and at last—the lawnmower. Kneeling, he reached for the spot he knew the gas can should be; cool metal kissed his fingertips. With a smile, he lifted the can, the joyous sound of sloshing liquid music to his ears.
With his excitement mounting, Lewis stood and turned, for a brief instant forgetting his need for stealth, bumping the bicycle in front of him. The bike toppled with a resounding crash as it knocked the other bikes over like dominoes. In the silence of the dark room, the crashing of the three bicycles sounded more like a hundred. He cringed, helpless, as the noise seemed to last forever.
Silence returned. Lewis stood frozen, still cringing, his eyes shut, the air around him buzzing. He remained still for several more seconds, waiting to hear the grunts and growls of the enemy. The garage and house remained quiet. Relieved, Lewis exhaled, and threaded his way among the wreckage, tracing his path back to the door.
Just before entering the house, Lewis heard the heavy garage door rattle in its tracks—someone trying to lift it from the outside.
They heard me!
His mind in a panic, Lewis tried to remember if he had locked the front door of the house.
He hurried into the front room just as a shadow passed over the window next to the closed front door. He moved as fast as he could in the dark, reaching the door and turning the bolt as quickly and quietly as possible. The handle rattled less than a second later as someone turned it from the outside.
The doorknob jiggled several times then stopped. Lewis sighed and rested his forehead on the rough wood. From inches away, on the other side of the door, he heard his name whispered for the second time tonight.
Impossible! There's no way he could have gotten out of the lake.
“Screw this,” Lewis whispered. Go to the kitchen, grab a lighter, head out the back door, get Clinton, and get to the tree.
Lewis turned, headed for the kitchen, when the five familiar knocks came from the other side of the door.
'Shave and a haircut'
Lewis stopped and spun, ran back to the front door, knocked twice and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the porch light. Beaming with excitement, he spun the deadbolt and flung the door open to greet his friend.
Clinton stood on the front porch smiling back.
The joyful expression melted from Lewis's face when he saw his friend.
It wasn't Clinton.
The malignant grin and nauseating angle of Clinton's swollen neck was proof enough for Lewis. On top of that, Clinton's usually tan skin glowed a chalky pallor, his blue eyes now burned with the evil red and yellow of Jerry's. Several holes in his t-shirt leaked blood, running the length of his bare legs, into his sneakers.
Through clenched teeth, still grinning, Clinton whispered, “Leeewwwiissss.”
33
About the same time Lewis entered his house, Dolores Norton sat up in bed. Like she had expected, sleep was not on tonight's agenda. Unable to erase the image of the nude, crazed-looking man from her thoughts, she decided to continue her late-night housekeeping. She left her snoring husband and went back to the kitchen. There had to be something else to clean—there always was.
She looked at the empty sink (she had finished the dishes), then glanced out the kitchen window again. The chief's car still sat in her drive. Another cruiser was tucked in behind it; both cars appeared empty. She tied her robe shut and strolled to the front door, cracked it open a couple inches, and peered outside.
“Officers?” she asked the quiet driveway.
She swung the door open further and ventured out onto her front stoop. Wrapping her arms around her chest as if it were the dead of winter instead of the heart of summer, she scanned the drive and street. Nobody there. Dead quiet.
“Chief?”
A gray cat darted from under the rear police car, vanishing into her hibiscus bushes with an angry hiss.
Dolores shuffled further out toward the parked vehicles, her slippers scraping on the concrete driveway. Squinting, she looked through the windshield of the chief's car. The reflection from the full moon made it difficult to see inside, but a glance through the driver's window showed the emptiness of the vehicle, just as she’d suspected. She scooted down the drive to the second car and repeated the process with similar results.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Norton scraped her way back up the drive and stopped when she saw the chief casually striding toward her across Clyde Boyd's immaculate lawn.
She put a hand over her heart. “Oh thank heavens, there you are. I was starting to think something bad had happened to you.”
When the chief didn't reply and continued moving toward her, she backed up, her ample behind pressing into the front fender of the chief's car. “Is everything all right, chief?”
That's when Mrs. Norton spied the small crowd following the chief. Another officer led the pack; his neck, covered with a white substance, seemed to grin at her as he walked. Behind him strolled her neighbor from across the way, Mrs. Frazier, her face and nightgown glistening, the moon's glow reflecting from the dark fluid covering her from head to toe. Holding the hand of the woman was a small child Dolores recognized on the spot as one of the missing boys. Several more figures spilled out of Clyde Boyd's house. She recognized all of them—her neighbors.
“I demand to know what's going on here,” Mrs. Norton stated in a terrified tone masquerading as a voice of authority.
The chief answered the woman's request. He raised his nightstick to the sky like a General signaling his troops to charge, and brought it down on her head with a hollow crunch.
Dolores Norton's eyes crossed as she followed the path of the nightstick to her skull, offering an inquisitive groan to the chief when her blood sprayed the windshield of the car behind her. She fell backward, collapsing the hood of the car.
The baton whistled through the air as the chief swung it repeatedly onto her ruined skull like a child attacking a piñata, releasing the delicious contents of her head to the night air. The onlookers waded in with hungry lust in their matching eyes.
Mr. Norton snored away in his cozy bed as the pack feasted on his wife's plentiful, soft flesh
34
Lewis slammed the door on Clinton’s smirking face, twisting the deadbolt. He could hear his name whispered over and over on the other side of the wood, threatening to send him over the mental brink he so precariously teetered. The beast inside Clinton's body taunted Lewis, knocking on the door between each hiss of his name.
Tears blurred Lewis's vision as he spoke to the door, “Go away, Clinton. You can't come in. Just go away … please.”
As if in answer to his pleas, the knocking ceased, along with the mocking whispers.
Lewis wiped his eyes and leaned his back to the door, waiting for his name to come again.
A clatter arose from the direction of his bedroom. From the sound, Lewis guessed Clinton had moved from the front door and was attempting to climb through the bedroom window. He used this opportunity to find the lighter.
Running into the kitchen, he flipped on the light and slid drawers out at random, dumping the contents onto the tile floor. Defiling his mother's kitchen filled Lewis with guilt, but he continued his desperate ransacking as the noises from his bedroom intensified. He glimpsed the shiny chrome Zippo as it bounced amongst the jumble of utensils, and snatched it up. A crash from the bedroom signaled the Clinton-thing's arrival into his home.
Lewis pocketed the lighter on his way to the front door, grabbed the gas can and flung the door open. He ran onto the porch, glancing to his left, toward his bedroom window, and caromed off the naked man.
Gasoline sloshed from the can's nozzle as he bounced off the naked fiend, soaking the creature's bare stomach. Lewis instinctively retrieved the lighter from his pocket, clicked the lid back and thumbed the wheel. Fearing it wouldn't light—like in some bad horror film—Lewis barked a cry of relief when the spark ignited on the first try.
The naked demon stood before Lewis, staring at the shimmering flame with obvious respect and hatred. Then, with a savage roar, the creature charged. The naked man's hands curled into claws as they sped toward Lewis's face. Lewis lunged backward and to the side, dodging the talons, swiping the lighter to the man's midsection. Yellow fire flared with a loud whoosh of air, engulfing the man's torso. The creature stopped and stared down at the blaze, the fire blowing his hair back, the flames lighting the man's amused grin. The skin of his face crackled and popped, blisters formed and burst, hissing on the flames. The distinct odor of burnt hair filled the air as the fire enveloped the man's face, which he raised to Lewis, still grinning. Lewis splashed more of the fuel onto the flames, turning the man into a human torch. The man's grin melted into a sneer; he lunged with a tremendous howl of rage.
Lewis dodged the flaming man's outstretched claws again, the tremendous heat singing the hairs on his arms, and ran toward the cop cars parked across the street. A sudden scream to his right forced his head in that direction. Doris the Poodle zoomed past Lewis with the speed of a greyhound, a white puff of fur flying into the night; Mrs. Taggart followed, a bestial scream rumbling from her throat as she charged toward Lewis. By the firelight of the naked man, now fully ablaze, Lewis could see bleeding cavities where the woman's eyes should have been. Lewis wasn't sure if his neighbor was one of the creatures or not, but it became a moot point as she blindly tackled the blazing man, igniting her bathrobe, and sending them both to the ground. The fiery couple struggled to rise, pulling one another down as the intense heat fused their limbs together. Lewis left them to burn, running for the police cars.
He found the police, but from the look of it, he doubted they were going to serve and protect. He braked, his sneakers sliding on the grass as the heavy gas can carried his momentum closer to the infernal tableau before him. Two cops, his mother, Jerry, and several others reared their heads from the savaged carcass on the hood of the car, their faces painted red.
Lewis didn't scream. He couldn't have screamed if he had wanted to. His tongue dangled useless in his open mouth as he took in the scene. He simply turned and fled toward the woods, the gasoline sloshing in his grip.
The revelers focused once again on their feast. Her siege on the quiet hamlet had begun; the bothersome child could wait. It was time to feed.
Lewis stopped and turned before entering the woods. Nobody pursued him across the field. The conjoined burning figures on his front lawn moved in sluggish slow motion, then fell still.
That answered one question: fire could stop them.
He saw no sign of Clinton, and wondered who else had been turned into a cannibalistic maniac. Was Justin still alive? What about their parents?
He reminded himself to be on the lookout for Andy; the cretin had yet to make an appearance and Lewis hoped it stayed that way. He also hoped Jason was still imprisoned in the lake, and he could make it to the tree without incident.
He looked down at the red and yellow can labeled GASOLINE.
This better work.
35
Nerves tingling, on full alert, Lewis trudged his way along the familiar meandering path, the bright moon his only source of light. Thick advancing clouds obscured the shining disk periodically, slowing his progress to a crawl as the shadows deepened around him. Furthermore, the weight of the gas can and his fear of running into Andy did little to help his forward movement. The breeze pushing the dense clouds brought the scent of rain with it. Lewis looked up to the black clouds and quickened his pace.
After what seemed an eternity, he arrived at the split in the trail without incident.
Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Lewis stared down the constricted throat of the less traveled path. He knew the tree waited at the end of this trail, but still felt the urge to veer right, or turn around, or go any direction but the one he needed to go. He trembled, a cold sweat beading on his flushed face.
Lewis knew he could face the trail and its protective spell. He'd done it earlier. The problem, he realized, was that he felt like the only person on the planet.
Abandoned.
Alone.
His mother was gone. His best friend in the world was gone. The only home he'd ever known was gone as well. Never would he be able to look at his house, his street, or these woods with a feeling of joy. All his fond memories were blighted with horror, like a cancer eating away all that is good, leaving behind an infectious soul-sucking rot.
Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. The amplified feelings of despair—spurned on by the barrier spell—deteriorated, fleeing his mind like steam. He opened his eyes and waded in, the trail swallowing him like a snake devouring a mouse. As he moved down the path the spell weakened, allowing Lewis to focus on his plan.
Mr. Boyd had clearly warned the boys that an attempt to torch the tree would start a fire on the perimeter of the clearing, trapping the fire-starter inside a ring of flames. Lewis, however, had thought of a simple but ingenious plan. His source of inspiration had been the childhood memory of Yosemite Sam, and his infamous trail of gunpowder leading to the hole of Bugs Bunny.
First, dowse the tree with gasoline; then, leave a trail of fuel to a safe distance down the path, outside the clearing; and finally, light the river of gas and sit back at a safe distance. In his head he could envision it with perfect clarity: the flame shooting down the trail, through the wall of vines, and the grand explosion at the end as the witch's tree ignited. He just hoped his plan didn't backfire like poor Yosemite Sam's—the fire burning him in the ass.
Lewis plodded on, the image of the burning tree a beacon of hope, a figurative light at the end of this literal dark tunnel.
The humid night air clung to Lewis like a soggy jumpsuit. The leaves and sawgrass crawled over his skin like razor-edged insect wings. Vines and roots snagged his shoes, causing him to s
tumble. He concentrated on the image of the burning tree, his destination, but the poisoned woods persisted, trying its best to thwart his plans. Just as the heat, slicing grass, and darkness of the trail threatened to send Lewis into a panic, he breached the overgrowth and entered the stretch of trail open to the night sky. He stood in the fresh air for a moment, allowing the breeze to blow away the dampness covering his body, letting his nerves calm. He was close.
With the open air and bright moon lifting his spirits, Lewis followed the path as it approached the final dogleg turn that would take him straight to the wall of vines. He recalled making the turn earlier, nearly being seen by Jason, and reassured himself the boy remained trapped in the boggy lake; there was no way he could’ve gotten free. So there was no chance of running into him this time. Lewis made the final turn, and halted, paralyzed. His spirits shattered, falling away like a broken mirror.
A figure blocked the path.
Not Jason. But someone even worse.
Andy Reed scowled at Lewis, his face glowing in the full moon's glare, a visage of unadulterated hate. For a moment, Lewis swore he was looking at the everyday normal Andy, one half of the feared Reed twins, the scornful expression on the boy's face no different than usual. Until the moon reflected a dull yellow from Andy's eyes—the wolf-like glow of a predator's stare. An enormous hunting knife protruded from the boy's grip, the tip of the weapon sheared off, glowing in the moonlight like an eldritch blade.
A sudden eerie calm washed over Lewis. His initial shock at seeing his old enemy melted away. Surprisingly, for the first time in his life, Lewis wasn’t scared of the bully. The things he’d seen on this night may have scarred him, but they’ve also made him stronger, like a mended bone.
Lewis let the gas can drop to the forest floor and stood his ground, refusing to run. He was sick of running. Plus, he had nowhere or nobody to run to anymore, and it was all due to the abomination standing in front of him.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 16
