by Alan Spencer
“That’s awful. I bet the company got sued.”
“It went bankrupt. Nobody got paid anything, and even if they did, Dad wouldn’t get a cent. He wasn’t harmed.”
He focused on the billboard on a platform rusted through, the faded letters reading: WILSON & ANDERSON GLASS PROCESSING. The factory was three stories high. Five steam vats shaped like the smoke stacks of a caboose were lined in a row on top. The concrete and steel beam reinforced structure exuded factory life in its rust and decay. Windows along the top floor were broken and jagged edged, victim to thrown rocks and other hurled objects. The parking lot had succumbed to weed infestation, breaking up chunks of the stretch. Beer bottles and paper remains of fireworks and blackened circles marked the concrete walkways, the perfect spot to celebrate Independence Day. Behind the back loading dock, barbed wire bordered off a section of grazing property. Cows stood as specks in the distance, and in a separate section, a band of llamas peered up at them from a bin of hay.
He parked on the embankment to avoid the shards of broken glass in the parking lot. They entered the facility, though Caleb slowed his steps after hearing the wind whistle through the corroded walls and the shutters bang overhead.
“That gives me the creeps. This place sounds haunted.”
“Fifty people died here,” she explained. Jagged pieces of green, brown, and clear glass—reflective mirrors at every corner—shimmered against the rays of sun penetrating through the broken up walls. He thought she meant it was a factory where mirrors were produced, but he got the point and didn’t call her on it. “Buried in glass wouldn’t feel too nice. If it wasn’t instantly fatal, I could only imagine...”
He snapped a picture of the mesmerizing scene, and imagined the article:
Amid the strewn debris of the Wilson & Anderson Glass processing plant, the deaths of fifty factory workers buried in a tragic accident proves thought provoking. Shards of glass cover every inch of the factory. If you look long and hard enough, you can see the victims’ faces in the glass. Children have chants: “Step on the glass, your life won’t last. Look into the mirror, the ghosts will show you fear.” Gray McDonald, a police officer for Smithville, Kansas, claims he witnessed his deceased best friend penetrated by the shards of glass in a reflection. Paranormal expert Dr. Kurtis Willard insists, “Any place where a mass death has occurred, ghosts will reach out to the living for a final word or to be remembered once again.”
He considered walking up the stairs to the next level, but the staircase had come loose and had tipped over to its side; it was inaccessible. “Hasn’t the city considered leveling this trap? Teenagers could get carried away and hurt themselves. There’s not even a “No Trespassing” sign.”
“Kids steal those. There’s a new one put into place every other week.”
He clicked more pictures and then exited the barren scene. The sun was lowering on the horizon, and it was getting dark—too dark to stay in a place like this, he thought.
She asked as they piled into the car, “Are you coming to the bonfire?”
“Where exactly will the bonfire be?”
“Near Green Lake. It’s maybe a two minute walk from the mobile home park. If you don’t like it, you can leave if you want. My family is a bunch of jerks, but we’re not all that bad.”
“Maybe I’ll come out, but for now, I should unpack in my room and relax.” He yawned to demonstrate his fatigue. “I just arrived today.”
“I better see you tonight." She refused to accept his indecisive answer. “Don’t disappoint me. You need to loosen up and have fun, you working, traveling man, you. You’re all business.”
“We’ll see.”
After dropping her off, he navigated back to the Sunshine Motel and seriously considered visiting the party.
7
The overhead light bulb cast a weak beam onto the hole Dale toiled to dig. Each strike of the shovel, he closed in on his goal, the hole now six feet deep.
The bastard wants nine feet, fuck him.
He took breaks every fifteen minutes to study the stock tank heaped with blood. Now on one of those breaks, he swirled his fingers through the cold cherry fluid, enamored by it. He lowered his face to take in the aroma.
“Ahhh,” he groaned, rolling his head back in reaction. “This is what it’s about.”
When he stood back up, his head bumped into one of the bodies. A streak of blood dribbled down his head, tickled his nose, and crossed his lips, inciting him to indulge in a taste. He licked the red from his nose and throttled the body—the body of Maria Valquez, an apple picker—and sank his teeth into her raw, squishy stump. The femoral vein stuck between his teeth, and he used his fingernails to floss it loose.
Stop it!
He felt stronger at the taste, but it subsided when he stopped drinking the blood. Jitters traveled through his extremities, withdrawal and jubilation clashing together to leave him a mess. “The wait’s too long. How much longer will you make me hold out for the blood I want? The good blood. How much longer, damn you?”
Silence! I’m at the back door. I have a friend of yours with me. And more bodies.
A giddy sensation similar to his first blowjob in the seventh grade from Jenna Arnold in Yellow Field Park took hold; it was the anticipation of something good about to happen for the first time ever. He flocked to the door and waited for Ruden and “a friend” to arrive. He wondered how many bodies did he bring and who they were.
Twin headlights cut through the trees; Ruden was incoming. A truck’s shocks grinded as the tires smashed apples. He caught the license plate that read: ASKIKR. The vehicle was Neil Tucker’s Mazda ‘89 Pathfinder. There were two people stationed in the front seat: Ruden at the helm and a woman slumped against the window, unidentified.
I’m backing in. Open the doors wider.
He scrambled to complete the task, and after he was finished, the truck reversed into the mill. A blue tarp was draped over the back cab tied down by rope and hooks. Ruden stepped out, and Dale was forced to really look at the monster's face. His eyes were two wicked bulges—a snake’s eyes while its head was being squeezed—the skin putty instead of flesh, easily molded, and ever-changing by the flux of veins and arterial processes. Fresh coats of blood soaked his top and jeans in gobs and spatters.
Ruden unhooked the tarp and unveiled six bodies: Joshua Meyers (the local paperboy) with his neck snapped and ravaged through to the core, the head hanging by a single cord of pink muscle, Neil Tucker (retired fire fighter and crossing guard for Edwin Rice Elementary School) complete in his orange reflective vest and a slashed neck, Mary-Anne Jenkins (secretary for Victor Carlson’s law firm) had her head removed, the extremity tucked in place between her hands like a basketball, Joyce Reid (hotel cleaning maid) was adorned in a burgundy and white work uniform, the center of her face had caved in as if from an incredibly powerful punch, Kim Lipshed (local librarian) suffered from an imploded skull cap, a mess of cranial matter mushrooming out the orifices of her face, and Forest Ackerman (slaughterhouse technician) had his heart ripped from his chest beneath a pair of soiled overalls.
“Why didn’t you remove all their heads?” He demanded, being unhappy at the stock of victims. “And why did you pick these people? The police will find out about them. They’ll trace you back to here in no time.”
“They were alone,” Ruden snapped, bending down to fling Mary-Anne’s headless corpse from the back cab onto the ground. “Your workers' disappearances will be noticed soon anyway. I bet tonight or tomorrow we’ll see law enforcement. Maybe any second.”
“Shit." The creature's plan was clearly flawed. “How are we going to stay unnoticed?”
Coolly, “I’ll address those concerns. Carry that woman’s body to the conveyor belt. Worry about that."
He hoisted Mary-Anne by the legs, and Ruden lifted her up by the shoulders. “I don’t understand what we're doing—and who’s in the truck?”
“She’s overwhelmed right now. She’s had a taste of the
blood. Remember yours? It’s like a prolonged orgasm. Give her time; she’ll come to again.”
Together, they loaded Mary-Anne’s corpse onto the conveyor belt, pitting her onto the blades with a wet and wicked schuck. The "L" shaped blades, like mini shanks, refracted the lights, begging for them to run the machine. The conveyor belt stretched for half the room and dropped onto a piece of flat sheet metal. Above that sheet, another sheet of metal was poised to come down and sandwich the apples to remove the juice in a squashing action.
You know what’s on my mind.
Do it.
He ambled to the three button control panel, feeling evil course through his mind. Dale struck the power button, living up to the emotion. The machine revved up. The conveyors rolled with a motor’s hum. The leather belts rotated, the steel rollers clanking and grinding to the tune of death. The blades spun, looking like silver streaks slicing up and under, up and under, up and under...
Mary-Anne’s body was shot through the system. Belly-up, the blades jutted through her sternum and sliced down to her pelvis. Her blouse was shredded. Organs slopped free from the midsection and knotted in the blades. The blades chopped off her extremities; the flesh butter, the blood spatter. The corpse was rendered into bits, and those bits flopped onto the steel press.
Ruden raced down the line to better watch the two metal sheets as they pressed together: clunk-shrick-clunk-shrrrrrrrick! Bones crunched, kicking up shards onto the beast's face. Red flowed down the plastic gutter, organs and flesh and bolts of clothing mixing in with the crimson.
“Split her open!” The monster rejoiced, sticking his finger into the gutter and licking his wet finger. “Warm blood.”
“What about me, you asshole?” Dale stamped his foot angrily and broke an apple underfoot. “I want blood too!”
“This is nothing,” the monster laughed, living down Dale's fit. “You’re my thrall, my assistant. You’ll have access to the best blood, the blood you truly crave, once you prove yourself. Don’t waste my time with your tantrums.”
I promise you fantastic things, Dale, if you give me your patience.
He rubbed both fists to his skull, fighting the invasion of his mind. “Why are you talking in my thoughts?”
“I’ve consumed generation after generation of blood, understand me? Blood to fill this cider mill, blood to fill streets, and blood to fill hell, I’ve lived forty years drinking the beautiful crimson. I supped it in romantic embraces and murdered for it. This mass consumption of blood gives you strength, as it does other abilities. I can read thoughts and talk in your mind. But I chose not to read all thoughts. It spoils life. The shroud of mystery over a friend, or a stranger, is uncovered, and nothing is the same if you dare to break into the privacy of people's heads.
“Many of my fellow friends fancied ripping into thoughts, but it makes them bored of the world. Knowing too much is just as deadly as knowing too little. Many of my kind have committed suicide over such findings. But me,” he placed his hand on his chest, “I simply want to sup blood until I’m lifeless dust to fertilize the earth. I’ll die choking on it.” He raised his fist into the air in a victorious gesture. “Now, I’ve created a new form of blood ten times as potent, and you’ve had a miniscule taste. Many more will have to perish so I can produce more. By the time I’m done, everyone—human, animal, and insect—will all crave what you crave, Dale. If everyone's addicted, then it creates a widespread problem. There will finally be enough blood for everyone to drink because other scientists will create a way to mass produce it. This is America, and if there’s a demand for anything, the market will supply it. Really think about it. Blood will be the new gasoline."
Ruden, struck by a jolt of energy, heaved Joyce’s body onto the belt, the body wobbling like a rag doll as it slammed down onto the blades. The body was shot down the deadly conveyors, Dale watching in morbid curiosity as her face was spliced into three vertical pieces. The beast cranked the speed up, the body turned into pulp before the wet remains plopped onto the sheet metal. Ruden continued the process, a devilish smile covering his already ravaged face.
Dale retreated, desperate for a break from the monster and the machine. The beast worked unaffected by his departure, boisterously chanting words of self-empowerment. A soft weeping soon beckoned him, and he answered the distress call.
The victim was Annie McTavey.
She was the daughter of Vicky McTavey who owned the "Hickory Hills Cheese and Meat Factory," another tourist spot like his cider mill. She was in her early thirties, her bleach blonde hair in knotted lengths over her face, matted from a struggle. Annie kept her hands together on her lap like a scolded child. The yellow skirt she wore was torn in patches and dirtied. Her forearms were lanced with scratches and bruises. Her feet were bare, the big toe nail broken and bleeding, the bottoms scuffed and braised.
She twitched when he approached her, but when those frightened blue eyes met his, she recognized him. She hugged him and wept into his chest. He comforted her, trying to run his hands through her hair but snaking them against the knots.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me now. The man who attacked you won’t hurt you. You’re lucky, actually. You could be dead, or worse."
She sniffled, the tears causing her mascara to streak down her face. Annie was a bedraggled mess. The girl was attractive despite her condition, a lanky hundred pounds, breasts two sizes bigger than her body proportions—a McTavey trait, Annie’s sister and mother were well-endowed too.
“The fat bastard split in half!” Ruden crowed, shrieking with his hands held high in the air, celebrating the dissection. “A flood of blood!”
“Ignore him." He hugged her tighter. "He needs us.”
“For what?” She gasped at the idea of them working in tandem with the monster in the room. “What can I possibly do for that thing? I was driving home from my boyfriend’s when the man leaped from a tree branch onto the hood of my car. I swerved and crashed, and then he dragged me with him into this truck.” Her voice quaked. “He spat this liquid into my mouth.”
“Was it red?”
She winced. “Yes, it was red. And it tasted,” she hesitated, “good.”
“You’re craving it, aren’t you?”
The statement struck home. She resisted his protective embrace, suddenly regarding him with fear in her eyes. “How do you know about it?”
“He did the same thing to me. It’s blood, and you’re desperate for more. You can smell it from those bodies. It’s a fever, a headache that won’t go away until you drink more.”
He told her everything he knew about the man they shared the room with in the next moments. “The monster's name is Ruden. I don’t know much about him except he was hiding in the bottom of the well on my property. He’s hording blood. He claims there’s more like him who kill for blood too. He’s too strong to take on. We’re lucky he spared us,” he pointed at the thirty bodies—their flesh tinted blue in the later stages of death—located paces from the truck, “or else we’d be the ones headless and drained. Do as he says until we learn more about him. That’s the best I can do for now, honey. We’re slaves to him. He killed my family, and it doesn’t matter in comparison to what he’s given me. What he spat into my mouth, it’s not just blood. Something special’s been done with it, and I don’t know what.”
Talk of the addiction added weight to the storm of Annie’s thoughts. “Then we wait together.” She placed her hands into his, cupping them to her chest. “You’ll protect me, right? You won’t let him cut my head off.”
“We’re in this together. I'll keep you safe. I’m with you every step of the way.”
Dale left Annie to herself and returned to Ruden, knowing he’d done everything he could to subdue the woman's fears. The monster was hard at work—or hard at play—pressing Kim Lipshed’s body into the blades until she was diced and liquefied. His grin branched out across his cheeks like a strange demon. A vast network of bulging veins, a literal arterial spider-web,
intertwined with his horrid expressions. He wrapped a set of long intestines around his neck as a garment, smiling at Dale, “This is more fun than I had ever imagined. I can’t wait until the final preparations are complete.”
Ruden was suddenly disappointed the six bodies had already been dispatched. The concrete tank sloshed with blood and bits of fat and gristle, what the filter couldn’t catch. The fun-loving monstrosity turned serious. He folded up the tarp in the back of the trunk and forced Annie out of the vehicle by her forearm. He tossed her onto a basket filled with heads; they spilled out, bumping into one another. Annie screamed, crab-walking to escape them. Her back was up against the main door. She eyed the outside and was tempted to run, but she was staked in place for the same reasons Dale didn’t reach out for the shovel nearby and slam the business end over Ruden’s cranium.
He wanted another taste; to bathe in red.
“You’re not going anywhere. The both of you are going to finish that hole by dawn. Nine feet deep, so start digging.”
Ruden suddenly froze. He closed his eyes and a pained expression was born across his forehead. He shuttered, locking his jaw, whispering to himself, sucking in greedy breaths, and then he opened his eyes once again. His heart throbbed beneath the shirt, and it seemed to chug so hard it was audible. “I must go. Continue your work. I have a friend who wishes to see me.”
He lugged one of the rusted barrels into the back cab of the Mazda truck with ease and peeled out, leaving them in a frenzy of speed and dust.
Annie eyed Dale, both of them speechless. She then focused on the barrels. She dragged her hands over the lids, entranced. “I wonder why he took one with him. Do you know what’s inside?”
Dale shook his head. “He retrieved them from the bottom of my well. Should we be messing with them? Ruden will find out what we’re up to.”
