by Alan Spencer
“This isn’t a small town murder cult,” Askin said, thinking aloud. “And I take back what I said. We did find one body. It was in a bakery oven, blacker than licorice. Dentals records will identify the body.”
“Psychotics.” Grier pictured the cooked body. “Do you have any other theories? Any other bodies you failed to mention?”
“Um, we discovered a burnt down cider mill. Stacks of charred bones, maybe from two or three dozen bodies, but that's it.” Askin’s eyes widened, remembering yet another strange detail. “The woods are full of bear traps hanging from the trees, and one of my officers tossed a rock into the woods, just a random thing, and a land mine blew up.”
Askin stopped the detective from spitting out a stream of curses by saying, “Another house down the path was also burned down. Our men scouted out sub-machine guns and armaments fit for a war in the remains. We’ll find out who lived in that house and perform a background check. The owner couldn’t legally own that kind of firepower, and a person wouldn’t have use for those kinds of weapons unless he was planning to kill somebody. It’s obvious the owner had something to do with these deaths. Nothing else has jumped out at me yet.”
Grier listened, then stepped outside of the station. Police cars and ambulances were on stand-by, awaiting the next signal to check out another pocket of town. “This will get more interesting as we go, but the bottom-line is we have to account for the missing bodies.”
“I’ve never heard of an entire town disappearing before.”
“Well, now you have,” Grier said, though speaking it, he couldn’t believe it either. “That cider mill sounds like our focal point. Round up the troops and let’s comb the place. All we need is a witness. One witness.” One fucking witness.
Askin set the orders in motion, and Detective Grier stepped into his car thinking: And even if one person’s alive who saw something, who says they’re sane enough to recount the events? They might as well annex this place off the map.
53
Grier approached the cider mill via a back road, but he slammed the brakes at what was happening yards out ahead of him. A line of red flowed down the road in a continuous stream. The source flowed from the woods. He pulled over and chased the odd stream up to its source.
Sprinting a quarter of a mile, drawing his .38 and fearing that anything could pop out at him, he finally stopped at an opening in the trees. He ogled at the torso strewn on the ground. His limbs were yards away from the body as if catapulted from the sockets. Blood drenched the overhead tree limbs, the red dripping onto his suit jacket.
“Goddamn..."
He ignored the mess once he caught the shape of a head stuck through the edge of a tree branch, the jagged, broken-up wood sticking out of the mouth. The face had been blotted out, the flesh and bone serrated.
No gunpowder resin, though there’s shell casings near the body. I’m not sure what caliber of firearm could’ve rendered this man into pieces. And all the blood. This isn’t from one body; it's from a dozen.
Grier double checked his investigation of the scene, the evidence not adding up to any logic. A forensic team and three police cars stepped onto the scene wondering why he’d pulled over. “I’m moving on up the road to the cider mill,” he said, walking back the way he came. “Check out the corpse in the woods. Careful, it’s a bloody mess.”
The rest of the investigative crew from Parkville, Kansas, tailed him to the mill. After another mile, Grier pulled up to the cider mill, half the structure burnt up. The house next door was also a charred frame. The fire had gone out, now a smoking rubble. He lugged out his 12-gauge, knowing he might confront the real source of the bloodbath.
The entrance of the mill was a collapsed pile of rafters and beams, and behind the stack, a puzzle of black skeletons. Officers scouted the perimeter behind him, and soon, it was evident nobody was on the premises.
“They’re long gone." He lowered his shotgun. “I want to see who or what could’ve done this.”
Askin accompanied him to the nursery. “They could still be hanging around to see what we suspect. There’s no way to know.”
They walked down the cobblestone path and happened upon an empty steel drum. The grass surrounding it was painted a rust orange. The detective studied the barrel without a label, bending down to his haunches. “What do you think?”
“We’ll have to analyze what looks to be dried blood.” Askin kneeled down for a closer look. He sniffed the air, licking his lips. “It smells different. Actually, well...it smells good.”
Grier lead him from the barrel. “Let’s not waste time on that right now. Forensics can deal with that shit. Come on.”
Then he stopped, noticing the movement up in the trees. He gasped and felt the color recede from his face. “...the hell is that?”
Askin studied what flapped in the air stuck between the branches. “It looks like...skin.”
“A psychotic’s trophy,” Grier elaborated. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It's like the skin from an entire body."
Grier removed a cigarette from his pocket and sucked in a much-needed drag. “I need a team of investigators for this ludicrous shit.”
“This’ll slam head-first into the news." Askin pictured the media storm. “The headlines will be ridiculous.”
Grier headed up to the wishing well, the landmark slathered in gore. The well itself was literally shattered, the roof, the rocks, the foundation torn asunder as if someone had delivered one swift punch to it. The hole below had caved in, and the structure had toppled upon itself. He whipped around, spinning in place, searching for what could've done this. Finding no one and giving up, he kept sniffing the air that was rife with a robust scent. The scent was one he couldn't place, and one he didn't wish to stop experiencing.
The other cops had come in closer to the well, being curious as to the aroma playing in the air. It wasn't long before the entire police team worked up to the location, each of them trying to place what had their bellies churning in hunger.
54
Caleb heard Shannon's screams, but they were drowned out by the raving lunatic callings that were coming from just beyond the turn in the woods. Limbs were literally torn from trees as something climbed up a pair of them. What he witnessed had him forgetting every wound, every broken bone, every twisted up muscle in his body, and he fled, fighting the sensation that any minute what scaled the tree would swoop down upon him and twist him to pieces.
He kept his eyes forward, racing in a deadly track meet where the challenger behind him could rip off his head or gut him at will. Caleb couldn't lose this race. He bounded faster, challenging himself, willing to take on the pang in his lungs, torn tendon, and tightening ribs to survive.
Trees were ripped from their roots in the background, their bodies thrown east and west of him. More splintering wood and the tearing of earth, the beast was closing in.
"Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatch!"
THOOM-POUND-THOOM-POUND-THOOM-POUND, the steps were literally right behind him, a giant's approach. He caught it in his peripheral and gasped. The creature was a huge pink ball of sinew, every muscle exposed and pulsing with blood and vigor. There was no face or distinguishing features, just a heap of flesh and meat, a botched birth from a hideous beast. Its heart was on the outside of its body, four time the normal size, and expanded by six aortas and eight chambers that chugged blood at impossibly high speeds.
Rushing faster, he missed a swipe of its arm. Losing breath and slowing down, Caleb knew its next attempt to grapple him to the ground would be a success.
55
Shannon heard them talking in the woods. Once she dared to come in closer, she caught the police combing the woods. Relief washed over her in that moment, knowing she might still have a chance at saving Caleb and ending this nightmare that murdered her family and the entire town of Smithville.
She called out to them three times, but she stopped herself the final time, seeing what was happening. Huddles of the police were surroundin
g the remains of the destroyed wishing well. The ground, the trees, the broken rubble, everything was soaked in red. They were smelling the air like circling vultures around an invisible carcass.
They're drawn to the blood.
Helplessness filled her body. Her saviors were downgraded into blood craving criminals. She had to stop them, draw them from the scene. She had seconds before they would discover the truth. She was about to beg them to back away from the blood when she came up with a better plan, one that took her directly into a utility shed six yards ahead of her...
56
Caleb tripped himself up, crashing down onto the earth belly-down. He was rigid in
place, eyes welded shut knowing what was incoming would be harsh as it would be final.
Three seconds of silence, and then the great roar of the beast: "Raaaaaaaaaaaaatch! "
And then a louder, cutting explosion arrived: BAAAAA-DUM!
Up from a square of earth, bits of flung soil and gallons, and gallons, and gallons of blood shot up only to rain back down in an overwhelming torrent.
The beast was nothing but puddles and slop. Gone in seconds.
I owe you another one, Chippie.
Finally one of the bastards stepped on a land mine.
The victory was shortened when he heard demands shouted at the top of a woman's lungs.
It was Shannon.
He traced her cries the best he could, running in all directions in confusion until he caught the distant outline of the cider mill again.
Caleb shouted out at her, having to know who she was screaming at. He kept moving, relieved and yet confused when he discovered the police were on the scene. He came up to the three officers restraining Shannon. She let up the fight when he arrived, the horror on her face instantly erased.
Sniffing the air, he cased the area and was taken aback at the sight ahead of him. The wishing well was on fire, as was the surrounding brush.
Turning to Shannon when she dropped an empty gas can, he watched her smile at him. She gladly took credit for the crime. He was confused by her reaction until he noted the blood staining the wishing well's rocks. Some of the police were still standing on the outskirts of the fire, staring intently at the ground that was blackening, engrossed and despairing at the red that was drying up in the heat.
EPILOGUE
Caleb woke up before Shannon did. His back was up against the headboard of their hotel room at the "Wake Up Inn." She was nestled asleep, her back against his side. She had to know he was there, he learned during the nights they had stayed together. Not wanting to disturb her, he stayed in place and thought on the weeks that had passed since the horrors and atrocities that came to pass in Smithville.
After the ordeal was over, the FBI turned the slaughtered town into a terrorist incident, and despite the lie, Caleb and Shannon both agreed nobody would believe that jacked up vampires were the culprits of all the deaths. Agent Richard Pearcy was the main FBI man who questioned them about the events in Smithville. Pearcy explained that the well had been dug up and that hundreds of bodies were found. Caleb asked about the barrels below, and he said they'd been smashed upon the cave-in, and the blood had soaked into the earth. He asked Pearcy in a roundabout way if anybody was drawn to the blood, and absolutely confused, Pearcy said no, that the smell of death sent many of their best agents on their knees and losing their cookies.
Pearcy insisted on an explanation about what happened, and Caleb presented the truth in a carefully wrapped package: "Those people who killed everyone, they were hoarding blood in barrels. They were...it was like they were addicted to it. I think Shannon had such a reaction to the wishing well because we knew what was below. The poor thing, her family was among those killed, so you can see why she was so worked up. And I was terrified too; I wanted that monster who almost murdered me dead, so that's why I burned that fucking thing."
After that, Pearcy understood they were simply two people who happened to survive, nothing more. Pearcy also described how the government would play clean up with the mysterious deaths. They were in perfect understanding, and as long as nobody knew about the blood and its power, they would keep their mouths shut.
And that's what they did.
"The Weekly Spectacle Digest" gave Caleb three weeks off to recoup. He questioned if he would keep working the job. He was happy to go either way, knowing he was alive and well. All he cared about was Shannon and what they'd do with their free time together. Would she want to move on, live with other family, or would she be interested in pursuing bullshit stories across the United States with him?
He explained to his editor, Chad Worthington, that she was a sleuth when it came to producing great stories. Chad said he'd consider hiring her on, though he was more concerned about Caleb throwing a lawsuit at the magazine than anything else.
Shannon was finally roused awake, and she got up, wearing a loose t-shirt and basketball shorts. She stretched, standing by the window and staring out at the parking lot. He knew she was going through a form of post-traumatic stress, but he also knew she was looking forward to the future, especially when he explained how he might be able to get her a job with the magazine.
"You want breakfast in bed?"
She rubbed her eyes. "I think I'll hit the lobby for coffee and a doughnut, and I'll be set. I'm ready to hit the road again. Kansas is boring. I've lived here all my life, you know."
He understood what she was saying. "Then how about somewhere on the east coast, or do you prefer west coast?"
"Out of Kansas," she kept telling him.
She kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him. "I've been thinking things over, and if you would allow me, I'd love to freeload off of you for as long as possible."
"I told you I'm getting you a job with me." He tickled her side. "Your freeloading days are numbered."
She turned serious. "I'll be going through some shit for awhile, but you're definitely making it easier to cope with it. I'm not sure about us, but without a doubt, you're the best friend I've had in a long time."
He put his finger to her lips to quiet her. "Then that's good enough for now. Friends. I can live with that."
She was grateful for his understanding.
She pointed to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."
"I'll take one after you," he smiled, walking to the table by the window and drawing out a cigarette. "But first, I'm having a cigarette outside."
They both went their separate ways, and he stood outside and lit up, staring at the parking lot busy with families or businessmen loading up to continue their travels. That would be them soon, because they had vowed to keep traveling, to keep experiencing the world, or as Shannon kept saying, "Out of Kansas..."
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray full of sand incorporated into the top of the nearby trashcan when his cell phone rang. Digging it out of his pocket, he read the screen and didn't recognize the number, it reading "Out-of-Area."
Curious, Caleb answered skeptically, "Hello?"
A riled up voice, one speaking as if afraid someone would overhear him, said, "Is this Caleb Anthony, the guy who gives cash for stories? I found your flyer in my town. You were here months ago. Listen, I-I can't trust anyone else, man. You see, I know the people who are like you. You know what's really out there. You believe in the monsters because you know they're real."
Oh God, one of these guys.
"Yeah, yeah, monsters are real." He pretended to be caught up in the story. "First, are you safe?"
"I-I don't know. I think I am. Not for long, though. It hasn't come after me yet, but it will. It will."
This was the part Caleb enjoyed about these calls the most. "Now get yourself a vial of holy water, a silver cross, and a Holy Bible, and make sure it's the King James version. No other version works. Buy enough bottled water and rations to last you two weeks and lock yourself in a place that's safe."
He could tell the man was scribbling the items down in haste. "Yeah, yeah, what else, man?"
"Tell me what's happening."
Before ending the conversation, he was already working on getting directions to the man's town via his new laptop computer. His curiosity was whetted the moment the man said, "It's crazy, but you have to believe me. The house a block down from mine is eating people!"
About the Author
Alan Spencer has published five novels, including The Body Cartel, Inside the Perimeter: Scavengers of the Dead, Ashes in Her Eyes, Zombies and Power Tools, and Cider Mill Vampires. Living out his fantasy as a successful horror writer, he plans to release many more books, including ones about b-movie villains, psychological beasts, and stories so gory you'll need a bib to read. Alan can be reached through his e-mail at [email protected] or look him up on Facebook; he'll be glad to friend you.
