by Jason Brant
The rising smoke in the distance wasn’t as thick as before, but it continued to darken the sky ahead.
“What do you think that is?” Nami asked.
“Hard to say. It’s not good though.”
“No kidding.”
Sheriff Adams moaned in the back, but he didn’t wake up.
“What do you think is going on with the agents and that kid?” Nami held her backpack in her lap. “I mean, it’s obvious that loser Smith is behind it, but how? How could he make people act like that?”
“I have a feeling there is another telepath around. Maybe someone like Murdock, but a bit different.”
“Different in what—” Nami’s eyes widened, mouth falling slack. “Holy fuck balls.”
We drove around the last bend in the road before the final stretch leading into the town. The gas station ahead always had a lot of people going in and out every morning and evening. I had no idea who owned the joint, but they had a prime piece of real estate. They got half the town’s commuters on their way to work.
A blackened husk stood where the station should have been.
Flames engulfed what remained of the convenience store. The pumps and the overhang that shielded customers from the elements were completely gone. Overturned cars and trucks littered the parking lot and the road, their charred frames still burning.
Nami whistled. “Whoa.”
“Guess we found the source of the smoke.” I stopped the car in the middle of the road and stared at the inferno before us. “That explains the huge explosion.”
Several trees at the edge of the forest almost fifty yards away had caught fire.
“The whole area is going to go up if someone doesn’t get out here soon.” Nami pointed at the burning trees. “Where’s the fire department?”
That was a good question. I could only assume that they were dealing with the same issues that we had been. That, or they’d gone bat-shit crazy like my babysitters had.
The heat baking off the blazing station warmed the car as we sat there. We wouldn’t have been able to get within a hundred feet of that inferno without our skin melting off. There was no chance of us putting out the trees that had caught fire.
The stink of gasoline permeated everything.
“I don’t think help is coming.” I got the car rolling again, moving closer to the station. The heat intensified rapidly. “Let’s get you online so we can get someone in here to put the trees out before we have a bona fide forest fire on our hands.”
“That’s the last thing we need. Then you’ll end up doing your best Smokey the Bear impersonation again.”
“That was regrettable.”
After getting my bell rung and having to be dragged away from a fight with the Man in Black, I’d said something nonsensical into a bystander’s camera. Apparently, the video had become quite popular online.
Drew had told me all about it before I left Baltimore. He’d called me an idiot half a dozen times.
I swerved onto the shoulder and picked up speed. If we stayed this close to the fire for much longer, our tires were apt to melt. My sweating kicked up again—imagine my delight.
My tongue felt like a piece of parchment in my mouth. I needed a drink in a bad way, preferably of the alcoholic variety.
We passed the gas station and the oppressive heat without incident and kept going. From the limited amount of time I’d spent in Arthur’s Creek, I knew the main hub of the town was coming up. I was almost afraid to see what awaited us.
“The station is at the end of the town, probably another mile or so.”
“Screw the fire station—where is the barbershop?”
“A block or two away from the station. They’re close to each other.”
Single-family homes appeared on either side of the road, their numbers growing the closer we got to town. Couches sat in front of some, cars on blocks decorating the lawns of others. Judging people by stereotypes wasn’t something I usually did, but it was hard not to think of Arthur’s Creek as a hillbilly haven.
“Whoa!” Nami pointed through her side of the windshield.
I slammed the brakes before I even saw what she was pointing out. The anti-lock brakes kicked in, but something was wrong with them and we half hopped, half skidded on the road. The car hitched and bucked to a stop, straddling the yellow lines.
A woman was bent over in a flower garden in front of a yellow, single-story house. Her elbow bobbed up and down as she dug into the earth, her work hidden from view behind a row of daffodils.
“Why did you scream because of a woman working in her garden?”
“I didn’t yell because of her.” Nami pointed at one of the windows of the house. “I yelled because of her.”
At first, I didn’t see anything, but then a flash of movement caught my eye. Glare from the sun rising in front of us reflected off the windshield, blocking most of my view. I leaned back and looked through Nami’s window.
A woman stood inside the house, her torso, head, and arms visible through the glass.
Blood covered her face and chest.
The crimson mask hid her features.
She waved her arms at us in slow, wide arcs, as if fatigue had consumed her.
“And isn’t it a little strange that a woman is working in her garden after the gas station down the road blew up? Shouldn’t she be a bit concerned about the bloody woman in her house?”
“Touché.” I put the car in park and watched the woman in the garden for a moment. “This can’t be good.”
“You promised me that you wouldn’t pull any hero shit.”
I looked around the rest of the neighborhood, taking in each house. More movement caught my eye to our left. There were people inside a few homes, watching us through windows or screen doors. A man stood his beside a mailbox, partially hidden behind a row of garbage cans lining the street.
They all stared at us.
“Are you seeing this?” I asked.
Nami shrank back in her seat. “Dude. Not cool.”
Grisly details stood out the more we sat there and inspected the surroundings.
Cars were parked in the driveways, the doors open, sticky trails leading back to the homes. The smell of burning meat wafted in the air. A child’s bicycle sat on its side, the rear wheel slowly spinning.
A woman came around the side of a double-wide trailer, which sat on a postage stamp-sized piece of property. She held a chainsaw in front of her with both hands.
Blood and gore dripped from the teeth of the blade.
Red droplets covered her cheeks and forehead.
She waved at us.
I waved back.
Then she fired up the chainsaw with a rip of the pull cord.
“Not cool!” Nami slapped my arm. “Get us the fuck out of here!”
My eyes darted back to the window of the house to our right, but the woman who had been waving at us was gone. I dropped the car into gear and mashed the accelerator. The ass end of the sedan fishtailed as the tires spun. The woman stalked toward us, murderous glee sparkling in her eyes. More blood dotted her clothes and face as she throttled the chainsaw.
The woman in the garden spun around as we drove by. She held a spade in one hand, a severed woman’s head in the other. The sightless eyes in the head were rolled back to their whites. The tongue lolled to the side.
She held it by the hair, unspeakable nastiness dripping from the flayed flesh of the neck.
“Oh, God.” Nami pointed at the crazed woman. “She’s planting a severed head like a fucking flower!”
People flowed from the houses like ants swarming a morsel of food and sprinted toward us. Dozens held bats, axes, and meat cleavers. Nearly all of them were covered in blood. They chased us down the street, even as we continued to accelerate.
A crazed man lunged into Nami’s door, rocking the car. He swung a police baton into the window, shattering it all over Nami. She screamed and ducked down, shielding her face from the flying glass.
The man grabbed onto the window frame, his palm slicing from the jagged glass that remained. “I could use a ride.”
His feet dragged along the pavement as I mashed the accelerator to the floor. Blood coursed down the door from his hand. The pain must have been excruciating, yet he smiled in at Nami. He dropped the baton and pulled himself further into the window.
He wore a policeman’s uniform. His name tag read Deputy Roberts.
His other arm snaked inside the car.
He wrapped his fingers into Nami’s hair and yanked her head back. “Give us a kiss, nigger.”
“Let go of me!” Nami batted at his hand with her tiny fists.
It must have felt like she was attacking him with pillows compared to the pain in his lacerated hand.
I pulled the pistol from my waistband and pointed it at his forehead. “No hitchhikers.”
The gunshot felt like a concussive blast in the confined area of the car. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears.
Blood splattered the roof and windshield as the man fell from the side of the car. I watched his body bounce and roll along the curb before sliding to a stop by a gutter. The other lunatics ran past him without an ounce of concern.
“Are you OK?” I glanced at Nami, afraid of taking my eyes off the road for even a nanosecond.
She stared back at me with glassy eyes. “What?” she yelled. “I can’t hear a damn thing.”
“Are you hurt?” I shouted back.
“Hurt? No. Don’t ask if I soiled my panties though.” She ran her hand along the top of her head, feeling where one of her ponytails had been undone. Her fingers came away bloody. “He bled all over me. That is so nasty.”
The crazies behind us kept coming even as we put more distance between us. The homes became sparse for a few hundred yards as businesses began to populate either side of the road. Most of them hadn’t opened for the day yet.
I doubted they ever would again.
“What the fuck is going on?” Nami looked around wildly. “Everyone has lost their goddamn minds!”
One of the few traffic lights in the town loomed ahead. It switched to a yellow as we approached. I slowed down, though not because of the light. Wrecked cars filled the intersection.
A horn blared incessantly.
Dead bodies covered the sidewalks.
A dozen people stood amidst the massacre, carrying or dragging the dead past the traffic jam. They paused as we approached and turned to watch us.
“Screw this,” Nami said. “Turn around and get us the hell out of here.”
I looked into the mirror again and saw the horde of psychos coming up behind us. “That ain’t happening.”
The people on the sidewalk to our left dropped the bodies they carried. Some bent down and picked up bladed weapons. Two reached behind their waists and produced handguns.
I didn’t need to see anymore.
“Hold on.” I spun the wheel and floored the gas, propelling us to our right.
We veered into a tight alley running between a bank and a pharmacy. Sparks burst beside me as the side mirror shattered against the brick wall. We jounced over a deep pothole, and one of the tires popped.
Garbage flew onto the windshield as we barreled through a trashcan. A wet newspaper stuck to the glass, blocking my view.
I reached for the lever to turn on the wipers when we crashed into something. The airbags deployed, and I smashed face-first against mine.
My nose crunched.
Eyes watered.
Powder flew into my mouth and up my nostrils. I gagged and sputtered as the bag deflated in front of me.
Nami had her seat belt on and only her forehead made contact with the bag. The powder from it coated her face, making it look like someone had poured flour all over her. “Nice driving, Gigantor,” she croaked. “What did we hit?”
“I have no idea—my x-ray vision isn’t working right now.”
We were still in the alley, but we’d reached a part that had widened a bit on my side. An additional three or four feet of clearance stretched outside my door. A dumpster sat between two doors leading into the brick building that housed the pharmacy.
The pistol had flown from my lap and landed under the steering wheel.
I grabbed it, threw my door open, and got out. “Climb out my side and see if you can get one of those doors open.”
The alley behind us was clear, but I had no doubt that it would be clogged with armed lunatics in a matter of seconds. I threw open the rear door and grabbed the sheriff under his armpits. The panic and fear that gripped me sliced away the fatigue that I’d been suffering from minutes before.
Nami climbed out of the seat, wiping at the powder on her face. “What is this shit?” She started for the doors and paused, staring at the front of the car. “We hit a lawnmower? Why is a goddamn lawnmower sitting the middle of an alley?”
I responded with a grunt as I pulled the sheriff clear of the car. His boots thudded on the cracked pavement as his legs fell from the seat. I shuffled backwards, dragging him along.
Nami yanked on the handle of the first door. “Balls!”
Shouts came from the mouth of the alley. They didn’t sound happy.
I couldn’t see the street as I pulled the sheriff into the little nook that we’d found. I watched as Nami tried door number two and pumped her first in victory when it pulled open.
Light spilled into the hallway beyond, illuminating a set of stairs rising into the shadows above. Nami plunged inside, her lone pigtail swinging from side to side.
The shouts grew louder.
Angrier.
The sound of metal dragging along pavement echoed through the alley.
I scooted backward, pulling Adams along. His dead weight and the friction from his dragging boots slowed me down, eating away at what little time we had left. When his feet were finally inside the door, I dropped him and hopped over his legs, bursting into the alley.
“What are you doing?” Nami hissed. She stood five stairs up, her face barely visible in the darkness. “Get back here!”
I ran to the rear end of the car and looked down the alley. The mob stalked toward us, three people wide, their shoulders bumping into each other with every step.
Two women and a man were in the lead.
A brunette walked on the left. She wore a sundress that had blood splattered all over the front. Swollen, black flesh surrounded one of her eyes. A ballpeen hammer swayed by her hip.
The man was in the middle, a prodigious gut swaying with each step. The pocket of his flannel shirt was torn free, only a few threads of fabric keeping it from falling off. His lip protruded from a wad of tobacco stuffed in front of his gums. He held a six-shooter in both hands, the hammer pulled back. When he saw me looking around the corner, he grinned. One of his incisors was missing.
But he didn’t shoot.
Just offered up that same evil smile I’d seen on the boy behind the police station.
On the right was a petite blonde girl that couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Blood covered her lips and mouth, running down her chin and neck, staining the white t-shirt she wore. She held a curved, rusted sickle in her left hand, letting the blade screech along the bricks beside her.
This shit is straight out of Children of the Corn.
How many people were coming up behind them, I couldn’t tell.
Half the town?
All of West Virginia?
I spun around and jumped the five feet to the locked door. Using all of my strength and momentum, I planted my size thirteen into the door, just beside the knob. It burst open in a shower of splinters. The knob broke free and clattered to the floor. There were no steps beyond, just a shadowed hallway leading inside.
I wiped at the blood running from my nose with my fingers, then smeared it across the door.
The scraping of the sickle on the wall was just around the corner.
I ran to the other door and pulled it shut behind me, careful not to let
the latch click too loudly. The stairwell went pitch black. My fingers roamed over the knob, searching for a lock, but not finding one.
A bolt was six inches higher. I carefully, silently slid it home.
“Stay quiet,” I whispered over my shoulder.
“Duh.”
I moved my ear closer to the door and listened to the sound of voices moving closer.
“They went in the back of the pharmacy,” a deep, gravelly voice said. “The five of us will go in here. The rest of you head around the front and go in that way.”
“I can smell his blood.” The second voice was high and cheerful.
The idea of a little girl standing a few feet away, talking about how she could smell my blood sent goose bumps up my arms. I’d experienced a lot of crazy shit in my short life, but that took the cake. I’d apparently woken up this morning in a Stephen King novel.
My eyes adjusted to the low light silhouetting the door. I straddled the sheriff’s legs as I continued listening. Feet stomped around outside as a handful of people went through the other door.
No one even tried to open the one we were hidden behind.
The diversion had worked, though I had a feeling they would figure out the ruse soon enough. I turned around and sighed in dismay down at Sheriff Adams. Getting him up the stairs would all but exhaust me.
The man should have switched to light beer about three decades earlier.
“We need to go upstairs and see if we can find another way out of here,” I whispered. “A fire escape or a back door, maybe. We can’t hide in here forever.”
“Speak for yourself.” Nami was still on the stairs, facing me, though I could barely make her out. “As long as it stays dark, nobody is finding me.”
“What?” I squinted, trying to see her face in the darkness, but I only had the faintest of ideas where she was.
“Watch this.” Nami closed her eyes and mouth and completely disappeared. “I’m invisible, bitch.”
“Black jokes? At a time like this?”
“That’s right.” Nami opened her eyes again. “Now pick his fat ass up and let’s get out of here before they figure out what you did.”
