by Crae, Edward
“Oh my fuckin’ god,” Dan said. “It’s like a septic tank in here.”
Waiting a few seconds for the stench to clear, they went inside. The house was an open concept, with the kitchen and living room together in one large area with doors off to the left leading to what they guessed were the bedrooms and bathroom. The entire house was in shambles; garbage, pieces of drywall, and patches of ugly, green carpet lay scattered about. The couch was torn and missing some stuffing, the TV was smashed and useless, and the bookshelves were knocked over; their contents stacked nearby, as if rarely ever put back.
On the coffee table sat a thick notebook that was open to a strangely-scribed page of possible diary entries. The handwriting was odd and purposeful; like a demented Nazi’s suicide note. Dan bent down to look closer. There were weird sketches depicting mechanical contraptions that looked like torture devices, and indecipherable text that was written randomly around them. The only decipherable word was Excellent! It was written next to something that looked like a weight bench with a blade instead of a barbell. Other notebooks were around it, presumably filled with the same shit.
“Okay,” Dan said. “This guy was a little fucked up.”
“Hey,” Drew called from one of the doors. “Look at this shit.”
Dan joined him by the door, looking inside the room. Like the living room, the bedroom was a mess. But the most hideous detail was the body that lay on the bed. It was sprawled out in a death pose; fat, bloated, and naked. The guy was filthy, pale, and covered in dried blood and puke. In one hand he held a large kitchen knife that he had apparently used to cut his own throat. The gaping wound just under his chin has been clean cut, with smooth edges. Roaches crawled in and out of it, scurrying happily around in their flesh buffet.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Dan said. “Couldn’t handle the Apocalypse, I guess.”
Drew turned away. “I’m not going in there.”
Dan pulled the door closed. “Me neither.”
He hit the bathroom. It was also filthy. The toilet was empty, and its bowl was crusted with rust and filth. The sink was filled with broken glass from the shattered medicine cabinet, and the tub was filled with dirty, cloudy water that smelled like decay.
Dan opened the broken medicine cabinet door. The tiny shelves were literally filled with old pill bottles; some useful, some not. There were pain killers, various ADHD medications, and some anti-depressants.
“Wow,” Dan whispered. “Fucked up, indeed.”
He scooped the pill bottles into his backpack, closing the door for some reason.
Drew was in the kitchen, looking through the cabinets. There were random items, mostly generic chili, canned vegetables, and boxes of rice. One cabinet, however, was completely filled with cans of pinto beans; perfectly lined up and organized.
“This guy liked beans,” Drew said. “Stellar. No wonder is smells like ass in here.”
As Dan opened the fridge—which was empty—he noticed another door beside it. It was a heavy wooden door with cracked and chipped green paint. There were three deadbolts on it, and a chain anchored across it with a padlock.
“What the fuck?” Dan said.
Drew came over to look. “Chamber of horrors, maybe?” he suggested.
Dan tugged on the lock. It was securely anchored. The clamps holding the chain in place were rusty, he noticed, and the wood around the frame looked old and splintered. Maybe he could shoot one of the clamps off.
It was worth a try.
He stepped back, pointing the shotgun at the weakest one. He and Drew both turned their heads, and Dan pulled the trigger. The chain fell from its left clamp, scraping against the door as it swung loose. Dan then turned all three deadbolts.
“Ready?” he asked. Drew stepped back, holding up his shotgun, and nodded.
Dan turned the handle, slowly pushing the door open. A rotting smell immediately wafted up from the dark, splintered stairway. But, to their relief, there was no boogeyman. Though the stairwell was dark and musty, they proceeded down, wary of the cracked and damp stone to their right. The left side of the staircase was open, with a few broken slats remaining from a once not-so-fabulous railing.
There was no light on in the cellar, but Dan could see a string hanging at the bottom of the stairs. He reached up to pull it as they landed on the last step and a dim bulb flicked on above. It was filthy, and gave off very little light through the layer of grime that coated it. All that was visible was a small, cruddy room of hastily stacked blocks. There were two doors; one, a homemade flapper-style slab of vertical slats painted gray, the other, a heavy steel door held shut with a large lever-style lock.
There was a double switch mounted on the blocks next to the steel door, its conduit running up to the ceiling and over to the breaker box. A rickety bookcase was next to it, empty but covered in filth and crusty rags.
The smell was unbelievable.
“Okay,” Dan said. “Door number one, or door number two?”
Drew walked over to the swinging door, pushing it open and peering into the darkness inside. “Nothing there, I don’t think,” he said. “There’s a little light from the dirty window. Looks like chemicals on the shelf; fertilizer, lime, paint thinner.”
Dan put his hand on the steel door. It was cold, as was expected, and was fairly secure. The lever wasn’t locked, and Dan grabbed it to swing it open. It resisted a little, but with a little more effort, it came loose and squeaked to the upright position.
“I don’t know if I want to go in there,” Drew said. “Not with those sketches upstairs.”
Dan shrugged. “C’mon, man,” he said, grinning. “Who does that? Really.”
As he pushed the door open, Drew said, “Probably this guy.”
A breeze came from the room, bringing with it the smell of decay, piss, and shit. Dan reached over to the switches, flicking them both up in the on position. Two fluorescent fixtures came to life, illuminating a macabre scene that froze them both in their tracks.
“Definitely this guy,” Dan said.
The room was littered with bodies in various states of decay. Some were strapped to tables; others were chained to the ceiling beams, hanging there from their wrists. They were mostly women, naked and battered, some with stab wounds and large lacerations across their abdomens. The men were castrated, most them also inflicted with stabs and cuts. Dried blood was everywhere, and there were pools of it in the lower spots on the concrete floor.
This guy was a fucking serial killer.
Dan turned around as a lump rose in his throat. Drew was standing with his hand clapped over his mouth and his eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
“Fuck,” Dan whispered, swallowing hard to chase away the vomit.
A low, gurgling moan came from the rear of the room. Dan raised his shotgun, stepping forward to seek out its source. Drew followed close, poking the barrel of his own shotgun ahead of Dan.
“One of them is still alive,” Dan said.
“Or mutated or something.”
“Hello,” Dan called out. “Are you okay?”
They heard the moaning again. It was coming from behind a canvas tarp that was stretched across an alcove. Dried rivers of blood came from underneath, running into a nearby drain in the floor.
“This must be where he killed his victims,” Dan said. “Hello?”
Dan reached out to pull back the makeshift curtain. Inside the alcove, a woman hung from her wrists, slumping down with her head lowered. She was pale and coated with filth, and her hair was matted and tangled. She trembled, presumably from the chill.
“Are you alright, lady?” Dan asked again.
He felt Drew’s hand on his shoulder, and stepped aside so Drew could look.
“I don’t think she’s okay,” Drew whispered.
The woman gurgled again, this time raising her head.
Her eyes were red and hollow.
“Jesus!” Dan shouted, backing away.
The woman lurched forward, growling
and thrashing, pulling on the chains that bound her. Blood and vomit ran from her mouth, spilling down her naked body, and her rotting breath spewed out in a sickening cloud. Her tits flapped from side to side as she struggled to get free, smacking like wet pancakes against her cold flesh.
“Oh, she’s hot,” Drew said, raising his shotgun.
Dan stopped him with a hand to the shotgun’s barrel. “Wait,” he said. “Let’s just watch her for a minute. Maybe fuck with her.”
“Duuuude,” Drew said. “That’s fuckin’ sick. Let’s just put her out of her misery. We don’t have time for this shit.”
Dan turned. “You got a fucking date or something? I wanna see how these things work.”
Drew shook his head, backing away and wandering around the room. Dan turned back to the woman, staring into her strange eyes. They were smooth and featureless, like red rubber balls; just as Jake had described them in his post. There were no pupils, no irises, no sclera; nothing. Dan was repulsed and fascinated at the same time.
“Hey there, little lady,” Dan said.
The woman continued thrashing, pulling against her chains hard enough to rip the skin of her wrists.
“Calm down. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
“Dude,” Drew said from behind him. “Look at the wall behind her.”
There were photos taped to all three walls. They were photos of various young men and women around the area, caught on camera by an unseen photographer.
“Probably his victims,” Dan said, backing away and looking at Drew. For some reason, Drew was more shocked than he should be.
“What?” Dan said. “What’s your problem?”
“Halfway down,” Drew replied. “Right side.”
Dan looked. His heart skipped a beat when he saw what Drew was staring at.
There were photos of both of them. The sick fuck had been watching them.
“He’s been scoping us out,” Dan said. “Recently, too. This is near Dennis’ house.”
Drew smacked his palm to his forehead, his eyes as wide as a donkey’s asshole. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “That was just a few fucking days ago!”
Dan was speechless. Though the woman was still thrashing, growling, and spitting just a few feet away, he was dead set on the photos. Whoever this guy was, he had been watching their every move. He watched them loot and burn down Dennis’ house; hidden somewhere nearby. He had probably watched them do everything else, including killing the horde of attacking shufflers and the hunter-thing.
“What. The. Fuck.” Dan growled.
Angered and terrified, he raised his shotgun, blasting the woman’s head off.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said. “Let’s burn this fuckin’ house down, too.”
He didn’t have to tell Drew twice.
Upstairs, they rolled up scattered papers and made torches. They went room to room, setting curtains, clothes, and posters on fire, seemingly with a vengeance. Neither of them said a word as they torched the place.
Dan blasted the sicko’s body a few times with his shotgun, then whipped out his dick and doused it with piss, spitting on him the whole time. When he returned to the living room, Drew was gathering the notebooks from the coffee table.
“Yeah,” Dan said. “Grab those fuckers. I wanna see what this sick fuck was up to.”
“Adios, motherfucker,” Drew said as they ducked out the door.
“I pissed on him,” Dan said, laughing.
“Damn,” Drew said. “I have to shit, too. Shoulda told me.”
Chapter Ten
Dan chugged two beers when they got home. He sat on one side of the couch, perusing a notebook, as Drew sat at the other end with another notebook and a bottle of whiskey. The notebooks were full of strange diary entries, random macabre sketches, and maps of local areas; all written in the same halting, crooked hand.
“This is the craziest shit I’ve ever read,” Drew said. “This guy was some kind of evil genius or something.”
Dan was silent. He couldn’t stop thinking about the photos. Even the notebook in front of him became a blur. None of it made sense to him. It was all just lines and squiggles.
“It looks like he’s been watching everyone on the street,” Drew continued. “There’s detailed information about all of them; Shirley, Gary and Linda, Dennis… everybody. Even Steve is in here.”
“What kind of info?” Dan asked.
Drew shook his head. “Really detailed stuff; birthdates, birthplaces, descriptions, habits. This guy was busy.”
Busy. Dan repeated the word in his head. It was descriptive enough. This guy was obsessive.
“Jesus,” Drew said slowly. “Look at this.”
He handed the notebook to Dan. The words were still a blur at first, but as Dan focused, they became clear…
And shocking.
Subject, resident
Daniel Adam Parker
DOB 06/03/1971
Place of birth: Fresno, CA
Description: White male, appx 5’9” 145lbs – complexion varies by season and frequency of inebriation. Long dishwater blond hair, facial hair varies (no regular pattern of shaving) blue eyes, unhealthy but fully present teeth, odd gait. Dresses in random, unstylish clothing. May be stronger than he looks.
Personality: Withdrawn, quiet, possible sociopathic behavior. Does not appear to have social anxiety, but doesn’t like other people. Chronic alcoholic, frequently seen with beer and/or hard liquor. Known drug user. No marijuana, but takes pain killers. Does not seem to have an addiction to them, but still takes them frequently. May be addicted only to Oxy. Likes guns, seems to prefer large caliber bolt-action rifles. Does not leave house very often. Grills often (good opportunity?)
Modus Operandi: Better to gain confidence through drugs or alcohol and perform blitz. Would be fun to feed oxycodone, then watch him withdraw over and over again until he begs for MERCY!!!!!
UPDATE: Only known associate (see next entry) appeared at night. Seen together around the street, looting. May be difficult to abduct with friend present. May just have to kill them both at home.
“Jesus Christ,” Dan said. “How does he know all this?”
He stared at the words for a while, reading them over and over again. This guy knew everything about him, it seemed. He must have been watching him for a while. But there were details that he could never have known; not by watching him, anyway.
A panic attack was coming on. Quick.
He reached over and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from Drew’s hand, taking several large swigs as his heart pounded in morbid, heavy, beats. He turned the page.
Subject, outsider
Drew Michael Kincaid
DOB 12/09/1985
Place of birth: Indianapolis, IN
Description: White male (Greek?) approx 5’ 9” 160lbs. Slightly dark complexion. Close cropped black hair, brown eyes, perpetual five o’clock shadow (ethnic trait?) Slightly stylish clothes but not too flashy. Glasses. Walks with nondescript gait.
Personality: Outgoing, social, no idea why he associates with Dan. Drinks. Smokes marijuana. Does not appear to use other drugs. Non-serious demeanor. Possible sociopath.
Modus Operandi: Will probably have to kill him outright. Can’t think of anything fun to do with him. Showed up at previous entry’s house on night I was planning to take him. Ruined my plans. Will seek revenge. Beheading maybe?
Dan shook his head. “Christ, man,” he said. “If you hadn’t have showed up, this freak would have killed me.”
Drew lit a cigarette, pursing his lips. They were both in shock, and it was clear that they had just skimmed by their own possible deaths. Despite surviving the end of the world, they could have ended up in some fuck’s basement, cut into pieces or nailed to a table.
The mutual terror was obvious.
“Zombie food,” Drew said, finally.
“I wonder if that chick was already a mutant when she was chained up,” Dan said, “or if she was down there when the mi
st came.”
Drew shook his head. “Don’t know, man,” he said. “I don’t think it would get down in the basement. Maybe that’s how some people survived at first. They were all down in the basement.”
Dan thought about it for a moment. It didn’t make any sense, but he thought about it anyway. Why the fuck not? It was as good as any other explanation. He suddenly found it humorous. He didn’t know why, but the more he thought about it, the more hilarious it seemed.
He burst out in laughter. Drew stared at him like he was a madman, slowly grinning until he lost it, too.
“I was in the basement,” Drew said through his gut bouncing laughs.
Dan laughed harder. “I don’t have a fucking basement.”
Drew doubled over, nearly choking. They continued laughing for several minutes, gasping for breath, until Pauli finally emerged from the hallway. He stared at them with his bulging eyes and underbite, almost seeming to ask “what the fuck is going on?” His appearance strengthened their laughter, and Pauli turned to find another quiet place to lay down.
“Ohhhhh, fuck,” Drew said. “What a fucky day.”
Dan’s laughter died down as his amusement was replaced by a sense of relief. Whatever the freaky killer had been planning, he had failed. He couldn’t take the end of the world, apparently, and had ended his own life in a brutal and disturbing fashion; probably leaving his victims to die in the basement.
“I definitely have to tell Jake about this,” Dan said, getting up to drag his laptop back to the couch.
He switched it on while Drew lit some candles. When it booted up, he opened the bulletin board, glad to see it was still up. A video was posted center screen, with the familiar face of Martin Patterson, alive and well.
“For those of you who have been keeping up, our station has been under reorganization. We are still committed to bringing you updates, and keeping the citizens of south central Indiana connected. We are happy to say that, with our new location, our equipment and signal is even stronger.
National Guard troops have provided us with a safe haven, stocked with high powered communication equipment, a safe place to broadcast and run our bulletin boards, and even a greater connection with other small networks around the country. As you can see, this BBS is now networked with a host of many others. Our forums are now collectively linked, and people all around the east coast to the Midwest can freely communicate.
