by Curran, Tim
And now here he was, crying like a baby.
Well, this wouldn’t do, this wouldn’t do at all.
He had to get a grip, he had to get a set on him and start acting like a cop. Goddamn Greenlawn was a fucking warzone and somebody had to start setting things right and that somebody just happened to be Ray goddamn Hansel. Just because you got kicked in the nuts didn’t mean you had to fold up and have a good cry, squat to piss the rest of your life.
No, sir, that wouldn’t do at all.
Some kind of ugly door had been thrown open on this world, all the dark and crawly things creeping out and having themselves a real old fashioned slash-and-burn hoo-ha, and it was going to take some serious ass-kicking professionals to slam that door shut.
Hansel knew that he had to get ready.
But…shit…it was spreading everywhere. He couldn’t fight alone, it just wasn’t possible. What in the hell could this possibly be about?
He started up the car and pulled away down Main, taking the first corner he saw and making for the south side. He’d grab the county road outside town and make for the highway, find people, normal people, start marshalling the fucking troops like Patton hitting the Rhine with the Third Army. Kick ass and take names, holy Jesus K. Christ.
As he drove down Providence Street, one of the main thoroughfares that ran from one end of town to the other, he saw wrecked cars, bodies in the streets, burned houses and abandoned city vehicles. He even saw a firetruck, doors hanging open, hoses unrolled and attached to a nearby fire hydrant, but not a soul around to work them.
This will be the biggest, ugliest clusterfuck this world has ever seen. Years from now, they’ll still be trying to figure this out.
If there’s anybody left to do the figuring, that is.
If the madness isn’t permanent.
If I live to see it.
If this whole goddamn country isn’t a slaughterhouse by then.
If…
If…
If…
If civilization could survive this fever, the whole goddamn country, the whole goddamn world, would be like ripe meat and the media were the buzzards that would pick it clean. The stain of this day and what was yet to come would never wash off for a hundred years.
He kept driving and then he slowed…slowed right down because something was not right. In his head…something was just not right. It felt like a swarm of black flies had been loosed in there, buzzing and crowding and filling his skull. He hit the brakes and skidded to a halt. He couldn’t seem to remember what he was doing or even who he was for a moment or two. It was like there was some devastating influence taking his mind, some invasion that was stripping away who and what he was.
He sat behind the wheel, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and what he saw looking back at him made him want to scream. A stranger. A perverse caricature of himself…something lunatic and twisted.
It’s happening, a very tiny voice in his head informed him. It’s happening to you right now, Ray. This is what it feels like when the cellar door of your mind swings open and all the black, shuddery, forgotten things come loping out…
And that was what he thought.
But he did not think it or even understand the train of thought for long, because suddenly he was gone. There was something else and someone else and there was no more rational thought as such.
He threw the cruiser in park very calmly.
He took the shotgun from the rack and stepped out into the sunlight. He could feel its warmth, the dying day and its final gasp of hot breath.
From deep inside, a voice was shouting at him, but he did not listen.
He gasped. He drooled. He shook and sweated and his heart raced. A wetness spread at his crotch. There was a shotgun in his hands and he brought the barrel up to his mouth, fingers on the trigger.
Goddammit, Ray, don’t let this happen. Fight, fight.
He would not do that, he could not do that. Putting a gun in his mouth was against everything he was. Yes, fight, he must fight. So he strained his muscles, but they were soft and pliable like putty. He had no more control over them than he did his bladder. He fought, but it was hopeless. His hands brought the gun up and the barrel rose, leveling out and dropping until it was in his face. His mouth opened to receive it. A long, strangled moan came from somewhere deep inside him.
The barrel of that twelve-gauge pump slid into his mouth, cool and metallic and tasting of machine oil.
The barrel slid further into Hansel’s mouth until the business end brushed the back of his throat and he gagged. He was powerless, weak, empty. He was nothing. He did not exist. He was just doing what he’d always wanted to do, always needed to do on some subconscious level. He’d known other cops that had eaten the gun and he wondered if this is what it had been like for them in their final moments before they sprayed their brains over the ceiling. Did they feel like this? Overcome, crushed down, broken, violated?
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It was his own will making him do this, yet it felt like someone else was in charge of him. Making him do things that were against everything he stood for.
His fingers started putting pressure on the trigger.
Then he just lost all strength. Whatever it was, faded and fell apart.
The gun slid out of his mouth and Hansel was overwhelmed with dry heaves. He fell, the riotgun clattering to the pavement. On his hands and knees, wringing wet now with sweat and piss, the smell of blood and dead animals thick on him, he began to sob.
Then a voice, “Hell you doing, Ray?”
He looked up. Paul Mackabee was standing there. His uniform blouse was torn, buttons missing. There was blood all over his hands, streaked across his face. His eyes were filled with shadows. And, worse, he had the bloody pelt of a dog slung over one shoulder.
“Paul…Jesus, Paul…the whole fucking town…”
Mackabee kneeled down by him. He stank like oily carcasses. “Sure, whole town, Ray. Whole fucking world. Quit fighting it. Just…relax…and let it happen…”
Hansel thought he was crazy, no better than the rest. But he was tired, drained dry from what he’d seen. There was no fight left. He closed his eyes and let the darkness well up inside him until it spilled out of his eyes in ribbons of night. When he opened them, Huckabee was still squatting there.
Hansel grinned at him. The bloody pelt over his shoulder exuded a rank odor. It smelled delicious…
43
Swinging his nightstick by its thong, Warren moved up the streets flanked by Shaw and Kojozian. He stepped over the naked corpse of a woman and past a couple of dogs feeding out of an overturned garbage can. Across the way, a car had crashed into a fire hydrant and water was flooding the streets. Kojozian went down on his hands and knees and lapped water from the gutter.
“What are you? Some kind of goddamn animal?” Warren said to him, pointing his nightstick at the big man.
Shaw folded his arms and shook his head. “You hear that, Kojozian? He wants to know if you’re some kind of animal.”
Warren thumped Shaw on the back of the head with his stick. “What are you? An echo? He heard what I said. You heard what I said, didn’t you?”
Kojozian nodded, his face glistening wet, his streaked warpaint running some. “I heard you. I was just getting a drink is all.”
“Well, don’t be lapping like a dog,” Warren warned him. “Remember, you’re a cop. You’re wearing the uniform. You want to drink from a puddle, cup your hands; don’t lap.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Sure, he was just thirsty,” Shaw said.
Warren stopped. “You see these hash marks here?” he said, pointing to his sergeant’s stripes on his filthy uniform shirt. “These are experience. These say I’m in charge. And when I say a cop doesn’t lap water like a dog you better believe I know my business.”
They walked on, oblivious to the destruction and mayhem aroun
d them.
Yes sir, this was Warren’s town. He was a cop and he kept the peace. When you wore the uniform for a living, people expected things from you. Warren was unconcerned that his uniform was untucked, stained with blood and dirt, he only cared that his badge was shiny and his hat was on. Regulations. If a man didn’t live by the regulations, he lived by nothing.
He walked on.
The sun was sinking towards the horizon. It had been a fine day, Warren thought. A productive day. He looked up into the sky, noticing that a great many birds were circling above the town now…gulls, crows, ravens. A buzzard was perched atop a mailbox across the street. A flap of something was hanging from its beak.
They came upon the fleshy white corpse of an obese man out in the flooded street. A few more inches and he’d float away. A terrier with a blood-red snout was gnawing on his arm, a thin woman in a skirt and nothing else was chewing on his throat. Both seemed unconcerned that they were being watched.
Warren tipped his hat to her. “Evening, ma’am.”
She hissed at him.
Just ahead they paused. There was the sound of screaming. Warren looked at the other two. “Sounds like somebody’s having a party. We better break it up.”
They jogged to the end of the street, came around a corner and saw something which stopped them dead. Warren tapped his stick against his leg. Shaw patted his round belly and pulled the survival knife out of his Sam Browne belt. Kojozian, bare-chested, painted and wild-looking, bunched his blood-stained hands into fists and raised his haunches. A State Police cruiser was pulled up at the curb across the street. Two uniformed officers that Warren thought looked kind of familiar were kneeling on the concrete. They had knives in their hands. Carefully, grunting and exerting themselves, they were peeling the scalps from two corpses, sawing away happily.
“Of all the things,” Warren said. “Cops, Poaching in our territory.”
A fuzzy half-memory swept through the archaic ruins of his mind. Those men. He felt he knew those men. He could see them…around a fire, yes. Cooking trout in a pan. Drinking beer. A fishing trip. Yes, Warren had been on a fishing trip with these men. Ray Hansel and Paul Mackabee. Trooper Hansel. Trooper Mackabee. They were old friends of Warren’s. Both old hands on the state force. Warren knew them well. Drank with them. Fished with them. Jesus, Ray and Paul—
Then it was gone. He didn’t know who they were and cared even less. Poachers. Goddamn poachers.
He sighed. “Sonsofbitches,” he said.
“You seeing this, Kojozian?” Shaw said. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”
The big man shook his head. “I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it. I think somebody ought to go over there and remind those monkeys that this is our beat.”
“Well, why don’t you?” Warren said.
“You think I should?”
“I insist.”
“Yeah, I insist, too,” Shaw said. “Of all the things.”
Kojozian slid a length of chain from his belt. It gleamed in the dying light…except where it was stained with something dark. He walked right across the street, huge, long-limbed, almost ape-like in his stride. One of the state troopers looked up. He had a leather sash with human scalps sewed to it tied around his throat. When he saw Kojozian coming, he rose up, brandishing his bloody knife.
His eyes luminous with ferocity, he charged.
“This guy’s not real bright,” Warren said.
“No, he’s not bright at all,” Shaw agreed.
The trooper darted in, slashing at Kojozian as the big man swung the chain over his head. He slashed, he jabbed, he tried to get in to draw blood. Kojozian stood there, oblivious to it all. He baited the trooper in. Thinking he had an easy kill, the trooper jumped in for a killing blow and Kojozian brought down the chain with all his muscle and weight behind it. The chain made a sharp whooshing sound and then made contact with the trooper’s head. His scalp was peeled from forehead to ear and he went down to one knee, shrieking. Kojozian brought it down again and split the crown of his head open.
The trooper shook and shuddered on the ground, but he was done.
Kojozian stood over him, bringing the chain down again and again until it was dyed red and tangled with hair and meat.
Meanwhile the other guy came after him.
“Hey, you better watch it,” Shaw called out.
But Kojozian was too intent on beating the other trooper into about two-hundred pounds of raw, red meat.
The trooper slashed with his knife and caught Kojozian across the ribs. He slashed his face, his arms, almost got his throat but Kojozian snapped the chain to his temple and down he went. Standing there, bleeding and dazed, Warren decided it was time to help him. He and Shaw went over there.
“You could’ve stepped in,” Kojozian said.
“I thought you could handle them,” Shaw said. “I guess I was wrong.”
Kojozian grimaced. “I don’t care for your tone.”
“Easy,” Warren told him.
“Fuck that,” Kojozian said and punched him right in the mouth. When he tried to get up, he punched him again.
Warren stepped between them with his stick. Good thing, too, because Shaw looked pretty mad. “Listen,” Warren said. “You guys wear the badge. Act like cops. Use your knives.”
They both pulled their blades and circled one another. Kojozian kept wiping blood from his eyes and Shaw tried to stay on his blind side. Kojozian jabbed and Shaw brought his knife around in a quick arc, laying his arm open. Kojozian let out a cry like an enraged bear and, trying to keep the blood from his eyes, slashed out wildly back and forth. Shaw sidestepped him, ducked down low, and jabbed him in the ribs.
“Nice,” Warren said, lighting a cigarette.
Kojozian was fighting sloppy now, just whirling around with his blade, slashing out blindly as he wiped blood from his eyes. Shaw played him, let him get in close, and then darted away. Kojozian leaped at him. Shaw jumped away, let the bigger man’s forward momentum carry him. Then as blood yet again filled Kojozian’s eyes, Shaw slipped behind him and buried his blade between his shoulders. Once. Then twice. Kojozian fell to one knee, crying out, and slashed Shaw on the elbow and Shaw stabbed him in the chest.
Kojozian dropped his knife…lumbering, trying to find his feet, but weak now from the pain and the blood which poured from him.
“Let me see that knife,” Warren said.
He took it from Shaw, went up behind Kojozian and slit his throat.
The big man went down, coughing out ribbons of blood, squirming in a red sea of his own making.
“Come on,” Warren said. “We have police work to do.”
They left Kojozian dying on the sidewalk…
44
Macy did not scream.
When they saw what had happened in the police station, she did not open her mouth and let the scream out that was no doubt building in her. Nothing so Hollywood or dramatic. She did not even bite down on her fist like some damsel in distress in an old movie. In fact, she did nothing. She stood there by Louis’ side, absorbing the atrocity before them. It was as if some insane war between dog and man had broken out and they were viewing the aftermath. But maybe it was even more than that. Like some great machine had sucked in dogs and men, filling the police station itself with meat and bloody mucilage that had overflowed those walls and spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Louis stood there with her, just sickened and shocked and appalled. A mutilated body or two at the scene of an accident was bad enough. You were offended, but at least you could wrap your brain around it. Two cars met, two cars were smashed, what was driving them was turned to pulp. But what about something like this? How did you view slaughter like this and what did viewing it do to you? The squad room of the police station was a horror, just the bodies of men and the carcasses of dogs all tangled together, split and rent and disemboweled. The floor a river of clotted waste like something that might be shoveled from a slaughter house pit.
M
acy opened her mouth and said something perfectly unintelligible, but Louis understood. He understood just fine. Something in her, something good and necessary and human, had been laid bare and she was bleeding inside from a dozen cutting wounds. He took her by the hand and led her from that terrible place, the raw hot smell of death just nauseating.
It was just getting worse. Hour by hour.
And in his mind, he could not stop hearing Earl Gould’s voice: All of them out there…animals, they are regressing to animals, throwing off the yoke of intelligence and civilization, returning to the jungle and survival of the fittest…
God.
That explained the savage regression of human beings here and around the world…but what of these dogs? Dogs could be very savage, of course, their instinctive behavior was only kept at bay through breeding and discipline imposed by their owners…but what about these dogs? From what he was seeing, they had regressed, too, becoming less like domesticated dogs and more like wolves, savage blood-hungry wolves.
Did they have the gene, too? The dogs? Or was it not quite that simple? The regression of humans was more than just psychological, he was thinking. Maybe they didn’t sprout fangs or become hairy proto-humans like in the old movies, but the activation of that gene…well, it had to trigger biochemical changes in the human animal. And if the chemistry was different, more basic and animalistic, then obviously bodily secretions would be altered, too. Perhaps it was some chemical signature the dogs smelled, some odor that caused an aggressive response in them.
Louis supposed he’d never really know.
Outside, they stepped over bodies and dogs and that was when Louis went down on one knee and threw up. Oh, it had been coming for some time and when it arrived, it hit him hard like a good kick to the belly. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead and the world spun on its axis and down he went, his knee hitting the concrete hard and his hands slapping hard enough to make them sting. What was in his stomach came out in a warm, almost satisfying, gush as if he were voiding toxins or bad meat out of his system. He had no idea what he’d last eaten, but there it was, splashing onto the sidewalk.
