Francis shook his head back and forth comically, as if it would somehow shake sanity back into his head. Looking at the sight before him actually gave him a severe pounding headache. His brain, ill-equipped to cope with such stimuli, continued to try and put it together. As a result, he was seeing slight movements coming from the frozen doubles, though he could clearly see they were dead still. He reached up and began to scratch the hair behind his ear.
Tim reached out and gingerly touched the frozen blood with the tip of his finger. It felt like a piece of rubber, bending slightly.
“You know, my friend,” Tim observed. “I think this is the only time in my life I have ever felt pure and unadulterated panic.”
When Francis didn’t answer, Tim turned to face him nervously, holding his breath.
Francis was frozen solid, his hand held up as he scratched his head.
Tim waited to see if his friend would breathe, praying silently to an unknown god.
“Francis if this is a fucking joke, I swear to Jesus Christ himself I am going to shoot you in the face,” Tim said, approaching carefully, gun in hand.
Tim stopped when he was just in front of Francis. He blew air into his friend’s curly hair. The hair did not move, as if it had been heavily hairsprayed.
Francis, paralyzed, watched as Tim moved up and blew into his face, but he felt nothing. It was like he had been disconnected from his body. From behind Tim, he saw a figure gliding out of the darkness of the basement. Every circuit in Francis’ brain fired to scream, but all he could do was watch, horrified, as it moved behind his partner.
The thing looked like a man without any skin, its eyes bugged out grotesquely without any eyelids to cover them. It was naked and appeared sexless. It grinned madly, due to the fact that it had no lips. Its skinless upper body was nothing but muscle, thick veins snaking up and down its arms, pumping a glowing blue liquid that pulsated with every beat of its heart. The legs were covered with fur, ending in hoofed feet. The hooves clicked quietly on the linoleum floor as it moved. Its bright crimson head was moist and glistened in the florescent-lighted kitchen.
“Oh damn,” Tim whispered as he studied his friend, still unaware of the advancing creature. “For the love of God, please wake up.”
The thing was just behind Tim now, its long, sharp nails dancing in the air like will-o-wisps. It leaned forward and sniffed delicately at Tim’s scent. It seemed amused and fascinated by the man before him.
Turning to the pair of doubles, the creature began moving its hands through the air rapidly, so fast its fingers blurred. As Francis watched, the doubles seemed to move backward in time. The spiderweb of blood retreated back into the double-Francis’ head, as did the bullet. Then time stopped again, just before Tim’s double had pulled the trigger. The thing looked back and studied Tim, as if waiting for a reaction. It held its finger in the air and then let it drop. Instantly, the doubles came to life.
The gunshot exploded the still air like a bomb as the hoofed creature dashed back into the basement. The Francis-double collapsed with a sickening thud, blood pouring out onto the white linoleum floor.
The Tim-double’s eyes widened when it saw the other version of itself and it held the gun up quickly, eyes narrowing.
Tim aimed his gun at the double of himself. “Drop it,” both Tims said at the same time. They paused for a moment; the only sound their panicked breathing.
“You first,” they said again simultaneously, guns shaking in their hands.
Francis suddenly felt himself falling back into his own body. He dropped to the floor, too weak to stand. The Tim-double seemed about to flee, its eyes rushing from Francis to the mirror image of himself.
“I swear I am back at my flat and doing some heavy acid,” the Tim-double said, still holding his gun at Tim and Francis like a gleaming talisman. “I feel like I’m a character in a bloody Philip K. Dick novel or something.”
“You’re telling me,” Tim said, grinning despite the situation.
Francis pulled out his gun and aimed it at Tim’s double. “Drop it, fucknut.”
Both Tim and the double broke into laughter. “Fucknut?” they said at the same time and then started laughing again like a bizarre human stereo.
The Tim-double let his gun fall to the floor where it landed on the leg of Francis’ double’s corpse. “Would you believe I killed ten Francises already?” he asked.
Francis looked towards the open door of the basement, remembering the demonic creature. “There was something in here before. Trust me, you don’t want to see it.”
Tim looked at his partner, still holding the gun on the double. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Before when I was frozen, I was still able to see, Timmy. A…I don’t know what the fuck it was. It had hoofed legs like a demon.”
“Yep, that would be The Bastard who’s been terrorizing us for the last week or so,” the Tim-double said, his voice dropping to a tired whisper as he stared at the blood-covered floor. “It likes to toy with us. Francis is around here somewhere, too. Or at least some version of himself. Things got a little confusing. It seems that hoofed fucker, who Francis and I call The Bastard, is spawning different versions of us. Let me guess, you just got here around twenty minutes ago, ready to whack good old Lime up there?”
Tim and Francis nodded, their faces sickly white.
“Please continue,” Francis said, desperate for any explanation of events.
“It seems The Bastard has control of reality. It can do anything it wants. If Rod Serling took some acid and then fathered a child with William S. Burroughs, then let Sam Raimi raise him, this thing is what you would get.” The Tim-double flipped on a light switch and pointed to the window. “There, look out in the backyard.”
Tim looked through the window and tried not to scream. Living corpses dotted the yard like an outlandish B horror movie set. None of the zombies ambled about like they did in the movies, but instead seemed to walk about with calculated and patient intelligence—some even appeared to be conversing. In the far corner of the yard, three zombies were sitting on a log enjoying a nice fat leg of Francis. One skeleton sat in a rocking chair on the back porch, bobbing back and forth languidly, its hollow eyes glowing eerily. There were several versions of Tim and Francis scattered about the yard as well, some of them missing limbs. In the center of the yard was a crucified Tim, festive Christmas lights flashing merrily around his corpse.
“It seems our little reality-manipulating friend likes to animate the dead from that old cemetery we walked through last week,” the Tim-double continued. “Well for you, it would be around twenty minutes ago. That’s good old Willis Mayhue on the porch there. Francis and I have been fighting them all week. There are a couple of Adrian Limes around here as well. They’re fond of a double-barreled shotgun, and his mistress up there is pretty good with a knife.” The Tim-double shook his head. “If it wasn’t for all the doubles, I swear I would have run out of ammunition days ago.”
“How do we know that you are really Tim and not some creation of that thing down there?” Francis asked, picking up his gun and pointing it at the basement.
The Tim-double laughed. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’M myself.”
“This is incredibly fucked up,” Tim said, leaning against the counter.
The Tim-double chuckled. “I said that exact same thing to Francis yesterday.”
“So what now?” Francis asked. His hair drenched with his own sweat. “Can’t we just leave?”
The Tim-double shook his head and grinned. “Well…you can try. Those George Romero extras are bloody everywhere out there. Only they aren’t slow like you see in the movies. The bastards move like lightning. Teeth like razors, too. Not only that, but soon one of us will turn on the other. It seems our doubles can only stay sane for so long. Perhaps it’s because we share the same brain waves. Perhaps it’s because two versions of the same person cannot exist in the same plane of reality. Who knows? Anything you say is t
heoretical—knock yourself out with theories, my friends. Three days ago, Francis and I had to fight three versions of myself.”
“I think I’m going to start crying,” Francis said, shaking his head.
The Tim-double kicked the corpse on the floor. “We better throw this body down the basement with the rest of them. It seems they have this awful tendency to spring alive at the most inappropriate of moments. I think I actually soiled my trousers the first time one did that.”
The three of them picked the body up and tossed it down the basement stairs. It tumbled down heavily, dotting each step with crimson splatters of blood before falling into an enormous pile of corpses. Francis saw more than one version of himself, Timmy and Adrian Lime and he shuddered before turning away.
“I think Francis and I are going to risk getting the hell out of here,” Tim whispered, staring down into the basement with numb shock.
The double clapped him on the back. “Good luck, brother. I knew you were going to do that. We think alike, remember? We tried the same thing last week. In seven days, you’ll probably be me, who knows.” He offered the trademark Tim Machen grin.
Tim started to say something but stopped. It was just too strange. He felt like if he communicated too much with the double that he would somehow validate the bizarre reality of their situation.
“Well, maybe if we do somehow manage to get out, then you will no longer exist,” Francis said, checking to see that his gun was fully loaded. “That is if you really are a future version of Timmy.”
Tim snickered and elbowed his double. “Can’t you just tell Francis watches his Star Trek? I always tell him he resembles Chief O’Brien on Deep Space Nine. Same accent, same Panda-like body.”
Francis looked pained. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Timmy? Can we not have this bloody conversation again? I do not look like that fat fuck.” He turned back towards the Tim-double. “Okay, so I watch me Star Trek. If this was one of those episodes, you would no longer exist. Being a future Timmy and all.”
The Tim-double nodded and smiled. “That may be, Francis. I sure as hell hope so. Just don’t try and go through the graveyard. That’s exactly what we did last week, and let’s just say things weren’t too pretty. Old Willis Mayhue jumped out of the ground like he was shot from a cannon. That was followed by the rest of them.” He began to laugh almost insanely. “Oh, Francis, you screamed like a woman. It was the funniest thing.”
Tim laughed out loud and turned to his double. “You’re a funny bastard.”
The double nodded. “Yeah. Handsome, too.”
They both detonated into hysteria, once again sounding like an alien stereo.
“Oh man, lets get the hell out of here,” Francis said, shaking his head back and forth in bewilderment.
Tim nodded and they walked towards the kitchen.
Francis stopped and looked at the Tim-double. “Oh and…Timmy? I would never scream like a woman. Fuck you for saying that.” The last statement set all three of them howling.
Tim and Francis looked at each other and nodded tensely as they stood in the parlor. If things were this messed up inside, they knew there was a good chance it would be worse outside. Inhaling deeply, they stepped out the front door, their guns held out in front of them and ready to fire at the first sign of any movement.
Chapter 2: Benny, Rico And The Dead Grundy
“You sure this is the spot?” Benny asked, his eyes scanning the dark water of the lake as he absently rubbed his large belly. The moonlight was shining off his shaven head.
The two men were standing on the shore. The reflection of the full moon undulated softly over the water’s surface, like a brightly-lit skull was rising out of the depths. The warm wind blew through the trees around them, providing a soothing lullaby to the gentle splashing against the shore.
“That’s what Pope said,” Rico answered, pulling rubber goggles down over his abundant eyebrows, messing up his perfectly combed, but greasy, hair in the process. He wore an ill-fitting oxygen tank strapped on his stocky back. “He said they threw Grundy right in front of the weeping willow.” He pointed at the massive tree hanging over the water. “There’s your willow.”
“Stupid fucks. How could they be so goddamn dumb as to leave the key on him? The purpose of killing him was to get the key.”
Rico started walking out into the black water until he was up to his waist. He spoke without turning around. “Why do you even ask that? You know what a bunch of morons Pope has working for him.”
Benny waited until Rico’s head disappeared into the lake, ran his fingers over his Zapata mustache, and said, “Yeah, and you’re one of them, you fucking asshole.”
* * *
Rico, submerging under the water, turned the flashlight on and let the ray arc into the murky darkness like a lightsaber, trying to chase back his feelings of paranoia. Since he was a child and had seen the movie JAWS he had harbored a deep fear of nighttime water. He didn’t like being surrounded by something he could not see. He always felt something was coming at him with the speed of a freight train, getting ready to hit him in the back with voracious teeth.
Old tires and garbage dotted the bottom. Small fish darted around, oblivious to the intruder in their midst. Water plants shimmered in the gloom, like ebony serpents dancing beneath Rico’s light.
Wanting to go back, but knowing he had to finish the job, Rico continued forward, the flashlight beam gliding sluggishly over the bottom. He nodded happily when he saw Grundy’s pale form off in the distance, the bleached white flesh a stark contrast to the inky water.
When he was about ten feet away from the corpse, he stopped swimming, his hand clutching the flashlight so forcefully he feared it would snap into little plastic shards.
The fact that the corpse’s eyes were open had only been slightly unnerving, but when the corpse suddenly blinked, Rico almost fled his own skin. The dead Grundy was smiling, his tongue protruding from his mouth like a pink slug, maybe licking the bottom of his mustache or merely floating into it, Rico couldn’t tell. A bubble slowly escaped the bullet hole in the corpse’s forehead and floated lazily upwards before vanishing into the dark. The corpse’s T-shirt was bunched around his chest and Grundy’s hairy belly bulged out, swollen as if pregnant. Grundy’s head lolled to the side, his stringy red hair floating around his head like a halo of worms.
Rico hesitated a moment, trying to convince himself he had only imagined it, the flashlight trembling in his tight fist. When Grundy blinked again, this time narrowing his eyes maliciously, milky bubbles pouring from his mouth, Rico whipped around and began swimming frantically toward the surface. He was still screaming when he reached the shore.
Benny laughed at his partner’s antics. “What the fuck are you screaming about? Jesus Christ, why don’t you tell the whole fucking town we’re out here.”
“He’s alive!” Rico swore. “That motherfucker is alive!”
“What the hell are you talking about? He was shot in the head and he’s been down there for over a day now. He ain’t alive.” Benny had stopped laughing. He was merely smiling now.
“His eyes were opening and closing!” Rico sputtered. “He was shooting bubbles from his mouth! I’m telling you he was alive!”
“Are you on crack?” Benny wasn’t even smiling now. “There is no way in hell he can be alive. You probably just saw a fish swim from his mouth, man.”
“No,” Rico insisted. “He blinked at least twice and even narrowed his eyes at me.”
Benny groaned. “Listen to what you’re saying, Rico. There isn’t a chance in hell that Grundy’s alive. It’s just not fucking possible.”
“I know how crazy it sounds, Benny. But I’m telling you, he’s alive down there.”
“Rico, we need that fucking key.”
“No way I’m going back in that water. Pope wants the key, let the fat black bastard get it himself.”
“Are you going to go back and tell Pope that Grundy’s alive? Because if you hallucinated what
you saw down there, things won’t look good for you in the organization. The Pope will fuck you up good.”
“I’ll tell Pope the truth.”
Benny ripped the goggles off Rico’s forehead. “I’ll go down and get it, you goddamn nutty fuck.”
Rico fitted the oxygen tank on Benny’s back and handed him the diving flashlight. He was amused at seeing the heavyset man in diving gear, but bit back a sarcastic comment.
Mumbling something about “people who smoke crack need to be fucking tortured,” Benny began to walk out into the lake. When the water got to his neck he submerged into the dark depths, the flashlight held before him like a gun.
It did not take him long to find Grundy, scream aloud under the water, turn around, and swim frantically back towards the shore.
When Benny scrambled back onshore, Rico was laughing so hard he was nearly doubled over.
“What the fuck!” Benny managed to screech, the water dripping down his massive belly
“Here,” Rico said, holding out an empty hand, still snickering.
Benny stared at Rico’s hand, confused and wet. “You ain’t holding nothin’.”
“It’s the crackpipe you accused me of smoking,” Rico said and grinned, the moonlight practically shining off his teeth.
Benny slapped the hand away. “Fuck off. What the hell is going on? He’s really down there. The bastard smiled at me!”“No shit. I was down there, remember?”
“What the hell we gonna do? We can’t tell Pope he’s still alive down there—ain’t no way he’s gonna fucking believe us!”
Rico nodded. “Yeah. He might even kill us for coming back with a story like that. We’re gonna have to get that key, man.”
Benny shuddered—his dislike for Rico put to the side now that they had some very common ground to stand on. “I don’t know if I can go back down there. He terrifies me. You see his face down there?”
“Yeah, it looked like a moon shining in the darkness.”
“Exactly! Think maybe if we shoot him again, he might die?”
“I doubt it. They already shot him in the head once. And that ugly bastard was down there for at least twenty hours. Something tells me another bullet ain’t gonna do shit.”
DeadFellas Page 2
