The other officers higher up the steps erupted into a fury of shouts and hollers, everyone struggling to flee the cramped stairwell and retreat toward safety. Return fire sputtered overhead, amplifying the chaos and adding to the cries of several men shrieking in pain.
Half-blinded by the rain of debris coming off the walls, Frank shoved DeAngelo’s corpse toward Kane with all of his might, slamming the killer back into the room he’d emerged from.
The gunfire ceased.
Frank charged after Kane before he could regain the advantage. He rounded the corner in time to see the madman slap a fresh clip into his weapon.
Frank rammed him in the chest, tackling him to the ground.
Kane’s weapon roared, spitting fire inches from Frank’s face.
The two struck the floor and rolled apart, each coming up into a half-crouch with only a few feet between them.
Both snapped up their weapons. Their gazes locked over the gun sights.
“Drop it,” Frank shouted.
The killer’s eyes reflected the ugly orange light of the basement like twin flames set in the sockets of a half-rotten skull. They flashed with undeniable glee as he retracted his upper lip in genuine smile of delight.
“Fraaaaaaank!”
Frank shuddered at the sound of his name. It gusted from the killer’s mouth in an elongated breath of mixed wonder and jubilation.
“I said drop it!”
Kane’s smile only broadened. “You’re early, Detective Attkins. Not that it will do you any good. I’m finished.”
Frank’s heart thundered in his chest. Sweat slipped from under his Kevlar helmet and cut trails down his cheeks. Behind him, the stairwell rumbled and creaked as the SWAT team reassembled.
“Don’t come any closer!” Kane shouted to the officers without taking his eyes from Frank. “I’ve got your man Attkins. I’ll blow his head off!”
Frank’s grip tightened on his weapon. “How do you know my name?”
Kane’s laugher sounded like snakes slithering through dry grass. “I’ve been told all about you. Who you are. Where you live. I’ve stood over you while you’ve slept. You didn’t know that, did you? The veins in your neck have beat against my blade more than once, but each time I let you live. Do you know why? Because you pose no threat to me, Detective. No more than those dead men on the stairs.”
“There are fifty officers surrounding this place,” Frank growled. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Now drop the fucking weapon!”
Kane laughed again. “I’m counting on those fifty officers, Detective. Don’t you get it? You’re here because I want you here. This is where it starts!”
Frank’s trigger finger tensed when amber light suddenly flared to life on the other side of the room. For a split second his mind screamed BOMB! He flinched hard, but then recovered. Kane’s silhouette stood amid the blaze in stark relief. He could’ve cut Frank in half.
“You see?” Kane said within the light. “It’s begun.”
Frank squinted, trying to keep Kane in his sights.
Over the madman’s shoulder the blinding amber light seeped through the frame of a closed door set into the far wall, casting blazing slivers across the room that illuminated the basement. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanished. Kane’s spittle-slick grin snapped back into focus.
“The bible got it wrong,” the killer said in an oily whisper. “The meek won’t inherit the Earth, Frank. They’ll take it BACK.”
And with that, the smiling devil pulled the trigger of his weapon.
Each round punched into Frank’s chest with the ruthless power of a sledgehammer, their lethal progress stopped short of entering his flesh by his vest’s protective plating. Pain sunk its teeth into his nerves. Somehow he held the MP-5 steady, gripping it in both hands. He fired back even as he fell, his shots opening a dozen dark holes in the killer’s gaunt torso. Red geysers sprayed from exit wounds in the madman’s back. Unbelievably, Kane continued to grin, firing his gun empty as Frank’s 9mm rounds sliced through him.
The remaining officers poured down the steps and flooded into the basement, filling the room with the explosive roar of additional gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit up the room, creating a crowd of black shadows that danced on the walls like a cheering crowd of demonic spectators.
Frank collapsed to the floor, jaw clenched in a rigor of pain.
The final shot rang in his ears, followed by the shouts of the officers entering the room.
“Cease fire!”
“Officers down!”
“Get the medics in here!”
Frank caught a momentary glimpse of Kale Kane’s blood-splattered face staring back at him from the ground, eyes open. Then fellow officers crowded into the area, blocking the view.
Two of the men helped Frank to his feet. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’ll live.”
He pushed away and edged through the crowd until he stood over Kane’s corpse. The killer lay in an ocean of blood, one cheek peeled aside by a bullet to reveal those shiny white teeth, as if he was still smiling.
Frank sagged, catching his breath.
Across the room wood shrieked against a strike plate. When Frank looked, he saw one of the tactical officers trying to yank open a door built into the opposite wall. It pulled free on the third try, and the officers that closed in to clear the room beyond immediately choked and recoiled.
“Holy shit,” one of them cried.
Another doubled over and puked.
Frank hurried forward. He pushed through the crowd, wincing in pain, but came to a halt when he beheld the unimaginable sight that waited in the dirt-walled room ahead. He stared in dreamlike detachment, his mind straining to make sense of the madness displayed before him.
“My God,” he whispered.
And just when he thought his overstressed nerves had been pushed to their limit, one of the medics who’d bent over Kane’s body ended the shock-induced stillness with a scream.
“He’s still alive!”
Five Years Later …
Jerry Anderson’s eyes snapped opened to see the last flicker of pale blue lightning depart from his bedroom walls, pursued into the night by darkness.
He bolted upright and surveyed the shadowy bedroom with widened eyes, searching his surroundings for the source of what had roused him. By the weakness of the lightning’s pursuing thunderclap, he knew it hadn’t been the storm.
Something moved in the darkness, and Jerry wheeled around to face it.
Outside, the wind gusted against the house and through the nearby treetops, its morose tone overlaid by the sound of rainwater dripping from the gutter. Inside, black shadows swayed on the walls and floor, but he saw nothing to justify his fear.
Nothing yet.
“Get up,” he hissed, shaking his wife.
Margaret Anderson jerked from sleep. “What—” she gasped, but Jerry clapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish.
“I heard something,” he whispered. “In the house.”
Her startled expression cleared, replaced by a look of stark terror. Even in the wan light of the bedside clock the color drained from her face. “No,” she groaned. “It’s been three days. Kern said three days and we’d be safe.”
“Kern’s a fool,” Jerry said. “We were idiots for listening to him.”
Her eyes flicked from his to the door, then back. Lightning flashed outside, and a peal of thunder trembled through the air. They listened to the silence that followed, straining to hear into the deeper reaches of the house.
“You’re certain it wasn’t just another nightmare?” she asked. “We’ve been through this before. You know how real they can be.”
Jerry shook his head. “We should’ve left when we had the chance.”
Turning away, he extracted a .44 revolver from the nightstand, keeping his gaze trained on the bedroom door. When he looked back to his wife, she’d already retrieved the Remington pump-action shotgun from under her side of the bed, just like
they’d practiced.
“Stay here,” he said.
He eased out of bed and walked toward the hallway, holding the gun ready. He forced himself to keep his finger on the trigger guard rather than the trigger itself, afraid his shaking hands might fire the gun prematurely.
Clearing the doorway, he crept down the hall to where the stairs overlooked the foyer. Below, the reassuring red light of the front door’s new security panel glowed in the darkness: Property Secured.
He exhaled his fear in one great breath. If anyone lurked down there, the motion sensors would’ve detected them the moment they entered the room.
I’m a prisoner inside my home. And now even home no longer feels safe.
But maybe it was over; maybe Kern was right?
Lightning flashed outside. It lit the huge window in the adjoining living room and displaced the darkness, illuminating a collage of muddy footprints splattered across the carpet.
Jerry’s heart convulsed.
His jaw trembled; his legs weakened.
“No,” he whispered, clutching the railing for balance.
Darkness devoured the sight, but not before he saw the tracks proceeded up the stairs.
Then it came again, the noise he’d heard earlier.
Not wind. Not rain.
Someone moving through the darkness.
His skin went cold, and he whirled around, tracing the footprints back to the bedroom door, where they faded to nothing more than outlines on the carpet.
Margaret screamed.
“Not her,” Jerry cried.
Bounding faster, he came through the door to find the source of his dread looming at the bedside, silhouetted against the far window. Margaret thrashed on the mattress, battling to free herself from a cocoon of bed sheets wrapped tight around her head and held fast by the attacker’s hand behind her back. Her muffled cries came to him like the screams of a drowning swimmer.
The intruder stood silent, unmoving. Resisting Margaret’s violent struggle elicited no signs of strain whatsoever.
“Get away from her,” Jerry yelled. He thrust the gun forward. “You’re not welcome here. Leave us alone! Go the hell away and don’t ever come back.”
Despite the strength of his words, a cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Need you,” the trespasser replied.
“No,” Jerry cried. “Find someone else to torment. I’m not going to help you. I can’t do what you want.”
Another flash of light played across the sky, and Jerry gasped at what it revealed: his old flannel shirt; Margaret’s faded blue jeans with the patches on the knees. The intruder had taken the clothes off the scarecrow from their garden and now filled the mud-covered garments to the point of nearly bursting the seams. Jerry trembled at the nightmarish sight, mumbling “please” over and over again in a child-like whimper. His eyes searched the dirty burlap sack that made up the thing’s head for the slightest sign of mercy, but no details had ever been added to the simulated head to create a face. The only response to his pleas came in the form of a blank, expressionless stare.
Thunder boomed, shaking the house around them.
The scarecrow extended its free hand, holding forward an old, wooden-handled shovel.
“No,” Jerry mewed. “I won’t.”
The scarecrow’s face wrinkled, creasing into a look of rage. “You have no choice!”
On the bed, Margaret’s wild movements had dwindled to weak clawing actions.
“You’re not supposed to be able to come here anymore,” Jerry shrieked.
With tears slipping from his eyes, he sighted the weapon on the center of the wadded bed sheets and blew two bloody holes through his wife’s shrouded head.
Then, acting before the maniac scarecrow could stop him, he rammed the hot barrel under his chin and fired again.
Want to keep reading?
Check out the rest of the story here:
MATT HULTS - HUSK
* * *
Preview of:
JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL
1
Carrie Paige’s favorite duffle bag in the whole wide world had a picture of Kermit the Frog on both sides. The bag was black and cute and it said IT’S NOT EASY BEING GREEN on the strap and Carrie thought it was the greatest thing she had ever seen. She brought her bag into the backyard with her when she was playing with her dolls, and she was planning on showing it off on her first day of school, which was eleven days away. She was excited. Big kids go to school, her mother often told her. Big kids go to school and little kids stay home. Eleven more sleeps and it would be official; she would be a big kid. She was so excited she could hardly think.
Carrie reached into her Kermit bag and shuffled through her important possessions. This included a flower made of construction paper, playing cards, multicolored rocks, a bag of marbles, a handful of crayons and a plastic horse with a squished head.
The playing cards were always in her Kermit bag. If they were out of the bag she had them spread around so she could see every card at once. They were very special to her. She cherished each and every one of them and as a result the cards looked like hell.
Her favorite boy card was the one that said READY FREDDIE.
Ready Freddie looked so adorable sitting at the kitchen table with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other that sometimes she kissed the card. Freddie had yellow socks, a green bandana, and his tongue was sticking up from his pencil-line lips suggesting that he couldn’t wait another minute to eat.
Her favorite girl card was FANCY NANCY.
Fancy Nancy sat on a pink-and-white striped chair. She had a hat on her head and a mirror in her hand and a purse that looked like a teakettle. Carrie imagined Ready Freddie and Fancy Nancy getting married someday and having babies that looked just like them.
Other cards she loved included Jolly Jean, Corny Carl, Lady Luisa, Skinny Minnie, Jumping Jack, Scary Harry and Slim Jim. Then there was the OLD MAID. Nobody liked the Old Maid. And because nobody liked her, Carrie decided she liked the Old Maid just fine. It was only fair. And her mother always said if you can’t play fair, you shouldn’t play at all.
Carrie pulled a photo album from her bag and put the bag at her feet.
The album had a picture of three Care Bears on the cover: Love-A-Lot Bear, Tenderheart Bear and Bedtime Bear. Care Bears were okay, but they weren’t half as good as Kermit and were nothing next to SpongeBob.
SpongeBob SquarePants and his best friend Patrick were amazing. If she were a resident of Bikini Bottom she would eat at The Krusty Krab every day, just to play Old Maid with the pair of them.
She opened the photo album, which held one picture per page. She flipped through the pages slowly; then she lifted her Coke can from the cup holder and sucked a mouthful through a straw like she was in a drinking race.
After she put the can back in the holder she said, “I hafta go the bathroom.”
Stephenie was thirty years old and looked a whole lot like her daughter. Not so much now, but when she was Carrie’s age the resemblance was spooky. Back then she was cute. Today she was beautiful. She had subtle features, a slim nose and lips that were neither thin nor full. On a day like today she fixed her hair and Carrie’s hair the same way: in adorable little pigtails. The twosome looked so delightful it made you want to barf.
Stephenie said, “What’s that? You need the bathroom?”
“Yeah.”
Stephenie slid a hand along the steering wheel, looked at the gas gauge and said, “Okay. I need to stop anyhow. I’m almost out of gas.” She stuck her tongue out and made a silly face and for a moment, Carrie thought her mother looked like Ready Freddie.
Carrie said, “Really?”
“Yep. The gas gauge is telling me it’s time for a fill up.”
“Are we going to run out of gas? Madeleine Nyssa said that her daddy ran out of gas when they were going to their grandpa’s house and they had to call a doctor to get some help.”
Stephenie pinched her smi
le and tried not to laugh. Sometimes it was impossible not to laugh. Carrie was constantly saying things in ways only a child would consider appropriate. “Madeleine Nyssa told you that, did she?”
“Uh-huh. Yes she did. She also said her mommy got mad at her daddy and they were kissing and then she got a bleeding nose.”
“Oh really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I don’t think we’re going to run out of gas there babe, so don’t get too worried about it.”
“Okay mommy. I won’t get too worried about it. I’ll try to keep my nose from getting all bleedy too.”
Stephenie smiled. “That sounds good. How bad do you need the washroom, really bad?”
Carrie grabbed her Coke and put the straw to her lips and enjoyed another drink. She put the can down and said, “Yes. I have to go really bad. It might come out in my pants a little.”
“Well don’t do that. If you need to pee I’ll stop the car and you can pee at the side of the road. Do you want me to pull over so you can go?”
“No. I can hold it inside my tummy ‘til we find a bathroom.”
Stephenie put pressure on the gas petal and the car moved a little faster. The highway was pretty much empty so she could drive as fast as she wanted. She didn’t need a speeding ticket though, so if worst came to worst she would pull over and Carrie could relieve herself at the side of the road whether she thought it was a good idea or not.
She said, “Do me a favor, babe?”
The Howling Trilogy Page 62
