Our War with Molly Nayfack

by Chris Capps

  And even if they did, she knew they wanted to see it. They wanted to see if Sugarhill had finally snapped and was about to start babbling nonsense. It was something the town would need if another election was about to unfold, if Sugarhill was going to be found unfit to serve the remainder of his term.

  "Jessica," the mayor said taking her wrist in his hand, "Don't screw this up now. You've been around a long time, but you're still green as Sherriff."

  "Mayor," Jessica said, "I'm worried about you. After the crash at the airfield you disappeared. And then all this..."

  "Deputy Frankie," Mayor Sugarhill said, "You like being called Frankie, right?"

  "Yes sir," Deputy Frankie said.

  "If this woman tries to stop me from getting up on that stage, I want her arrested."

  Frankie looked from the mayor to Jessica, clearly terrified by a situation that had quickly blown out of control. He glared at her, wondering why she couldn't control the Mayor or inspire the sort of confidence he needed. Jessica unbuttoned the pistol at her side,

  "I just want to know one thing."

  "Am I going to hurt anyone while I'm up on that stage," the mayor said grimly staring at the unbuttoned holster containing Jessica's .45 caliber, "The answer is no. But I wouldn't button that pistol back up too quickly. I'm telling you. She's close now. Very close."

  "Who?" Frankie asked.

  "Ask your Sherriff," the mayor said, "You'll be able to do that soon enough."

  He pulled Jessica's hand off him, and walked past her, knocking Frankie to the side with his shoulder, opening a space between them like a door as he walked through. Ascending the stage, scattered applause erupted from the assembly. Old lady MacReady pulled the needle from her LP, shutting it down and letting a hushed silence spread across the field. Now only the wind howling from the woods and the crackling of the improvised FIDO fires could be heard. Sugarhill cleared his throat, tapping the microphone at the podium, and began.

  "Ladies and gentlemen. Friends. It is my duty to share a story with you here tonight. We've all heard the name Molly Nayfack, even whispered her name ourselves in the darker untamed moments around the campfire. She's grown in stature from a simple girl who went missing in the woods at the edge of town into something more. She's an urban legend, and she wields all the power of an urban legend. I don't think it's absolutely necessary to tell you that I don't personally believe in ghosts or vampires, and I know that my good friend Sherriff Rind didn't either. But there are things that happen in life, new challenges to the world as we understand it. Things operating outside of our understanding within the human psyche that might make a young man act without thinking. This, my friends, is a confession."

  At the back of the field, sitting in the middle seat on his overstuffed sofa, Harry Tanhauser suddenly became aware of the sound of rustling grass, light footsteps behind him. He craned his head around to see who was approaching, but realized he couldn't see them due to the spotlight situated nearby, behind them. The spotlight was shining light over them onto the stage. And as the figures passed by, they walked directly in front of it. Their shadows were long, projecting all the way up to the stage where they swayed from right to left, casting a row of shadows on the mayor that striped thick black all over the hemisphere he was standing in. They looked like great moving teeth in the mouth of a massive stone creature, or bars in a cage. Sugarhill paused as the shadows started moving across the spotlight. There was a line of them. And then they heard another sound. It was a terrified sound. Almost like sobbing.

  "It is a confession," continued the mayor, "From a man who did a great disservice in his youth to the memory of a girl who did us no harm. I, Mayor Clayton Sugarhill, assisted Sherriff Rind in the cover-up of Molly Nayfack's murder."

  "Did he say murder?" Tanhauser heard from his right ear as he once again strained to look behind him. The shapes were striding in a single file line right behind them. And they said nothing.

  "He said murder," Mike whispered to Felix, noticing a procession silently moving down the field, now silhouetted not by the spotlight projecting onto the stage, but by the fires at the edge designed to disperse the fog. Felix studied the line of people, listening to that part of him that spoke quietly in dreams and intuition. As he watched the row, trying to look at their faces, he noticed they were walking in unison, each foot stepping like they were marching. From the long line, all the shapes were wearing simple ivory masks, obscuring their faces.

  One person in the audience knew what the masks were called. Karl Delance, director of the past six spring plays in Cairo spoke to himself as he said it aloud,

  "They're wearing Volto masks. Volto blanco."

  White, featureless, with two holes where the eyes would be. Karl recognized them immediately, having previously featured one in his local production of Hamlet. And they wore robes too, long flowing deep purple robes that obscured their slight frames. The mayor saw the congregation too, and plastered an unconvincing smile across his face. He stuttered slightly as he continued nervously,

  "Y-Yes, please make room. They'll be out of here soon enough. As I was saying, I assisted in covering up her murder. And then the helicopter crash happened. It was just the sort of thing my administration, in its simple superstitious way, used to blame on Molly, Ms. Nayfack. Molly. It was just the sort of baseless accusation we hurled at ghosts and shadows when we couldn't deal with the fact that problems persisted due to human error. So of course the Sherriff and I, in a moment of extreme scientific negligence, found ourselves disturbing the bones of the girl we had buried together nearly ten years ago. We were, as it turns out, discovered in the midst of our persistent criminal activity. Sherriff Rind was taken away, but I was brought home after explaining the whole story to her."

  "To her?" Jessica said aloud, looking to the McCarthy brothers, then she shouted up onto the stage, "Who?"

  "To Molly Nayfack who, as it turns out, was both dead and," Mayor Sugarhill said, fumbling with his notes, "Not dead. I'm still learning the nature of this situation as it unfolds, so please allow me a moment. Molly Nayfack is not dead, and she is."

  A murmur was slowly gathering in the crowd. Every eye was fixed no longer on the mayor, but on the line of cloaked figures flanking them all, silhouetted by the crackling flames of Tanhauser's FIDO. Old lady MacReady picked up one of her grandchildren, grasping the other firmly by the hand, quickly strolling away through the field back toward home,

  "Leave the blanket, we're going home."

  There was one other figure, toward the front of the line, wearing a robe, but a different sort of mask. Jessica recognized it instantly. It was a hood, much like the one the EMTs had pulled off Sherriff Rind's face on the morning of their perfect day. It was a day that was now quickly coming to an end.

  "Please," the mayor said, "Please don't go."

  A figure at the front of the line broke formation, pulling along with it the hooded figure, helping it up the stairs with a firm grip on both shoulders. Jessica could see that the figure was bound by handcuffs behind its body. She could have sworn she heard the figure speak one word to the hooded man. It had a feminine voice, impossibly gentle,

  "Kneel."

  Jessica was sure of it now. The hooded figure was a man, the masked one a woman. He knelt on the stage as the face behind him glided to the microphone, now standing next to the mayor as he stepped backward. The masked figure reached up slim fingers, wrapping them around the ivory face.

  Slowly, with the dramatic certainty of a ghost, Molly Nayfack pulled the mask down, setting it on the podium. Adjusting the microphone gingerly, pulling it down so that it rested an inch from her crimson lips, she spoke her first four words, smiling as she did,

  "All flesh is grass."

  ***

  Chance Cooper stood in the cold of night, bathed in the swirling fog, straining as he dug.

  "I'm so sorry, Rob," he said, "If you'd held out longer I would've risked it. But if she's gotten to the mayor, I'm not going back. We'll find a
nother way." He stopped momentarily, huffed as he leaned on the shovel, "I'll find another way. Your worries are behind you, though."

  The earth was soft, yielding, cold. He looked back into the cockpit of the helicopter at his old friend Rob Howell. Rob's eyes were dwelling forever now on the clipboard he held in his lap, still open. Not breathing. His work went quickly. Within an hour he had dug to a depth of three and a half feet. He knew a typical grave was supposed to be six feet, but he couldn't stay here. He couldn't be anywhere near town now. He was taking an enormous risk.

  "After this," Chance said under his breath, "I'll head to a house on the outskirts. I'll rustle up some provisions. Maybe a month's worth of food and water. I'll grab that and I'll head back out into the wild. I'll just keep flying until I find a clear place to land. And if I don't, I'll crash into the first body of water I see. From there I might be able to swim out in time. Maybe I'll build a little hut or something. Hell, I don't know. All I know is I've got to get away from this place."

  With the grave dug, Chance considered dragging Rob to it first and then grabbing provisions. No, that wouldn't do. After touching a dead body he knew he would want to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible. He'd grab provisions first, stow them in the modest cargo hold of the helicopter, and then drop Rob in, sprinkling a little dirt over him for good measure. It wasn't the sort of funeral Rob Howell deserved, but it was the only kind he could manage.

  Chance took the backpack from behind his own seat and strapped it on, taking the long winding trail from the windmills at the edge of town toward the only lit house he could see. The power station. He weighed his options. No one would likely be there, but during high wind periods someone had to be there constantly watching over the towers and shutting them down as the weather demanded. Having only recently flown over the clearest day he'd seen in years, he figured that no one would be sent there today. He grabbed the 9mm under his chair and stuck it in his belt.

  Just in case.

  The hike down to the power station was slow as Chance hadn't brought a flashlight with him. He tripped over roots snarling up from the ground, hooking whoever was foolish enough to try and make the journey down to the cabin in the dark. From high on the hill he could see something in the fields, two orange stripes on the other side of town where the amphitheater was.

  "The hell..." he said to himself, pausing for only a moment. It could mean anything. He jogged the last two dozen yards, now listening to his own boots crunching gravel quickly. The sound was loud. Too loud for the landscape he found himself in. Everything except him was deathly quiet.

  He reached the door to the power station and tried the knob. Locked. Of course it was locked. No one was here. He smashed the window with the butt of his pistol, listening to the chorus of glass shards pour down onto the wood floor below. Reaching up, he unlocked the window from the inside and slid it up.

  "Sorry to whoever has to clean this up," he said to himself as he dropped down onto one elbow, barely missing the radius of the glass.

  "I do," said a stern woman's voice accompanied by a cocking shotgun, "I have to clean it up. Hi, stupid."

  The lights flicked on. Melissa Novak was standing over him with the shotgun in her hands, barrel pointed directly at his forehead. Behind her, Melissa's husband Dan held his hand on the light switch. Dan was a thin, frail looking man with grey hair silhouetting the circumference of his nearly bald head and a massive moustache creeping down the sides of his upper lip. He had a plaid robe on over his striped pajamas.

  "What's this?" Dan asked, quickly striding forward and retrieving the ejected shotgun shell, "Dear, you didn't have to cock the shotgun. You just ejected one of the shells."

  "Dan, quit yammering and take the piece off of mister..." Melissa stopped as she lowered the shotgun and scrutinized Chance Cooper's face, "Chance Cooper?"

  "Chance Cooper?" Dan said.

  "Take Mr. Cooper's piece from him," Melissa said, cocking her shotgun again and knocking another unspent shell onto the floor, "Chance, I've got bad news for you, honey. You're supposed to be dead."

  "Who told you that?" Chance asked, raising his hands as Dan took the pistol from him.

  "Newspapers," Melissa said, "And the radio. Saw your helicopter in a heap of wreckage too. Burned to a crisp. Nobody walks away from something like that."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Chance said poking his thumb over his shoulder, "My helicopter is back there on the hill."

  "I believe you," Melissa said holding the shotgun steady at Chance's midriff, "But only because I heard it myself. So what's the deal?"

  "I don't know," Chance said, "I heard the mayor say there was a meeting going on tonight. Molly Nayfack is apparently coming back to town."

  "So?" Dan asked, unloading the clip out of the pistol and ejecting a bullet from the chamber, "So what?"

  "I met her out there," Chance said, "She isn't what she seems to be."

  Melissa raised the shotgun, leaning its barrel over her shoulder, saying,

  "What are we talking about? She some kind of devil?"

  "No," Chance said, "Nothing like that at all. Something worse. Much worse."

  "Worse than devils," Dan said raising his bushy eyebrows as he walked into the kitchen, "You want a glass of cold tea while I phone the Sherriff, Mr. Cooper?"

  "Sherriff's dead, hon," Melissa called back, "Just call the police station. So Mr. Cooper, tell me about this monster Molly Nayfack. What is she?"

  "Ice, Mr. Cooper?" Dan called out.

  "Yeah," Chance said, "I'd kill for some ice water. Or a beer."

  "No beer, I'm afraid," Dan said strolling back with the glass of iced tea, "So this girl, she's evil though is she?"

  "Yeah," Chance said drinking deeply, "Evil is right."

  He winced as he looked down at the tea, tiny fragments of grit swirling in it. The tea was bitter, nearly chewy.

  "Go ahead," Melissa said lowering her shotgun and cocking it again, ejecting another unspent cartridge, "Finish it."

  Dan caught the shell as it flew from the shotgun, chuckling to himself as he rolled the dial over on the CB radio.

  "I'm being drugged," Chance said simply, taking another sip from the tea, "What's in this."

  "Just tea," Melissa said pulling a thin cigarette from her pocket, "And I sincerely hope you drink it."

  "Drink it, Chance," Dan said as he picked up the CB microphone, "It'll relax you. A lot."

  Chance felt his knees begin to buckle. The room slowly tilted, causing him to sway sideways. Melissa leaned her head over at an impossible angle,

  "What do you think? I can't believe how much he drank before he noticed."

  Dan walked forward, his head bubbling, inflating like a balloon with bushy eyebrows the size of tree tops. He shook his head to the tune of a throbbing heart,

  "He's a runner. Chance, is someone looking for you?"

  Chance smiled, raising the glass to his lips and dropping it on the floor. The glass shattered like a fluffy cloud, sending sparkling glittering ice all over the wooden floor between his boots.

  "Chance," Melissa said.

  "Chance," Dan said. They were both saying it, echoing the words between them. There was a light outside, up on the hill behind them. Chance slowly, with the weight of an iceberg on his back spun in the crunching glass and looked out the window. There was a glowing helicopter outside, lit up like a Christmas tree. He tried to hold his hand against the window, but noticed that it passed right through, breaching into a world of cool breeze and mist. He reached further toward his helicopter, feeling the cold air on the palm of his hand, losing his footing on the floor as he strained to reach out toward it.

  "Why did you light your helicopter on fire?" Melissa asked, her eyebrows pursed above her head, "And where did you get that helicopter?"

  "Hello, this is Dan Novak up on the hill. We're at the power station. I need you to send an officer up here. We've got a problem. Chance Cooper's up here. He's alive. And his helic
opter is outside. It's on fire."

  Chance found himself sitting on the couch with Melissa talking to him. She was laughing,

  "Someone wants you dead, Chance. I don't know who, but they torched your ride out of here. Looks like you're going to be here a while. Hey, you might even be able to attend your own funeral. They're having it in a couple days."

  "What did I drink?" Chance asked, "Is this it for me?"

  "Just some tea," Melissa said, "You're going to be fine. It's going to be like this a few hours, but you'll sleep it off. And then you'll be in police custody. You can explain everything to them."

  "Melissa," Dan said looking out the window, "There's a woman out there by the helicopter. She's coming this way. Looks kind of strange."

  "Shoot..." Chance said as his eyelids began to lower, and his pupils began to lose focus, "Shoot."

  Shoot her. Please shoot her.

  As he slipped from consciousness, Chance dreamed of a knife slashing Dan Novak's throat, fire so hot burning the cabin around them, and being carried from the house, watching it burn behind him.

  Being carried into the woods.

  ***

  "All flesh is grass," Molly said again spreading her arms out to the congregation at her feet, "The penitent Mayor Sugarhill is correct. He did assist in a murder. One that may take some of you a bit of time to fully understand. But Sugarhill has paid his debt with his resignation."

  There was a hissing sound to the right of the field where Harry Tanhauser's FIDO line had been crackling a moment before. And in a chorus of hisses, the entire line of fire simply vanished, having been extinguished by something. A few of those present were able to make out what was beyond the steam and the smoke rising from the line. There were still more masked shapes, their hands holding buckets to douse the flame. The figures stepped over the cold black burn lines and back into the mist, into the night. The whole thing was abrupt, nearly instantaneous. And as the townspeople sat staring at one another with the fog slowly rolling in from the right, Molly continued,