“Yeah, they’re carpenters.”
“Do they have guns?” Bill asked.
“I know they hunt.”
“We can scratch one of them off the list.” Hank put question marks behind each name. “Anyone else?”
“There’s Charles Anderson and his wife, Catherine. Oh, wait. Does the Andersons’ dog count?”
“Was it in the water?” Hank asked.
“Joey kept throwing Hercules’s toys in the pool to fetch. Charles got all over him.”
“What breed of dog?”
“Hercules is a huge rottweiler.”
Bill let out an exasperated breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Let’s just say Hank and I aren’t fond of big dogs.” Bill glanced over at Hank. “So what’s the tally?”
Hank consulted his notes. “I’m counting five dead, which leaves six people who are possibly infected, eliminating Sherry.”
Hank walked across the small kitchen. He grabbed the phone off the wall and pressed the receiver to his ear. “The phone’s dead.”
“Do you have a cell phone?” Bill asked Sherry.
“Earl took mine to the party, as his needed to be charged.”
“There’s no other phone in the house?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m sorry. There isn’t.”
“That only leaves our car radio.” Hank glanced down the hall.
Earl was sitting up. His skin was red as molten lava. He grabbed the handle of the meat cleaver. He rocked the blade back and forth and yanked it from his forehead.
“We have a serious problem,” Hank said.
Bill and Sherry witnessed the man they had presumed dead rise to his feet.
“Oh my God, Earl! You’re alive!” Sherry’s voice was a mixture of relief and dread.
Bill watched bewildered. “Your husband must have a thick skull.”
Sherry’s husband’s face was beet red, the whites of his eyes fluorescent.
“Honey, everything is going to be okay. These are policemen.”
“Put the meat cleaver down! Now!” Bill ordered.
“You heard him!” Hank shouted.
Instead of heeding their warnings, Earl advanced toward the kitchen. It was strange watching him walk as though he were a toddler, unsure of himself, taking his first steps. His face drooped as if he might cry. He worked his jaw, as if chewing on the words, and uttered, “You know, Sherry, you really hurt me.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Yeah, you’ll be sorry!” Earl charged into the kitchen and ran straight for Sherry, raising the meat cleaver over his head, ready to strike.
Bill knocked Earl up against the wall.
The meat cleaver swung down, narrowly missing Bill as he stepped out of the way.
Earl kept swinging the blade.
Hank shot him point-blank in the chest.
Sherry screamed.
Earl stumbled back. He gave his head a quick shake, as if he were clearing his mind. He raised the meat cleaver.
Bill pressed the muzzle of his .38 against Earl’s temple and pulled the trigger.
Earl careened off the kitchen table and onto the floor.
“Let’s get out of here.” Hank led the way out of the kitchen. He turned into the living room. Instead of going directly to the front door, he decided to peek between the curtains to see if the shotgun-toting maniac was still out there, waiting to ambush. “Oh, this isn’t good.”
Bill and Sherry came over to peer out the window.
A fiery ball of black smoke engulfed the Crown Victoria.
***
“You’re not safe here alone. You’d better come with us,” Hank told Sherry.
Bill kept a vigilant watch through the window. “I don’t see anyone.”
“All right. Let’s go see if the phone’s working next door.” Hank exited through the backway and started up the side of the house.
“Hank, wait!” Bill stopped him. “He might be waiting for us out front. Let’s take a shortcut.” Like a mule, Bill did a side kick, knocking out a fence board. He ripped two more boards out.
They squeezed through the opening and into the adjacent backyard.
The sliding glass door was wide open. Hank made sure the coast was clear, then stepped inside. “It’s okay.”
Bill strode directly to the kitchen phone. He picked up the receiver, shook his head. “They must have cut the main feed.”
Suddenly, they heard running footsteps outside.
“Whose house is this again?” Hank whispered to Sherry.
“Rob and Carl’s, the carpenters I told you about.”
“Go, go!” Hank shouted, backing out of the kitchen.
Bill and Sherry dashed down a hallway.
“Hey, assholes!” the man yelled, stomping into the kitchen. He pumped a round into the shotgun he had taken from the Crown Vic. He was the spitting image of Ron Perlman’s character, Hellboy, with the lobster-red skin but without the devilish sawed-off horns.
Bill opened a door leading into the garage. “Where’s the opener?”
“To your right.” Sherry pointed to a spot next to the furnace.
Hank shut the door.
Bill pressed the button on the wall.
They rushed toward the garage door.
The roll-up door didn’t move.
“Damn! They must have cut the electricity.” Hank looked around for somewhere to hide.
A Chevy Sierra was parked on one side of the two-car garage. On the other side was a workbench with enough tools to stock a small hardware store. A workout area was set up with a weight-training bench, a treadmill, and a rack of dumbbells next to a full-length mirror on the wall. A large steel utility box was on the cement floor—the type normally mounted behind the cab in the bed of a pickup truck.
The door leading into the garage exploded in a loud flurry of woodchips.
“Hey! Dickheads!” the infected man growled. He stepped into the garage, pushing aside the door with the gaping hole. Fresh cartridges were stuffed inside the waistband of his swim trunks. He drew back the slide, pumping another shell into the chamber. There was a shuffling sound behind the truck. He turned toward it and fired, blowing out the passenger window.
Bill appeared on the other side of the garage, holding his gun down by his side. “From where I’m standing, I’d say you’re the dickhead.”
The crazed man shot Bill.
Bill shattered into a thousand shiny shards.
Then the real Bill stepped out from behind the truck, no longer casting his image on the full-length mirror.
Hank popped up from behind the utility box.
The detectives dropped the man before he could fire another shot.
Sherry pushed open the truck door with her foot. She was covered with chips of safety glass.
Hank holstered his gun and helped Sherry out of the truck. “You okay?”
“I thought he had us for sure.”
Bill checked the man’s pulse to make sure he was dead. “Well, now we only have five to worry about.”
* * *
As there was no longer the threat of being gunned down in the street, they went back into the house and out the front door.
Hank glanced over at Sherry. “Donald and his daughter live next door?”
“That’s right,” she said.
Bill put away his gun. “What if the little girl is infected? I wouldn’t have the heart to shoot her.”
“We can lock her in a room or something,” Hank said.
“Donald’s a really nice guy,” Sherry said. “Such a devoted father. I’d hate to see him get hurt.”
“You saw what happened to your husband,” Bill said. “For all we know, this chemical could be a contagion. One bite and . . .”
“Jesus, Bill. These aren’t zombies,” Hank said.
“Don’t be so sure.”
When they came to the next house, the front door wasn’t closed all the way.
Hank took a quick p
eek inside. “Sherry, call into the house.”
“Donald? Cindy? It’s Sherry! You guys want to come out?”
There was no answer from inside the house.
“They must still be over at the Andersons’,” Sherry said.
Bill glanced through a window. “Think we should check anyway?”
“I like our odds better out here.” Hank closed the door.
They took a shortcut across the lawn and let themselves into the Andersons’ house.
Whole mushrooms, chopped meat cubes, and green bell pepper slices trailed across the floor into the kitchen, ending at a chubby kid’s head, where the pointy end of a stainless-steel skewer protruded from his ear canal.
The pudgy boy wore a pair of wet swim trunks and only one flip-flop. His entire body was a crimson rash from the chemical burn.
Sherry gasped. “Oh my God! It’s Joey!”
Bill removed the tablecloth from the kitchen table and covered the boy.
Hank drew his revolver. “This might be a good time to reload.”
Bill had brought along the 12-gauge. He fished some cartridges out of his trouser pocket and inserted them into the feed.
Hank ejected the spent shells from his .38 and inserted six new rounds with the speedloader.
Sherry sniffed. “Do you smell that?”
Bill took a whiff. “Smells like someone’s barbecuing.”
They walked out onto the backyard patio.
The back lawn was littered with party supplies, canned drinks, and tossed-about furniture. A shed stood beneath a cluster of shade trees. A very large doghouse nestled along the fence.
Maggie floated in the middle of the pool.
A burly, shirtless man in a pair of baggy shorts stood in front of a stainless-steel barbecue with his back turned. His skin was Martian red.
A couple of ice chests, both lids propped open, were by his feet.
“Charles?” Sherry called out.
Charles didn’t respond.
They moved a little closer. Sherry took another step toward her neighbor. “Charles? Where’s Catherine?”
Not bothering to turn around, Charles grumbled, “She’s cooking.”
“We didn’t see her in the kitchen,” Sherry said.
Charles raised a metal tool. He clanged it across the grill.
“Sir?” Bill said. “Where is your wife?” He kept his gun trained on the man.
“Cooking, I told you!” Charles turned. He gripped the handle of a machete.
A large shank of meat cooked on the grill.
Hank glanced down at the contents of one of the ice chests. “Christ almighty! He’s chopped up his wife!”
“Hi, Sherry.”
Sherry turned toward the voice. A little girl in a bathing suit stood near the shed. She looked like a fairy powdered with red pixie dust.
“Cindy? Are you okay?” Sherry stepped toward the girl.
“Sherry, be careful,” Bill warned.
A man stepped out from behind the shed. His skin was flaming red. His wild hair made him look like a madman.
Sherry was caught by surprise. “Donald, it’s okay. We want to help you.”
Donald snatched up his daughter. He dangled her off the ground by her hair as if she were a Barbie doll.
“Donald, stop!” Sherry cried. “Put her down!”
Bill aimed the shotgun. He took a bead on the father. “You heard the lady. Put the kid down!”
Donald snarled, tossing his daughter to the ground. He dashed back behind the shed.
“Cindy, are you hurt?” Sherry rushed over to the little girl.
Cindy sat up, one hand behind her back.
“It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you.” Sherry knelt beside Cindy. “See? We just want to help—”
Cindy swung her tiny arm around, driving a meat skewer into Sherry’s stomach. She yanked out the thin steel.
Grabbing her belly, Sherry slumped onto her side and curled up into a ball.
The little girl stepped away, laughing.
Bill rushed over to help Sherry.
Donald appeared from behind the shed. He swung a heavy mallet, striking Bill across the shoulder and causing him to drop the shotgun.
Bill immediately went down, landing on his back. He drew his .38.
Donald smashed Bill’s hand with the mallet, knocking the revolver away. The gun clattered across the cement patio into the pool.
Donald raised the mallet once more.
A huge shape charged from behind a tree and attacked Donald. The enormous rottweiler ripped into the man with its powerful teeth. The dog’s eyes were as red as cherry tomatoes. Yellow drool foamed at its mouth—a good indicator that the canine was infected.
The massive dog turned on the detectives.
Donald crawled away toward the shed, taking advantage of the distraction.
Bill clutched his bruised shoulder with his sprained hand. He scooted backward across the patio.
Hank was preparing to shoot the dog when Charles lunged at him with an ice chest.
Turning his gun on Charles, Hank fired, trying his best for a headshot. When the ice chest blocked his target, he shot Charles in the groin, figuring that would stop him for sure.
Charles kept coming, ignoring the devastating injury, the front of his swim trunks blotched red. Blood streamed down his hairy legs and onto his bare feet.
After firing his last round, Hank dropped his .38. He reached down for his backup piece.
Charles threw the cooler.
It sailed over Hank and landed in the pool with a big splash.
Hank drew his .380 as Charles came at him wielding the machete.
Stepping back, Hank realized he was at the edge of the pool. His only option was to get on the diving board.
The platform bounced as he climbed up. Each backward step caused the board to bounce more.
Charles swung the machete.
Hank’s heels jutted over the edge of the board. He fired his gun.
Charles’s head stuttered back with each shot. The big man belly flopped onto the diving board, leaving Hank only standing room.
Suddenly, he was bouncing up and down. Hank bent his knees, keeping pace with the wobbling platform, not wanting to lose his balance and fall into the toxic water. He couldn’t have been more afraid if he were teetering on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
Once the diving board was steady, Hank called over to Bill. “How’re you doing?”
“Not so dandy, buddy.” Bill staggered toward the edge of the pool.
Cindy came up behind Bill and stabbed him in the back of the thigh with the meat skewer.
He twisted around.
She yanked out the cooking tool and stabbed him in the other leg.
“Jesus, kid! What the hell!” Bill stumbled back. He slipped on the wet cement, went down, rolled over the edge into the pool—and landed on the air mattress.
He held on frantically, trying not to flip over. His shoes were soaking wet. When he lifted his feet, he heard his .380 automatic fall into the water. He stared down into the chlorinated water, watching his gun sink to the bottom of the pool.
Cindy got down on her knees. She jabbed the sharp tip of the meat skewer at the air mattress, hoping to pop it. Bill jerked away, causing the air mattress to drift beyond her reach.
“Hold on. I’ll help you.” Hank raised one foot to cross over Charles’s prone body.
Hercules clambered onto the diving board with his massive front paws.
“Get off, you damn dog!” Hank yelled.
The brute dog jolted to a stop. A long, heavy-duty chain was attached to its collar; the other end of the chain was wrapped around a tree trunk. Hercules strained forward, slipping the chain one inch closer to the detective.
Hank knelt on Charles’s shoulder blades, eye-to-eye with the beast.
Cindy knew enough to stay clear of the infected animal. She tiptoed around the edge of the pool. The demented girl taunted Bill, squatting to stir the letha
l tip of the meat skewer in the water.
“What now?” Bill asked, floating helplessly out in the middle of the pool.
Hercules snarled. The dog tugged on the chain, edging another inch closer to Hank, who was teetering on the edge of the diving board.
“I guess we wait and see what happens.”
***
Lately, Clare’s cases had been a living nightmare. Well, not exactly living, as all of her work generally revolved around the deceased. It exhausted her just to look at the workload piled on her desk. The past few weeks, the durations of her shifts ranged anywhere from ten to twelve hours.
This place is turning me into a walking zombie.
It was a wonder she remembered where she lived; she spent so much time at the station. At least she hadn’t forgotten Bill’s special day, which was—
Oh my God! It’s tonight!
She rushed over to her personal locker and grabbed the gift bag inside, then checked her watch. There was a slight chance Bill might still be a work. She wanted desperately to give him his present before he left.
Clare bolted out of her office and dashed down the hall.
When she reached the squad room, only a couple detectives were sitting at their desks, neither of them Bill.
“Damn,” she grumbled, walking over to Bill’s desk.
“What’s up?”
Clare turned and spotted Todd Silverman strolling into the office. He was off duty, wearing his civvies: a short-sleeved cotton shirt hanging out of his blue jeans and a pair of sneakers. She could see the telltale bulge of his service revolver under his shirt at the beltline.
“I was hoping . . . You haven’t seen Bill and Hank around, have you?”
“Nope. Why?”
“I wanted to—”
The phone rang on Hank’s desk.
“Think we should get it?” Clare asked Todd.
“Sure. Why not? Take a message.”
Clare picked up the phone. “Hello? Oh, hi, Jackie. No, Hank’s not here at the moment.” Clare paused to listen for a few seconds. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you called. Okay. Bye.” Clare scrunched her brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“That was Hank’s wife. She was expecting Hank to be home a couple of hours ago. She tried his cell phone, even called Bill’s. No one’s returned her calls. She sounded worried.”
In Case of Carnage Page 15
