Coda

by Keith Knapp

  “It’s okay,” Mike said. “I understand, but-”

  Blackie and Tan Sock simultaneously bolted through the entrance.

  Mike let go of a round. It landed in the floor of the hallway behind Blackie and Tan Sock. A good shot Mike Randal was apparently not.

  Seeing his opportunity to protect his new mistress—hell, it was his duty now—Roscoe launched himself at Blackie. The two animals collided in mid-air and fell to the ground, Roscoe miraculously on top. The St. Bernard opened his jaws wide then clamped them down tight on Blackie’s snout. Sophia turned away before she could see blood discharge from the dog-thing’s face, so she didn’t see Tan Sock tackle Roscoe from the side, sending them both skidding across the floor.

  She did, however, see them hit the far wall as they came into her view, and the dog-thing had the clear advantage. Sophia ran to the fight, and like a football kicker going for the extra points, planted her shoe into Tan Sock’s ribcage. The hound spiraled off of Roscoe and bamphed into the wall. Before it could get back to its feet, Jillian landed a bullet in the dog-thing’s head and it slumped to the ground.

  Mike shot at Blackie. The hound fell back, a bullet in its throat, gargled, shook its head, then sought the enemy that had fired. It locked eyes with Mike and moved toward the center of the room for a fresh attack.

  From the hallway came a growl. Although calling it a growl wasn’t fair. This was more than a growl—it was something else entirely, something none of them would be able to describe because none of them had ever heard a sound like it before.

  Diamond Patch got back up, blood still oozing from its head wound, then lunged forward over its fallen brothers and attacked Mike, taking him down to the floor. Mike’s ass hit the ground with a thump as the force from the impact sent his revolver flying across the room. The weapon slid along the wooden planks and came to a stop against the far wall. Sure, he was out of bullets, but the butt of a gun was better than nothing. Ah, who was he kidding? These things couldn’t be killed.

  Mike waited for the burning sensation of teeth entering his arms, or head, or throat, or all of the above.

  And now Brett vaulted across the room, holding the broom like a baseball bat. He swung at the animal about to gnaw into Mike’s right arm with all the power of a star hitter. The broom cracked in two with a snap. The dog-thing fell off Mike, dazed.

  “Brett, move!” Rachel yelled.

  A shot flew out of Rachel’s gun as Brett jumped out of her sights. Diamond Patch took the bullet in the side and rolled away.

  Rachel, Jillian and the others huddled together in a small semi-circle. Mike got to his feet and joined them and they faced the doorway that no longer housed a door. Roscoe had given up his protection duties and was instead intent on letting Sophia be the protector. The dog cowered himself behind her legs, blood from Tan Sock still dripping from his teeth. The blood was black and gummy, not at all something Roscoe enjoyed being in his mouth.

  The wood floor was now covered in this blacky goo and sprinkled with the footsteps of the humans and the paw prints of the beasts.

  Rubbing Roscoe’s sides, Sophia felt for a puncture wound, a broken bone or any kind of injury. Finding none, she smiled and said, “Atta boy.”

  All they had to do now was walk over the three hounds on the floor and they were free.

  But before they could, Diamond Patch was back on his feet and standing guard by Blackie and Tan Sock, who had amazingly not returned from the dead like their leader (yet). Rachel aimed her gun, ready to let her last round have a go at Diamond Patch.

  “Jesus kid, just shoot the thing!” Mike yelled.

  So she did.

  And all she got was a click.

  “Misfire,” she whispered to herself.

  Diamond Patch almost smiled at this—it really, really wanted to smile—like it knew that last bullet wouldn’t fire and it had just been waiting for her to try it. It moved to Blackie and licked its head. It was an unsightly act for this animal, this grotesque thing with a shrinking hole in its head. Diamond Patch’s tongue squirted out between two of its long canines and lapped at the opening in Blackie’s head, licking up blood. Blackie’s eyes opened and Diamond Patch let out a small whine, that of a dog happy to see that its best friend is A-Okay. Diamond Patch then turned to Tan Sock and did the same, licking the animal’s wound clean. Within a few moments, old Tan Sock was back on all fours.

  “Shit,” said Mike.

  The hounds looked up at him. Then in unison all of their eyes turned to Rachel. Diamond Patch sniffed the air then snarled at the terrified woman standing six feet away with an empty revolver poised at its skull.

  Diamond Patch cocked its head first to the left, then to the right. Its platoon relaxed, taking their lead from their general. They waited.

  Inching closer to Rachel, Diamond Patch sniffed the air. Rachel stepped back a foot, then two, then she was at the wall with nowhere else to go.

  Diamond Patch paused. It turned to Blackie and moaned. Blackie gruffed back.

  Then both of them shot a glance at Jillian and attacked her.

  They moved so fast there was nothing anyone could do. Even if they had had a full arsenal of bullets and high-powered weapons at their disposal, it would have done them no good.

  Diamond Patch took one of Jillian’s arms in its mouth, Blackie the other, and she screamed in pain. Bones cracked (a noise Rachel was becoming all too familiar with) and bright red blood soared into the air, spraying Sophia and Rachel.

  Mike sprinted to the one holding Jillian’s left arm (her skull and bones tattoo now swimming in blood) and gave the dog-thing a Mike Tyson punch in the ribs. The animal’s hind feet slid on the blood below it, but it didn’t let go. Next Mike pulled out his pocket-knife, and as he went to jab the business end of it into the ribcage of the dog-thing he found himself falling to the ground as Tan Sock knocked him over with a head-butt to his right leg. The pocket-knife flew into the air and landed somewhere on the other side of the room.

  The sharp end of a broomstick entered Diamond Patch’s hide with a wet crunch. Brett grimaced as it went in an inch, then two, then no further as it hit rock hard muscle. He let go of the broom and along with Rachel took a chunk of the animal in his hands and began to pull. Harder and harder they tugged, trying to get the beast to let go. Its teeth were buried deep into the trucker’s arm, and they were more apt to pull her arm off than to get the dog-thing to let go.

  Crying in agony, Jillian went down. Her shirt, soaked in her own blood, stuck to her body. Diamond Patch and Blackie then began to drag her toward the door, leaving a dark red river-trail of blood.

  Keeping guard on the humans, Tan Sock warned them with a harsh stare: If you try and save your friend, she won’t be the only one leaving with us.

  Out the door Jillian went. Her feet lashed out wildly in the air, kicking, peddling, trying to find purchase, much like Diamond Patch’s had only a few short hours ago. Her shoes slipped in blood. Diamond Patch and Blackie got her to the staircase, turned, and pulled her down with them.

  She screamed the entire way.

  Rachel stood there silently, like the rest of them, holding her breath (also like the rest of them), until she saw Tan Sock turn and follow the others down the stairway. Once they were out of sight Rachel let out a breath, her entire torso shrinking as her lungs released air.

  Two full minutes went by as they listened to the animals lug Jillian out the front door and into the street. Her pain and cries built into a crescendo, then suddenly stopped with an audible crunch.

  “Jesus,” Mike said. “I need to change my shorts.”

  33.

  No wind came out of the sky to deafen the sounds of the gunshots as they jerked Jody out of her slumber like an alarm clock turned up way too loud. Her heart jumped to her throat as one shot—then two more in quick succession—fired off from somewhere outside. A man yelled—she couldn’t make out what he said—then there was another bang.

  Up off the floor now. No cot
for her—like hell if she was gonna lay down on that germ-infested thing. Not that the floor was any better, she supposed. She had no idea how she had been able to get to sleep, but she had. After the bug-man fell apart and his roach and spider components went their separate ways, exhaustion overcame her.

  And now there were gunshots. Great.

  Stretching to bring her eyes above the windowsill, she saw that there were no cowboys out there fighting off masked men robbing a bank. In fact, there was no one out there at all.

  Another shot.

  The hotel. The noise was coming from the hotel. She looked behind her to make sure Mr. Bug Man wasn’t coming back, then pointed her eyes at the decrepit building in question. At first glance everything seemed fine; the only clue to trouble was auditory. No movement on the upper floor that she could make out. Down to the ground floor.

  The windows. One of them had been shattered and she was pretty sure it hadn’t been that way before. Then again, maybe it had been. She hadn’t exactly taken an inventory of things when she entered the town. A lot had happened in the past day or so, too. Jody’s mind had filled up with things to remember and worry about a few months ago.

  Another shot rang out, followed by more yelling. There were female voices mixed in with the male one this time. A group was in there, a group of crazies shooting wildly at something. And the noises seemed to originate from the hotel—echoes could be a tricky thing. The madness she was hearing could theoretically be coming from anywhere. All this time she had been hoping she wasn’t alone in the town and now she was wishing she was anything but. Soon the nut jobs in the hotel (or wherever they were) would get bored and come outside. Eventually they’d find her and she’d be facing a whole new nightmare.

  Keeping out of sight was probably a good idea, so she ducked down from the window. Another loud bang as a gun went off again—and that’s when Jody decided it was paramount she get the hell out of the jail cell.

  A woman screamed. And this one wasn’t like the others.

  This was a scream of pain.

  Maybe they weren’t all loony up there. Maybe a team of crazy Texas Chainsaw Massacre-types had found someone (someone just like her) and were having their way with her in the hotel. They had shot her all to hell, or maybe just fired off some guns to scare her silly, and now they were…she didn’t want to think about what they might be doing to the poor woman now.

  Jody dashed to the cell doors and rattled them again. She slipped a hand through the bars, shoved a pinky in the keyhole on the other side and felt around for a latch. Even if she happened upon it she might not know it—this was her first jailcell. There was always some jailbreak for situations like this in the movies. Or a guard to trick into giving you the keys. She didn’t see either of those things happening today.

  Her nail came in contact with something square-shaped in the keyhole. She pushed her finger in further and was able to get the meat of her pinky against whatever it was. She pushed at it, hoping that it was a really old lock, rusted by time and the elements and that it’d simply disintegrate from the force of her finger. It didn’t.

  An idea seized upon her. She reached into her pocket for her iPod and unplugged the earbuds with the hastiness of a surgeon that needs to get to the patient’s heart before it fails. The plug fit into the keyhole easily enough, and she forced it up to where she had felt what she hoped was the locking mechanism. Her pinky pushed against the jack.

  The woman in the hotel screamed again and this time it was so earsplitting Jody dropped the earbud jack. It didn’t sound like the woman was in the hotel anymore, but rather outside on the street. Her cries grew deafening…and were then were quickly muffled.

  Crunch.

  Jody ran back to the window to see the three dog-things that had chased her into the sheriff’s office surrounding a body on the street. The morning was bright enough for her to see the woman’s blood-soaked arms between the jaws of two of them. The third stood by the woman’s head, its teeth around her skull.

  That was enough of that. She ducked down before they could spot her then crawled back to the cell door on her hands and knees. She retrieved the earbud jack but paused before returning to her new profession of locksmith. Was getting out of here right now really such a hot idea? With those things out there, where would she go? If she stayed in here, she’d be safe.

  At least that’s what she hoped.

  * * *

  Stepping over the blood trail left by Jillian was useless. Whether Mike wanted it or not (and he most certainly did not) there was going to be more blood on his shoes. With each pull up of a shoe, he felt his sneaker hold back a little, wanting to stay in the vital life fluid on the ground. Kuh-thuck, kuh-thuck, kuh-thuck.

  They followed the trail down the stairs. At the bottom lay the broken broom handle Brett had used to stab Diamond Patch with. One of the others must have pulled it out. If there was one thing they had learned about these creatures, it was that they were keen on taking care of one another.

  The blood path continued to the front door, where it then took a sharp left, traveled to the broken window, up, then out. They had dragged poor Jillian right through the window.

  “My God,” uttered Sophia. The blood was more than just a path, it was a river that flowed to the last seconds of Jillian’s life. Sophia’s knees trembled. She reached out for the railing and missed. Down to the ground she folded, collapsing onto all fours. She retched from her throat. “My G-God,” she said again between coughs.

  The group knelt down next to her. Brett patted her back. Patted, then rubbed, patted, then rubbed. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  The retching made it difficult for Sophia to breathe. “It’s…it’s not…okay,” was all she was able to get out.

  Bending lower, Mike looked into her eyes. Or tried to. They were closed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Sophia, listen to me. We have to move.”

  “Give ‘er a minute,” Rachel said.

  Sophia put up a hand. “No, no. I’m okay. He’s right.” She stood and Brett’s hand fell down her back. She grabbed it and held onto it tightly. “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’ll be okay,” Brett said.

  They found their way to the back door via a kitchen which looked like it had not seen a proper cleaning since Nixon was president. Black metal pots, the kind that may have been made by hand back in the days when the town was thriving with people, sat criss-crossed in a sink full of filth, slime and grime. Ants were having a little party in the slime portion of the unpleasantness, running to and fro, high on whatever it was they’d been eating.

  Placing two paws on the edge of the sink, Roscoe inspected, sniffed, then shook his head. Whatever he smelled, it wasn’t something he liked—no yum-yums in there. He shook his head again, trying to get the vile scent out of his nostrils, letting out the dog equivalent of yuck as his paws fell back to the floor.

  Dawn had given way to morning, and it was going to be a bright one. Without a cloud in the sky, the sun peppered intense radiance down on the little town.

  The mountains in the distance behind the hotel towered over them. The greenery was alive and full and went all the way to the top—a good three- four-thousand feet. Even from this distance they could see the trees—elms and chestnuts and maples and oaks—waver in the breeze. They slowly danced to music only they could hear, and they danced well.

  They turned down the alley between the hotel and the building next to it. Slowly they made their way to the main road. Mike listened, and heard nothing. He peered around the corner as they came to the front of the hotel.

  Jillian’s trail of blood ruined the otherwise picture-perfect day. The fluid, of which Jillian seemed to have quite a bit of (Not anymore, Mike thought grimly), exited the hotel window, then took an abrupt left away from them. It angled away from the buildings for a few feet, then stopped. A pool of it had formed there, paw-prints encircling it. But there was no body and no dog-things.

  Across the street was a sh
eriff’s office, though.

  “Across the street,” Mike said. “We’ll head over there.”

  Rachel looked at him, perplexed. “Why?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  That wasn’t good enough for her. “Those things are still out here.”

  “We can’t stay in the hotel forever,” Mike said.

  “What if they come back?” Rachel understandably wanted to know.

  “Then we run like hell into the nearest building,” Sophia answered.

  Mike nodded as he surveyed their surroundings once more, taking note of which buildings looked like prime examples of a good place to hide from monster hell beasts. The door to the ice cream parlor was open a crack, as was the sheriff’s office. And maybe there was something more they could make use of in there. In fact, Mike was pretty damn sure of it. Plus, he still had his trusty pocket knife. Mike Randal would not go down without a fight. Or at least a small sharp knife in an eye of his hellish attacker.

  “Whatever’s happening, we can’t just sit around,” said Mike. “The ice cream place is open. We know the saloon is open, which doesn’t do us much good but there was a second floor.”

  “We keep searching for Jody,” added Sophia.

  Mike nodded. “And once we find here, we leave.”

  So Rachel, Brett, Sophia and Roscoe followed Mike toward the sheriff’s office. They were all careful not to step in any more of Jillian’s blood.

  34.

  Jody couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking. She placed them on her knees, pressed down hard, felt the vibrations travel down to her feet. Soon her entire body was shaking and there was simply nothing she could do to stop it.

  Her earbuds hung limply from the keyhole, the jack still waiting to do its job. Her hands, her arms, her everything, shook so badly that she doubted she’d be able to place her finger back in that keyhole. But that was okay. She was safe in here, cowering on the floor. Safe from those things outside.

  A rustle came from somewhere. The front. The things had come back and now they were trying to get in through the front door. They knew she was in here. They’d find a way into the cell, chew through the bars if they had to (Jody had a feeling they could do that), and then do to her what they had done to that woman outside the hotel.