Ghostland

by Duncan Ralston

  "I smell cigar smoke," Lilian said.

  Ben sniffed and caught a faint whiff over the heady fumes.

  He remembered the gangster ghost in the flat cap, firing this Tommy Gun with a cigar stub in his mouth, and hoped he was wrong.

  The tank had filled about three-quarters of the way. It would last several hours, maybe even all night depending on what Demont was powering. "Good enough," he said. He screwed on the cap and they continued onward, eyeing the deck of the Sea Dream as they slipped between it and the run-down mobile home.

  "Psst! Psst! Hey, kids!"

  The man was sitting on the porch steps of the trailer home with his elbows on his knees. Ben thought he looked vaguely familiar: handsome, clean-cut, short dark hair. He wore a loose blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sweat-soaked at the underarms and tucked into his khakis. A brown leather belt matched his shoes; all three had shiny brass buckles.

  Was he a ghost? Ben had no idea, but it didn't seem like he meant them harm. He looked scared himself. The trailer looked in worse shape. Dingy curtains hung like a dead woman's limp hair behind dusty, cracked windows and screens with holes. The aluminum siding, once white, now almost purely gray with age and grime, had rusted and peeled back in places, leaving jagged, dangerous edges. The roof had collapsed on one side. A pile of dead leaves lay against the inside of the screen door.

  "Little help?" the man asked.

  Ben took a step forward. Lilian grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back.

  "That's him," she whispered.

  "Him who?"

  Ben saw the handcuffs securing the man to the rusty, paint-flecked railing. He'd been trying his best to hide them behind his hip but there wasn't much room on the small staircase leading up to the trailer home. And then Ben realized where he recognized the man from: it was Detective Beadle's suspect, the rich kid who'd gotten away with murder. Stan must have confronted him here, managed to cuff him and then went off to find help before the whole damned place went to hell.

  Stan might still be alive, he thought ecstatically. But he wouldn't get his hopes up. There'd already been enough disappoint today.

  "What's with the handcuffs?" he asked the man.

  The murderer chuckled. He rattled them with an awkward smile. "Someone's sick idea of a joke. Listen, I need help. It's not safe for me here." He glanced back at the screen door. It banged lightly against the jam, twice, as if someone with very little strength was trying to open it from the inside.

  "We know who you are," Lilian said, hands on her hips. Ben knew that pose. It meant the man didn't stand a chance.

  "What do you mean, dollface?"

  "Don't call me that. You're Alex Fischer. You're the Doll's Head Murderer."

  The man chuckled again, this time with an edge of fear that rose to frantic within a split second. "That wasn't me, okay? That stupid fucking pig tried to railroad me! You gotta help me out here, please. I am begging you here!" He clasped his hands together, the cuffs jingling as he shook them. His perfect coif shook loose over his sweat-drenched forehead. "Please, God! It's not safe here! Please, you have to help me!"

  "Would you shut up a second!" Ben shouted. The man stopped screaming and began to fidget with the cuffs. Ben turned to Lilian. "What are we gonna do?"

  She shrugged. "We can't let him go. He's a murderer."

  "Suspected murderer. Okay, he probably did it. But we can't just leave him here to die."

  "What was he doing here if he didn't kill her then? Paying his respects? You know he did it, Ben."

  Ben didn't believe in capital punishment, an eye for an eye. Murderer or not, he couldn't just let the man die. It would only leave more dead energy for Garrote to absorb, and if Detective Beadle was still alive out there, Fischer's ghost would hunt him down and torment him. He likely wouldn’t let the two of them get away with abandoning him here, either.

  "What happened to Stan?" Ben asked.

  "Who?" Fischer said irritably.

  "The detective. Where is he?"

  "How the fuck should I know? He just left me here. Kept saying he hoped Valencia would get her revenge, I don't even know who the fuck Valencia is, I just came to see the ghosts! I paid to see the ghosts!"

  A tricycle bell rang—ring-ring!—and the doll rolled out from behind the trailer. The two remote controlled cars had stopped at the opposite end, the three small vehicles blocking them in.

  "Oh goodie! More friends!" the tricycle doll said.

  Ben heard the sound of the engine again, closer now, before the killer started shouting, kicking out at the cars and trike as they rolled up to the porch at his feet. "Get the fuck outta here, you little shits! Go on, get lost!"

  His foot struck the doll in the head and the trike tipped over with a rattle of the bell. "Not fair!" the doll cried. "I'm telling mommy!"

  A shadow fell over the doll and its trike. In the same instant the engine roared, close enough to make Ben jump. The bullet-riddled Model T rolled into the aisle, its engine wheezing like a dying fan as it wheeled around on its whitewall tires until the headlamps illuminated Fischer like a prison-yard spotlight. In the darkened driver's seat, the red glow of a lit cigar illuminated the face and flat cap of the driver. A ghostly puff of smoke rose from the opened window.

  Fischer spat at the car. "Fuck you! You don't scare me!"

  Maybe now he doesn't, Ben thought. But he'd seen the driver's Tommy Gun and he didn't want to find out what sort of damage these phantom bullets could do. He grabbed Lilian by the arm and the two of them backed away quietly.

  "Run," he said in a near-whisper.

  "What?"

  "Run," he shouted, and he turned and ran himself.

  As they ran Lilian heard the murderer screaming for his victim to save him, calling her sweetheart and bitch in the same breath, until finally his screams rose to a tremulous soprano and the wheels skidded and the engine revved and with a jangle of metal and glass the killer's cries suddenly stopped.

  Skidding on the soles of her shoes, Lilian banged her shoulder against the side mirror of a beat-up red pickup truck. The exhibit sign read like a bad pun in a newspaper headline: Stunt Driver Loses Head, Job[xxii]. Lilian tugged on the passenger door. It opened with a squall of rusty metal. She rose on her tiptoes to peer inside, then waved Ben over.

  He dashed across the aisle, leaping over Christine as Lilian slipped inside. He chucked the gas can in the truck bed and slipped into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like cigarette smoke and beer and a strong, woody cologne. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror and the driver's visor was down, photos of naked women cut from magazines taped to the inside. The keys were in the ignition. The gas needle sat on ¼.

  "Oh, heck yeah," Ben said. "Can you drive this thing?"

  Crouched beside the steering wheel, out of sight through the window, Lilian shook her head.

  "I thought you got your learner's permit that summer you spent in South Dakota with your cousins."

  "That was four years ago," she said.

  "Lilian. You're the only one who knows how. My parents would never let me drive, you know that."

  "I'm afraid to drive, okay? Jeez!"

  "You can do it, Lilian. I believe in you."

  She shook her head.

  "Would you rather get shot?" He poked his head above the dashboard and peered out the windshield. "Look, it's just a straight shot past the excavator to the doors. I'll steer, all you gotta do is step on the gas."

  "If it's so easy, why don't you do it?"

  "Because there's three pedals and I don't know which is which!"

  She heard a tiny horn honk just below the driver door. She couldn't see the toys or the car—the shooting had stopped shortly after they'd hidden in the truck—but she heard the large engine roar in response to the honk, and the trike bell's subsequent ring-ring.

  The ghosts were working together. If she didn't get them out of here soon Ben was right, they were dead.

  He turned the key in the ign
ition. The engine sputtered.

  "You have to press the clutch," she shouted at him.

  "Which one's the clutch?"

  "The left one! The left!"

  The truck lurched as Ben raised off the gas and pressed down hard on the clutch while twisting the key. The engine rumbled to life and the stereo came on full blast, some woman singing about a "magic man." Lilian threw the transmission into first gear. The front wheels thudded down off the platform and the truck immediately began to veer to the right. She grabbed the steering wheel and tried to hold it straight.

  "Ram the doors!" He was pressing the pedal right down to the mat.

  She glanced in the rearview just as the gangster's car slammed into the platform behind them. The ghost leaned out the window with his machinegun, the cigar clenched between his teeth, and aimed down the barrel.

  "Floor it!" she cried.

  Ben hit the gas.

  The two of them ducked below the dashboard as phantom bullets struck the tailgate and shattered the back window, a shower of glass falling around them, pattering on the seat fabric. It wouldn't be long before the Model T caught up to them and he filled them full of lead.

  "Ben!" Lilian shouted.

  "What?"

  "Bennn!"

  He rose just enough to peer over the dash and see the excavator shovel lowering down on them. They passed below it and for a moment he thought they'd made it through unscathed, but the big metal teeth screeched along the roof and slammed down into the truck bed.

  "The gas!" He jumped up in his seat, looking out the back. The shovel had tipped the gas can and scraped along the plastic bed cover. Luck blessed them and the tailgate tore open as the shovel struck it and smashed down on the concrete floor behind them, shaking the ground as the truck kept barreling forward.

  Ben kept his foot pressed firm on the gas while Lilian took her right hand off the wheel to jerk the transmission. There was a grinding sound. It sounded bad, like trouble. He saw her move her right foot to the center pedal and with her right hand still on the transmission the truck began veering off, toward the thick cement pillar between the doors and the glass wall, as she finally rammed the transmission to second gear.

  "Hold it straight!"

  "I'm trying! Stupid stick shift!"

  The truck missed the pillar by an inch on Ben's side and struck the doors dead center. Shattered glass pattered on the roof as the exit doors flung outward and the truck bounded down the steps into the courtyard. Bodies littered the ground ahead of them. Lilian navigated to avoid them. Ben remembered the shadow creatures and looked up into the sky just as a black shape fluttered over the sun.

  "Lilian!" he cried, raising his arms feebly to protect himself.

  She saw it and screamed, jerking the wheel to the right. Several shadows hit the truck, thud-splat thud-splat like a rain of toads, one after another. She kept her foot on the gas, still ducking, expecting the creatures to break through the windshield and suck their souls out of their bodies.

  Nothing happened.

  The truck lurched over a bump. He heard the gears grind again as she jerked the stick to the 3 and then the windshield wipers came on, squeaking across the remaining glass.

  "You can look now," she said.

  Ben sat up straight. Lilian had driven them to the other side of the courtyard. The wipers streaked away black ectoplasm, clearing the windshield of debris.

  He sighed in relief. "You did it."

  She turned to him and smiled. "I'm not afraid of driving anymore."

  "That's great," he said. He meant it.

  She stepped on the gas. The truck bounced as she ran over a dead body on the ground. "Sorry!" she called over her shoulder, as if the corpse could have heard her. As if the corpse cared.

  Ben looked out the back to check on the gas can. It was still there, lying in a pile of broken glass. A trail of glistening liquid had run down the corrugated bed cover. He hadn't managed to get the lid on at the right angle—plastic screw tops were the worst—and he supposed some must have spilled out when it fell down. He brushed away glass from the ledge, leaned out and stood the can up against the back of the cab.

  When he slipped back into his seat Lilian was smiling to herself as she turned the truck out into the promenade. She turned up the tape player and flicked the visor up like they hadn't just escaped a serial killer and a pack of possessed vehicles intent on killing them, and they were just going for a cruise through the streets of Duck Falls.

  Ben shook his head and laughed.

  SANCTUARY

  BEN KEPT QUIET as Lilian rolled the truck up to the prison gates, biting back the urge to beg her to turn around and drive all the way back to the front gate. For as dangerous as the idea sounded, without the code for the service hatch their only option was to hide out and wait for rescue. If Demont's fortification worked as well as he claimed, it was entirely possible Fontaine County Correctional[xxiii], the most haunted prison in America, was also the safest place to hole up until the cavalry arrived. If they could rally more survivors—if there was anyone left to rally—maybe they could salvage something from this tragedy. Turn a brutal tale of loss and desperation—a story Garrote himself could have written—into a tale of grit and survival against all odds.

  "Are you still with me?" Lilian said.

  The question took him off guard. "What? Of course, I'm with you, Lilian. We're a team. It's you and me or nothing."

  She smiled. "Good. Because we need to watch each other's backs. We need to keep each other alive."

  "You can't get rid of me that easy. If I die, I'd probably still haunt your ass."

  "That's just what I need," she said. "A haunted ass."

  Lilian laughed. He couldn't help but join her. Then she nodded very seriously and took her foot off the brake. She stopped the truck just shy of the high wrought-iron gate. Looking up at the wide-open doors, he wondered how the prison could possibly be secure. Ghosts could pass through walls. Bars and locks wouldn't deter them. But he was too tired to fight, too beaten down. He needed to rest. Instead, he flicked on the walkie.

  "Demont, this is Ben Laramie. Over."

  While waiting for Demont's reply he stared in the side mirror, watching the midway, searching for movement. A few bodies lay in the street. One of them was a girl just a little younger than the two of them, probably thirteen or fourteen, hugging a giant bright yellow Minions doll as if she'd thought it if would protect her from the monsters. Nearby, the man from the waffle stand hung halfway out the service window, his arms outstretched, eternally reaching for his white paper hat on the pavement below.

  Ben glanced out the windshield but his gaze kept returning to the paper hat. He kept waiting for it to blow away, further down the midway.

  Demont's sudden reply startled him. "Hey, sorry, had a bit of a problem I had to take care of. Let me know when you're at the door and I'll open it for you."

  Lilian turned to Ben as if for final confirmation and even though his every nerve fought against it, he gave her a sharp nod. She pressed on the gas and they passed under the stone arch.

  Ben turned to look out the back. All of his many years playing video games, reading and watching horror had prepared him to expect the worst. He expected to see a horde of shambling zombies rushing the gates, alerted by the rumble of the truck. But the street behind them was empty. In the midway, the waffle man's hat finally caught in a breeze and fluttered away, rolling off into the distance.

  "Okay, we're through," he said into the walkie.

  He turned back to the prison. Lilian thought sanctuary lay behind its walls but when Ben looked up at its impassive stone face he felt like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair. He'd been extremely lucky once, surviving his heart attack. He didn't think it was likely he would be that lucky again.

  All he wanted was to see his mom and dad one more time.

  No, forget that. This close to death, for-real death, was no time to be reluctant. He wanted more. He wanted to kiss a girl, go
to college, get a job working at some online newspaper and rent an apartment in the city. Get married, have kids, change diapers, grow old. All the stupid sappy shit his parents and their friends talked about when they got together that made him zone out and retreat into a fantasy world of ghosts and monsters, he wanted all of that and more. So he promised himself they weren't going to die here today. He wouldn't let it happen. He'd fought too hard and too long—not just at Ghostland but every day since Garrote House had rolled through town, almost killing him the first time—to give up now.

  No half-assing it, he thought. Gotta play in Hard Mode now.

  "Where's the stun gun?" he asked.

  Driving slowly toward the prison, Lilian rose slightly from the seat and nodded toward her back pocket, where the electrodes poked out above the seam. Ben caught it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, trying his best not to touch her butt while tugging the weapon out.

  The main building was a large sandstone rotunda with an impossibly high ceiling of tinted green glass. Two wings swept back in either direction, creating what looked like a giant bird in the overhead view. According to what he'd read about the place, it had been the last of the old maximum security "roundhouse" prisons. Every cell in the four stories of its main block was visible from the central guard tower. Inmates had called this "the Circle of Death," since many of them had been facing life sentences. Some called it "the Colosseum" due to its shape but also because brawls had allegedly been allowed to go on long enough for one or another prisoner to die, while the guards watched from the safety of the tower like Roman patricians, betting on the outcome.

  Lilian stopped in front of the battered blue metal front door and unbuckled her seatbelt. "Ready?"

  He nodded, unbuckling himself. They climbed out of the truck and looked around. The expanse between the front gate and the prison was deserted but he suspected it wouldn't remain empty for long. If there were any infected ghosts within shouting distance, at some point very soon, Garrote would find them.

  He sees through their eyes, Ben thought, and shuddered. He thumbed the Talk button on the walkie. "We're here," he said, peering over the back of the truck into the bed. The corrugated black plastic glistened in the late-afternoon sun. He traced the spill back to a large gouge in the red plastic container, dirt around the edges of the hole. The excavator must have done it when the shovel dropped down on the truck. "Shit!"