The Horribles Part 3

"I figure whatever kilt them two Negroes was like an alligator. Gators drag their kill down into the riverbed and bury 'em in the mud to soften up. Maybe that's what Oli was doin' with you. Waitin' till you were softened up."

"Look, sir, you need to get out of here. The parade. It's bad news."

"Hah." Another stream of chaw shot from his dried and stained lips. "I stormed the beaches of Normandy. No need to worry about me. They opened the backs and we all dived into water over our heads. Some of us drowned. Some of us were mowed down by hungry bullets. I barely escaped myself. My brothers. They tried to take me down into the water too. Grabbed my feet and legs. I kicked away and swam for my life."

"I . . . have to go," Sheldon meant to back away (run away) from the old man, but he tightened his grip on his arm.

"The dead will hold you down, boy. Try to drown you like a rat in a washtub. Don't let 'em do it."

Sheldon finally freed his hand and backpedaled, stumbled down the stairs.

The old man stood and the blankets fell from his lap. "The dead will pull you down!"

Sheldon turned and ran away from the house, afraid to look back. But just before he ran, Sheldon saw what the old man was wearing. And it wasn't the first time he'd seen them.

The old man wore a pair of worn and scuffed leather boots with too many buckles on them.

n i n e The rest of the trip did not take quite as long. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the creepy old man (those boots!) as possible. Even so, if someone's life depended on Sheldon finis.h.i.+ng the sojourn in a timely manner there was a good chance they had perished while he was en route. Eventually he turned the corner onto Columbine and maneuvered around the traffic cones placed along the intersection. He walked with his head down, eyes fixed on his feet, one-two one-two, march-march. It was easy to pretend he was still in his living room, watching the halftime show on TV, marching along to the imaginary drums banging in his head.

BOOM-BOOM, march-march, BOOM.

BOOM . . . click-click-click . . .

The clicking sound dulled the drums of his marching band. The clicking sound was new. It would forever remind him of being in the real world, in Poe's Creek, where nightmares come true. He wasn't in his living room. He was downtown, where the parade had been heading. As hard as it was to lift his head and look for the source of the clicking noise, he did. Slowly.

Mister or Missus Twaley, it was hard to distinguish between the two with all the gore, was sprawled out, face down on the sidewalk in a rigor mortis-induced Superman pose. Sheldon knew it was one of the Twaleys by the matching warm-up suits the senior couple were fond of, although blood-soaked and shredded all to h.e.l.l. Physically, if you took Mr. Twaley's. .h.i.tler moustache and Mrs. Twaley's bad perm-job away they were identical to begin with. Both being giant, walking bowling pins with textbook pear-shaped physiques. The blood covered up any other distinguishable features. All that was left were patches of naked, spongy flesh leaking insides all over the sidewalk.

Click-click-click . . .

Underneath all the girth grinded the mechanical legs of another abomination. Welded steel and stolen flesh sc.r.a.ped grooves in the cement. Mr./Mrs. Twaley must have fallen on the a.s.sailant, squis.h.i.+ng it under a gore-seeping mountain.

Pressed up against a picture window, Sheldon slid past the first of many horrific scenes in Poe's Creek. He felt terrible. Only a few days ago, the Twaleys had walked past his house. He stood at the living room window and watched them waddle by. They had waved. He didn't return the kind gesture and never would be able to.

Underneath the corpulent body of his neighbor, the creature finally lay still. A single stream of hot motor oil spit against the cement and sizzled. Sheldon walked on. Still uncomfortable with the intensity of the outside world, he held a hand up to his eyes. He gasped at the scene before him.

At first, he thought someone had dumped a lifetime of dirty laundry out on the streets. There were big piles of linen everywhere. Whites and colors (mostly red) were mixed together. After a few more steps, however, he realized it wasn't discarded wash. Those were bodies littering the streets, piled on top of each other, leaking their insides all over the pavement.

There were only around four hundred adults in Poe's Creek. If he had the stomach for it, he could've done a body count and the math would just about add up. There were bodies everywhere.

What had been unleashed on these poor people? He shuffled closer to the carnage. Had it been more spiders? The Devil himself?

Sheldon weaved and ducked through the bodies, not sure of where he was even going. He did his best at seeing without seeing, not letting his eyes focus on any of the carca.s.ses strewn around his feet. He didn't want to recognize the Mayor, whose eyes had been gouged out, bits of viscous eye-jelly clinging beneath his b.l.o.o.d.y, jagged fingernails, ears bleeding, or Princ.i.p.al Meyers with his house key buried deep in his own jugular vein, Darlene Hagan with a mouthful of meat the same size as the piece missing from her best friend, Suzette's, face.

That wasn't the postman's disemboweled body half-in and half-out of the small post office. No way was he chewing on a mouthful of his own intestines.

The Sheriff's dispatch, Joan, hadn't smashed her head through a window, grabbed a large shard of gla.s.s and carved her face into hamburger.

Sheldon did his d.a.m.nedest not to recognize any of it.

He refused to believe that his neighbors had done this to themselves.

He did such a good job of not seeing that it took a while to realize none of the fallen were children. With this revelation, he forced himself to once more look around at all the carnage.

Where were all the children? He stole quick glances here and there before closing his eyes and waiting for the nausea to settle. All the bodies were too big to belong to a child. He nudged some of the corpses aside to see if something small could be hidden underneath.

Nothing.

Jesus. They were gone.

And he was pretty d.a.m.ned sure where they went.

The parade.

But where the h.e.l.l was it?

Other than the carnage, there was no sign the parade had ever come through town. Gone, as if he'd imagined it all and the townspeople had gone insane, maiming and mauling each other in some kind of apocalyptic rumble. And the children had simply disappeared.

A blue rectangle discarded on the sidewalk near an alleyway caught his attention. He recognized it right away. It was Evan's notebook. He hurried over to the notebook, almost tripping over the bodies of Evan's parents. Mr. Hovland's hand was completely buried in the bowels of his wife. Sheldon s.n.a.t.c.hed the notebook up and held it at arm's length. The cover was speckled with dried blood and flecks of meat.

He prayed none of it belonged to his friend. What had happened to Evan? Perhaps the answer was within the notebook, but it might not be the answer Sheldon was looking for. What if these written words were the last of his good friend? What if it described in detail what happened to Poe's Creek? Did Sheldon really want to know?

Maybe he should just throw the notebook down, walk back to his house and crawl into bed. Forget about the whole thing. After all, there was no one left to judge him. No one to point fingers. But he was left and Sheldon didn't know for sure whether Evan was alive or dead. There was still a chance and he had made a mental promise to help his friend. But what if he was already dead?

It was getting harder and harder to cope, and Sheldon didn't know how much he had left to give.

"Oh, Momma, I don't even know where to start," Sheldon said. He leaned one arm against a telephone pole with a liberal coat of blood smeared all along its base and buried his face in the crook of his arm. With his other arm, he hugged Evan's notebook to his chest. This was too big for him. He needed help. He needed something to go on. What was he supposed to do, just pick a direction and start walking? And then what? By the time he caught up, they could have gone through a hundred towns just like this one. He looked up toward the sky and nodded.

He stood up straight, exhaled, tucked his pajama s.h.i.+rt into the matching pajama bottoms and thought about which way to go. Someone needed to know what happened. He had to call someone.

He looked around for the nearest phone, but sighed in defeat. Strings of severed telephone lines blanketed the tops of all the commercial buildings.

Of course they took care of that. It was probably the first thing they did. It looked like it was up to him. He swept his hands together as if preparing for a hard, labor-intensive job. If he was going to catch up, he needed a ride. The thought of driving made him weak in the knees, but there was no alternative.

It looked like today would be the first in a long time for many things. First, he learned how to step outside again and now he would have to learn how to drive a motorcycle.

He headed back toward his house, taking a different route to avoid the creepy old guy in leather boots. Specifically, he wanted to go to the garage behind his house. He began to thumb through Evan's soiled notebook. At first he smiled at the boy's recitation of the beginning of the parade: who attended, who looked hung over, or arrived drunk. With all that had gone terribly wrong that day, it was hard not to chuckle out loud at how perceptive and dead-on Evan was with his descriptions. Mrs. Olsen did look like a discount clothing rack. "Humongous" was a perfect word. He flipped through the pages and steamed along, taking half the time to get back to his house as on the way to downtown. He reached the last few pages of the notebook and slowed. He bit down on the edge of the notebook and dropped the poker. It made a hollow thud in the gra.s.s alongside his garage.

Evan had stopped writing about the townspeople. The writing was no longer candid and humorous. The tone changed, the style more feverish and the handwriting almost illegible.

Without even reading the words, Sheldon knew what caused the mood change. In Evan's world, just a couple of hours ago, the parade had arrived. Panic had begun to set in and the boy's pencil was driven by fear.

t e n Everybody's here, Sheldon. You're really missing out.

The parade has almost arrived. I can feel it. Everyone is really excited. Even me, I guess.

Wish you were here. We'd make fun of the Mayor's wife's lard b.u.t.t.

The first motorcycle just turned onto Columbine Street. Whoa, what a machine. It's like one of those custom jobs you see on TV. I should've brought a camera.

Here comes the rest. Beautiful. Some of them are pulling trailers. Cool helmets. You can't see their faces.

Weird. There's no movement from the crowd. They must be as blown away by these machines as I am. They're just staring straight ahead as the parade pa.s.ses.

Wait a minute. The parade has stopped. All the engines are idling. Some of the riders have gotten off and walked back to the trailers. There's some kind of crank on the back.

The other drivers are revving the engines. The people around me are starting to move again. The adults. They're b.u.mping into each other. Are they confused?

All the other kids are clapping and cheering. The kids are starting to move closer to the motorcycles. I'm not moving.

They're winding the cranks now. I don't like this anymore. Something's wrong.

The tops are opening up.

Some kind of gas is coming out. It's green.

OH MY G.o.d. Dad just grabbed mom by the neck. He's on top of her. They are all hurting each other. Themselves. The mayor just shoved his fingers in his eyes. I don't know what's wrong. I'm scared.

Going to hide.

I can still see from behind the dumpster. The trailers are all the way open. Something is coming out of each. It's big.

The children are all lined up.

It's a pig no a beast a machine pink flesh steel teeth rotten alive pistons a slit down its belly opens up children crawling inside laughing holding hands I'm scared Sheldon all the children are inside one of the riders st.i.tching up the holes I can see the bellies moving kids my friends back in the trailer one of them sees me the rider coming this way I'll throw my notebook find it please COVER YOUR EARS SHELDON IT'S THE ENGINES THEY'LL MAKE YOU DO . . .

A thin layer of dust blanketed the entire motorcycle. It hadn't even been started in over a year. From time to time, Mr. Hovland would give it a tune-up and turn it over a few times. Sheldon would give him twenty bucks and agree to let Evan come over after school. Other than that, the motorcycle had been kept inside, untouched, since his father's death.

Sheldon ran a finger along the gas tank, making a clean trail in the dust. He swiped his hand across the surface, then his other. Using the sleeve of his pajamas, he wiped down the entire bike. Then he stepped back to admire it.

It was just like he remembered. He sat down on the leather seat, grabbed the handlebars with both hands and breathed in deeply through his nose. He smelled gasoline and musty garage. And for a brief moment, his father was there with him, or at least his smell was; sweat, musk, strength.

It felt good sitting on his father's ride. It felt good in the garage. He was safe behind the walls and nothing outside mattered.

But you couldn't sit in a dank garage forever. Eventually a person had to exit, turn on the blinker, and open 'er up. And never look back.

He found his father's helmet beneath some old rags on the workbench. He polished it off, too. The helmet had a gold-flake paint job with an American flag emblazoned on both sides. It was dated, but who had time to be choosey? Sliding the helmet over his head, he wasn't surprised to find it was a perfect fit. Of course it was. After all, it belonged to his father. He'd also found an old pair of sneakers that, for the life of him, he couldn't remember who they belonged to.

Back on the motorcycle, he blew out a lungful of air. He quickly took inventory of the machine.

Kickstart? Check. It was amazing how easily the memories of his father's safety inspection before hitting the road came back to him. Throttle? Check. Brake, mirrors, fuel gauge? Check-Check-Czechoslovakia. Here went nothing. He snapped the chinstrap down.

"Well, Dad. We'll see if I can still remember how you started this thing." Sheldon threw all his weight into the kickstart.

The first few attempts resulted in a series of sputters and sickly burps. He was about to give up when the sputters turned into a growl and evened out a bit. He nursed the throttle, like his father would have, until he was sure the bike wouldn't die. With the hand not on the throttle, he reached down and scooped up Evan's notebook. He stuffed the book in a small saddlebag on the back of the bike.

He slowly s.h.i.+fted into gear and gave the bike a bit more juice. He crept out of the garage into the dirt alleyway, feeling more secure with some horsepower on his side. s.h.i.+fting into the next gear didn't prove to be as easy of a task. He popped the clutch, sent the front in the air, panicked, and wrenched down on the throttle. He took out a good section of the neighbor's fence before getting the motorcycle back under control.

Maybe he'd better take it a bit easier from now on. His heart pounded with the potential power beneath him.

He drove out from the alleyway onto the street. This time he did drive past where he had met the old man. Nothing. The porch was empty. Maybe it was a residual, like his parents.

He slowly made his way back downtown, constantly checking the mirrors to make sure nothing was sneaking up on him. He drove past Columbine Street and turned on the next block. He was fine with running parallel with the carnage, keeping it a block away and out of sight. Something caught his eye a few intersections up, however.

The Sheriff's car.

Cops had guns. Sheldon didn't even have the poker anymore. Guns blew big holes in things. And the chances that Sheriff Boone survived were greater than that of any of the other townspeople. Reluctantly, he steered the bike onto the side street and headed toward Columbine.

It looked like the entire parade had run right up and over Sheriff Boone. His spent carca.s.s was almost entirely flat, his organs sprayed out the top of his collared s.h.i.+rt. Thick tire treads were kneaded into his flesh. His head was just a flat smear of yellow, white, and red. A pair of mirrored aviator gla.s.ses lay next to the body. If it weren't for the uniform, Sheldon wouldn't have been able to identify him.

A revolver lay a few feet from an outstretched hand flattened at the wrist. Sheldon scooped it up and put the revolver in the front pocket of his pajamas. The weight felt strange, too heavy. Like you'd know what a gun felt like, anyways. He hitched his pants up and headed toward the open door of the car.

Sheldon stared disgustedly at the rat's nest of wires that used to be the radio. That would have been way too easy. He stepped back from the sheriff's car and folded his arms.

Now what? It was time to make a choice. Should he go for help, or go after the parade?

By the trail of bodies, he could a.s.sume the parade went west. Columbine met up with Highway Two about four blocks down. That highway stretched across the entire state, pa.s.sing through a few dozen small towns just like Poe's Creek. If he didn't act fast, this scene would be duplicated, the carnage irreparable, in a lot of downtowns.

The nearest town was about fifteen miles east. And they didn't even have a police force. He decided to head west. Either he'd run into help or catch up with the parade. He climbed back onto the motorcycle. He navigated around Sheriff Boone's mutilated body and crept along.

There was new black top on Highway Two for a good forty miles. He idled at the only stop light in the city, right on the outskirts of town. It always flashed yellow to slow people down. He should be able to make good time. The parade would be weighted down, slow-going. He turned onto Two and sped up.

The sun was setting, warming his back. It was big and pregnant and greedy on the horizon, spilling over its own parade of colors onto all the scenery. Thunder clouds loomed to the north. It would be a big and violent storm. Always was when it came in from that direction. But he was looking forward to a good rain. It would wash away the nightmare behind him.

"Go ahead and rain!" he hollered at the thick, black clouds to his left, and then wrenched down on the throttle. A lightning bolt seared a jagged white line in the sky as if in protest. The bike gripped the blacktop like glue and the engine let out a banshee scream, muting the rumble of thunder in the distance. Right then, settled in on his father's bike, filled with newfound strength and courage, Sheldon was convinced he'd follow the parade to h.e.l.l and back.

Five miles out of town, a state cruiser pulled out from behind a billboard advertising menthol cigarettes and flipped on the cherries.

Sheldon turned right onto a dirt farming road, drove about twenty feet, and came to a stop. Tall stalks of corn, just about ready for harvest, bordered him on either side. His motorcycle was just feet from a deep drainage ditch. He sighed in relief.

The police. It was a good thing he got pulled over. He'd tell them what happened back in Poe's Creek. SWAT, National Guard, h.e.l.l, even the President would be called. They'd hit the parade hard and rescue all the children. Sheldon would be a hero for alerting the authorities.

Just as Sheldon started thinking this thing was a wrap, he could call it a day, a sliver of panic punctured his spine. What if the police wouldn't help? What if they thought he was responsible for the ma.s.sacre? Run, just keeping driving and see what this baby can do. These back roads go forever and so can you. But even the new Sheldon didn't have that much b.a.l.l.s. He had already killed the ignition. His first road trip, first time behind the wheel, and he was going to get a ticket for speeding. He patted the front of his pajamas looking for a wallet he knew would not be there. The driver's side door of the cruiser opened with a metal squeak. It was almost dark and Sheldon had a hard time making out the figure stepping out.

The grind of boots against loose gravel. Footsteps that were too loud between Sheldon and the cruiser. Sheldon clocked the approaching police officer in his mirror. He was ma.s.sive. Just a few feet away. A lightning bolt cracked a fissure in the fragile sky and brilliant light spilled out. Sheldon was blinded. He blinked his eyes closed. When he opened them, vision still blurred, the officer was standing next to him.

"Ummmm, what can I do for you . . . officer?" Corny. Nice work, Sheldon. If only he didn't have to talk. Just give me the ticket and we'll both be on our way. But that wasn't how things worked on the outside. People interacted, conversed.

The officer cleared his throat and spit out a ball of wet phlegm. It splattered on the ground between them. Sheldon cringed. "Come with me . . . back to the car." His voice was thick with fluid and each word came out in a lengthy gurgle. Another cough and a wad of spit ricocheted off the back tire of the motorcycle.

"Sure thing, Sir." Sheldon set the kickstand and swung his leg over the seat. When he turned around, the cop had already begun to walk back to the car. "Sounds like you got a cold there. It's the season for that kind of thing . . . I think." No response. "Look, I know I was going a little fast back there, and the pajamas . . . not exactly proper riding attire, but I had to leave in a bit of a hurry. I'm so glad you pulled me over, though. It's terrible. I've never seen . . . you gotta go back to town and . . . "

By the time they both walked back to the car, Sheldon's vision had returned. He continued to babble to his silent companion until the cop opened the door and the dome light turned on. Something caught Sheldon's attention. It hung from the rearview mirror. He froze. The cop reached into the car. Sheldon could see the skin around the back of his neck. It was too white, too . . . dry. Without giving it a second thought, Sheldon stuck a hand into his pocket, pulled out the revolver, and fired at the officer. A dime-sized hole opened up between his shoulder blades. An inkblot of black liquid spread across the back of his s.h.i.+rt before erupting in a geyser of motor oil that sprayed back into Sheldon's face. He pulled the trigger again. Another hole. More oil. The cop fell face forward onto the front seat.

Backpedaling, Sheldon wiped the slick fluid from his face with one hand and kept the gun pointed at the cop with the other. Halfway back to the motorcycle, he froze and waited.

Darkness. The storm had swallowed up the twilight sky. Another razorblade bolt of lightning cut a hole in the clouds and cold rain came down in sheets. Sheldon began to s.h.i.+ver.