Terror Town (15 page)

“There’s no lock on this door,” she said. “Should we board it up?”

“I don’t know,” Dan replied, thinking about Roger. “Most of my tools are lying near the trapdoor, and I don’t want to go down there to get them. Making lots of noise with a hammer might be the wrong move anyhow. Leave the door for now. We’ll deal with it later.”

William looked across the room. “Dan, where’s your phone?”

Dan drew a deep breath. “The phone is in the kitchen, but it isn’t turned on. We disconnect the service every winter, what with us not being here. And this summer we were thinking about living without the home-line. We own cell phones, Sandra and I. The home phone seems like a waste of money these days.”

“Oh,” Beth approached the men. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then. No phone. So what’s the plan?” William sat on the coffee table with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. “Are we going to take her to the hospital? What do you think?”

Daniel considered the situation: Pat was in the pit somewhere. Maybe he was alive. Maybe he was dead. It was hard to say.

We went down a quartet and came up a twosome,
Dan thought.
And Roger is gone for good.

4

Pat was alive. He had been knocked to the floor by the beast, and by the time he knew what was happening he had a giant claw crushing his chest. The enormous pressure was not anticipated and as a result he couldn’t breathe or sit up. All he could do was wave his hands and kick his feet, mouth gaping like a fish, but what was that doing for him? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

He needed air and he needed it pronto.

Something began raining in charitable portions. Not a trickle, not a sprinkle, not a drizzle or drop. Buckets. Buckets and buckets fell generously all around, splashing everywhere, making him wet. But what was it, blood? Was it blood?

Yes! It
was
blood!

Oh God.

Pat didn’t know
whose
blood was falling. But it
was
blood.

Someone was dying.

The blood didn’t belong to Cameron; Pat knew that much. Cameron had walked away from hidden room. That only left Dan and Roger unaccounted for. But who was being butchered? Was it Roger or Dan?

The animal shifted its weight and lifted its claw.

Air rushed into Pat’s lungs. He coughed several times, stopping only when he saw a human leg fall.

“Holy shit,” he said, feeling his jaw slink away from his face like it had a mind to crawl into a corner and hide. With his heart rate accelerating, his eyes widening, and his stomach muscles clenching, he whispered, “What the hell is that?”

But he knew. Oh God, it was a leg. A human leg, severed high upon the limb. It was white, nearly hairless and pathetically thin. There was a scrap of denim bundled near the shoe.

Eyes shifted. He saw the creature’s head dip towards the floor, sniffing like a dog. He could see tiny holes surrounding each mouth, opening and closing in unison. They looked like miniature moon craters, crusted with a thin line of gray. Bugs crawled in the creature’s fur. Flies circled; some went insides the mouths never to be seen again.

Pat watched in awe as three mouths were chewing at once, and the moon craters were sniffing, blowing, expanding and contracting. In many ways they were remarkable.

Then he realized something:

Very surprisingly, the beast hadn’t noticed him. Yet.

This was a strange and nearly impossible certainty, which lifted Pat’s spirits once he believed it. But luck could change quickly, so he tried to improve his situation by holding his breath and bringing his arms to his sides. He pulled his legs together and sucked his stomach in, making himself smaller, if only in his mind.

The beast shuffled its limbs.

He figured one of two things would happen. Either A) The creature would notice him and that would be the end of his story, or B) the creature would return to its home, giving him a chance to escape. Seeing things this way, he gave himself a fifty/fifty survival probability.

But then something happened, something he hadn’t anticipated: the creature chased his friends. The scenario may have seemed obvious to the others, but for Pat, the notion had eluded him. Perspective is everything.

The stampede of legs moved in waves. Two clawed limbs trampled Pat’s left arm, causing him to release a sharp scream. He was lucky. If either limb had been armed with a stinger the outcome would have been worse. Like Cameron, he would have been poisoned. His judgment would twist into hatred and his compassion would become violence. Fortunately for him, this wasn’t the case. His arm wasn’t pierced, nor was it broken. It wasn’t even sore.

The stampede of limbs was terrifying, nothing more.

The threat was gone, for now.

Lying in Roger’s remains, Pat lifted his head. He rested on his elbows on the floor and watched the beast scurry up the ladder in a centipede-like motion. The creature was incredible, a true wonder of the animal kingdom.

He sat up, shocked and stunned but not truly frightened. His hands trembled slightly, although he didn’t notice. He looked at the shadows on the ceiling, the unpainted concrete walls, and the flies buzzing in the air. He looked at the florescent lights that hung from thin, sturdy wires, and at the ductwork that seemed more complicated than efficient. He looked at the floor and at the distance that separated him from the small hallway on the far side of the room. And finally, he looked at Roger’s blood on his hands. Only then did he realize he didn’t know what to do.

5

William lifted Cameron by the legs and Daniel took her beneath the arms. Beth cleared a path, and held the front door ajar as they brought her outside, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. They placed her inside Daniel’s car, stretching her across the back seat with one arm lying across her chest and the other hanging to the floor. Knees were folded together, almost prayer like. Her face had turned white, making her look more frightful than ever.

“True, but I want to wait here. I’d like a few minutes to myself, a few minutes to patch my leg up and think things over before the cops get here asking a million questions, you know? Plus Pat’s still down there somewhere. I don’t want to leave him.”

Beth eyed Dan suspiciously. “You sure?”

Daniel handed William his car keys. “I’m totally sure. Now go. It’s a twenty-five minute drive to the hospital so get going before Cameron dies on you.”

“Okay.” William said with a reluctant nod. “We’ll send the police ASAP.”

“Yes, please do. And send an ambulance too. Patrick may need it.”

William and Beth jumped into Daniel’s car. They backed out of the stone gravel driveway quickly. William waved through the open window, frazzled.

Once the car was gone Daniel looked towards the lake.

Oaks, birches, and a few scattered elms, framed his view, blocking a small portion of the sky’s only cloud. The cloud was small and feathery and fractured near the middle. An old picnic table sat on the beach with its legs embedded in the sand. Circular rocks surrounded a fire pit that was getting slightly bigger each passing year. Beneath the full and bloated moon, light shimmered in the peaceful water. There was a raft, anchored in place for eight summers now. It sat fifty odd feet from shore in water that was ten feet deep and clear enough to see through when the sun was shinning. He could hear crickets, frogs, loons, and the hum of a hundred million bugs. The air was fresh, warm but not muggy, neither dry nor damp. On the far side of the drink, a pair of fires burned brilliantly and the voices of those enjoying the flames echoed in spills of laughter.

He loved evenings like this.

In a different set of circumstances he would sit at the edge of the dock for hours, soaking in the nature, fishing rod in hand. The air was just right. The weather was perfect. On a typical day, he could sit on the dock for sure.

Daniel went inside the house and closed the door tight. He made his way upstairs and entered the bathroom. He cleaned the wound on his leg and wrapped it in gauze before entering the master bedroom. There was a cushy recliner in the far corner of the room sitting next to a reading lamp and a door that led to a bathroom. The king-size bed was just the way he left it: unmade, with silk sheets crumpled on the floor. There was an empty beer bottle on one of the night tables, sitting next to an iPod and the newest edition of Playboy. Everything looked the same, but he had a strange feeling that somebody had been inside the room, unannounced and uninvited. He didn’t know why he felt that way but he did. Nothing seemed different; nothing seemed out of place. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

Dan opened the closet door, pushed a duffel bag aside and pulled a stack of paperbacks from the top shelf. One book fell to the floor: Clive Barker, Cabal. He kicked it aside, grabbed an old shoebox and sat on the bed with it. He opened the box. It had a black metal gun inside, sitting next to a small case with four, seven-bullet clips. The gun was an unloaded Charter Arms .32 automatic. It had a charcoal colored grip and smelled like oil. He ran his finger along the trigger guard before he lifted the weapon from the box and loaded one of the clips. Then he held the weapon to his forehead, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

“Lord,” he whispered, squeezing the cool metal with his fingers. “I don’t ask for much, you know I don’t. But if you exist… if you’re really, really, out there somewhere… please help me now. Help me in my time of need. Give me the guidance, the courage, and strength I require. If not for me, do it for the boy. Do it for Patrick.”

He opened his eyes and stood up, gun dangling in his hand. After slipping the three remaining clips into his front pocket, he unlatched the weapon’s safety with his thumb.

He was ready.

It was time to enter the basement.

6

Pat stood in Roger’s blood with his hands dripping red. His face was speckled and the front of his shirt was drenched. Intestines sat on the ground near his feet, steaming in the cold air. Roger’s insides smelled strong and unsettling, like copper mixed with something unfamiliar.

He stepped away from the gore and walked towards the ladder, slowly, cautiously, knowing the creature was above him somewhere. He didn’t know how far away the beast might be, or if it would return some time soon. Maybe he’d come face to face with the animal. Maybe he’d be eaten alive. With so many uncertain factors to consider he knew he was risking his neck for sure. But still, he wanted to look up the shaft. Needed to, in fact. He didn’t know what else to do.

Once he was beneath the opening he stared up, into the passage, trying to be as quiet as possible, praying he wouldn’t come face to face with terrible destiny.

He could see the 500-watt light tied to the extension cables, swaying back and forth like a body at the gallows pole. The light was still on; the area around it was bright. Everything else was dark. If the monster was hiding in the shadows it did not show itself. If it was creeping toward him it was doing so gently.

Was the trap door closed? It seemed that way.

Some friends
, Pat thought despairingly. If the door was closed he was trapped. If the door was open the beast was blocking his path and the result was the same. Did it really matter one way or the other? He supposed it didn’t.

He walked away from the opening with a fingernail between his teeth. This was bad. Very bad. He still didn’t know what to do or what options he had.

Think Patrick… think.

So much for that idea
, he thought.

The phone wasn’t going to work and he was too deep in the earth to expect anything different. So now what? He needed assistance but there was nobody to talk with. He was thirsty and without water. He was hungry and without food. He was worried with good reason. He needed to hide but there was no place to go.

Except––

He looked at the door the creature had come from, wondering what was on the other side. Perhaps there was another exit waiting to be discovered.

Or another one of those
things
.

The room was dark. For a moment he considered announcing his presence and saying hello, but saying hello was a
terrible
idea, a
dreadful
idea. So he stepped inside the room with his neck extended and his hands curled into fists. The door stayed open, being that the bottom edge was wedged against the floor, and something else. Might have been a chunk of Roger.

The smell, he noticed, was appalling. It reminded him of spoiled fruit, dead animals, and compost.