Terror Town (18 page)

The spinning blade hit the trapdoor. Wood splintered. Sawdust clouded the area.

He hoped the beast was there, waiting on the other side. He wanted to take the monster on and get it over with.

He imagined the creature’s legs being sawed off and the blood splashing the walls around him. He could almost see chunks of meat and bone flying over his shoulders in bunches. He could visualize the animal’s retreat into a dark corner, wounded and bleeding, screeching for mercy.

It would receive none.

It would receive death.

Chunks of wood dropped into the pit, the saw kept spinning, Daniel began laughing and the hole grew larger than he intended. He wanted a hole to see through, roughly three inches squared. What he generated was a two feet by two feet opening, big enough to crawl through. Or fall through.

If the creature rammed a leg through the opening he’d saw it off. If the creature broke the door he’d kill it. He was planning on slaying it anyhow. Nothing had changed. Nothing had altered. He was on the warpath; nothing would stand in his way.

He pulled the chainsaw away from the trapdoor and looked down the hole. He couldn’t see anything. Then, as the dust in the air dissipated, he knew the creature was no longer there. He could see the floor, way down at the other end of the shaft. Chunks of wood and the broken light sat together in a pile. With the lights in the big room on, the bottom of the shaft was easy to see. And it was
way
down there.

He opened the mangled trapdoor and dropped the chainsaw on the floor.

It was time to enter the pit.

11

Pat stood in the doorway, which divided the two large rooms, eying the cocoon-like nests that were attached to the wall.

And that’s what they are too
, he thought.
Oversized nests
.

From somewhere high above, Daniel’s gun went off.

Pat’s head snapped towards the hall that separated the ladder and the big room, wondering what happened, what
was
happening, and what would happen next. The muffled noise from the weapon echoed a moment before vanishing. Then came trampling noises, lots of them. They sounded worse than gunshots and scary as hell. The work light fell, smashing into pieces on the floor. And still, Patrick stood there. Not wondering what to do as much as wondering what
not
to do.

One gigantic leg dropped from the shaft, followed by another, and another, and another.

The thing that had eaten Roger had returned.

Putting a hand over his mouth, he watched the beast longer than he should have. Then he ran towards the hallway at the far side of the room. But where was he going? Was he actually running
into
the hallway? Was that the game plan, or his only choice? The hallway was dark, intimidating, and most of all––
he didn’t want to go in there
. But did it really matter what he wanted? No, probably not. He had to do something, and hiding out in the hallway seemed to be it.

Boxes were stacked to his left and right. Some were metal; some iron, some were wooden crates. Most had a thin layer of webbing and a thick layer of dust. The spaces between boxes varied. There were a few gaps that he might be able to squeeze into; he wondered if should hide in there. Climbing on top of the crates was another possibility, but it would take time and probably wasn’t worth the risk. So what did that leave?

The hallway was twenty feet away and the obvious choice.

That’s what bothered him. It was
so
obvious that it begged the question: where did the hallway go? Would it lead him to safety or to a dead end room with no chance for escape? He wanted more choices, different choices. He wanted choices that made him feel like he was going to survive another hour.

Pat turned around, hunting more options.

He saw something the size of a raccoon crawl across a crate, leaving a trail of wet slime, a thin insipid web and a small wake of dust. It looked like two sea-crabs that had been designed by H. R. Giger and sewn together by Doctor Frankenstein. It had long legs and lots of teeth. Pat stared at creature in awe, and when he turned away he then saw another one crawling up a wall. But this one was had bulging globular eyes that hung off its body like feelers, and more limbs, and bigger teeth.

He looked towards the ceiling just in time to see a cocoon split open and six or seven more of these oddly formed crab-creatures plop out of it. Some of them were white. Some were black. All of them were wet and slimy and equipped with too many limbs and more than one set of jaws.

He spun around with his shoulders raised, his eyes wide and his hands opened in from of him. What was he going to do? How was he going to do it? He needed to escape, to get away, and live to tell the tale.

A crab-critter dropped from the ceiling and landed on its back, six feet in front of him. It flipped over and scurried away, favoring one limb.

Then he heard it: SQUUUUUUEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEE
.

Pat turned towards the sound with his mouth wide open. He saw the big boy, the multi-legged predator that killed Roger. It was scrambling towards him, moving fast, attacking.

Pat screamed but his feet never moved. And when he was done screaming he screamed again––then he moved. He ran into the dark hallway wondering if it was the wrong thing to do. With a little luck he spotted a light switch and clicked it on.

Nothing happened.

“COME ON!” he shouted, flicking the switch on and off unsuccessfully. “PLEASE!”

A heavy looking door with a small glass window was on his right. He threw his fingers around the knob and turned it. Dust fell from the knob to the floor. The door was locked.

The beast galloped faster.

SQUUUUUUEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEE
.

Pat moved ahead five feet. There was a door on his left. He slapped a hand on the cold doorknob: locked again. He moved ahead another ten feet, dragging his fingers along the walls. The corridor was dark now; it was getting hard to see. There was a door on each side of him. He tried both, one after another. They were locked. And now there was a sinking feeling deep in his gut. He placed himself in a terrible position.

The beast moved closer.

The end of the hallway was less than twenty feet away now. There were two doors on his left hand side. He slammed a hand on the closest doorknob and cursed when it wouldn’t turn. He tried the other door and wasn’t surprised at the result.

This was bad––so very, very bad.

The beast approached the corridor entrance and screeched again. The noise was terrible, sounded like an air horn.

SQUUUUUUEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEE
.

With his hands on his ears, Pat made his way to the end of the hallway. Three doors remained: one left, one right, and one in front.

The only door that remained looked just like the others. It was thick and heavy and it had a glass window the size of a tissue box. But this one
had
to be different, Pat told himself. It just
had to be
. Because it needed to open, otherwise he’d be sunk for sure.

He took the dusty doorknob in his hand, closed his eyes, and inhaled a deep breath. “Please,” he whispered; his brow furrowed. “Please, please, please…”

His wrist turned.

It was locked.

“SHIT!” He was angry now, angry at his predicament and well beyond terrified. What the hell was he going to do? How was he going to escape?

The beast that killed Roger squeezed into the hallway, one leg at a time. It moved slowly, but it was coming. Oh God it was coming. There was no doubt about it. He could see the beast and smell the beast and soon he’d be able to touch it.

The creature moved closer, blocking the hallway’s only source of light. Now it was dark, completely dark.

Pat’s spirit was crushed; his shoulders were slumped and his head began to lower. Frightened and defeated, he tried the knob a second time, thinking it might turn if he simply tried his luck again.

Didn’t work; the door was locked tight.

This was the end of the road. There would be no evading his fate. And when the creature arrived, as he knew it would, there would be no chance in hell he’d kill it with his bare hands.

He would be devoured.

Pat wasn’t even twenty-two years old and he had kissed his last girl, drank his final beer, and laughed his biggest laugh. There’d be no more television, parties, paychecks, or purchases. He played his last game of poker, baseball, and soccer. This was the end, the absolute end. The fat lady was going to sing and he didn’t want to hear it.

But he
couldn’t
give up! He was in the prime of his life!

So where did that leave him?

I’ll kick the door down
, he thought, rubbing a hand on his chin.
I’ll kick down the fucking door!

He leaned his back against the door on the right side of the hallway, lifted his foot, and kicked the door on his left with the base of his shoe. BANG! The door shook in the darkness. He kicked it two more times, harder now that he had a feel for it. BANG! BANG! The door shook twice more.

The creature shrieked: SQUUUUUUEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEE
.

He squeezed his hands into fists and kicked the door three more times, giving it all he had. BANG. BANG. BANG.

The creature shrieked again.

How close is it
? he wondered.
How much time do I have?

He faced the high-pitched sound as the creature shifted its position. A beam of light entered the hallway giving Pat an unexpectedly glimpse of something he had previously missed. It was on the wall, or was it
in
the wall? Looked like a holeezed–a small puncture hole about a foot in diameter, too small to crawl into, but it was something. It was––

The creature extended a pair of legs and shifted into position again.

The light disappeared.

Pat dropped to his knees and reached out blindly. His fingers touched the broken drywall. Could he dig through it? Sure. Breaking drywall was easy, really easy. But there was a problem. The wall wasn’t made of drywall. It was made of plaster. The building was old, made with old-fashioned know-how. This meant that behind the plaster he’d find wood strapping nailed directly into two-by-fours and God only knows what else. Did he have time to tear the plaster down, pull the strapping apart and fight his way through the two-by-fours? Could he reach the other side? Maybe. Maybe not. If the other side of the wall happened to be constructed the same as this side, he’d have to fight through even more strapping and plaster. And what if there was a big desk on the other side of the wall, or a cabinet, or more of those crates? What if he was about to dig his way into a bathroom only to find that he had some nice big tiles to deal with, or some plumbing, or a bathtub?

This isn’t going to work
, he thought.
This is suicide.

He pulled on a piece of strapping, causing a chunk of plaster to fall from the wall and land on his knees.

“Dig,” he whispered.

He didn’t want to become bogged down in negative scenarios; he wanted to create opportunities. So with that in mind his hands became shovels and he ripped the wall apart like a savage––growling, groaning, sweating, and swearing.

Patience and luck were needed if he were to succeed in the darkness. And although he bled, he did not slow.

Time did not allow it.

12

The car had its nose in the ditch and a back tire spinning. The motor was off. One headlight was wedged into the earth while the other brightened a small region of grass and clay. There was a crack in the windshield and when Beth and William looked through it they could see the hood had been crumpled like a pair of dirty jeans. They weren’t looking at the hood though. They were looking through the passenger window, trying to catch a glimpse of Cameron in the forest, not that they had any intention of chasing her.

Beth flinched at the sound of his voice; her nerves were shot. “Yeah. I’m okay,” she said, putting a hand on her neck. It was sore; later she might find it bruised. “How about you? Are you okay?”

Quite unexpectedly, there was a knock on the back windshield.

Beth and William turned towards the sound in unison.

Nicolas Nehalem was there. The rodent’s intestine had fallen from his hair but his chin whiskers remained caked in dried blood. Fortunately for him it was dark outside and his features were hard to analyze.

Nicolas placed a foot into the ditch and opened the door. As the car’s interior light came on, he lifted his shotgun and pointed it at William’s face.

“I don’t give a shit if you need help. You’re going to do what I say. Got me? Sir, you need to step out of the car. One fictitious move and I’ll blow your head off, and I’m willing to bet that you don’t want that. Fuck around and I’ll make your brains explode across your lady friend. I can do that, don’t mind at all.”