Terror Town (39 page)

She reached for her gun.

Ron looked up, revealing teeth that didn’t fit his mouth. His red-dot eyes glowed within their sunken black pits.

Gina screamed. Seeing her husband this way was as shocking as it was terrifying. He looked like he swallowed a handful of boxing shears.

Mary stepped back. She was scared now, beyond scared.

This man doesn’t need help
, she thought.
He needs to be put down.

Ron charged across the floor like an insect. He leapt, with teeth snapping madly in the air.

Mary tried to pull her gun free but her hands were trembling. She was unable to draw it quick enough. Pulling a gun from a holster like a professional hit man was a talent that eluded her. Some cops were gunslingers, but most of the cops in Cloven Rock were like her, all thumbs.

She tried––

Too late.

The Ronald Stapleton zombie-monster was attacking and she was falling back. Her head smashed off a wall as she crashed against the floor. A photograph fell from its place, shattering into pieces at her side.

Ron crawled on top, slammed a hand on her face and squeezed it into a fist. When he pulled his hand away Mary O’Neill’s nose and lips came with it. The pain Mary felt was unbearable. And when she cried out, Ron’s wife Gina raised both of her hands in the air screaming: “What are you doing? Stop it, Ron! Stop it!”

But Ron wouldn’t stop. He looked at his wife with anger and rage cattle-prodded across his features. Then he slammed his hand on his victim’s face again.

Julie, still sitting at the kitchen table, got up from her seat. She walked into the hallway slowly. She was scared but she needed to see what was happening. One foot in front of the other, she walked; staring at the floor, lips pinched together.

Her father was on top of Mary O’Neill. His eyes were different now, silver––no black, centered with a crimson dot. His hands were forged into talons, having just raked them across the officer’s face.

And Mary O’Neill––poor, unfortunate Mary O’Neill––she was on the floor, half in the hallway and half in the bedroom. Her gun was still in its holster. Her neck was twisted strangely. Blood drained from her throat, eyes, nose and mouth. Half of her face was lying on the floor in a pile.

Now sixteen-year-old Julie was screaming. Screaming, with both hands at her ears, fingers digging her scalp, watching the chaos in absolute horror.

Ron bit a piece from Mary’s throat. He rammed her head against the floor and snapped her neck.

Gina turned away from the violence, no longer looking like a mother with all of life’s answers. She looked like a victim in shock. She said, “Run Julie, run!”

“Hi Julie,” she said, smiling like an angel that lost her way. She tapped the stick against the floor. “Hi Mrs. Stapleton. Remember me? We talked on the phone. I said I’d drop by and… here I am. Glad to see me? I hope so. I’m here to see your daughter, Mrs. Stapleton. I’m here for revenge. I’m here for
murder
.”

Then she heard Ron coming down the hallway. She didn’t want to turn around and face him. After what she had witnessed, she never wanted to see him again. But she did turn. She did.

My husband looks like a rabid dog
, she thought.
He looks insane.

Then Ron leapt onto her, biting and scratching and out of his mind with rage.

Gina tumbled back, away from her husband, the man she had fallen in love with, the man that needed to work in the morning. She fell into Cameron’s arms and screamed one final time and then it was over. The last thing she saw was Ron slamming his blood-soaked hands inside her mouth and ripping her face apart.

∞∞Θ∞∞

∞Θ∞

~~~~ CHAPTER SEVEN: TUESDAY MORNING

1

4:15 am. Sunrise.

4:44 am. Cameron entered Patrick’s cottage, licking her lips through teeth that had grown a full inch during the night. They looked like they belonged inside the mouth of a rattlesnake now; they were sharp, thin and strong. Above the slender of her nose, dark and haunting red-dot eyes were locked on Daniel, fixed on him like a mother to a newborn child, watching his chest rise and fall as he lie helplessly asleep on the couch, lost within his private world. Time mattered. In eight short minutes the sun would rise, burning Cameron to a crisp, wiping her from existence. She understood this, but did not subside to the spoils of fear. She had enough time to bite Daniel and turn him into her slave while staying clear of the morning sun. Doing so only took a moment; a single bite and she’d be off. But there was a problem: she didn’t want Daniel to be a slave; she wanted him to be more than that. She wanted an equal, someone to spend eternity with. She wanted Daniel to be her mate. Instinctively she understood that forging any man into her likeness took three nights, despite the fact that her transformation only took one. Why were the rules of becoming a vampire this way? Because. Because she was bitten by the source of the infection, and he, if things played out the way she wanted, would be bitten by her. And now she had to drain him in modest amounts and infect him progressively, augmenting his contagion over time. Then on the third night he would become like she was––an equal, a vampire, immortal. Only then could they be together. Otherwise he would be a ruined shell, an empty husk, no better than all the other senseless zombie hybrids that were obeying her every will and command. No, this was not the Hollywood way, but this was the way that it was––the truth behind the vampire legend. A single bite meant Zombie. A triple bite meant Vampire.

4:46 am. Six minutes remained. By now the town would be free of the zombies that had terrorized every home, every building. The zombies would have found shelter, in an attempt to hide from the sunlight. They would have crept into the basements and cellars, the closets and the attics. But Cameron, naked and filthy, had not. She still had a job to do. Dropping to her knees she pushed apart Daniel’s legs. She crept between his thighs and tilted his head to the left. Leaning in, she put her mouth to his neck. Her cold tongue licked his warm flesh, tickling him, tasting him, enjoying the moment for as long as possible. Her fangs slid deep and his blood entered her mouth. Her nipples grew hard as her pussy turned hot and wet. She wanted to devour him, consume him; she wanted everything he had to give and more.

Daniel felt the bitter lips sucking the life from him, the acidic teeth inside his flesh. As his eyes opened his neck turned numb and his heart began racing. He didn’t know what was happening but fear crashed upon him like an ocean wave to the shore, saturating him, overshadowing his will. He wanted to push her away––needed to, but his body wouldn’t respond. He was powerless, becoming feeble and immobilized. Blood ran down his neck in a dark, thick channel, a liquid rope. The room seemed to spin on one corner. Stranger still, he felt himself growing hard. Part of him didn’t want the moment to end, wanting instead to seize hold of more pain and fright, disorientation and confusion. Thoughts flipped end over end, falling apart before he could comprehend their value. What was happening here? What horrors sat before him, poisoning him, exterminating the very spirit of the man he was born to be?

Cameron sucked more blood from her victim’s body. Running her fingers through his hair, she pulled away. Her fangs slipped from his skin, releasing him from her deadly hold. A string of blood dangled between them, shinning like silk, glimmering in the moonlight before its integrity was compromised.

“Sleep,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

Daniel did what he was told; his heart rate slowed immediately.

4:49 am. Cameron stood up, wiped a line of blood from her mouth and licked Daniel’s taste from her lips one final time. Her chin was covered. She had blood on her breasts, dripping from her nipples to the floor. His flavor was nothing short of ecstasy, bliss. She wanted to swallow another mouthful but wouldn’t chance it. Drinking more could turn him into a zombie and spoil everything; it wasn’t worth the risk.

4:50 am. She left Patrick’s cottage and made her way to Daniel’s place. As she stepped through his front door she saw a multi-legged creature with numerous eyes and an abundant amount of jaws. It crawled across the floor on stalks that were fourteen inches long, snapping its teeth at random. She walked past the beast calmly, blood glistening on her naked flesh, knowing she was safe, knowing the creature wouldn’t attack, for she had become one with the critters, a queen among the hive.

4:51 am. She entered Daniel’s basement.

4:52 am. Cameron made her way down the ladder. Once she was deep in the earth, in the place the others believed was a bomb shelter, she curled her body next to a large cocoon and closed her eyes. For this new version of Cameron, the first of many nights had ended. The time for sleep had come.

2

5:23am. Nicolas Nehalem woke, shifting into a different position as he held his pillow tight. His eyes opened, closed, and opened again.

The babies were crying.

He rubbed the sleep from his face, lifted his librarian-issue spectacles from the nightstand and slid them into place. He sat up, putting his feet on the floor one after another. CLUMP. CLUMP. For no real reason he looked over his shoulder, lifted his feet and dropped them down again.

CLUMP. CLUMP.

He put his hand into the empty space on the far side of the bed and gave the sheets a squeeze. They felt soft and nice.

He stood up, stumbled across the room and entered the bathroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face very thoroughly before pouring himself a glass of water. The glass had a cartoon dog on it. The dog was wailing its tail and smiling happily. He drank the water from the glass and emptied the remaining few drops on the floor. After returning to his room he lifted his brown-checkered housecoat from the shiny brass hook and pushed his furry blue slippers together on the floor with his foot. He put the housecoat on and tied the cotton belt in a cute little bow. He slid his feet inside the slippers and stumbled down the hall. With a yawn and a fart he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

Last month’s turkey sandwich was still there. So was the empty carton of orange juice. He lifted the empty carton, shook it and tossed it in the garbage.

There were no bottles of formula; if he wanted to feed the babies he’d have to make a new batch. Or––

He grabbed the sandwich from the bottom shelf and sat it on the counter. The green and black moon craters inside the plastic wrap were bigger now. The plastic felt squishy beneath his fingers.

The babies kept crying. Or was it just one?

Nicolas opened a cupboard door and grabbed a box of powered formula. He lifted a spoon from the sink and licked it. He opened the container of formula and rammed the spoon inside. From a different cupboard he found six baby bottles. He opened them, put a spoonful of formula in each and filled the bottles with water. He capped the lids and shook them all; then he put four in the fridge and two in the microwave. He turned the machine on for nine minutes. After five minutes he opened the microwave door. The formula was boiling. When the bottles were cool enough to handle he lifted two of them up and headed downstairs, formula in one hand, sandwich in the other.

5:31 am. At the base of the staircase he clicked on a light. Several large cockroaches made for the shadows. He walked across the room that was filled with shoes and coats, jeans and shirts, wallets and belts. He opened the cellar door and flicked another light switch.

Today the crying didn’t stop. It became louder.

And yes––only one baby was crying. Still, he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. It might be time to teach those babies a lesson; he wasn’t sure.

Nicolas slid the bottles of formula and the sandwich into his housecoat pockets. He walked down three stairs and stopped. There was a cupboard on his left. It was deep and dirty and the perfect place to store paint cans, mason jars and all the other stuff people hold save but rarely use.

He opened the door.

Somewhere inside, a mouse squeaked and ran for cover.

The cupboard was home to a wide assortment of things that made his babies quake with fear: a pair of pliers, a wrench, a long hunting knife, gasoline, razor blades, a nail gun, a chainsaw, hedge clippers, a blowtorch, a hammer, a sledgehammer, vice grips, a curling iron, a cattle prodder, a cork screw, an electric sander, rat traps, an ax… the list went on and on. Today he reached for one of his favorite items: a medical scalpel he bought off the Internet. It was neat and clean, fun to use and easy to work with. And boy, was it sharp! Sharp enough to slice through leather.

The crying continued.