Authors: J. Thorn
Chapter 3
“All
clear!”
The
shout woke John. Panic seized his heart as he lurched upright. Pain shot
through his legs from cramps that imposed their will on his muscles.
“Sir,
there appears to be a basement.”
“Then
secure it, Private.”
The
taste of danger sharpened John’s senses. His legs burning, he dragged himself
behind the couch on the opposite wall. Within moments, he heard the crack of
wood and saw the gray November light hit the landing near the kitchen.
Gleaming black boots crushed the remains of the glass doorknob as they crept
down the steps. John took a deep breath, inhaling as much of the renewed air
as possible.
He
watched as two sets of legs hit the bottom step. Beams of light raced around
the room, chasing red pinpoints. They flashed over him a number of times but
never remained long enough to reveal his position. John held his breath and
bit into his tongue, trying to ignore the crippling leg cramps seizing the
muscles.
“Clear.”
A
sharp report rang through the air followed by the acrid taste of burning
gunpowder. Before the reverberations faded, a second gunshot followed the
first. John heard the boots smash each of the closet doors as the hinges
protested with a whiny squeak.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
The
two men kicked beer bottles around the floor, pointed their flashlights around
the room one more time, and walked back up the steps towards the kitchen. John
exhaled, watching tendrils of smoke dance across the clammy cement floor.
Chapter 4
The light pouring through the open kitchen door climbed high
on the wall until it disappeared completely. John listened from behind the
couch, still unwilling to chance exposing himself. When the light faded, he
crawled out.
Two gaping, black mouths yawned at him where closet doors
had previously stood. He flipped the cell phone open but did not hear the customary
start-up chime. A ragged crack ran the length of the screen, and the battery
had come loose from the clip on the back. In his desperation to hide, he’d
landed on top of the phone. John shoved it into a pocket and felt his way
toward the nearest closet.
The intrusion had scattered the planks, and hinges sagged
from the wall. With no light, John ventured inside the black canyon. A
smeared, glass-block window provided enough of a glare for John to recognize
the flashlights on the shelf. He grabbed one and flicked the switch.
Nothing. He slammed it to the ground and grabbed another one. The torch
blasted the room with blinding light. John stumbled over the shards of the
door as his eyes burned and watered before becoming accustomed to the brightness.
John swept the beam around the cramped work room until he noticed a wealth of
tools. Grabbing the gym bag off a low shelf, he emptied its contents on the
floor. Old baseballs and street-hockey balls rolled under the shelves. John
collected a hammer, screwdrivers, a hand ax, and plastic wrap, and shoved them
into the bag.
John turned off the flashlight and crept toward the steps.
The house sighed with the setting of the November sun, as aged boards protested
the temperature change with cracks and pops. Urine stench mingled with the
greasy smell of heating oil. He shivered from the approaching chill of night,
while climbing the first step toward the kitchen. The wooden plank sagged
under his weight. John’s palm felt the ruddy surface of the textured wall,
guiding the rest of his body upward. He felt his heart slamming against his
rib cage, threatening to burst from his chest. John mumbled, trying to ignore
the pulse in his temple.
The door to the kitchen stood wide open. From his position
on the steps, John saw broken glass scattered on the ceramic-tile floor. The
duffel bag on his shoulder swung with each movement, the contents poking into
his ribs. He set the bag down on the top step and waited. He listened.
Convinced of the emptiness, John stepped into the kitchen and out of his old
life forever.
Chapter 5
The cold November sun sent weak rays onto the floor of the
old house. Floorboards snickered, trying hard to hold back snaps of bawdy
laughter. The temperature dropped with ease. As his eyes adjusted to the
lighting, John’s vision came into focus. The black cape of a vampire fanned
out across the floor, with a pool of dark liquid shimmering under his chest.
The hardy flies that survived the bitter day buzzed above the corpse. The Bee
Lady slumped in a kitchen chair next to the overturned table, her open eyes
fixated on the motionless ceiling fan above. Mascara ran down her face and
smudges of black lipstick caressed her chin. Three ragged holes of flesh
desecrated the woman’s chest. The wings of the costume fell to the floor and
rested on her bare feet.
John stumbled and lunged for the sink. He heaved into the
stainless-steel basin, but nothing left his body. He laughed in spite of
himself, shaking his head in disbelief. Hints of winter seized the indifferent
beast, rattling the old windows inside their rotted, wooden frames.
He stepped over the Count and opened the refrigerator. The
lure of bacon preceded a gentle, cool waft of treated air. The fridge bulb was
burnt out, so John flicked on the flashlight and exposed the leftovers of a ham
dinner on the second shelf. John shoved it into his mouth, savoring the salty
burn of the pork. Without hesitation, he ripped open a two-liter bottle of
soda and poured it down his throat. The stinging carbonation forced him to
pause until his eyes stopped watering. He felt a surge of adrenaline enter his
bloodstream. Without even pausing to close the icebox, John devoured the
entire ham and attacked several hard-boiled eggs. His hunger subsided to
intestinal pain while his body shook with the flood of calories and protein.
John dove for the powder room adjacent to the kitchen and found it devoid of
dead bodies. He knocked the toilet seat down and dropped his pants in one
swift motion. John continued shaking as his body processed the hunger, pain,
and shock. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled the soft toilet paper
from the roll. The motion released the sweet scent of lavender, reminding him
of Jana.
Returning to the kitchen, John riffled through Reggie’s
cabinets looking for anything of sustenance that would last without
refrigeration. He grabbed a reusable shopping bag from Heinen’s and filled it
with packaged goods. Rice cakes, peanut butter, crackers, and other dry items dropped
into the sack. From the fridge, John grabbed another two-liter of soda.
The blue flame of the gas stove hissed at John, heating a
can of beans with bitter defiance. The stove rattled and popped, following the
lead of the house in attempting to expel the intruder. John sat on the floor
with the pot and a plastic mixing spoon, eating every last bean. With swigs
from the soda, John sighed and rubbed his stomach. His satiated hunger
released a secondary level of concern. John shivered in the unheated house and
fought to keep his eyes open. He thought of Jana’s touch and his side of the
bed, which brought flashes of incriminating cell-phone pictures into his head.
John looked around the room, trying not to focus on the
decaying bodies of his friends. He cursed at the house, reckless, screaming
into its black abyss. Only the November wind replied with another rattle of
window panes.
He stood up and warmed his hands on the burner before
shutting it off. The flame died with an audible gasp. The puff of natural gas
made John shake his head. He turned the flashlight on and walked from the
kitchen to the dining room. He passed the beam over the oak crown molding that
he helped Reggie put up a few months earlier. As the light moved down the
wall, John saw dark splatters covering the light-beige walls. Elsewhere he saw
various friends and acquaintances in grotesque positions, arms and legs twisted
in severe angles as if dropped from the sky. The faces of others sunk in
sickening pools of life’s essence. He saw the Werewolf and the Headless
Horseman in one corner. John moved into the living room and identified the
red-headed Witch, the Pirate, and the French Maid. He knew their names of
course, but preferred to think of them as characters in a movie.
John passed each of the dead, hoping not to find Reggie. He
climbed the stairs to the second level, stepping over a body that lay crumpled
on the landing. At the top of the steps he turned left toward the spare
bedroom, where dresser drawers tumbled across an upturned mattress. Black
holes crawled down from the ceiling to the wall and escaped by shattering the
two windows overlooking South Belvoir Road. His head ached and he reached into
his pockets for a phantom pack of cigarettes.
“She fucked me over and stole my smokes,” he said to
himself.
John moved into the next spare bedroom. The rumpled bedding
hid shapes under the blood-stained sheets. The odor of feces and death forced
John to place his arm in front of his face. The beam from the flashlight hit
the frozen faces of two beautiful, young people. They appeared to be naked
under the sheet, but John had no desire to find out for certain. Both bodies
wore a third eye punched through the middle of their foreheads.
He entered the master bedroom and again saw two shapes on
the bed. He saw the silver and turquoise ring on the middle finger of a hand
hanging above the floor. Dark, syrupy blood discolored the end of the pinky
finger. John moved to the other side of the bed.
Poor Shelly
, thought John.
At least she died with
her husband and best friend
.
John stepped on a pile of discarded clothes as he moved to
identify Reggie’s wife. The light caught hold of white, fishnet stockings.
John’s heart jumped to his throat. He swept the light up to the bed and saw
the wavy, blonde curls spread out over the pillow. John stumbled against the
wall and fell. He stood up and yanked the comforter back to expose the naked
bodies of Reggie and Sarah.
John flew down the stairs into the living room. He pulled the
Venetian blinds to one side and peered out. Empty streets stared back at him.
Not a single car or pedestrian passed while he observed the neighborhood. No
kids chased a soccer ball, no women pushed strollers, and no landscapers blew
leaves. An empty street in Cleveland’s December would be expected, but not
early November. Most people in the city savored every last day before the
specter of winter moved in and banished the citizens to the confines of their
dry, drafty homes.
The streetlights did not come on as night came to steal the
waning rays of the late autumn sun. John sat at the window for an hour, trying
to decide if he could wake himself from the nightmare. A lone pit bull stalked
down South Belvoir Road, daring anyone to push him to the side.
John turned to the living room and walked toward the Scream,
his mask still firmly in place. John riffled through the man’s pockets
underneath the black cape and managed to find a cell phone. He turned it on
and waited for the “No Service” message. John shut the phone off and shoved it
into his pants’ pocket.
John recognized the growl of an internal combustion engine.
He ran to the window, let the blind fall shut, and peered through the tiny
opening between it and the window sill. Blinding bursts of white lit the
desolated street and narrowed as the headlights formed two solid, penetrating
shafts of light. The jeep moved at a steady rate, and John recognized the
military vehicle, not a weekend warrior’s Wrangler. He crouched down low and
fixed his eyes as it slowed to a stop in front of Reggie’s house.
Chapter 6
Three soldiers, dressed in full camouflage, jumped out of
the jeep with weapons drawn. The night-vision goggles made the warriors look
like astronauts, and they swung their machine guns in swooping arcs, daring
anyone to set foot in their path. Muffled voices filtered through the
deteriorating leaded windows of Reggie’s living room. John watched with relief
as the sergeant led the men to the house directly across the street and stopped
two feet in front of the door. A flashlight mounted on top of his weapon
passed over the living-room window and through the glass panes of the door.
Without a word of warning, the soldier smashed it with the butt end of his
weapon. Crackling glass fell in tiny shards onto a weathered, leather sofa.
He reached through the hole and unlocked the door. John watched the trio of
flashlight beams popping up throughout the first floor. After they entered,
the beams jumped in each room, eventually rising from the second floor to the
attic.
The wind rustled the leaves and pitched them down South
Belvoir Road in a contained cyclone of color. John held his breath, waiting
for action. The house across the street remained still, the darkness returning
to snuff the flashlights. John shuffled his feet and put a hand on the middle
of his back. He did not take his eyes off the house. He started to cramp from
the uncomfortable position he took underneath the living-room window.
After what felt like hours, the three soldiers came out the
front door of the house across the street. Without streetlamps, John saw just
eerie silhouettes moving through the lowering November darkness. One of the
soldiers stopped and faced the brick to the right of the front door. He made
erratic motions with his arm, and the three men climbed back into the jeep.
The headlights once again cut through the late evening air and fell upon the
stray pit bull. The dog barked at the jeep while backing away from it. John
saw the fear and confusion in its eyes, even from a distance. The driver of
the jeep revved the engine three times, a warning not heeded by the dog. It
continued to bark until the front tires of the vehicle thumped the life from
it. John observed the pit bull’s dying spasms through the red aura of the
jeep’s brake lights as it slowed to take the turn onto Arden.