Authors: Keith C. Blackmore
The mansion’s monstrous bulk eclipsed the orchards, farmland, and any landscaped or architectural goodies lurking on the other side.
Gus forced himself to stop staring. No wonder Talbert had an Everest-sized chubby for the place. From a survivalist point of view, the man had discovered an emperor’s Shangri-la. Hell, he and his posse were probably
still
inside somewhere, exploring the place and its potential treasures––entirely plausible, given the mansion’s overwhelming vastness. Searching every cranny would take a week at least.
“Fuck. A frozen duck. Twice,” Gus muttered, craning his neck over the steering wheel and taking it all in.
Then he noticed them—on the lower levels and parts of the third, mostly the balconies.
Shutters.
Metallic
shutters with the added defense of timbers nailed across them. He’d been so awestruck by the beast of a palace he’d completely missed the obvious.
The place appeared to be tightly secured––tighter than a mosquito’s bag stretched over an elephant’s ass—all except the double doors comprising the main entrance. Rows of fat, black-veined marble columns partially obscured the doors, supporting an arched overhang that made Gus’s jaw drop and stay there. Iron dragons resided there, captured in a regal prance.
“Morty,” he whispered, drenched in awe, “You the man.”
His foot released the brake, and the SUV crept forward like a dog on its belly sidling up to its master, begging for a crunchy treat. The driveway looped around another opulent example of Mortimer’s wealth and taste, a water-green statue of a lion battling a dragon set into and rising above a pool bordering on Olympic size. Perhaps it
was
a pool, but after witnessing the girth of the mansion, Gus suspected it was really a fountain. Mortimer no doubt had a couple of indoor pools just because, since he’s spending money, why the hell not? Complete with those bikini-clad, Japanese fuck droids.
“God… damn.” Dazed, Gus shook his head. “Probably got your own rocket pad out back, don’tcha? You affluent bastard, you.”
Parked to the left of the marble columns was Talbert and company’s minivan, woefully out of place in such a scene. Damn thing looked like an old tin can resting against a mountain of platinum.
“You are not supposed to be here,” Gus muttered, stopping his ride near the minivan. He made sure nothing obstructed the SUV in case he needed to make a quick getaway.
Gus opened the door, and that little click of unlatching metal parts made him pause. Nothing leaped at him from behind the columns. No army of deadheads rose from behind the low fountain wall or burst forth from the doors—only the soft creak of door hinges as he pushed it farther open. He got out with his bat and stood there, poised to jump back into his ride. A deep, steadying breath failed to calm him, and he remembered his nerves were steadier when armored with Uncle Jack.
Nothing moved, and a case of fidgeting overcame him.
His toes itched. His helmet felt too tight. He needed to take a leak.
Christ Almighty
, a voice chided him.
Bring some whiskey along on the next one, willya? Vodka, rum, mouthwash,
something
. You’re a wreck.
Not a wreck
, Gus told himself.
Just outta practice, is all.
The doors beckoned, tall and oaken and lashed with strips of black iron.
The goblins perched on his shoulders felt heavier.
Gus took another deep breath, felt his lungs stretch, and clasped the bat for security. Then he got moving, straight toward the minivan. His attention roved, trying to see everywhere at once. The vehicle’s doors were unlocked, so he opened the one behind the driver’s side. Nothing. Cleaner than a baby’s fresh-wiped ass. Say what he might about Talbert, the prick kept his machine tidy. A quick inspection showed the keys were missing, but that wasn’t a big deal. Nothing was in the rear either, which meant the four of them had gone in with whatever they’d brought along and did not come back out.
He straightened and stepped back enough to study the mansion’s front doors between the columns. The house towered over him, pondering whether he had the fortitude to venture inside. Gus wondered that himself. The mirrored gleam of the unshuttered windows on the third level made him paranoid.
“Fuck it,” he snarled and marched right up to the entrance. The main doors were great slabs of wood that might’ve been pulled off a German castle and shipped overseas. Nothing seemed wrecked or even damaged. The place reeked of unchecked decadence, money spent on luxuries simply because one had money. It wouldn’t surprise Gus if the shitter was made of gold and the toilet paper of silk—maybe even a diamond dispenser.
Silk toilet paper
.
That had possibilities.
A doorbell in the guise of a leather cord with a tail of tassels hung from the upper frame. Gus ignored the temptation to pull it, imagining cathedral-sized chimes ringing out deep within the mansion.
He tugged on the wrought-iron handle on the left.
It cracked open.
Gus supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at how easily that went. Talbert and his boys had probably come the very same way.
Then the house exhaled in his face.
The breath of a violated tomb assaulted him, a putrid wave of decomposition Gus hadn’t smelled in a long time—certainly not on the open farm. The stink flooded his nose and mouth and befouled both, his hand arriving late to cover his face. His shoulders bunched reflexively, and he squinted into the gap, enduring the rotten air.
An elegant inner room with a midnight marbled floor ended in a closed set of lacquered cherrywood doors that simply shone in the meager daylight. A waist-high series of Japanese-style lockers both collected outer footwear and offered slippers. Empty ceramic vases rested on the top in a tasteful décor. A wall-mounted computer screen and ultrathin terminal jutted from the wall on his right. He stepped inside and gravitated toward the machine, tapped its keyboard.
Unresponsive.
Behind him, the door creaked. Gus turned about and took two steps before jamming the bat into the shrinking gap, halting the door’s closure. The air smelled a little better now, but a bad vibe remained. The outer door had to stay open. He didn’t understand why––it wasn’t locked––but a sense of sinister grandeur permeated this first room, a portent of things deeper within.
Gray daylight, a saber of sanity, beamed at him.
Don’t
, one of those shitbagged goblins whispered sweetly in his ear.
I’m telling you… don’t…
You’re being fuckin’ silly
, Gus scolded himself.
The door isn’t locked. You’re just ring rusty, is all.
Frowning, he let the door swing closed without a squeal of hinges, entombing him. Fear of being trapped gripped his senses, and he lurched forward, found the handle, and yanked.
The door opened with a comforting
Yes? Need something?
Holding it, Gus leaned out of the mansion and checked on the SUV and minivan. The coast was still clear. All was simply ducky outside. Feeling better with daylight at his back, he grabbed a pair of soft-soled slippers from a locker and packed one underneath the first door, keeping it wide open. Van Helsing wouldn’t go into a vampire’s lair at night, and having an open avenue of retreat made Gus feel better. He regarded the inner door, amazed at its inlays of threaded gold. The cost and craftsmanship made him shake his head.
Taking one of the inner doors’ handles, Gus pulled.
It wouldn’t move.
He pushed.
Another mournful gasp of bad gas made him cringe and hold his breath. His shadow stretched over a grand foyer of more polished marble floors. Glittering chandeliers floated overhead like immense jellyfish made of crystal. Dark pillars of bare wood rose up on either side of the entrance, leading into archways and side corridors, black and silence filled. The main foyer ran deeper inside the house, but the light petered out into a nebulous curtain of night… which couldn’t be right. Even in daytime, some light always squeaked through somewhere, but the path ahead was blackness incarnate. Impenetrable.
Gus kept the door open with his shoulder and wished for a flashlight, swearing at himself for not bringing one along. The feeling of being out of practice rushed over him once again. But the house remained still, silent.
Back in the day, he’d rap on the wall or even shout to announce his presence to the dead, drawing any lurkers into the light where he could conveniently dispatch them.
In this… tomb, he hesitated even to clear his throat.
The darkness at the edge of the daylight exuded venom.
The main foyer appeared thirty feet across at least, and Gus had no idea how far into the mansion it went.
Or how many gimps might be hidden just out of sight.
Possibly an army. The place was big enough to hold one. Gus gazed upon the crystals sagging motionlessly above and couldn’t see a ceiling. His fist tightened on the remaining slipper.
“Game on,” Gus whispered and exhaled.
“Hey!” he shouted, his own voice startling him. “Talbert. You fuckin’ in there somewhere? Bark if you’re able.”
He rapped the bat against the door. “Hear me, shit-for-brains? Huh? Don’t make me come in there. Don’t…”
His voice left him.
Along the right wall, just at the edge of daylight, lay a boot sole. Gus almost missed its dirt-caked grooves—toes down, which meant it was still on the lower leg of the owner.
“Fuck around…” he finished as if waking from a deep sleep.
Then he heard it.
Somewhere, deep in the mysteries of the house, was the barest tinkle of something glasslike being nudged.
It distracted him.
Footsteps. Two stealthy barefoot slaps rushed behind him. Gus had half turned when a pair of hands shoved him
inside
the foyer. Gus yelled and fell, helmed forehead cracking off the marble, kicking and flipping himself over to find whoever the hell had pushed him into the deep end.
A figure stood at the second set of doors, arm raised as if touching something farther up on the frame.
The inner doors closed with all the finality of a death trap being sprung.
“Hey!” Gus yelled, scrambled to his knees, heart pounding, propelling himself at the portal just as it clicked shut. His gloved hands and bat crashed against the hardwood surface before fumbling in the sudden dark.
“Hey!”
He yanked on the door, relieved for a split second that they opened from the inside…
To reveal only a sepulchral blackness.
Gus felt for a handle on this new barrier, finding nothing.
“Oh, shit,” he panted over and over like a breathless mantra. “Oh shitohshit––”
Something heavy hit him from behind.
Gus mangled a scream and twisted around, confused at the lack of space before realizing his attacker was the hardwood door, which he had previously yanked open, closing on him. Taking a breath and glaring, he stomped a heel into the door’s base, keeping it away from him while he turned his back and felt this new wall preventing him from leaving the mansion. The notion that some nimble cocksucker had snuck up and pushed him inside motivated him to find a quick escape. He’d seen enough old “Technicolor by Deluxe” movies in his day to know a human sacrifice when he saw one. Anger fueled him. He clawed at the barrier’s surface. He slammed his bat against it and realized it wasn’t wood at all but metal—steel perhaps, like a protective seal to prevent harmful fallout from seeping inside.
Or keeping scavengers from leaving.
Gus found no purchase in the precise seams of the barrier’s edges. This new wall had dropped or slid across without a sound, sealing him in. He couldn’t remember hearing anything, not even a metallic whine of gears except that quick padding of bare feet before the push. The force of the shove would’ve left him choking on his dentures, if he had any.
Gus searched the doorframe from one end to the other, finding nothing except the slipper he’d dropped.
Sealed in. Snared. He placed his back against the new wall and let the inner door close upon him like a nutcracker, struggling to hear anything over his own frantic breathing.
Nothing. Not yet.
But it was coming.
Gus slipped away from the doorway, allowing the inner door to close. He stared into the dark, visor up, swearing at the lack of light. Blackness—a haunted meat freezer of night that scared him almost to the point of immobility. His breathing intensified, the shock of his predicament finally hitting home. He didn’t want to be there, wanted to play it all over again as one would in a console game after dying in a totally unacceptable fashion. Then he threw his head back and cracked his helmet off the wooden door behind, the impact shocking, sobering.
In the aftershock of that blow, a sound reached his ears.
A soft shuffling, at times squeaking.
Gus recognized it immediately.
Feet. On bare marble.
Many
feet, hobbling along like slippered grannies without their walkers. He knew this scenario. He’d played it many times before, heavy handed and with no apologies.
You were drunk then
, his mind pointed out.
“Fuck off, brain,” Gus growled, staring wide-eyed into the deep darkness. He arched his head to the sides, his peripheral vision adapting and discerning flickers of inky movement lumbering toward him, the whisper of their soft-soled stampede frightening him more than his last stand at the house. An overpowering stench of decomposing flesh accosted him, as if he’d been blindfolded and had a rancid slab of ripe and wormy steak rubbed under his nose. It woke him up faster than a shot of smelling salts from a corner man. The moans and low, poisonous hisses followed, like a parking lot of cars all losing air pressure in their tires, closing in on him.
“All right.” Gus bent over, hands tightening around his bat as the nearing ghosts became chilling traceries in the dark.
“You pushed me in here,” he said, “but I fucking
guarantee
you’ll be kicking me out.”
His eyes flickered everywhere, barely seeing anything. The memory of a wide-open foyer, straight into the heart of this multistoried beast of a residence, sprang into his mind like a lonely strand of life-granting rope.