Shelly realized it was a bone, a long bone still pink and wet, small bits of flesh still attached to its length.
Before she could bring herself to scream, she realized someone stood behind her. Ignoring Madison, she spun, trying to bring her gun between her and the sudden threat behind her. A thing, a man-like thing with greasy long hair, his skin the pallor of dead fish, forced a slender rod to the base of her throat. It was wearing the rotting remnants of some dark blue uniform and encircled with an ashy smoke that stank of burning flesh. She saw all of this in an instant, and then screamed at the searing pain at her throat.
The thing forced her against the wall, the thin rod pressing harder, burning deeply into her neck. She found she could not draw breath and brought her weapon up one handed, the other sizzling along the length of black iron. The head rolled loosely to one side, and a milky pustule of an eye rolled towards her as she began firing.
Shelly had selected her weapon, a Sig Sauer model P226, 357 magnum, for its performance, reliability, and magazine capacity. She exercised all of these tactical features before the rod burned through her throat and forced its way into her windpipe. Blood burst into her mouth and began to run into her oxygen-starved lungs. Shelly suddenly realized that she was dead, that all of her training failed to prevent her own murder. Faintly, from down the hall, she heard Madison’s soft moan as she slipped into a narrowing darkness, the agony of her death stealing away with her sight.
Chapter 18
Joe forced the old Ford truck to a shuddering, screaming stop with both feet. The damn thing needed breaks, a transmission and who knew what else. Clinton would help him do those breaks on the weekend for a six of Bud, if he could only afford the new pads. Now that little Becky was here, it was hard to afford a six of Bud, more or less new brake pads.
The door stuttered a deep squeal as Joe forced it open. He dropped out onto the dried up yard of his trailer, a yard he could no longer afford to maintain. The trailer was not the best in the park, but it was a double wide and the view was great. They sat in the shadow of Black Water Mountain in a park called Blissful Acres, a name that had been more of a lie than a promise. Becky had tended some flower boxes and kept the inside picked up as best she could, so it was not all bad, except for the bills.
He climbed the single step and pulled the small door open. Just before him was Becky, a large cast iron frying pan in her hand.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said and grabbed him in a hug. Somewhere in the trailer, little Becky was crying. She looked ashen and abused, almost as though she was hung over.
“What’s wrong? What’s been going on here?” Joe asked with a voice twisted in irritation.
“That screeching… I heard it again, this time repeatedly all day! It wouldn’t fucking stop!”
“Now, Becky, let me get inside. I told you it ain’t nothing but a bobcat. They are more scared of you than you are of them.”
“It ain’t neither, Joey. There is something up on that hill that ain’t right.”
Joey eased Becky back a step with both hands. “Well, I’m home now and I won’t let nothing happen to you, hear? Now where’s my Becky-bean? There she is!”
He released Becky to retrieve the little girl from her playpen. The child stopped her crying and her face lit brightly with a toothless smile.
“I’m not imagining things, Joey. That thing has been screaming all day up there and it ain’t no wild cat.”
“Now don’t scare little Becky-bean here. What you got on for dinner? I’m starvin’!”
“Rice and beans. It’s all we got—”
Becky did not finish. A short high-pitched piercing screech raced down the mountain and cut her short.
Joey’s blood ran cold and he felt his groin almost let go. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.
“You see? I told ya! And watch your mouth in front of the baby.”
“It’s got to be an animal,” Joe reasoned half-heartedly under his breath. “That’s all there is up there: animals…”
“I don’t know either way, but it’s been scaring me half to death.”
“Where’s my gun, baby?”
“You ain’t goin’ out there to hunt it!” Becky stated flatly.
“No, I ain’t goin’ out there to hunt it,” he replied sarcastically. “I want it just in case.”
“It’s in the bedroom closet. I don’t know where the bullets are at.”
“I’ll find ’um. Just get dinner on, alright?”
Joe placed the cooing baby back in her playpen. She fretted a bit before rediscovering the brightly colored blocks Annabel, their neighbor, had given them when she was born.
The bedroom still looked slept in, something Becky never let happen. Joe reasoned that she really had been scared the entire day. He wondered why she did not call him at the job site before realizing he had no more minutes on his cell phone; once more, back to the money problems. He loved little Becky, but she cost so damn much.
He pulled open the aluminum closet doors and fished around until he had the twelve-gauge shotgun and a box of slugs. He had not been hunting for some time and now the gun was bone dry and dusty, the ammunition almost two years old. There was nothing to do about that, so he loaded it with as many rounds as it would take, pumped one into the chamber, and jammed another in—just in case. He brought it back into the living room/dining room/kitchen and leaned it against the wall near the door.
The screech, somewhere between a bobcat, a screech owl, the tearing of metal, and the death scream of a woman, tore through the trailer again. Joe felt an unreasonable terror race down his spine and threaten to work his water loose. He knew some animals had a voice that could scare predators, but this thing was tormenting. Becky began to shake, her nerves scraped raw. Little Becky began to fret and whimper.
“I don’t know if I can take this much longer,” Joe’s wife squeaked. It was obvious she was about to have some form of a breakdown. “Every time I hear that thing, I almost wet myself, and I feel like I’m about to heave up. It’s driving me mad!” she screamed desperately.
Joe sat at the small kitchen table, his chair intruding into the living room. He had to agree that whatever made that sound was no animal, but what else could it be? “It’s been doin’ that all day?” Joe asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even.
“Yeah,” Becky replied shakily.
“Well, try to stay calm. I’m home now; I’ll keep you safe.”
The screech split the air like a wildly swung axe. This time, Becky screamed with it. The baby jumped visibly and began to cry loudly.
“Joe, can we go stay at my mom’s, just for tonight, until that thing stops?” Becky was wringing her hands like a worried preacher.
“Becky…” Joe disliked his mother-in-law greatly; she was little more than a tattooed bag of whisky sours with a jagged razor for a personality. “Everything will be alright, hear?” Anger began to build in him, an unreasonable irritation driven by the idea of staying at that woman’s house and the loud crying of the baby.
“Just for tonight; we can leave in the mornin’. Please?”
“No! Now shut that fuckin’ thing up and get my dinner!” Even Joe was shocked at what he had just said, the savagery in his voice.
“Joe?” Becky asked weakly.
“Becky, oh my God…I’m sorry, I don’t know…” The screech drove through his head again, this time he jumped.
“Fuck it! Get the kid; let’s get out of here.”
Joe stood so quickly, so sure of his decision that the chair fell and came close to glancing off the playpen. Becky rushed to the baby and lifted the screaming bundle into her arms.
Now that they had committed themselves to action, anger fled the rush of smothering fear. Joe grabbed the gun and forced the door open violently. The sound of a gunshot stopped him, and the trailer directly across from them flashed brightly with another shot.
“What was that?” Becky shouted.
