Part 4 (1/2)

I just shot a police officer. But it wasn't a cop. You know that. It's one of those things. It's a mechanical wolf in sheep's clothing.

But it's getting dark outside. You can't see very well. What if this is blood, his blood, all over me and it just looked like oil?

He had to know for sure.

Sheldon was wet, cold, tired, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. The revolver suddenly became ma.s.sive, as if he were trying to hold up an ICBM. He closed both hands around the grip and could still barely keep the muzzle pointed toward the vehicle. When he reached the open door he nudged the body splayed out in the front seat with his foot. Then he leapt back and waited for something to happen.

Nothing, just the motionless form of something wearing a cop's uniform, face down, leaking fluid (maybe blood, maybe oil) all over the upholstery. Sheldon held his breath.

The rain intensified as if to try and wash away the tension. Water rushed in the ditch behind Sheldon. Frogs barked, crickets screamed, and an engine roared to life.

Exhaust puffed out of the holes Sheldon had blasted into the cop's backside. The body was vibrating slightly from side to side, idling. Even after everything that had happened, this was a hard pill to swallow. The engine was inside the cop, crammed inside a lifeless cavity, animation through combustion, and there was no doubt the thing he'd blasted a hole into was another abominable creation from the parade.

It sat up, bent the wrong way at the waist, its a.s.s now a lap and its feet pointing toward the sky, arms flailing up and down. Even over the thunder and drumming of rain on the hood of the car, Sheldon could hear vertebrae cracking.

Pop-pop-snap.

A barn owl turning its head all the way around was the only tangible comparison Sheldon could make as the cop-thing turned its head to face him. More bones breaking. Sheldon stared at a waking nightmare and whimpered. Black oil bubbled from its mouth, lips, nose, and ears. Something too big, a lump the size of a grapefruit, traveled up its throat, blebbing it out like a bullfrog's. Its jawbone unhinged at the joint and fell into its a.s.s-lap. Tissue tore, the top half of the cranium peeled backwards, separated, and rolled down onto the floor.

A c.o.c.ktail of blood and oil and soapy fat erupted from the stump, spraying the interior of the car. Black, whip-like shoots bloomed from the gory hole, shot out toward Sheldon, and wrapped around his helmet. The impact flung him backwards into the water-filled ditch. He went under before taking a breath. Ditch water surged down his throat. Dropping the revolver, Sheldon fought for leverage in the soggy earth. It was useless. His fingers dug frantically into mud while his lungs burned. This was it. He'd drown in a ditch alongside the road and the parade would ride on. Bugs and parasites would gnaw away at his bloated body, detritus would cover his remains, and the world would be no wiser.

Then he was lifted up out of the ditch.

Mouth open wide, sucking and gulping in an ocean of air, he stared down at the monstrosity below. The cop's body was riddled with black tentacles erupted from his skin. They whipped and swayed in all directions like a snake charmer's cobra. A steel-hinged mouth with countless jagged, iron-forged teeth sat inside a gaping hole in the chest cavity. It ratcheted open and then slammed shut with a hydraulic hiss. Intestines dangled from the corners of the mouth. Each time it opened and closed, fragments of the organs broke off and tumbled to the drenched earth below. Tentacles snaked around Sheldon's legs, his waist, chest, and neck. He wrestled his arms free, knowing there wasn't a chance without his arms. A mechanical roar erupted from somewhere inside the cop, sounding like the buzz of frenzied hornets. The thing slammed Sheldon back down into the ditch. The impact knocked what little breath he had out of him.

Up into the air again. Tentacles squeezed harder around his diaphragm, his throat, his skull. Sheldon's tongue was thick and swollen in his mouth. His eyes bugged out. He was suffocating. Digging at the thick ropes with his hands, Sheldon made a futile attempt to free himself.

Back into the ditch. Something hard on the bottom of the ditch dug into his backside. He reached behind his back with failing strength and closed his hand around the revolver grip. This time, when he was lifted up, he aimed the revolver at the engine. A metal tripod dug into the earth, balancing the weight of the monstrosity. Sheldon pulled the trigger.

Nothing. A misfire. Maybe the bullets were waterlogged.

There was a wretched, tearing sound from below. Through tunnel-vision Sheldon could see all the flesh rip and slough from the creature, revealing pistons, hydraulics, cogs and spinning belts jammed into skeleton and meat.

Sheldon screamed. The tentacles around his neck tightened. On the verge of pa.s.sing out, he pulled the trigger again and again. Just as the thick curtains of unconsciousness closed, the .357 fired. He emptied the chamber. Four bullets found a home deep inside the engine. A vacuumed hiss and the mechanical jaws stopped. The creature went slack-the engine no longer running-and then slumped over. Sheldon fell back to the ground face first into the ditch. He worked himself free of all the rubber hosing and low-crawled out of the ditch, collapsing next to the carca.s.s of the cop, not caring whether the thing was still ”alive” or not. His lungs felt as though they'd been burned with acid and scrubbed with steel wool. His whole body shook from fatigue.

After he caught his breath, he flipped over on his back. He opened his mouth and let the rain fall in. The taste of mud and G.o.d only knew what else was strong. He smacked his lips, running his tongue around the edge of his mouth, and then swallowed a few times.

As quickly as it had blown in, the storm was already pa.s.sing. The rain was letting up. He saw a few stars peeking out from behind cracks in the edges of the thunder clouds.

It was time to get up. He slowly worked himself up to his knees. He swayed back and forth, almost losing consciousness. His shoulder b.u.mped into what was left of the cop. It rocked back and forth and then crashed to the ground. He used the engine, which was still hot to the touch, for leverage and stood all the way. He shuffled, half bent over, to the hood of the car and grabbed on. He looked through the driver's side door and shook his head in affirmation when he saw what had caught his attention in the first place.

A string of multi-colored necklaces, intertwined with meat and cogs, swung like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.

e l e v e n Hard to believe that someone could sleep inside the belly of the beast, but once inside, Evan pa.s.sed out almost instantly.

Everything happened so quickly. The parade came. His parents (My parents are dead!), along with all the other adults, tried to kill each other. And the kids . . . all the children had willingly crawled inside those creatures. Not Evan, though. It took two of those leather-clad monsters to get him to cooperate. He'd landed a couple jimmy-shots in the process, but it didn't seem to faze them.

What made everyone act that way?

How could my father do that? He loved mom . . .

It had to be the parade. Evan figured it must be the engines. Sound waves maybe. It did something to a person . . . some kind of mind control. He couldn't hear it so he didn't go along with their little plan. Not that it mattered much. In the end, he ended up inside just like all the other kids.

There was no telling how long he'd been asleep. All he knew was he wanted out and fast. It was completely dark. No telling how many were inside with him, only that they were at full capacity; arms, legs, and torsos knotted and tangled around each other. It was steaming hot. Evan was drenched in sweat. The cut on his palm throbbed. Someone was smashed up against his chest, crus.h.i.+ng his diaphragm. He could barely take a full breath and the feeling of suffocating only added to his panic.

Inside, it smelled like motor oil, burning fuel, the deli section of the grocery mart, and manure; a weird fusion of livestock and auto garage. He was contorted in a strange and very uncomfortable position. He was vertical, but his legs were tucked into a sitting position. Other children were below him, all around. His head was free and he had full movement in his neck. It didn't help much. It was too dark to discern anything. His arms were plastered to his side by other bodies. All he wanted was to wipe the sweat from his eyes. If he could accomplish that, things would be a bit easier. He tried to work his left hand free, slowly wiggling it from side to side. At first, nothing, it was as if he were dipped in cement.

Take it easy. Don't panic. Pretend you're in quicksand and just move inch by inch.

He could wiggle his fingers. Kids wriggled and s.h.i.+fted around him. Now, his wrist, and then his elbow up to the neck. Bodies s.h.i.+fted positions, making enough s.p.a.ce for him to free his entire arm. He mopped away the sweat with the palm of his hand. A little better, not much. He felt blindly around. Clothing, sweaty flesh, faces, hair. He navigated the small bit of s.p.a.ce his arm would reach. Above him and behind him was steel. They must be inside some kind of metal crate. He made a fist and banged against the crate. He felt a rumble and the creature s.h.i.+fted from side to side. Whatever they were inside of must have growled.

Evan tried to gauge if they were still moving. He didn't think so. It would probably be a b.u.mpy ride inside whatever was inside the trailer and right then everything was pretty still. He sat there for a while, trying to control his breathing, using his free arm to make a s.p.a.ce between his chest and the kid in front of him. He'd push as hard as he could, take a big breath, and then let up. He had just finished this act, when he got the sensation that the creature stood up. His stomach rolled a bit.

Here we go . . . last stop on the nightmare express.

This must be what it feels like to be in the womb. Surprisingly, the swaying back and forth was somewhat soothing. He felt himself drifting back to sleep. No way. He pinched his cheek hard and shook his head.

You gotta be awake when they split this thing open. It might be your only chance to bail.

The swaying stopped. Evan held his breath. A pinp.r.i.c.k of light appeared in front of him. It grew larger until he could see his surroundings. Everyone was still asleep. He closed his eyes. Best to blend in until it was the right time.

The only problem was he didn't have a clue when the right time would be.

t w e l v e What a mess. Sheldon took in all the gore covering the inside of the cruiser.

He had just sat down on the pa.s.senger side. Only the very edge of the seat wasn't splattered in filth and he positioned himself halfway hanging out the door to avoid it. The driver's side door was still open. Cherry lights on top threw a Doppler of red light all around the scenery. The dome light barely spilled out onto the shoulder of the road, but he could still make out the crumpled up ma.s.s of what used to be the trooper; shadowed steel of the engine block jutting out of ruined flesh, the faint glimmer of a badge hanging loosely from a torn uniform, a faltering hiss emanating from somewhere inside the engine, tangles of monstrous rubber tentacles slithered in futility against the ground and then lay still.

What had erupted from the cop covered the entire cab. Sheldon couldn't even see out the front winds.h.i.+eld. The dash, steering wheel, and console were slick with blood and chunks of tissue. A shotgun was locked against the dash. He was afraid to touch it. He tried to picture what the inside of the cop car should look like. The ones he had seen on TV, that is. There should be a dashboard full of gadgets and gizmos. More importantly, there should be a radio. He could use it to call in the cavalry. It was almost impossible to discern what was underneath all the mess. He thought he could make out dials and a handset. From where he sat, it was almost impossible to reach the handset without having to move farther into the vehicle and still avoid the pool of blood next to him. He inched his body closer. His fingertips could almost touch the radio. Just a little bit farther.

His foot kicked something large and solid on the floorboard. He looked down and locked eyes with a decapitated head.

Half of a decapitated head, anyway. The jawbone had snapped loose and fallen off when the engine inside the cop roared to life.

There was a sick moaning coming from somewhere near him as he kicked at the skull until it rolled over and those lifeless eyes stopped staring at him. When it came to rest with the bottom facing Sheldon, a fresh stream of oily blood trickled out.

Sheldon realized he was the one moaning. Perhaps an omen of what was to come.

He barely had time to face the open door before his guts exploded up his throat. He vomited again and again. Stomach contents spattered onto the foot he had dangling out of the car. He tucked both his legs up into his gut and continued to throw up, only stopping when his stomach had nothing else to give. Even then, he gagged and dry heaved until his throat burned from the acids.

He closed his eyes. His water soaked pajamas clung to his skin. A cold breeze tickled his fevered flesh. He s.h.i.+vered uncontrollably, both from the chill of the night and fatigue. As exhausted as he felt, he had to get up and out from the vehicle. The smell alone was enough to send him into another fit of dry heaves. With his eyes still closed, he stepped out, pressed his back against the car and scooted along the side. He stood frozen, too horrified to reach back into the cab for the radio, and too physically drained to walk back to his motorcycle.

When someone or something banged on the window behind him, Sheldon's heart stopped.

He fainted and crumbled into a heap where he stood, slid down the side of the cruiser, and mashed his cheek into the gravel.

Open your eyes. . .

If only Dr. Nemiah really was there with him. She'd help him off the ground, brush the dirt off, remove the pebbles lodged in his skin and, most importantly, hold his hand. They'd look through the window together and no matter how bad things were on the other side of the gla.s.s she'd continue to hold on.

But she wasn't there. She hadn't been there since Sheldon left the inst.i.tution. ”It would be better if you did this on your own, Sheldon,” she had said before closing the case, shutting him out of her life forever. They'd pumped him full of psychotropic drugs and carted him off to his current residence.