Part 4 (2/2)

Locked the doors and threw away the keys.

It was the last time he ever saw Dr. Nemiah. She had talked of timelines and the limitations of therapy, but Sheldon knew the real reason: he was just so d.a.m.n needy and tiring. He didn't blame her for handing off the mountain of a medical record that was Sheldon Delaney. He was a handful and up until recently, no kind of therapy seemed to work. Under different circ.u.mstances, and if he weren't covered in blood from a state trooper, she'd probably be so proud of the progress he had made.

He closed his fingers around Dr. Nemiah's invisible hand. A little better. Even the thought of her strength helped.

It was time to get up off the ground. For Evan's sake as much as his own.

He sat with his back against the rear door of the cruiser. Reaching into the sodden pocket of his pajama bottoms, he took out the empty revolver. Maybe he could just wave it around at whatever was behind him, or throw it. Sans bullets, the gun still felt good in his grip, like holding hands with someone who was a lot stronger than he was.

More knocking on the winds.h.i.+eld gla.s.s. It definitely sounded like knuckles tapping against the window, not slithering tentacles or metal fangs. Why hadn't he looked in the back of the cruiser when he was in it? Maybe because he was a bit distracted by an ocean of gore and a disembodied head rolling around near his feet.

He raised into a squat and froze. The knocking continued, more frantic. He stayed crouching and turned around. Something was moving. The dome light threw strange shadows on the interior, long and serpentine.

Better to get this whole experience over with. Either way, I'm too tired to sit here guessing what's in there.

One . . . Two . . . Three . . .

He jumped up, pointing the revolver at the ma.s.s in the back seat while letting out what could be considered a war cry. It was a bit too high-pitched to sound intimidating, but it helped get him to his feet, all the same.

”AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-”

There were no oil-slick tentacles slapping against the upholstery, no metal clockwork crammed into necrotic tissue, no jagged teeth and, more importantly, no sign of an animated, combustible engine living inside a human host.

What was in the back of the car surprised him more than if it had been another abomination from the parade. The occupant, or prisoner, Sheldon guessed, made him blush and wish desperately that the windows would have been tinted.

Sure, he had some experience with women, but by no means was he any sort of Don Juan. In fact, he was pretty naive in that department. And what experiences he did have with women, naked women, was a lot more discreet than this, the sneaking into each other's inst.i.tutional single bed, the lights off, under the sheets, missionary style variety.

All he could think was beautiful, naked, beautiful, naked. While she banged on the window with cuffs around her hands, Sheldon just continued to stare in bewilderment and awe at her: the way her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaved and jiggled when she slammed her hands against the window, silver dollar-sized, reddish-brown areolas slick with sweat; her golden hair plastered around a thin, oval face; giant blue eyes absorbing the bit of glow afforded by the dome light and sparkling brilliantly from within. With all that had happened, and him being surrounded by carnage, he still felt himself stiffen just the slightest. And he felt dirty and embarra.s.sed at the lack of self-control.

”Please, get me out of here!” She pled-screaming-with him. Her hands, cinched together by the cuffs, were held up in a ”Don't shoot!” manner and her eyes darted from the front seat to the door handle. ”Please . . .” Tears poured down her face. Her top lip quivered.

Jesus. What was wrong with him? Sheldon snapped out of his trance. He quickly pulled the door handle. The door flung open, spilling the girl into his open arms. He hugged her close to his body, no longer concerned with naked flesh, but only for her safety.

They spent a good amount of time standing there. Her entire body heaved up and down, shaking uncontrollably. He used the collar of his s.h.i.+rt to wipe the tears away, patting the top of her head, rea.s.suring her. Lending what little strength he had left.

”It'll be all right, girl . . . we'll get through this. If I can do it, then so can you.”

A complete stranger was in his arms, a beautiful, naked one at that, but still he didn't know her from Eve. And, surprisingly, he was okay with the whole ordeal, complacent even. The not-so-long-ago Sheldon would've flinched in repulsion if this woman tried to touch him. That version, which was still just an arm's length behind him, would've stepped out of the way and let her crumble to the ground.

But the new and improved, shock-therapy Sheldon decided right then that he was and would be the hero of the day. He would protect this stranger, this beautiful girl. He would save the children-Evan-and every last rider in the parade would suffer at his more than willing hands.

A big bite to swallow, but Sheldon felt invincible, for the time being, at least.

They stepped back from each other. She held her cuffed hands in front of her bosom, s.h.i.+elding them from the chilly bite of night. He placed his hands on her shoulders and tried to make eye contact. Her sobbing had waned a bit, but tears still trickled down her face. Slowly, she looked up at him. Even in darkness, he could see the fear in those eyes and it made him that much more angry.

”I can only imagine what those monsters did to you.”

”Please . . . please . . . please.” Those three words were all she could muster before collapsing back into Sheldon's arms.

”It's all right. I'm here. I'll . . . protect you.” That was the first time those words had ever escaped from him. Just yesterday, he'd had a hard time taking care of himself. And now this tattered soul was relying on him for strength and protection. Instead of feeling panic at the additional responsibility, he seemed to grow, to stand a few inches taller. Another's reliance on his ability to protect was good medicine, plain and simple.

”Now, let's get you some clothes.”

t h i r t e e n The pressure against his chest released. Evan could breathe a bit easier, but all the adrenaline made him suck in quick gulps of air. On the verge of hyperventilating, he opened his eyes long enough to see a pair of leather gloved hands (powerful, unforgiving hands) reach in and scoop up another child from the pile. No one resisted. Everyone was asleep, relaxed, pictures of bliss on their cherub faces. He closed his eyes.

G.o.d, make this all be a bad dream. Let me open my eyes again and I'll be at my house . . . at Sheldon's house and we'll be watching TV, eating popcorn. Mom and Dad will be there . . .

Another stolen glance outside the belly of the beast reminded Evan this wasn't a dream. They were inside some type of warehouse with high ceilings. Machinery spinning, hammering, vibrating. Children were scooped up and thrown over the backs of the riders. Some type of a.s.sembly line was formed to remove the ”cargo.” Soon Evan would be plucked out from the manure, garage-smelling monster. One second, he was relieved to be getting out. The next, he was flooded with terror, the kind that started in his gut, spiraled up his spine to the base of his neck, enervating his entire body. The permanent kind. Forever fear. That type of fear didn't go away when Mother or Father turned on the lights, made a sweep of the closet and under the bed, and rea.s.sured their child there was no such thing as monsters.

In Evan's world, monsters were for real. The parade was real. His parents were dead; every adult was . . . probably even Sheldon. And soon, Evan believed he would be dead, too. No one was going to turn on the lights and banish the bogeyman back to h.e.l.l. He was with the bogeyman-bogeymen-and . . .

. . .this was h.e.l.l.

Vice grip hands, burning hot under the leather, dug into Evan's shoulders before yanking him from the ma.s.s of bodies and throwing him on the back of a rider. A living sack of potatoes.

Try to be loose. Try to stay calm. No matter what, play along. Play the part. Pretend to be asleep. Don't start to cry. Swallow the tears. Someone will come. The police. Sheldon. Sheldon will come . . . I just know it.

He tried not to flinch as he was tossed back down onto the cold cement ground. He could feel a warm body next to him, and then another dropped down on his other side. They were being lined up in a row, but what for? He felt something wet contract around his ankles.

Rope? Great. Now what do I do?

If only he could hear what was going on. More than any other time in his life, he wanted nothing more than to be able to hear.

Eyes closed. Completely dark. Ears permanently sealed from the outside world. Forever silent. The only noise screaming from within. He battled with his own terror, locked in a wrestling match to see who persevered. And he felt his grip slipping.

He couldn't play this game anymore. Just when he was preparing to open his eyes, open his mouth, and scream until his vocal cords burst, something grabbed his shoulders and shook him lightly.

He opened his eyes, pretending to be groggy. Play the part! A distorted reflection of himself, terrified, bewildered, stared back at him. A rider knelt down in front of him. The reflection was from the mirrored helmet. His captor reached a gloved hand up-leather, sloughed off skin from a molting python-and messed the top of Evan's hair like Sheldon was fond of doing. He jerked away from its touch. The helmet tilted to the side, as if to contemplate Evan's reaction, and then shrugged. It patted Evan on the head, gave the boy two thumbs up, stood up, and moved to the next kid in line.

Now I'm even more confused . . . frightened . . . alone. What was that all about? It was almost nice to me.

Evan took his first real look at his surroundings. The inside of the warehouse was stuffed full of machinery, but at a closer glance the machines were like nothing he'd ever seen. The material of the entire warehouse-floors, walls, ceilings-was so unfamiliar and alien that, again, he thought he may be dreaming.

Everything around him was alive. Giant compressors covered in fleshy membranes heaved and swelled as if breathing. Crab-like things skittered through the rafters, dropped down from the ceiling, and sped across the floor. Off to the left was what he believed to be a generator. He could see thick power cables running in and out of it. There was a logo on the side, a circle with a lightning bolt cutting through from top to bottom. It looked like it had been a standard generator at one point, but now it seemed to be covered in a pulsing ma.s.s of skin.

Evan knew he wasn't dreaming because not even his own nightmares could think of something this strange.

To the side of the generator were a number of green barrels. Hoses ran to each barrel and back into the ma.s.s of steel and flesh. Those barrels were full of fuel and they fed the generator, keeping it alive, keeping everything alive.

Big, white tentacles crept out from the top of the generator. The slick, pulsing fingers extended throughout the warehouse, up through the rafters, snaking around the fluorescent lighting, into all the machinery, connecting everything together. He watched a blue arc of electricity run along one of the fingers, up a wall thick with veins and down into a machine directly to his right.

That generator is the brain, the master, and all those white things are nerves.

The pig beasts from the parade were all lined up facing Evan and the other children. They were slumped over (Dead? Turned off?) with gaping holes in their freakish abdomens. The arms were much longer than they should have been and the back legs were not much more than stubs. Nerves from the generator ran to each one of the pigs and were buried into the top of their heads. Evan had been inside one of them. They all had been.

A huge metal door began to slide open behind the pigs. It rolled up on tracts into the rafters. A single rider came in towing another trailer. It stopped. The door ratcheted closed. The trailer opened and a pig beast lumbered out, slick with oil, pink flesh, its snout scorched from exhaust, flesh torn from its metal scaffolding insides. Pistons pumped, fuel burned, and the pig hitched and shook as it took its place next to the other creatures.

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