What Do Monsters Fear Page 18

  “Whoever it is, they’re coming fast. Move back.”

  A figure scrambled up porch on all fours, the boards of the steps groaning. Then it stood, and revealed a headless body.

  “The living room, Henry! Go!”

  The headless body of Jerry Fisher trashed about as it bolted for them, its snow covered hands grasping at thin air. It tripped on the shards of the clock and went sprawling to the floor. Glancing back as they reached the living room, Peter saw the body wasn’t entirely headless. A smushed ball of pulp hung by threads to the neck, clumps of hair sprouting at odd angles and dried in blood.

  “Stay here,” Peter ordered. “You lose any more blood and you’re going down. I’m taking care of this.”

  “You’re bleeding, too, Peter! Don’t be a fool!”

  Ignoring the hold man, Peter pulled the rock salt from his belt. He scooped a handful, squeezing it tight in his fist. He’d seen how powerful the salt could be, and wanted to use as little as possible. Jerry Fisher only deserved as much.

  Fisher’s disfigured form clambered to its feet.

  You’re desperate, Phobos . . . What happens to you when you don’t have a body, huh? Like a fish out of water? Let’s find out.

  Peter flung a handful of salt, smacking the ruined neck. It sizzled on impact.

  Peter stepped back as the body thumped to the floor and shook as if electrocuted. Its limbs kicked about in a frenzy before finally falling still.

  Peter’s breathing sounded loud in the sudden silence. A quiet sizzling came from Jerry’s body, like meat on a frying pan. Then smoke drifted from the corpse.

  “Stay dead, you rotten bastard . . . Just stay dead.”

  Henry approached, his face gaunt. Sweat beaded his face, a glossy sheen coating his eyes. He needed medical attention. And soon.

  “How did he do that?” Henry asked. “Jerry’s head was caved in.”

  “Desperation. Panic.”

  Peter hated to admit it, but for the briefest moment, he related to the monster.

  He cleared his throat. “Cramming into those useless corpses is a last resort to get at us. He knows damn well the bodies aren’t sustainable, he’s just using them as weapons. He’s frightened.”

  “In that case there’s five more corpses he’s going to use, Peter.”

  Peter counted. Walter still lay out in the snow, then came Andrew, Jamie, Paul, and . . . Donald. Each a despicable slop of rot, but in Phobos’ desperation, he’d use up what energy he had left to do the job.

  “How much salt we got left?” Henry asked.

  “Enough. I wasted a handful throwing blind just there. Hit clothes, hit the floor . . . Need to get a clear shot at the flesh. But getting close is dangerous. Headless or not, that fucker’s got use of hands, legs, all sorts. We need a trap or something.”

  Henry arched an eyebrow. “A trap, sure . . . Or we use that goddamn shotgun and prepare some salt shells.”

  Peter couldn’t help but grin. “That’d work? You know how?”

  “It’d work,” Henry said. “But not like in the movies. Rock salt packed in shells wouldn’t even pierce skin, but we don’t need it to, do we? We just need it to reach him from a distance, and the spread of a shotgun guarantees a hit.”

  “You’re a genius, Randolph.”

  “Damn straight. Now go get that shotgun, I want to show you something.”

  At the gun rack, Peter rattled the lock. Too thick to pull free. With a deep breath, he rammed his elbow into the door. A sharp crack rang out as the wood split. He smashed the door again, this time creating a jagged hole the size of a tennis ball. Reaching in, he ripped the wood free, pulling away chunks. With a sufficient hole, Peter removed the shotgun and peered inside. A worn cardboard case of shells sat on the cabinet floor and Peter took them, too, before returning to Henry.

  “Got it.”

  Henry lifted a book with his free hand, the other still pressing the shirt to his wound. “Look here. See the sun and moon? The layout depicts time. The ink splotch fading below? I think without a body, Phobos is going to disappear. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Like a fish out of water, Peter thought again, a swell of hope jabbing his chest. “What do we do now? How do we prepare these shells?”

  “Find me something to patch them with, search the dresser by the window.”

  Peter routed inside the top drawer, tossing aside a notepad, pencils, some magazines, and . . .

  “Duct tape?”

  “Perfect, bring it here.”

  Peter handed the roll to Henry, hoping there was enough left for the job. “Rip a piece of that shirt and stick it to your neck, too. Can’t keep it held there forever.”

  A smile lifted the corner of Henry’s mouth. “Shit we got no alcohol lying around, huh? Could’ve come in handy.”

  “Disinfectant, right.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “It hurts bad, huh?” Peter asked. “You’ve lost a lot of color.”

  Henry tried ripping the shirt but only stretched the material. He handed it to Peter without a word. Peter ripped the cleanest section free by working his fingers into the neck hole. He wiped Henry’s neck clean with the rest of the shirt before taping the patch in place. Job done, Henry pointed to the box of shells.

  “Empty them, would you?”

  Peter upturned the carton on the table and the shells rolled about. He counted eight in total, each with a red casting and gold-plated bottom.

  Henry lifted one to study. “Standard twelve-gauge shot. Common on farms. My uncle had ’em all over the place.”

  The old man went to the fireplace and removed a table leg. “This’ll do.”

  He worked the splintered end into the top of the shell vigorously. As he did, Peter watched the wound on the old man’s neck. The shirt had soaked through already, black with blood. The tape seemed to hold for now, but Peter wondered for how long.

  “Here we go. Look.” Henry shook out pellets into the palm of his shaking hand. “Twenty-odd balls. It’s buckshot. Birdshot would have about seventy. Sometimes you’ll even find a single slug in here, for use on anything larger than a deer. We just need the shell, anyway. I’ll empty ’em and you fill with the salt, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We tape the top with that duct tape and pray it holds. Let’s see the gun.”

  Peter passed the weapon and Henry rotated it in his hands while squinting. “Standard Remington. Holds four shells. Means you’ll have to reload at least once to get all six, if we’re right about the body count. But overall, not a bad weapon to be left with in a life-or-death situation.”

  “Why don’t you—”

  Henry shook his head. “Don’t even ask, you’re smarter than that. Look at how bad I’m shaking . . . Besides, it’s a shotgun, it sprays. You don’t need to be one hundred percent accurate. Don’t be afraid.” He gave Peter a look. “You’ve never shot a shotgun before, have you?”

  “I’ve never shot any kind of gun before.”

  “Nothing to worry about. You see right here? Yeah. That’s where the shells are inserted. You pump this here . . . To put one in the barrel. I don’t think I need to explain to you what the trigger is for. Get it good and tight against your armpit to avoid kickback. That’s about it. Not rocket science.”

  Henry gave a nervous chuckle.

  “What?” Peter asked.

  “It’s just funny, isn’t it? An ancient god, all powerful, all feared, but that was eons ago . . . We’ve moved on since, the whole world . . . Now two alcoholics with a shotgun full of salt are going to take it down. The times, Peter, they’ve changed.”

  “And that’s what this ancient bastard never counted on. God or not, put a shotgun in its face and the fuck’s gonna run . . . How’d you know so much about guns?”

  “Only shotguns, actually. My uncle Richard had a farm deep down in York County. Used to spend whole summers there when I was about nine or ten. A man’s man, you know the type. Used to say that the world was getti
ng soft, that’s how he worded it. Getting soft. Said we were forgetting how to fend for ourselves and relying too much on corporate bigheads to hand-feed us. Looked me right in the eye and said he’d be damned if his own blood was going to turn out the same. Each hunting season, we’d go get us some bucks and he’d explain all about shooting, all about tracking . . . I never forgot a word. My own father wasn’t much use. Richard was my mother’s brother, the only male role model, really, now that I think about it . . .”

  The old man’s eyes grew distant as he got washed away in his own memories.

  “Henry,” Peter said. “You all right?”

  “Fine . . . Fine . . . It’s just funny, isn’t it? How things can go so wrong. So different. I’m just thinking . . . How does it get so bad? I never wanted to be like this, you know? I never had an interest in drinking when I was a teenager like so many of my friends seemed to. I was focused. I had drive. I just don’t know where I slipped up . . . How I became so . . . Well, this.”

  I’m well aware, Peter thought. Well aware.

  Peter himself never drank until touring with the band. And even then, it wasn’t much. The odd complimentary bottle from the venue, left backstage at a gig, that sort of thing. Then a complimentary bottle of wine gradually became a complimentary case of beer. Soon enough, a shot of whiskey would chase that, and before Peter knew it, the whiskey got chased with something else. In no time at all, it seemed, Peter woke a decade later in a puddle of his own mess.

  “You’re a good man, Henry,” he said. “I got to know a guy who had my back even if it meant putting himself in danger. You looked out for me. That’s more than anyone else I know would be willing to do. Even so called friends I’ve known for my whole life. I didn’t see an alcoholic.”

  Henry’s lip quivered. “You’re gonna get through this, Peter.”

  “We’re going to. I won’t let you give up hope.”

  “I’m not giving up hope . . . I’m just a realist, something I’ve always been. Peter, I was useful for once in my miserable piece of shit life.” Henry chuckled but his eyes held steady. “My actions meant something. I didn’t run and try to hide in the bottom of a bottle, and not just because I couldn’t, because I didn’t want to. Something more important called me. I needed to help you get through this.”

  Peter’s throat hurt. His eyes stung, and not because of the smoke filled room. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing. Just do it. Face that bastard down and send him packin’ with his tail between his legs. I just hope when it’s time for me to go that I don’t end up there. In that place.”

  “You think it’s Hell?”

  “I believe it’s something very close, at least. Some unspeakable place full of monsters and daemons . . . I want to end up with my Lauren. And if there is a God, a good one, I mean, then I believe that’s where I’ll go. I have to.”

  Peter taped the last shell and placed it with the others. They were much lighter now that they’d been emptied of their pellets, but he trusted Henry when the old man said they’d do damage.

  Smoky air drifted from Peter’s lips. He wondered how much time they’d have before the place went up. Then another idea came. Henry smiled to him as if reading his mind.

  Peter removed an invisible carton of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and presented them to Henry. Taking one, the old man snorted a laugh and made a clicking sound with his tongue, making the noise of a lighter. He breathed deeply before exhaling smoky air.

  “Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em, right?”

  “Right.” Peter faked lighting his own invisible cigarette. “Really hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does.”

  They stayed that way for a moment, the tension lifting slightly. Peter wanted to stay that way for as long as possible and not allow the impending sense of doom to overtake him. Every time he thought of what they were about to do, his stomach lurched. But for now, the brief moment with his friend made him smile.

  “This is just like what I used to do,” Henry said. “When I worked. I’d procrastinate and have smoke after smoke before finally getting the job started. Always.” He took another drag on the invisible butt and grinned. “But you know what? I’d always get the job done once I finally did manage to start. And well, too, I might add.”

  “I hope this one won’t be any different.”

  “Me, too.”

  Henry passed the shotgun to Peter. He tapped the shirt on his neck and winced. The duct tape had come undone at one end, saturated in blood and no longer sticking. He pressed it back into place and waited for Peter to load the gun.

  Pumping the shotgun, Peter placed the four remaining shells full of rock salt into his jeans pocket and nodded. The sharp smell of smoke tickled his nose and made his eyes water.

  “We should head outside. I think the kitchen’s caught, for sure. Whole place might go up any second now. When that happens, the nearest town’s bound to send some rescue chopper or something to investigate. Our ticket out of here.”

  “Sure.” Henry never looked him in the eye as he spoke, and Peter knew the old man had accepted his fate here in the Dawson farmhouse. He’d made his peace with the fact that he’d never get out alive. But Peter hadn’t.

  “Let’s move.”

  A thump came from within the room. Peter pulled the shotgun tight against his shoulder and aimed.

  “Go behind me, Henry.”

  Keeping the gun raised, Peter sidestepped the broken door, kicking shards from his path. He chanced a glance into the hallway and saw the staircase and far wall lit in a dancing orange glow. He’d been right; the kitchen now blazed.

  The carpet covering Donald’s body rustled. Peter took aim and waited, his heart hammering his ribcage. The idea of Phobos, now desperate, wriggling into the destroyed corpse of their dead friend made him want to scream. Donald might not have much of a head anymore, but he had big hands for scratching and big muscles for grabbing. The corpse still had to be warm, maybe they’d get lucky and Rigor mortis would—

  Peter’s thoughts cut as the makeshift cover on Donald’s body lifted. It looked like a worm made of carpet, sitting up in a backwards capital L. With a shout, Peter pulled the trigger.

  Please don’t jam . . .

  The shotgun kicked as the bang crashed throughout the farmhouse. Donald’s body dropped, the carpet flaked with holes. Wisps of smoke rose from the tiny tears and the sound of sizzling meat followed.

  Shaking his head, Peter thanked Henry for covering their friend’s body. He didn’t want to see another corpse move, especially not Donald.

  The prayer only lasted a second, however, as Paul’s corpse spasmed.

  The orderly beneath the curtain jerked and twisted, his limbs stretched straight and long. His legs drummed the hardwood. Pumping the shotgun, Peter pulled the trigger a second time.

  Paul’s body flopped still. The salt ripped through the carpet as easy as led through paper. The fresh holes looked as if worms had burrowed. Smoke trailed away once again, and the fizzing sound added to the noise coming from Donald’s corpse.

  The smell of cooking flesh ghosted beneath the smoke. Wiping his eyes, Peter nodded towards the hallway and pumped another shell into the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Come on, we don’t have much time left. We’ll meet Walter before he gets in here.”

  In the hallway, the scorching heat stroked Peter’s bare skin. He thought of Jamie and Shelly’s bodies down in the basement, ruined, sure, but if Phobos was desperate . . .

  “You think he’d take Shelly or Jamie?”

  “I don’t know if he could.”

  “He might. Don’t know isn’t going to cut it here, we can’t allow it. I think he’ll go for Walter or Andrew first. Let’s start with them.”

  A figure sloshed through the snow from the far side of the yard. Pointing the barrel, Peter watched the corpse of Walter Cartwright come closer and closer. Walter’s innards slopped away from his sliced open stomach, like sali
va dripping from the jaw of a pit bull. Their old friend smiled, his crooked glasses still glued to his face as if by magic. Fat, gray skin flapped as he staggered forward.

  “You worthless pieces of shit!” Phobos roared. His voice sounded like a muddy pipe. “How dare you! I am Phobos and you will fear me! You will! I’ll pick your bones from my teeth by the time this is through. Save yourself the trouble and walk back into that kitchen to choke . . . Do it in my name. I demand it.”

  The dead body of Walter Cartwright climbed the porch steps, but never made it to the door. For the third time, Peter squeezed the trigger and dropped a former friend.

  Walter’s head bucked, his legs struggling to keep him upright. His arms cartwheeled, trying to maintain balance. His right foot clomped onto the porch, splashing a puddle of his own juices and innards. When his head fell back into place, it bouncing on the stalk of his thick neck. Peter saw he’d made a direct hit with the salt. Holes peppered their fallen friend’s face.

  Phobos screamed as the tiny openings began to sizzle and smoke. His hands slapped at his face, pulling the skin. He pinched the cuts with one hand as the other wriggled inside, trying to get to the embedded salt grains. Then he peeled his hands away, pulling strings of melting flesh like mozzarella cheese. Snot-like, red threads stuck to his fingers, and he frantically flung them away, wailing in agony. Thin tendrils of smoke trailed above his head and out into the night sky. The flesh around his eyes melted down his peppered cheeks, leaving the eyeballs bare and exposed.

  Peter pumped another shell into the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Wait, Peter! You don’t need to waste another one, he’s going down.”

  “Yes!” Walter hissed. “Save all the salt you need, boy. All the salt within the oceans of the world if that’s what it takes . . . But know this . . .” Phobos pointed a gore soaked finger at Peter’s face. “It will never be enough.”

  Walter’s body reeled back and crashed down the porch steps before landing face down in the snow. He spasmed as the salt burned through to the bone, then he lay still.