What Do Monsters Fear Page 19

Peter looked to Henry and shook his head slowly. He felt like getting sick. “Andrew’s next... Jesus I wish I didn’t have to do any of this.”

  “They’re already dead, don’t forget that. If anything, you’re doing them a favor. You think Walter would want to be possessed by that . . . That thing?” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Donald, too? Don would have thanked you for days knowing you put him down. He died honorably, and that son-of-a-bitch Phobos desecrated his remains. You set it right. And that’s what you’re going to keep on doing now, okay? You’re going to keep doing it because you have to. You need to.”

  Peter fell silent a moment. He turned the shotgun over in his hands, admiring how the light glistened off the barrel. “How’s your neck?” He asked.

  For a second, Henry didn’t answer. By the glazed look in his eyes, and by his labored breathing, Peter knew that the pain had to bad. He wondered how much time they had left. A chopper ride out of here couldn’t take more than twenty minutes to the nearest hospital. Surely Henry could hold on for that long. Couldn’t he?

  Finally, Henry spoke. “I’m not going to lie, Peter. It’s bad. I’m shaking, and there’s colored spots doing a flamenco dance across my eyes . . . Cut’s stinging, too. Feels like it’s infected.”

  “Well just hold on just a little longer, man. We’ll take care of Andrew.”

  A hair-curling laugh ripped through the darkness. It carried on the wind and echoed throughout the woodlands. Then the night fell silent again.

  Peter kept his voice down and pointed to where Andrew’s body lay. He squeezed the shotgun in his hands, reassuring himself with the weight. “Look out there.”

  Peter shivered at the change in temperature as he stepped along the porch. A pillar of frosted breath poured from his lips and he took the steps down into the snow, making sure to avoid Walter’s fallen body.

  The poor fuck . . .

  A single trench left by Walter cut through the otherwise perfect blanket of snow. Peter avoided it like a contagious cancer. He didn’t want to step anywhere near where that creature had. Instead, he began cutting his own path across the yard, his bootheels crunching the white powder.

  Henry called from the porch. “Hey! I can’t go out there . . . I think I’d pass out. I just can’t do it.”

  “That’s all right. Wait there.” Peter continued forward, his eyes trained on the thing lifting itself at the bottom of the yard. A monstrosity that used to go by the name Andrew.

  Using Walter’s teeth, Phobos had stripped the flesh away from the orderly’s bones. The skeleton now sitting in the snow had no lips, its teeth appearing too large and all too exposed. Eyeballs rolled about in their raw sockets, lacquered in a crimson goop. A slab of flesh still capped Andrew’s red hair to the top of the otherwise bare skull.

  The skeleton chattered its teeth, and stood.

  “More salt for me, Peter Laughlin? More salt?”

  Using Walter, Phobos had torn away chunks of Andrew’s throat, leaving the voice strangled and tight. Ribbons of meat lay in rags around the orderly’s chest, leaving the bare Adam’s apple to bob around as he spoke. “Do what you will, Peter. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough.”

  The skeleton of Andrew crashed back into the snow as Peter pulled the trigger, the skull spraying away in a shower of shattered bone. Brain matter painted the snow with flecks of red. Rooks cried out in the forest beyond the yard, taking flight into the night sky and seeking a quieter place to rest. Peter envied them.

  “Peter!” Henry called from the porch. “Get back here, hurry.”

  As Peter slogged for the house, Henry held one of the porch’s beams for support. He looked as pale, his skin waxy and shriveled. “He’s stalling you. Get back here and take care of the other two, hurry.”

  “Stalling me?”

  Peter climbed the porch while loading the final four shells into the shotgun. His hands shook from the cold and the adrenaline but he managed to complete the task.

  “Yes. Look at this cut . . . You know what I’m talking about. That cat’s attack was calculated. I’m a dead man walking and all he’s trying to do is stall you until I’m gone because then he has a usable body to host.”

  Peter pumped the gun. “Well then let’s get those two before he gets the chance and get you to a hospital, right?”

  Henry grabbed his arm. “Don’t be a fool, we run for it, now! If Phobos hosts in either one of those two downstairs he’ll burn up by the time anyone responds to the fire. He’ll be without a body and he’ll disappear. Let’s go.”

  “And what if he doesn’t, Henry? What if he finds a way to avoid burning and waits until someone gets up here? Once anyone breaks that salt barrier, they’re his. We can’t allow any room for doubt. We can’t let this thing out into the world. I need to destroy those bodies completely, Henry, I do.”

  “Peter . . .”

  Peter pushed his way into the hallway and made for the dining-room door, smoke curling and trickling from around its frame.

  Once I finished with these two things in the cellar, I’m keeping you lucid, Henry . . . Then we’ll get out of here together. That sonofabitch isn’t taking you.

  “Peter! Don’t be a fool!”

  Peter stopped and turned, the fire roaring from beyond the dining-room door. “If we run right now you’ll collapse in the woods. You won’t make it, Henry. Now I’m dropping those two downstairs before the fire gets too much and then we’re getting out of here and that’s final. That’s all there is to say on this.”

  Peter pushed open the dining room door and stepped inside the burning room.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A FAT GRAY CLOUD HAD replaced the dining room. Thick smoke wafted over Peter, enclosing him in an impenetrable blanket. He grimaced and covered his mouth with his free arm but the smoke still got through, stinging his eyes. Warm tears slid down his cheeks.

  He wheezed. “Oh sweet fucking Jesus . . .”

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed into the room, the plump smoke curling around him. The door to the hallway disappeared. Peter’s world went from black to gray, black to gray as he blinked away the stream of tears. On his right, towards the kitchen swing door, the smoke pulsed an orange-red from the fire, and holding his breath, he darted in that direction.

  His shin clipped one of the overturned armchairs and sharp pain zapped up his leg. The wound there throbbed. Peter winced and resisted the urge to take an agonizing breath. Feeling with the shotgun, he prodded into the smoke, seeking the kitchen door. The barrel smacked a wall, starling him. He almost pulled the trigger out of fright but managed to keep calm. He needed oxygen. He needed to take a breath. A headache pulsed behind his irritated eyes.

  Then he found the door. Using his shoulder, Peter slammed it open and fell inside the scorching hot room.

  He wanted to scream out, the heat too intense, but instead he sunk his teeth into his forearm and rushed for the stairway beneath the sink. There had to be less smoke down there, just had to. Either way, he needed to take a breath soon, regardless. He felt lightheaded.

  Rushing through the kitchen, the fire roared from out of sight, lost in the black void of smoke. A sound filled his ears like constant thunder. His skin tightened and stung from the heat, cooking. Peter prodded the shotgun at leg height, manically searching for the hole beneath the sink that led to the cellar.

  Where is the goddamn stairs, please! I need to get home . . . I need to get home and see my—

  The shotgun barrel slipped inside the open cupboard. Saying a silent thank you, Peter got on all fours and scrambled down the stairwell, heading for the cellar.

  The temperature instantly dropped, not by much, but enough. At the bottom of the stairs, Peter chanced a breath. His lungs stung but at least the air here contained a little oxygen. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he fell towards the cellar door. Then he stepped in something.

  He stepped in Shelly Matthews.

  The liquefied blob of flesh quivered like a
fried egg beneath his heel. One eye blinked within the mess and stared back at him. Then a sloppy hand gripped his ankle. Peter’s stomach lurched. He shouted and lifted his leg, pulling away from the weak grip before pointing the shotgun down. He pulled the trigger.

  The flash lit the room for a split second. Peter’s hearing disappeared instantly, replaced by a sharp ringing that sent him off balance. Slipping on Shelly Matthew’s remains, Peter crashed back onto the steps, winding himself. What little oxygen he had left in his lungs blew out, substituted by choking smoke. Blind spots danced across his vision. His back throbbed from the fall.

  “Oh, you fucking idiot,” he wheezed. “Get the hell up . . .”

  Grunting, Peter used the shotgun to help him stand and pulled himself to his feet. He coughed and gasped, trying to catch his breath. Panic began to set in at the idea of passing out.

  Relax, he told himself. Come on, let your muscles loosen up and suck some goddamn oxygen . . .

  Then something came through the smoke as fast as a freight train, slamming him in the chest and sending him crashing to the lower stair. A loud crack of wood rang out and the little breath left in Peter’s lungs rushed out in a painful whistle. An unbearable pressure pushed into his chest, constricting his breathing. By the smell alone, Peter knew that the ruined remains of Jamie Peters bore down on him.

  “Get . . . off . . .”

  “Why, Peter Laughlin,” Phobos said using Jamie’s mouth. He pushed his brow into Peters and smiled. An overwhelming stench drifted from Jamie’s shredded neck, brown and rank like rancid meat. “Why would I go and do that? You’ve got such a beautiful body for me, and with so much use left. Not that you’ll do anything useful with it. Leaving you with it would be a waste. I won’t be greedy this time. No, I’ll take it slow and gentle . . . Slide inside of you as if you were a virgin on their first night of romance. Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy . . .”

  Peter mouthed the words get fucked, but his voice refused to work. The weight on his chest increased. His vision began to disappear as his eyes fluttered closed. He tried to force them open but they felt made of lead. They continued to shut.

  Peter’s world went dark, and the roar of the fire in the kitchen became less alarming and increasingly soothing. Something cold slithered around his throat, and in the back of his mind, Peter knew that it was Jamie’s dead hands, but he didn’t mind. The time had come to sleep.

  Someone shouted from somewhere very far away. Peter wished they’d shut up. It sounded like an argument, somewhere down the street outside of his apartment window. Probably junkies. He wished they’d stop. He needed to drift away . . .

  “—Off him!”

  Stinging air rushed inside his lungs as Peter’s world exploded back into view. He bolted upright, his neck aching and his vision pulsing. The deformed corpse of Jamie Peters clutched at its face, dark locks of sweaty hair flying in every direction. Goop oozed from between trembling fingers as the body collapsed in the corner and spasmed.

  Peter arched his head and saw Henry standing halfway up the staircase, the bag of rock salt clutched in his right hand. His other hand pressed his neck, covering the mess of shirt. He looked colorless, drained of energy. Behind him, the kitchen blazed like the depths of hell, making him a silhouette.

  Peter strained to speak, the unclean air leaving him sick. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “The whole place is going up.”

  Peter wobbled up the steps, using the shotgun as a cane.

  Henry coughed. “Stop being an idiot, Peter. Leave me down here. Let me burn up. He’ll get no use out of me. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Shut up and move, old man.”

  Peter grabbed Henry by the arm and pulled him behind. Henry resisted at first but Peter guessed survival instinct kicked in because then Henry kept pace.

  Good. You’ve played the hero already, Henry. Let’s get you out of here.

  Peter’s breath streamed away in thick clouds of smoke. The air stank of charred wood. Peter tightened his grip on Henry’s sleeve.

  “Jesus,” Peter shouted back, the smoke gagging him. “I can’t see a thing . . .”

  Peter’s hand tore free of Henry as the old man tripped on a step and went over, falling flat on his stomach.

  Peter’s stomach pulled tight as he ducked and searched for the old man. “Henry, are you all right? Speak to me.”

  The old man raised his head, hardly visible in the dense gray, and relief washed through Peter. Henry nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He smiled sheepishly.

  “Sorry . . .”

  Coughing, Peter flapped his hand for Henry to take and once the old man had a hold, he climbed the last steps of the staircase.

  “We’re going to have to make a break for it,” Peter said, his voice muffled in his forearm. “Through the kitchen, so just follow my lead, okay? Don’t slow, not even for a second. And take a damn deep breath right now.”

  Without another word, Peter leaped from the hole in the cupboard and emerged into the inferno.

  Fire danced up the walls and licked the ceiling, charring it black. It bellied and burst, reaching for him. The sickening smell of singed hair filled his nose and Peter realized it came from him. Then something hissing from within the wall of flames. A memory sprung to Peter’s mind.

  The propane canisters Paul had used . . .

  Terror settled inside Peter as he scrambled to the left, working from memory to find the swing door.

  We’re gonna burn up . . .

  Peter bolted without thought, his legs tripping over themselves. The fire rumbled, a low guttural sound, screaming at him to stay.

  The shotgun bobbed against his chest as Peter dashed forward, hoping he connected with a door and not a wall. The swing door smashed open and Peter fell out into the dining room. The smoke was thicker than ever, if he wanted to breathe, he’d have to get out now. Peter shot through the room, smacking his shin for a second time on the fallen armchair. His wound howled. For a moment, he almost his lost balance and but managed to shuffle away in an awkward hop. Hitting the breakfast table, he pulled it from the doorway and stumbled out into the hall. The alarm still screamed.

  Peter raced for the front door, his boots smacking the floorboards. Taking the porch in one leap, he crashed in the snow and sucked cold, fresh air into his burning lungs. The icy cold tightened his too-hot flesh as he rolled about, whimpering with joy. He knew that somewhere to his left lay the fallen corpse of Walter Cartwright, but right now that didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered now was that he was outside, and safe.

  The kitchen at the other side of the farmhouse crackled and screamed as it went up in flames. Embers danced up over the rooftop and out into the night sky. The mostly wooden house would be engulfed in a matter of minutes.

  “Henry . . .”

  Panic settled in as Peter sat up and looked to the house. An explosion erupted from the back and he ducked, squeezing his eyes shut.

  The first propane tank, he thought.

  A fireball rose like an orange fist into the night and dispersed in a cloud of embers.

  “Henry!”

  Peter’s voice echoed throughout the farmyard, the only response coming from the fire as it gurgling away. Peter stood and eyed the front door, willing Henry to appear.

  Come on, come on . . .

  How could he be so stupid? How could he have left the old man behind? He needed to go back inside.

  Peter stumbled towards the porch steps but froze as he reached them. Henry Randolph stood at the front door, flames dancing behind him like the gateway to hell. Shadows danced across his waxy complexion, his stance off to one side. That sheepish smile still played on his face.

  Peter shook his head and sniffled. “I was going to go back and get you. I thought you were behind me . . .”

  Looking into Henry’s eyes, fear slithered up Peter’s spine. He’d seen that look before, from when Walter stood at the window, gazing in on them like they were toys in a gift shop. H
enry’s eyes were lifeless. Henry’s eyes were dead.

  Pumping the shotgun, Peter took a step back. “Don’t you fucking move, you sonofabitch.”

  The shotgun trembled in his hands. The cold felt stronger now, bitter and sharp. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he retreated.

  “Peter,” Henry replied, clicking his tongue in a tisk-tisk fashion. “Please don’t point that thing at me.”

  Henry stepped onto the porch and Peter jabbed the shotgun at him. “I said don’t fucking move!”

  When had it happened? Had Henry choked inside while Peter fled? The old man said he had a dodgy heart . . . How could Peter have let him out of his sight?

  “Come, now,” Henry said. “Help will be here soon. The fire should signal the furthest town. Anybody with a heart would call for help, right? Soon we can get out of here and take me to a hospital. Make me aaaaall better.”

  “Stop it.”

  “We can have a cigarette when all this is done, eh? Go visit that little lady friend of yours and set things straight. Wouldn’t that be sweet? See your child born, perhaps even make a godparent out of me, if you would be so kind. And to heck with it, have a tequila or a beer to celebrate. Or both. What’s to lose? We’re both burdens, anyhow.”

  “Henry Randolph was a brave man. An honest, good man.”

  Peter stepped towards his friend’s walking corpse. His hands had stopped shaking. All fear had dissolved, replaced with nothing but determination and pure, seething anger. “You underestimated us. Maybe a long, long time ago people dropped to their knees for you and you might have had all the power in the world, but what are you now, huh? What are you now besides irrelevant? You’re nothing.”

  Phobos snarled, contorting Henry’s features in a way they’d never moved before.

  Peter ignored the taunt. “Great god or not, that doesn’t matter now. These days even a loser with a shotgun full of salt can waste you.” Peter aimed for Henry’s head and swallowed the lump in his throat. “You underestimated a man who’s got nothing to lose.”

  The shot boomed through the farmyard. Henry’s body went over, crashing to the porch, peppered with holes. Tendrils of smoke lulled away from the sizzling body and Peter turned, unable to watch. Tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them away and took a deep, unsteady breath. In the back of his mind, he knew Phobos still lurked, flying through the night, desperately seeking another body to host before time ran out and he dissolved into nothingness.