Coin-Operated Machines Part 19

Before the two in the back seat answered him, they were staring out ahead of them as every tree in every yard broke free of the earth. Pockets of the road suddenly turned into potholes, each coin going into a random steel slot causing the street to dent or implode in parts.

Brock became a stunt driver, weaving, turning, slowing down, speeding up, twisting the wheel left and right, guiding them through the deadly concourse to avoid a flat tire, or worse, one of the trees reaching into the car again.

Watching in gaping eyed fascination through the rearview and side mirrors, Brock caught a series of horrid scenes. They weren't the only ones who'd survived and were holding onto life. Many people racing out of their houses and screaming for help were terrorized. A local man was running out of his backyard with a bevy of tools hovering after him, namely shovels, axes, a hammer, hundreds of nails, and a pitchfork. Suddenly all the items surged forward with insane speed, cutting right through him like a corer through an apple.

Another woman, an older lady, was trying to work her way through an open window, but it had come down on her back, slamming into her spine again and again and again. The sound of breaking vertebra was accompanied by blood spilling out of her mouth until she fell limp in place, dead.

A boy and his father were cornered by five trees, the trees being living animated things. The trees tipped over one-by-one, going timber, and crushing them.

A garden hose was strangling a teenager in his backyard. The pressure so tight, the boy's eyes were bulbous and insect-big. The teenager's girlfriend was screaming in panic as power cables snapped from their posts and wrapped around her up like a mummy's body. Then the lines constricted, tightened, and she was squeezed to death. Blood and flesh and fat were rendered between the lines of cable in coagulated pudding.

Inside his house, a man was being stalked by his kitchen appliances, namely a blender and juicer. The kitchen table banged its body towards him and pinned him into a corner as the blender pureed his left hand and the juicer sliced up his other hand until all he had was bleeding pulp stumps.

An open window displayed a man trying to help his wife out of bed when the ceiling fan broke free of its molding. The blades were spinning so fast, it sliced off their heads and shot them out the window across the street and into another person's yard.

The fireplaces in many of the houses turned into blazing ovens. They spewed arcs of fire and turned the havens into thousand degree pressure cookers. Brock gawked at the dozens of people whose skin boiled from their bodies, popping like grease, until all that was left of them was fleshless and meatless bones.

Gas ovens burst against the open flames, raising a series of houses, shooting debris up to the heavens. Cars were driving by themselves, disappearing down roads after the others who'd survived, their lights blinking and flashing erratically. Flowers danced back and forth in their pots on porches, swaying to an unknown song. Blades of gra.s.s shifted to the beat of the same unknown song. Birds by the hundreds hovered about the sky like a dark cloud, pirouetting and spinning in tandem as if synchronized. Window shutters clapped closed and swung open over and over again. Houses dismantled themselves piece by piece and put themselves back together in minute intervals. The squares of the concrete sidewalk raised themselves up straight like dominos and fell down one by one in a strange show.

Brock forced himself from the trance-inducing scene once those that had recently died got back up and were chasing after them, though slowed by their broken bodies. Black oil oozed from the pores of their skin. The pursuers were accompanied by trees, vehicles, and random sharp implements.

Everything was out to kill them.

"They're gaining on us!" Hannah shouted, staring at the schoolyard with living playground equipment. The swings moved back and forth, occupied by invisible people. A baseball bat floated and took a swing as a invisible pitcher threw out a baseball. The bat swung, smacking the ball into left field. Catchers mitts floated after the hit. Kick b.a.l.l.s, basketb.a.l.l.s, and jump ropes had escaped from the school, spreading out across the blacktop area, the objects playing a game of their own.

Speeding through the main stretch of town, cars had lined themselves up in a blockade to prevent their escape.

Brock gave a start. "s.h.i.t!"

Hannah panicked. "We have to turn around."

Angel gave a short shrill of a scream. "No, they're right behind us!"

"Then what the h.e.l.l do we do?"

Brock gathered courage. He was determined to escape this d.a.m.nable place. Turning the wheel, he drove up on the curb, driving through chairs on a sidewalk cafe. He escaped around the wall of vehicles. The cars, worked up that their rouse had failed, backed up and began pursuing them, blaring bright headlights in their wake and honking their horns.

Storefronts smashed open behind them, kitchen implements stabbing at the air after them. A toy store front spit out living teddy bears and action figures. Toy tanks shot off tiny rounds from their cannons. Plastic machine guns were clutched by commandos and military action figures the size of toothpicks, the guns prattling bullets and blue smoke. They were each demented in how they moved, the plastic alive, flexible, and boasting of killing intentions with the black oil leaking out of their faces.

The street itself began tipping upwards like a bridge being raised. Brock pushed the truck on as hard as it could run, all three of them shouting as they were driving up an incline. Reaching the end of the incline, they were three stories high.

"Brace yourself!"

Flying through the air, they were coming down fast. Mid-air, they caught streetlights bend with the ear-aching twist of steel to push them off-kilter, though it ended up helping their landing. They came back down, hitting the back tires on the street first, then the front ones. The axles protested and the shocks weren't too happy, Brock figured, but the car kept driving.

Off in the distance, a junkyard was animated with action. Machines smashed vehicles in their death-grip jaws as other cars too damaged to be serviceable crawled on, trying to escape the beast that was smashing them to death. They bled black oil like blood as the junkyard became a steel pit of death.

Up ahead a mile, the bridge out of Blue Hills took shape.

"Drive faster, Brock!" Hannah begged him. "Hit the gas!"

Angel kept staring at the side mirror to watch the trees, the cars, and the floating implements of death stalk them. The voices of the dead returned once again, enjoying the terror show. They were cheering on their demise.

Brock ignored everything, even as the trees in the woods began uprooting themselves. Hawks swooped overhead, encircling them, the coin slots shining in their backs. Dead corpses were limping towards the bridge, everything and everyone knowing that's where they were going.

Keep driving, he told himself, you can't stop now.

A flying hammer gouged out the back tire, the rims sc.r.a.ping the road and kicking up sparks. Brock was forced to slow down. The cars behind them were gaining speed. Birds pecked at him from the broken window, stabbing his arms with their beaks as he fought them off and continued to keep the wheel straight. He was struck from behind by a driverless Sedan. Jolted forward, the wheel shifted in his grip. Another car narrowly missed striking them, and in doing so, ran itself off the road and into the river below the bridge.

Brock kept pounding the gas. Accelerating despite the flat back wheel. Suspended like a net above them were thousands of knives and sharp implements and tools collected from town. They were poised to rain down on them. To top things off, the overhead steel beams of the bridge bent like fingers to crush them in its fist.

THE BRIDGE.

Brock had closed his eyes to the incoming events, but once the car stopped rolling forward and Hannah shook him, he re-opened his eyes. They had made it to the last tier of the bridge, except the back-end was being crushed by the bridge. Angel was kicking at the front windshield with both legs, and Hannah joined in the effort, as did Brock. The birds, the incoming knives, the living mechanical machine behind them, none if mattered, because they would soon be flattened like trash in a compacter if they didn't escape the front cab.

The windshield cracked in forks, but it wouldn't give. The doors were wedged closed, partially crushed by the steel beams. The steel hand tightened, working harder to destroy them inside. The voices of the dead were garbled, losing their numbers, as if what power they did weld was fading fast.

Bubbling up through the undercarriage and oozing from the vents, the boiling black oil flooded in after them. After all they survived, Brock thought, this was what would kill them. Angel was burned on her thigh, and Brock's left arm was covered in spatters that boiled from the vents, each of them screaming out in pain after being touched by the black. They lifted up their legs, dodging the mess, but it was pooling inside thicker and faster. The top of the truck was closing in on them too. The metal hand worked to end their lives. It wouldn't be long before one or the other would send them to their end.

"Die for us/die forever/you shall see h.e.l.l and all there in that awaits you/let us hear your screams/suffer in agony/it's my father's fault this is happening/I'm so sorry/die drowning in black/die drowning in the bath of our blackened bodies/I'll save you, Brock, I'll save you all/ wretched h.e.l.l shall warp your sanity forever/kick through the gla.s.s, kick through the gla.s.s before it's too late/you can't defeat the dead/we'll try and try again to kill you."

Brock was confused, hearing a voice that wasn't evil. He realized it was James speaking. After the words stopped, a thick trail of oil worked up to the gla.s.s, spreading across it, and then burning into it, James cried out, "Kick through it now!"

They did so, their heels driving through the weakening gla.s.s, and all at once, it shattered. Brock pushed Hannah through, then Angel, and as Brock was working his way through, the metal hand squeezed, sending the entire front cab imploding into itself, crunching like the biggest tin can. His foot was caught in the warped steel, and he couldn't free it. Hannah and Angel were pulling him back towards the safe end of the bridge. Brock shouted, crying out in terror, until his foot finally slipped free. Landing on the ground, the three of them scooted back from the bridge.

Oil spat out the front of the truck, totally enveloping it in black. The water rolling beneath the bridge evaporated and went dry in moments. Seconds later, deep trenches in the earth spread out all across the town of Blue Hills, spouting oil wells of fermented dead bodies. Skeletons, corpse torsos, human appendages, and innards by the thousands of gallons mixed in the steamy brew that began melting everything they touched. The boiling black coated the buildings and reduced them to liquid. Trees batted their limbs as they boiled against the forces of molten hot death. The birds in the sky went poof into flames. Every house, street, and paved surface melted into a caramel thick substance, and then they too mixed in the black death oil. Blue Hills gradually sank into itself until everything was black sledge. No landmark remained.

The melting began and ended at the bridge line. Blue Hill's town limits. Brock watched on in awe and confusion as the oil drained back into the ground, slowly sucked back in by an unknown power, and eventually vanishing altogether. The earth solidified again. The foothills sprouted fresh gra.s.s, and what used to be a town was now empty woods and mountains.

The town of Blue Hills was gone.

Angel was the first one to speak. "Where do we go now?"

"What can we do?" Hannah asked, her eyes still wide from taking in what had happened. "Try explaining this to a third party."

"I won't be doing that anytime soon." Brock turned his back on Blue Hills, grateful to have the two people he loved the most with him. "We go back to our lives. We can't tell anybody about this because there's no way to prove anything. The town's really gone. It's like this place never existed."

Angel turned so her back was facing them. "Is my back really okay?"

Brock checked it. Only scar tissue in the shape of a box was leftover. "Only scars, Angel. You're okay." He was saying it for himself as much as everyone else. "We're okay."

Hannah hugged him, then she rested her head on his shoulder. Angel did the same, all three of them huddled together. They began weeping. All Brock could do was keep repeating, "It's over...it's over...it's really over..."

AFTERMATH.

Brock had to ask, "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"I had plenty of time to think about it in rehab, Brock. Yes, this is what I want to do."

Angel was sitting next to him in the terminal of San Diego Airport. She was ready to visit her childhood friend, Ellen Phillips, in Montana. After four months of intense rehab and tight-lipped secrecy about Blue Hills, Angel was prepared to move on with her life, and sober. Her plan was to visit as many people she used to know before they inherited their father's estate, reconnect with what her life used to be, and do it in a drug-free fashion. Brock wouldn't call Angel completely patched up, but she had the wind back in her sails.

Brock couldn't stop looking at his sister. She was radiant for the first time in years. Her natural pallor was healthy and no longer deprived of vitality. She was no longer a gray toned memory.

They were waiting for Angel's flight to board. "You keep in touch. You tell me how Ellen's doing, okay?"

"I will."

Brock touched her hand, softly drawing her attention so they were looking at each other face-to-face. "I'm serious, Angel. I don't want to lose touch. I know you can't forgive me for everything, and I understand that. I've lost many privileges with you with all the s.h.i.t we've drowned in, but..."

Angel sighed. "We both acted like idiots back then. It's not all your fault, Brock. We both did things we regret. We've got to move on from that. What happened, happened. I'm not living in the past anymore. I love you. Of course I'll keep in touch. I always will."

Brock hadn't heard her say that genuinely for over two years. He kissed her forehead. "I love you too, Sis."

Hannah returned, bringing back a sub sandwich and offering them the first bite. "I'm sorry to pig out, but I'm starving. I literally got back in town three hours ago. I took the first flight back after my movie shoot wrapped." A somber look touched her face. "I just had to see you off, Angel. I'm so proud of you."

"Four months sober," Angel declared. "You didn't have to catch a last minute flight to see me, though. I still appreciate it."

"I wouldn't have missed it. Besides, Dust Devil was finished way ahead of schedule, and the movie's on its way to DVD. Maybe it'll play at a couple of film festivals, who knows? A paycheck's a paycheck, isn't that right, talent boy? So is that girl's choir going to make it to the final round, the ones that can light their farts to the tunes of "The Sound of Music?""

Brock raised his eyebrows. "You'll have to watch the season finale. Actually, under contract, I couldn't even tell my mother about the final outcome or I could get sued. Reality TV, go figure."

The intercom announced Angel's flight was boarding. They stood up, their time to chat concluding. Brock held Angel's arm softly and drew her close for a hug. "Are you okay? I mean, not okay, but, are you okay enough?"

Angel knew he was referring to Blue Hills. They had avoided any major discussion about the place. Brock checked the headlines, the daily news, the Internet, everywhere, and not a word was spoken about the disappearance of an entire town or those who were drawn into its evil. He checked various state maps, local history, and it was as if Blue Hills and the people who lived there never existed. Even on the maps he studied, Blue Hills was annexed. There was no explanation.

"I'm," Angel paused, thinking on it, "processing everything. I think about that place, yes. It's made me appreciate my life more, and that's the best I can take from it. What it means beyond that, I don't know."

"You call me soon," Brock said. "Your birthday's in two months. We'll celebrate it together. Deal?"

"Yes, it's a deal." She smiled big, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "You better bake me a cake."

The line was thinning out for her flight, and Angel waved goodbye, promising they'd keep in touch. She called out, "I love you, guys" before finally boarding. Brock stood by Hannah hip-to-hip and absorbed the moment. So much had pa.s.sed during the last few months, Hannah's movie wrapping-up, Brock's season finale of "America's Got Flair" was finalized, and now they had nothing better to do than dote on Angel's departure.

It was only a matter of time before Hannah mentioned Blue Hills again. "I looked on a map of Virginia the other day. Blue Hills is now called something else, and they're turning it into a tourist trap. I read something where it said the woods are being cleared. People are calling it a newly discovered gem. A great place for a vacation."

Brock asked what had really been on his mind. "I wonder how long the dead have been under our feet waiting to come back up like they did."

Hannah turned to get a better look at him. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

"Was Blue Hills the first place the dead decided to rise up from the ground and live out their deep down fantasies? The world has a long history. In the ground is where we all go in the end. Centuries of organic material beneath our feet, and now, their ideas live on. Blue Hills can't be the only place this has happened."

Hannah guided him from such thoughts by presenting him the turkey and Suisse sandwich. "Why don't you worry about helping me finish this sandwich instead of talking about such nonsense? I'm over it. I'm done. It's behind us, and I'm happy with that. Now let's start planning our wedding."

They walked to the airport parking lot, discussing a more pleasant topic, but for Brock, such questions wouldn't leave his mind, nor would their implications become any less of a threat. The dead underneath their feet outnumbered the living, and their ideas would live on in some form or another.

EPILOGUE.

Thank you father, thank you so much for all you've done for us, you sick son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h.

Bickering in his head and taking in the cold of desolate winter, bundled up in his thermal gear, goggles, and the -22 degree winds, Thomas Moorehead worked hard to finish the job he'd set about doing. It wouldn't be the first time in Dead Horse, Alaska, that he'd dragged a human body through the snow from his Bronco truck and into his house. The human body wasn't just any corpse, but his long-time friend, David Burrell, a fellow oil-field worker.

The oil fields. Their paychecks. Their livelihoods. None if mattered anymore. Nothing did except for staying warm. Thomas strangled David with a length of chain. They'd been sharing a bottle of whiskey right before Thomas turned on his friend. Before killing David, they had been brainstorming on how to defeat their impending situation that had escalated since three weeks ago. But Thomas didn't have the time nor the patience to solve anything except the immediate problem of heat. The sub-zero cold could freeze them to their core and send them to an icy grave in no time if he didn't react fast enough.

Thomas had a five year-old girl named Naomi and a wife named Melinda who depended on him to bring him food, supplies, and the means to survive in the normal world, and in this terrible situation, nothing had changed.

Survival came first.

The oils wells stopped pumping three weeks ago. Every machine in town stopped functioning altogether, leaving the town of Dead Horse in a blanket of black. No electricity. No heat. Their vehicles wouldn't function without the new commodity.

If it weren't for you, you dead b.a.s.t.a.r.d, none of this would be happening. I wouldn't have killed my best friend for a night of heat.

G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Father.

The door to their house flew open. His wife came out to grab David's arm and pull his corpse inside. She was shivering, freezing cold inside their home, wearing her thermal gear, and looking like a distressed Eskimo whose Igloo entrance was slowly sealing shut with ice.

"Is he really dead?" she asked morosely.

Thomas nodded, not wanting to speak of it. He'd already murdered his neighbors on both sides of him, a police trooper, a handful of his co-workers, and his sister.

-22 degrees would make anyone do these things, he thought, forcing himself to continue on with the arduous task of preparing David's body.

Naomi, his daughter, stayed hidden behind the couch. The poor girl refused to look at them, so scared. Thomas didn't want her to see what her parents did to the bodies in the bas.e.m.e.nt. If they survived this ordeal, he wanted it so Naomi would be clueless as to why they had heat and the rest of the town was becoming a permafrost tomb.

Thomas's father was a visionary before he pa.s.sed away from liver cancer. His death was an agonizing and prolonged event. His dream was to create a new way to heat homes without oil or the wasting of resources. The man had half-c.o.c.ked notions of using corn and a cleaner version of ethanol to pull the trick off, but the man couldn't live long enough to see his concepts into reality. But in death, the man's vision continued, and that vision was a reality in the town of Dead Horse.

Husband and wife worked together to haul David's corpse down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. Once there, they stripped David naked.

The voices of the dead rang out as chilling as the subzero winds. The voices whispered, taunted, and derided them.

"Warm yourselves/live another day/burn your candle down to the wicks to find ways of surviving/suffer to live/let the cold inspire you/save yourselves from death and let him burn burn burn/forever burn for the dead. "

Thomas ignored the voices, hearing his fellow co-workers at the oil fields and even his father's voice mix in with the others. He was alive, and they were dead, and he'd do anything to survive another day, including burning his best friend as fuel in the bas.e.m.e.nt furnace until the man was a pile of ashes. The smell of burning flesh was forever engrained in the walls of their home.

They would live another day, no matter what the sacrifice, Thomas was determined, even if it meant turning on the ones he loved to avoid the deadly, unforgiving sub-zero chill. The furnace would burn precious heat until there were no more bodies left to burn but his own.

You Have Survived Coin-Operated Machines.

end.