The Horribles Part 4

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, crushing 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 shifted around him. Now, his wrist, and then his elbow up to the neck. Bodies shifted 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 shifted 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 windshield. 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 shivered 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.

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 windshield 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 shirt 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, shielding 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.