Page 1 of What Tangled Webs

WHAT TANGLED WEBS

  A series of scaries written by

  Dan Dillard

  ..ooOOoo..

  This book is dedicated my brother, who may have dropped me on my head as a child… and my sister, who most likely helped him cover it up.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND NOTES:

  So a few people read my first book and for that I am very thankful. I hope I learned something in the process and that it shows in this, my second labor of love.

  Thanks to my wife, Stephanie, for hanging around, promoting and encouraging me even when I’m impatient and do the wrong thing. Thanks to my family for so many things, too many to list here. I thank my English teacher from my Junior and Senior year in high school back in nineteen cough-hack-cough and cough…Mrs. Williams, you were a nut then. I hope you still are, wherever you are. I thank the paranormal investigators who keep at it. You all make me skeptical, but your belief gives me hope. I hope there’s another realm out there…and I’d love to one day see that proof that changes my mind. I wish I had more specific acknowledgments, but this was a very lonely book to write.

  Copyright © 2010, 2013 by Daniel P. Dillard

  ISBN: 978-1-4523-6448-3

  LICENSE NOTES:

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you’re reading this and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to the e-book vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Any similarity to any existing creatures (human or otherwise), events or institutions is purely coincidental. Everything else was intended.

  Books by Dan:

  DEMONS AND OTHER INCONVENIENCES

  WHAT TANGLED WEBS

  THE UNAUTHORIZED AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ETHAN JACOBS

  LUNACY

  HOW TO EAT A HUMAN BEING

  GIVING UP THE GHOST

  By now, there may be others.

  Find Dan's books here:

  www.amazon.com/author/dandillard

  Talk to him at any of the following places:

  [email protected]

  www.demonauthor.com

  https://twitter.com/demonauthor

  www.facebook.com/demonauthor

  https://gplus.to/dandillard

  The list of Scaries:

  Lament of the Devil

  Rite of Passage

  Deliver Us From Evil

  Epi3Demic

  Out, Damned Spot

  Briar Trace

  What Tangled Webs

  The “A” Word

  Saranormal

  The Wager

  ..ooOOoo..

  WHAT TANGLED WEBS

  ..ooOOoo..

  LAMENT OF THE DEVIL

  Each evening I sit to relax with my meal,

  I first check the contracts, perusing each deal.

  My menu for dining can differ, you see,

  depending on those who have sold unto me.

  I find that the righteous are fatty and bitter,

  and much prefer ‘filet of casual sinner’.

  The faithful are bland adding naught to the stew,

  their skin is much thicker, a challenge to chew.

  The youthful are spicy; their flesh is quite tender,

  I make quite a nice sauce from their kind in my blender.

  I don’t like the taste of the squeaky or clean,

  but the naughty, till now, were far few and between.

  I find as of late more and more my meals sate

  as the persons who feed me don’t trust much in fate.

  They lie and they cheat which seasons their meat.

  A quick char in hell’s flames makes my table complete.

  I feel that this warning is needed for most

  who don’t want to end up with me as their host.

  They laugh at the morals and lessons they’re taught,

  proceeding to places they’re told they should not.

  Do not stray from your path to the church or the store,

  your mistake may be small, but will lead you to more.

  Then lost and alone you may find out that you’re,

  wrapped up quite nicely and brought to my door.

  I will not complain, as it would not be right.

  to turn down the souls which feed me at night.

  ..ooOOoo..

  RITE OF PASSAGE

  BREAKFAST WAS SERVED precisely at 8:00 am. It was law, carved in stone and no one ever missed it. Not until William arrived. He was new and would be given leeway for a time…but not for a long time. There was no room for slacking, too much was at stake. It was just too important not to follow the rules. The others knew that. They had been there, learned the rules, suffered the consequences of breaking them. If you wanted parents, you had to present them with a perfect package. Competition was fierce. The prize was huge: A forever home.

  William showed up three days ago and already this was the second time he had overslept. He was five years old and an apparent slow learner—not dumb, just a few steps behind. He was smiley, always happy, and still looked at the world with wonder, unlike the others. Six other children in all, ranging from six to nine, were there.

  Their eyes were different. Hatred might have gotten you halfway there. Cynical was too mellow a definition. What lay in their eyes was disappointment, regret, loss, anger, and hurt all rolled into one, and it gave each of those children the odd look of an older person dressed in a child’s body. All abandoned for one reason or other…yearning for, and so far denied, a second chance.

  William made a yawning entrance into the dining area and took his seat next to April. The others stopped eating and talking just long enough to stare at him. He took no notice. Mrs. Spivey, a large woman of sixty with a ship-shape bun of gray hair, spooned some scrambled eggs next to the toast on his plate and poured him some juice. Her lips were pursed together tightly and she looked down a pointed nose at him.

  “Today is a big day, children,” she said, placing a gentle hand on William’s head. “We have a couple coming at eleven. It is time to shine!”

  The children exploded into whispered conversation, all except the newcomer. He ate his eggs and looked around as if wondering what all the discussion was about.

  Mrs. Spivey waddled from the room back into the kitchen to start on the dishes. In the dining room, the whispers continued. The more seasoned residents knew what that couple meant. Someone would be chosen. The families that came were always approved for foster care and had chosen a child to interview.

  “Look sharp,” Alexa said. “We must be on our best behavior today.”

  All heads, save William, nodded in unison. Alexa was nine and led the group with a merciless attention to detail.

  “Dishes up,” she said. “Breakfast is over.”

  The children dropped the silverware into their cups and stacked their cups on their plates then carried the bundles into the kitchen to the waiting Mrs. Spivey. She patted each on the head, even William who was last.

  “You’re coming along quite nicely, William. Well done,” she said.

  “Fanks!” he replied in a boisterous voice.

  Small feet rushed up the stairs thumping as they went and then split into the two large bedrooms, girls on one side of the hall, boys on the other. They brushed their teeth and straightened their beds. Older kids helped the younger, and then they put on their nicest clothes. Each helped, but secretly hoped against the other. William did his best to keep up.

  Alexa pushed through the door to the boys’ room and looked around. When she spotted William, she huffed and then pulled him s
ternly aside.

  “You need to shape up,” she said sounding more woman than girl. “You’ll ruin it for everyone.”

  “Ruin what?” he asked, still grinning.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, new parents don’t come along every day. I want to make sure we put on a good show, so they’ll choose someone.”

  “Who dey gonna choose?”

  “It doesn’t really matter as long as they choose one. We are a family. You are my brother.”

  William laughed, “Never been a brover before,” he said.

  “Get dressed in your nicest clothes, do you need help picking something out?” Alexa asked.

  “Not my play cloves, my school cloves?” William said, eyes wide and full of interest.

  Alexa smiled but her eyes were still hollow. “Yes, very good,” she said.

  Alexa left him there at his bunk and went back to the girls’ room.

  10:15…

  10:30…

  10:45…

  “Where are they?” Michael asked with great impatience.

  Alexa and Mrs. Spivey looked at him with disapproval. They were twins in their mannerisms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in his defense.

  “Squirming will never win you anything. Be patient, Michael,” said old Mrs. Spivey.

  Leanne Spivey had run the home for decades. A stern woman, she took the utmost care of the children and had also taken care of the house since Mr. Spivey passed away twelve years ago.

  At 10:59 a car pulled into the drive. It was a smart, practical vehicle, just right for a family. Once the motor cut off, a tall man with black curly hair stepped out. He held a large manila envelope in one hand and opened the passenger door with his other. His wife smiled and thanked him. She was beautiful. Then she gave him an enthusiastic hug. They beamed with excitement.

  “Not fosters,” Alexa said. “They must be here to adopt.”

  “That they are,” said Mrs. Spivey.

  The children sat in a hush.

  “They are here to see William,” she said and smiled absently at him.

  William played with his shoe and took no notice of the goings on other than to look up when his name was mentioned. Then he went back to fiddling with the shoe. The other children showed no disappointment, but merely sat stone-faced like tiny statues. Mrs. Spivey approached the front door before the bell rang.

  The door opened and the adults exchanged muffled pleasantries as the children strained to hear the details. They waited, sitting quietly in the parlor as the muffled voices and footsteps faded into the distance. There was paperwork to discuss, dots and crosses to check and then they would be back. Alexa stood and stared at William.

  “Don’t mess this up,” she said.

  His face showed hurt feelings for a moment before smiling again, an infectious smile.

  “I won’t. I pwomise,” he said and crossed his little heart with a stubby index finger.

  To her delight, he sat completely still with the rest of them. He folded his hands in his lap and remained patient and still. His winning smile never faded and his blue eyes sparkled. None of them spoke. None of them moved.

  After a ten minute slice of eternity, the door opened and Mrs. Spivey entered. She held the door for the guests and made an announcement.

  “Children,” she said, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. They are here to see William.”

  The children gave impish grins and waved. Some said ‘hello’ out loud. William stood up and said, “I’m William!”

  The couple smiled and Mr. Edwards said, “Well hello there!” in return.

  Mrs. Spivey introduced the rest of the children ending with Alexa who shook both of their hands before returning to her seat. The gesture impressed the Edwards.

  “Leanne, these children are so well behaved. You’ll have to tell me your secret so I can keep it up,” said Mrs. Edwards.

  “Patience, love and mutual respect, honey. Children always come around. And when they do, you have to reward them for it,” Mrs. Spivey said and then, “Children, why don’t you go out and play now before lunch. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards would like to have a few minutes alone with William.”

  “Come on, then,” Alexa said.

  Like soldiers under command, they stood and followed her outside to the back yard. The door closed behind them leaving William behind with the young couple. Alexa peered over her shoulder as she led the other five outside. Michael hurried to be next to her.

  “What do you think,” he said.

  “I like them. I hope William doesn’t screw things up.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back for him?”

  “I hope so, Michael. Now go play. I have to think.”

  She shooed him away and he ran to the swing-set to join the others.

  Alexa knew the questions they were asking William inside that room. Mundane, tedious things such as what do you like to do, do you like pets, and how would you like to come home with us.

  “Ugh,” she said.

  Alexa steadied herself on one of the swings, keeping some distance between her and the rest. From there, she watched the house until Mrs. Spivey called for lunch. The kids lined up to head inside, but Alexa held Michael back for a moment. Before they entered the house, she spoke briefly with each of them.

  When they entered the dining room, William was already seated at the table and the adults stood talking, saying proper goodbyes. All were smiling which meant the meeting had been a success. That was Michael’s cue and Alexa nudged him.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Edwards?” he asked, gently tapping on her elbow.

  “Yes, uh…” Mrs. Edwards said.

  “Michael,” he said.

  “Yes, Michael?”

  “Do come back for dinner,” he said.

  They smiled and looked somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Spivey.

  “It’s actually tradition here. Whenever new parents come to pick up a child, the other children like to have a bit of a send off. I also consider it a thank you to those people who have room enough in their hearts and homes to adopt,” she said.

  The Edwards’ cheeks reddened and they glowed with pride. Mrs. Edwards shed a single tear, “Well then of course we will, Michael. Thank you for the kind invitation,” she said with a quick curtsey.

  Alexa smiled, as did the rest. Michael did his best to bow. Mrs. Spivey winked at Alexa and then at Michael. The children sat to eat their lunches and the adults made their way to the door. Mrs. Spivey saw them out then she waddled back to the table and clapped her hands.

  “Excellent job everyone! Very well done. Now, remember your manners this evening and we should have a grand celebration for William,” she said.

  Lunch finished and the children cleaned up in time to play for a few minutes before reading. Thirty minutes of reading each day was Mrs. Spivey’s rule. William was to choose a book from the collection in the study and each took his turn reading a passage. At 4:00 pm they were to wash up and begin preparations for dinner which was to start precisely at six.

  Mrs. Spivey and Alexa set the table with a linen tablecloth, china and the home’s finest silver. Water and juice would be consumed from stemware in the fanciest of fashions. Printouts from the orphanage’s computer were hung on the walls in the dining area saying:

  “Congratulations William!” and “Welcome to the family”.

  At 5:00 pm the children were expected to be in their church clothes. Little dresses for the girls and small suits for the boys, complete with real ties which Mrs. Spivey tied with her story about a rabbit hopping around a tree and into the hole. After a quick inspection, Mrs. Spivey stepped out to freshen up.

  By ten minutes to 6:00, everyone was ready and Michael and Alexa took their places at the front door. Michael hid in the corner near the coat rack holding one end of the wire in his gloved hands. It was tied to an eye hook that was screwed into the wall opposite his vantage point. Alexa stood poised and ready on the other side of the door with her straight-razor.


  “Are we ready, children?” Mrs. Spivey asked with a gleaming smile.

  All nodded in approval—even William, who still wore his permanent grin.

  Headlights shone through the window as the Edwards pulled into the drive in their family car. Leanne Spivey stood near the door and readied herself for the impending struggle. She gave a wink to Alexa, and then to Michael. Each winked back at her. Sounds of happy voices and excited laughter could be heard on the other side of the door. Then, the bell rang.

  “Good evening!” said Mrs. Spivey as she opened the door. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Edwards.

  “So thankful to be back here,” said Mr. Edwards.

  They stepped in and hung their coats on the stand-up wooden rack, never seeing Michael crouched behind. The wire rope lay as still as a snake coiled to strike. As the couple turned to follow Mrs. Spivey into the dining area, Michael gripped the rope and pulled it hand over hand until it was tight, leaning back with all of his strength.

  Mr. Edwards fell first. His wife went next as she grabbed his elbow trying to keep him upright. He laughed, looking embarrassed and tried to stand.

  “That was clumsy of me,” he said.

  A sharp kick to the face rendered him unconscious and before Mrs. Edwards realized what was happening, the blade of Alexa’s razor skated across her jugular on one side, her carotid on the other, and blood flowed freely. It splattered the front of Alexa’s dress and her face. She didn’t flinch. Michael caught what he could in a Tupperware container. Once the woman was dead and her blood stopped flowing, Alexa turned her blade on the unconscious husband. A second container caught his fluids letting hardly a drop go to waste on the ceramic tile floor.

  The rest of the children, except for William, came to help drag the couple’s bodies into the kitchen, where Mrs. Spivey had laid out plastic sheeting and stood waiting wearing a raincoat and holding a reciprocating saw in her hands. Alexa left with a mop and bucket and cleaned up the drag marks. Michael followed with a squirt bottle full of bleach and water and a bundle of rags for wiping. Their clothes would be burned later.

  Once satisfied the entry was clean, they returned to the kitchen. The sound of a buzzing saw filled the house. The mixed scents of ozone, oil and blood wafted from the kitchen. The other four children returned to the dining area and kept William company while he waited. His eyes were round with excitement and wonder.

  “What’s that noise? Are my new parents here?” he asked.

  Alexa walked into the room just in time to answer him, “Mrs. Spivey is making your prize, William, for doing such a good job today.”

  “Ree-wee?” he asked.

  “Yes, really. It’s your reward.”

  The saw sang its monotonous tune for several more minutes. The children sat, some of them wiping drool from their lower lips. Finally, Mrs. Spivey entered with a tray. There were six bowls on the tray, a spoon handle poked out of each one. She set one on the place mat in front of each child, dancing from setting to setting with a cheerful whistle. The bowls held a familiar scarlet liquid with just enough heparin added to keep it from coagulating. Chunks of raw flesh bobbed in the soup. Two of the children grabbed for their spoons.

  “Ah, ah ah!” said Mrs. Spivey. “William is the guest of honor, you must wait for him.”

  They put their hands back in their laps and did as instructed. The old woman flitted back through the door to the kitchen and in only a moment, popped back into the dining room carrying another large covered silver tray. She placed it in front of William who still smiled, oblivious to the terrible scene.

  “We want to thank you for coming to us, William,” she said. “We want to thank you for following our rules. Most of all, we would like to welcome you to our family.”

  With a flourish, she removed the dome-shaped lid from the large serving tray to reveal the heads of Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. They lay propped against each other on a bed of lettuce and parsley. The eyelids had been removed leaving their drying eyes to stare at William as if pleading for mercy. Their mouths were open, horrific screams of agony that seemed to float just above their ragged torn necks. The other children cheered.

  “It’s been a long wait, boys and girls. But finally, we have meat. Eat up!” said Alexa.

  They dove into their soup. The blood stained their teeth and dripped from their chins. Mrs. Spivey returned to the kitchen to finish preparing the main course. William stared silently at his prize, but his famous smile was gone.

  ..ooOOoo..

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL

  ROB LOGAN SLAMMED down his cheap flip phone with a smile on his face. Freedom was his reason. She was a thing of the past and he only called her kind from the business flip phone. She was beautiful, no doubt, but even such a beautiful girl wasn’t worth all the effort he was putting out. He was a young man with no bills. He had cash, energy and sperm to blow and was only looking for willing recipients of the latter—no relationships that lasted longer than it took to shoot his wad. There would always be others.

  By his standards, he was a rugged, good looking guy and he took care of himself. He had abs for Christ’s sake. If he lacked anything, it was ambition. His motivating factors were as follows and in this order: sex, good times that weren’t sex, food and sleep.

  On the surface, he was charming and had won Charlotte’s attention with ease, but it wasn’t enough to get her legs spread—not even enough to get her clothes off. Even with a rack like that and those sculpted legs…it was time to move on. She’d hoard that shit until it dried up and healed shut and that was fine, let someone else wait. Rob was less about the conquest than he was about the quantity. Seven dates was the furthest he’d ever gone reaching for that brass ring. Charlotte was looking for a ring of a different sort.

  Breaking up with someone before work was a new tactic, but he didn’t want it hanging over him, tiny pangs of guilt that would work themselves out once he caught another’s scent. He would spend all day working out his evening’s plan. When he clocked out that evening, the agenda of drinking and bad intentions with his buddies would be set.

  He hopped into a black Toyota that needed body work, an oil change and a good waxing and headed out. Delivering packages was not a glamorous job, but he did get to meet a lot of women, current ex-girlfriend included. Many of them were single and had their own money. Many of them liked the thought of blowing the delivery guy.

  It was a short ride. Rob pulled into the parking lot of Guaranteed Overnight. He slammed the door to his car and moved on to the front door with a strut that was almost comical.

  “Whassup boss?” he said to Avery when he entered the office.

  “On time for once,” Avery said. “That’s a plus.”

  “It’s a great fuckin’ day, man.”

  “Single again?”

  “Hell yeah,” he said with a photogenic grin.

  “Beer’s on you tonight then?”

  “I’ll get a round. After that I gotta leave you married folk behind.”

  “Hunting again so soon?”

  “It never stops, chief. When you stop looking, you might as well be dead,” he said.

  Rob clocked in and checked his schedule. Only one delivery before lunch was an odd thing to find, but it left plenty of time to slack off before lunch.

  “What’s up with the one package?”

  “Yeah, that one just came in a minute ago. It’s a drive getting out to that address and back. I sent the other guys with the routine stuff. You know the area better than they do. It’ll probably take you most of the day.”

  Avery tossed him a small box wrapped in plain brown paper with nothing but a shipping label on it. It was about the size of a TV remote.

  “This is it?” Rob said.

  “Yup. Due by eleven, so get going.”

  The address listed on the package was for a business complex about forty miles up the road. He’d been there a couple of times in the past.

  “There’s no business nam
e…no person’s name. Who is this for?”

  Avery flipped through some paperwork, stopping on one.

  “Dunno. He didn’t fill that part in.”

  “Isn’t that a rule or something?” Rob asked.

  “No. I mean I guess current occupant is good enough.”

  “Light morning traffic should make this a breeze.”

  “Good. There’s nothing wrong with early,” Avery said.

  Rob nudged him with an elbow.”

  “While I’m gone, you should limber up. I’m so jazzed right now; I might just get you laid tonight!”

  “Unfortunately, my wife doesn’t take credit cards,” Avery said.

  He looked like the fact saddened him. Rob chuckled.

  “That’s what you think,” he said.

  He took the small package and walked out the door, leaving Avery with a dumb look on his face, searching for a comeback that wasn’t there.

  With the door to the Guaranteed Overnight van shut, log updated, mirrors adjusted, motor cranked and radio on, he was rolling. As soon as he was out of the parking lot, he cracked the window and lit a cigarette, which was against company policy. The van growled as he punched the pedal. It moved swiftly when its cargo hold was empty and Rob was glad to be alone for the ride. He turned up the radio and sang along poorly, but at the top of his lungs.

  He turned left on one street and right on another without a second thought, and the white van with the GO! logo made its way through town. He switched from one FM channel to the next, stopping on songs he liked. Drive-thru fast food was breakfast and included a large Coke and then another cigarette for dessert. After the next stop light there was nothing but open road for the next thirty-six miles.

  ..ooOOoo..

  HE CHECKED HIS delivery log again and then his GPS. He didn’t need it but he liked its female voice and somehow it made him feel hi-tech. The address listed a warehouse number that was unfamiliar to him and it wasn’t on the list of businesses posted on the sign at the road. He called Avery on his cell.

  “Double check this address for me, will you?” he asked.

  Avery was gone for a minute, punching keys on his computer and shuffling papers.

  “The receipt I have matches the customer’s handwritten form. It should be right there. Aren’t there other businesses out there? Go ask one of them,” Avery said.

  “Yeah, I will. Just wanted to check with you before I looked like an idiot,” Rob said.

  “You are an idiot.”

  “Fuck you…sir.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  Avery hung up.

  “I hope this is the right place,” Rob grumbled, stubbing out his fourth smoke and pocketing his phone.

  Rob parked into an empty space and hopped out of the van, walked into the first business door that was open and asked the receptionist about the location. The woman was old enough to be Rob’s mother.

  “Just around the corner, hon,” she said.

  She pointed and directed and he thanked her with a wink. She smiled back.

  “Too old for me, honey,” he joked as the door shut.

  Driving the van behind the row of offices to a row of storage units, he pulled into the first parking space in a completely empty section of the lot and cut the engine off. Each had a bay door and an office door. The third one down matched the address he was looking for.

  “Huh,” he said as if impressed somehow that it existed.

  The building wasn’t labeled in any way other than the street number. Its bay door was down and when Rob pulled tha handle on the walk-in door, he found it was locked. He pressed a small black button just above what looked like a speaker and heard a mechanical buzzer. Up and to his right, he saw a camera. A full minute passed before he heard the static that sounded like someone was fingering the button on an intercom.

  “State your purpose,” a man’s voice said.

  It startled Rob. He looked at the camera and smiled.

  “Rob Logan, Guaranteed Overnight Delivery,” he said.

  “Who’s it for?” said the voice.

  He flipped the paper on his clipboard with no luck. There was no name there, just like there was no business listed.

  “No name was listed, only this address.”

  Silence.

  “Listen, did you want me to leave it here? Or I can take it back with me, but I’ll need you to sign that you refused the delivery.”

  “No. I’ll be right out,” the man said.

  Rob waited. He stood for almost five minutes.

  “Is this dude takin’ a shit? How big can this place be?”

  Finally the latch tumbled and a thin man with red hair appeared.

  “May I please see some ID?” Red said.

  Rob stood there with a package in one hand, clipboard in the other and a shirt that said Rob above the chest pocket in blue embroidery. He’d never been carded to make a delivery.

  “Can’t I just leave this with you?” he said fumbling for his wallet.

  “No. It needs to go directly from your hand to Mr. Chase.”

  Red showed no sense of humor and less personality. He pushed the door open and motioned impatiently for Rob to enter.

  “I apologize, but Mr. Chase is…odd about such things.”

  “Yeah. No worries,” Rob said. “It’s kinda cool being all covert. Are you guys government or something?”

  “No,” said Red with no offer of further information.

  They wound through a passageway lit only by bare incandescent bulbs spaced about twenty feet apart. Rob felt like he had circled the entire building when the hall ended at another door that read WILLIAM CHASE, CEO. Red knocked.

  “What exactly do you do here?” Rob asked.

  Red smiled but said nothing.

  “Come in,” came another voice from another speaker.

  There was a buzz and the noise of an electronic lock opening. Red turned the knob and pulled the door open for Rob, nodded at the man inside and shut the door behind the delivery man. Rob’s gaze met a silver-haired gentleman in a suit who was seated behind a large, sleek desk. The lighting inside the office was almost clinical in its brightness, a stark change from the long hallway—like a dentist’s office. A single leather chair faced the desk.

  “Do you have my package?” Mr. Chase said.

  “Yessir. No signature necessary, I could’ve just given it to that red-haired guy. I didn’t mean to bother you,” Rob said in reply.

  He stared at the door, a little miffed at Red.

  “It’s truly no bother. Have a seat,son,” the older man said.

  The authority in his voice caused Rob to do as directed even as he protested.

  “Sir, I’m not sure what it is you…”

  “Be still now,” Chase said.

  The older man closed his eyes and waved his hands urging Rob to be quiet.

  “I understand you have deadlines to keep, but depending on what’s in this box, I may have a return package for you, if you’ll wait just a moment.”

  Rob had no deadlines, but it was a relief that there was a reason behind the strange proceedings. He smiled at the thought.

  “Sure thing,” Rob said.

  The older gentleman gently pulled the adhesive tape loose from the small parcel and removed a plastic case from within. It opened like a clamshell. What he saw inside pleased him but was out of Rob’s field of view. Then Mr. Chase presented a briefcase from the floor and placed it on his desk so the latches faced the messenger.

  “It looks like I will have a return package,” he said and popped the latch on the left, then the right.

  “I’ll need a label. I can print one out if you let me go back to my van,” Rob said.

  “Not necessary. I have one all ready to go.”

  “Great.”

  Mr. Chase opened the case to reveal a lot of cash. Banded stacks of hundred dollar bills filled it to its brim. He spun it around so Rob could see.

  “Wow,” said Rob. “I
’m not sure I can deliver that. You might want an armored car, or maybe write a check.”

  Rob chuckled. Mr. Chase did not.

  “This is not the package, son. I just wanted to show you what you were missing.”

  “What?” Rob said, agitated again by the again strange situation.

  “Take it easy, son. You asked for this, whether you know it or not.”

  Chase stared at him with stern eyes. It made Rob uneasy, worse than when he’d first come into the building.

  “What are you talking about?” Rob asked, his winning smile now gone.

  The door behind him opened and Red stood there, holding it open. In walked Charlotte…not the shy, reserved girl Rob had broken up with that morning. She wore a low-cut emerald-green dress which accentuated her eyes, her silken hair and each and every curve. She looked like a million bucks which is what Rob thought might be in that leather case. He was astonished.

  “He’s filthy rich,” she said and slid herself up onto the desk to sit.

  A split in her dress revealed long smooth legs.

  “And he’s my daddy.”

  The pieces began to fall into place. But he hadn’t touched this girl…as much as he’d wanted to.

  “You gave all that up when you broke my heart. You gave all this up as well.”

  She looked down at her own body and then pouted her full lips to accentuate his mistake. Apology was not in Rob’s creed.

  “Just not my type,” he said. “No hard feelings, right?”

  “None at all. I’m just disappointed in your lack of patience,” she said.

  “As am I,” Chase replied.

  Charlotte slid off the desk and put her face inches from Rob’s.

  “I would’ve pleased you in so many nasty little ways,” she hissed into his ear so her father couldn’t hear and ran one hand along his chin, the other along her pronounced cleavage.

  Mr. Chase turned a blind eye and shook his head. Then he stood up.

  “Charlotte, I…” Rob started.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Mr. Chase with deadly intensity.

  Charlotte whirled around to the man at the desk. Rob was overcome with the scent of perfume and lotion, maybe a hint of sweat…a hint of excitement.

  Mr. Chase handed Charlotte the small case and she opened it to reveal a large hypodermic needle with clear liquid inside. Red grabbed Rob and pulled his arms behind the expensive leather chair to hold him in place. When he struggled, Mr. Chase punched him hard in the belly, and then assisted Red in restraining him. They held Rob still but let him scream.

  “Save your energy,” said Charlotte. “Inside this little gem is your release from my debt. Once you wake up, we’ll be even. Thank you, daddy.”

  Mr. Chase said, “Of course, dear.”

  She ran her fingers through Rob’s hair and then down to his exposed neck.

  “Get your fucking hands off me, whore!” he screamed.

  “But whore is what you wanted isn’t it? Isn’t that all you wanted?”

  Rob struggled again, but made no headway. Charlotte slid the two inch needle into his neck just below the hairline. She showed no emotion as she pressed the plunger. Rob struggled for a moment as the chemical dispersed, and then slumped, unconscious in a matter of seconds.

  ..ooOOoo..

  HE WOKE SOMETIME later with a dry mouth. Rob’s vision was as thick as his tongue and he blinked several times to clear it. There was unbearable coming from all over his body. He managed a cracked whimper and a single tear.

  The surroundings were familiar, his apartment viewed as if he were lying on the floor. He leaned his body upward on his elbows and tried to push up on his hands only his hands were gone. Electric agony shot from his wrists and he fell back to a lying position.

  My hands are gone.

  He looked at them…where they used to be. The stumps were wrapped but soaked through with blood. He leaned back on his elbows again and attempted to push himself to the wall and sit upright. The same pain was in his ankles, where his feet had been. Rob howled through the pain and propped his back against the wall to survey the area through his tears and anger.

  Four packages with shipping labels from his company lined the floor next to where he awoke. Blood seeped through each one…One for each missing appendage. In his lap was a smaller package, about the size of a TV remote. A dull throbbing in his groin and a bloody spot on his pants told him what it contained. There was a note on that box. He blinked struggling to read it.

  “For your own sake, deliver these to the hospital,” it said. “You have very little time.” Then, “Love Always, Charlotte.”

  ..ooOOoo..

  Epi3Demic

  Somewhere in Arkansas…

  BEAMS OF LIGHT danced and flickered inside the suburban house. Three uniformed men from the sheriff’s office entered the structure in response to a call that shots were fired. One deputy stood on the porch to ward off on-looking neighbors and watch for escaping bad guys. It was a small town.

  Inside a voice shouted, “I’ve got one! Holy shit.”

  “One what?” another replied.

  “A body,” the first answered.

  The sheriff fumbled with the button on his handheld radio and finally, frustrated, keyed it.

  “Use your damn squawk, son. We don’t need the neighbors listening in.”

  “Sorry sheriff,” he yelled.

  Sheriff Don Rogers shook his head and then heard the walkie-talkie chirp.

  “I’ve got two more,” a different voice said over the radio.

  “No shit?” said both the sheriff and the first deputy, Deacon James or ‘Deke’ for short.

  “None intended,” said Randy James, Deke’s brother. “Christ, they’re just kids.”

  “That’d be the twins,” Sheriff thought and counted on his fingers.

  “Jerry, Linda and three kids is five bodies. Please don’t let there be five bodies,” he said out loud. He entered the kitchen where Deke was and took a look at Jerry Mason’s corpse. Deke wiped clammy sweat from his forehead and left to head upstairs. He stopped in the doorway as the walkie-talkies bleeped letting him know another transmission was coming in.

  “One more, sheriff,” Randy said.

  “No shit?”

  “None intended,” Randy replied with a shudder.

  “That’s four,” the Sheriff said.

  “Where’s Ricky? How old is he now?” asked Deke looking at the bloody mess on the floor.

  “Dunno, fifteen…maybe sixteen?”

  “Has he got a job you know of?”

  “I don’t know. You thinkin’ he did this, Sheriff?” Deke asked.

  Sheriff Rogers’s eyes brimmed with tears. He’d never seen anything like it. He wiped them quickly with one hand and then looked up at Deke.

  “Could be. He’s the only one we haven’t found. If he ain’t upstairs, start checking with his friends, grandparents and other relatives.”

  Randy entered the room. His face looked pale, even in the flashlight beam.

  “Linda fired the shots,” he said.

  The sheriff looked at him, waiting on an explanation.

  “How you know that?” his brother asked.

  “There’s…bullet holes in the window upstairs and she’s holdin’ a .38. Someone got to her first, though, and Ricky’s layin’ in the back yard. Everyone’s dead sheriff,” Randy said. He paused to choke back a tear, “I couldn’t look at her anymore.”

  “I’ll take a look,” said the sheriff. “You go get some air.”

  Randy did as he was told. He’d seen the aftermath of automobile accidents, but never murder. Sheriff Rogers tipped the body on the kitchen floor with his boot to take another look at the face. Jerry had been a friend. There were bite marks on his face and the hole where his nose had been was a bloody mess like fresh ground hamburger. Claw marks on his neck looked to be the fatal wounds.

  Rogers was certain that the bodies upstairs were Linda and the twins. He would ta
ke a look up there later. It was the body in the yard he was worried about. He pushed the back door open with his boot so as not to touch any of the bloody prints that covered it, and then stepped outside. The body lay ten to fifteen feet from the edge of the concrete patio. It was a young man wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Rogers approached with caution and grabbing the kid’s ankle, he rolled the slight frame over.

  Ricky Mason lay dead with a bullet wound in his abdomen, another in his neck. He appeared to have been shot while running away from the gunfire. If Randy was right, the killer was his own mother. The look on his dead face told the sheriff why. His eyes were round as saucers, bloodshot and dark. His lips and chin were smeared with blood that had just started to dry. There were chunks of flesh between his teeth. His fingernails were caked with blood and curls of skin. It was a lot to take in and gave the sheriff pause. He looked up at the window with the bullet holes.

  He walked to the patrol car and picked up the CB.

  “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Rogers. We need state forensics out here to the Mason’s place.”

  “Everything all right?” he heard.

  “No. No everything is not all right.”

  There was a moment’s pause before the CB barked again.

  “Okay, sheriff. I’ll contact them and have them find you on your cell number.”

  “Thanks. Sheriff out.”

  Rogers clipped the mike and stood next to his car having a think and a smoke. Deke and Randy waited on the porch. The rookie had taken the second car and went back to the station. Nothing could be done for the family and the rookie puking all over the scene only made matters worse. The sheriff walked slowly to the porch and stopped.

  “Looks open and shut to me fellas. I’m callin’ in forensics for the sheer mess of it all. I don’t want anything missed,” the sheriff said.

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Deke.

  “Take your brother back to the station. I’ll wait on the foreheads and help you with the report when I get back.”

  The deputies mounted the black Jeep Grand Cherokee and backed out of the drive. Neighbors pawed at the yellow police tape but not one was adventurous enough to cross the line or ask any questions. Instead they stared with dire expressions into their neighbors’ very personal matters. The questions, media, uproar and mayhem would come soon enough. At least, if there was a silver lining, none of the family members were left to suffer through that.

  ..ooOOoo..

  One day ago, somewhere in California…

  WAVES ROLLED IN tumbling cigarette butts and beer cans further and further down the beach. The sun was going down and along the strand, tan bodies in board shorts and bikinis rubbed against each other trying desperately to find relief from their common hormonal imbalances. The smell of sex, alcohol, weed and suntan oil hung heavy on the breeze. The sounds of Kid Rock poured from a battery powered radio.

  “You need to relax, man,” said Jason. “She’s just tryin’ to have some fun.”

  “Yeah, but she’s mine,” raged Michael.

  “She’s just dancing, dude. Chill. I’m all about Amber tonight,” Jason slurred.

  Even buzzed, Jason saw that Michael was not about to chill. It was in his eyes. An excessive amount of beer had given him confidence and filled Michael with paranoid jealousy. It was a dangerous combination. But there was something else there… something animal-like.

  Stephanie wasn’t Michael’s girlfriend, but she had given him what he wanted on occasion. That night she was giving her attention to another guy. A guy none of them knew, someone who had wandered into the party. Stephanie danced with Amber, but she was flirting with the new stranger, and he was receptive to it.

  “He’s staring at her,” Michael said.

  “So?” Jason replied.

  “So she is nothing for him to be looking at.”

  “Come on, dude. Let her go. It’ll all be cool when we sober up. Just let it…”

  Jason’s words were cut off by Michael’s knuckles as they crashed into his lower jaw. It put him on his back and crossed his eyes. He didn’t fight the urge to pass out from the pain. Michael sprinted towards the stranger and dove shoulder first at the young man’s chest, screaming as he went. Stephanie screamed and the impact caused a thick sound that was loud enough to be heard over the surf and the music. Michael straddled the stranger and then, with a lunge and a sound that was more creature than man, he smashed, forehead first into the stranger’s face.

  Blood streamed from the stranger’s nose and ears as he lay on the ground, stunned. Before he could react, Michael threw one haymaker after another at his face and neck without regard for the damage it was doing to his opponent or even his own hands. The skull caved in sending shards of bone into the brain beneath. Teeth broke loose. Michael’s hands bled steadily and his own fingers splintered.

  He stood up, leaving the stranger to twitch in the sand and turned to Stephanie and Amber who screamed at him to stop. Their eyes wide in horror and full of tears. Amber fell to her knees and vomited.

  Stephanie slapped him as he approached.

  “What the fuck? Did you kill him?” she screamed.

  He grabbed her by the throat and threw her to the ground. The force of his grip gagged her and sent her gasping for breath. Michael then grabbed Amber by the hair and snapped her neck with one violent tug. He let her drop, leaped in the air and slammed both feet into her head, crushing it into the sand. Her screams stopped and all that could be heard was the surf crashing calmly and ZZ Top looking for some Tush.

  Michael turned back to Stephanie, again he grabbed her by the throat, squeezing with bloody, broken fingers and using all his strength. Twenty-five feet away, Jason came to and struggled to his feet.

  It made no difference when Jason tackled Michael and pulled his hands loose. Her windpipe was already crushed and she was moments away from suffocating. Jason fought to keep Michael from her. He screamed for anyone’s help.

  “Michael stop,” he begged, drawing in huge gulps of air.

  Michael began to cough, and then stopped struggling and went limp. Jason stood up and caught his breath before turning to Stephanie. She gasped one last time and then went silent.

  “Somebody help me!” Jason screamed.

  Amber, Stephanie, Michael and some person he didn’t know all lay dead. Waves crashed and AC-DC and Bon Scott rode on.

  He clawed his way across the sand, tripping and falling once…twice, and then dug in the pocket of his discarded shirt for his cell. Once he had it, Jason dialed 911. He cried as he tried to explain. He cried to the police when they showed up, grateful to be taken to the station, grateful to be away from that scene, eager to help them figure out what had happened…and he cried again at the station when they read him his rights.

  “We’ll investigate your story. If it checks out, you can go home,” the detective said.

  “Home,” was all Jason could choke out.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Arkansas, 48 hours later…

  “SHERIFF ROGERS?” THE voice on the phone said.

  “That’s me,” he replied.

  “This is Ryan Kinney from state police forensics.”

  “What have you got for me, Ryan?”

  “Well, it looks like cause of death on one Richard Mason wasn’t the bullet wound, sir.”

  Rogers squinted, gesturing as if he was still at the crime scene.

  “But he was gut shot. I found him lying dead in the back yard,” he said.

  “He had a brain aneurysm, sir. That’s a much quicker death than a shot to the abdomen.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I don’t think so. Initial tests look clean…but, full toxicology will take a week or so. All we found on him was a crumpled ten dollar bill and a movie ticket stub dated for that evening. Guess that explains where he was before he got home.”

  “Could he have been sick? I mean could he have had an illness or some kind of injury to make him snap like that?”

  “
Could be. He had a lot of blood and…” he paused and swallowed audibly…”flesh in his stomach. The larger pieces…fit the wounds on the victims,” Ryan said.

  “I could’ve lived a thousand more years and not heard you say that. Thanks for the info, Ryan,” Rogers said.

  “You too, Sheriff. I’ll let you know if we find anything else.”

  The sheriff folded his cell phone and shoved it into his pocket. He hadn’t worked many murder cases, six or eight in his career, but something normally sparked. They were rarely complicated—crime of passion or self defense. Motives were generally clear. Maybe it was some rare disease that scrambled that kid’s brain and this was just a very sad open-and-shut. None of those answers felt right.

  He grabbed his lunch and sat down in his office. As he took the first bite of his sandwich, the television in the break room caught his ear.

  The larger pieces…fit the wounds on the victims.

  “Ugh,” he said.

  Rogers dropped the remainder of his sandwich in the trash can next to his desk and, still chewing, wandered in to see Randy watching a newscast and eating cold pizza.

  Police in Bloomington, Indiana are investigating a grisly murder that occurred in a dance club last evening. Twenty-two year old Kristen Faust began firing a small caliber handgun into the crowd, killing four and wounding three others. Witnesses claim she then grabbed a barstool and used it as a weapon. Two more were trampled in an attempt to exit the building after the shots were fired.

  “What the fuck is wrong with people?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know. You reckon it’s drugs?”

  “Could be.”

  Rogers continued to stare at the television. A commercial now for a local flooring company.

  “Maybe it’s the damned apocalypse?” Randy said and chuckled.

  “You go ahead and laugh up, Randy. People are dead, son. Get you a good giggle in.”

  “Sorry, sheriff.”

  “Nah. Stress is all. It gets me one way, you another. Apparently it gets some people to murdering their friends and family.”

  The sheriff scratched his head and counted something in the air.

  “Sheriff?” Randy said.

  He stopped counting and finally looked at the deputy. “Yeah?”

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Counting.”

  “Countin’ what?” Randy asked.

  “Years until I can retire.”

  Randy nodded, then smiled as he stuffed another slice of pizza into his mouth. Sheriff Rogers leaned on the table, pressing his knuckles until they popped. He looked Randy in the eyes.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Get on the net and see if you can find info on any more random killings.”

  “Will do, sheriff,” Randy said, sitting up tall.

  “I said research, deputy. Not titties.”

  The sheriff tipped his hat.

  “Yessir.”

  ..ooOOoo..

  Maryland, later that evening…

  THREE FRIENDS SAT in a small apartment living room and played cards. Their spouses were in the kitchen fixing snacks and mixing drinks. One woman was describing her newly purchased car to the other’s utter fascination when the argument started.

  “Carla! Get in here. We’re leaving.”

  Carla, Ellen and Paige looked at each other and shrugged. Carla grabbed her drink and guzzled it down.

  “Shit,” Carla said. “He’s such a baby sometimes.”

  Paige giggled. “What? You aren’t actually leaving, are you?”

  “Oh, if he means to leave, we’ll leave, one way or another.”

  She looked as if her night had been ruined, then grabbed Carla’s drink and finished it as well before peeking around the corner at the men.

  One jockeyed a wooden chair at the poker table and sported a fistful of cards. Poker chips were strewn about the floor. The other two were squared off, about to go to blows. Carla’s husband, Steve, was one and Jack, who owned the house, the other. He was married to Ellen who had made her way to the living room and was now standing beside Carla.

  “What is it?” Carla asked.

  “He threw his beer bottle at me and then smacked all the chips off the table. I don’t need this shit you immature drunk. I’m leaving,” Steve said.

  Carla looked at him and then at Jack.

  “God,” she said. “You sound just like a bratty ten-year-old.”

  Carla smirked, showing the effects of the alcohol. Steve frowned.

  Ellen said, “Jack? What happened?”

  Jack turned to his wife, his chest heaving as if he’d just run up five flights of stairs. He held a bottle in his hand that was half full of beer. He wiped what looked like beads of sweat from his forehead and then took a swig from the bottle.

  “Who was it that starred in that movie we saw last night?” he asked her.

  “What?” she said. “Jack? What happened?”

  Jack ignored the question. “The older guy. He was the bad guy. What’s his name?” Jack continued.

  “I don’t know,” said Ellen.

  Carla interrupted, “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

  At that point, Brad stood. “Guys, relax. Let’s just finish the game. You apologize,” he said to Jack. “And then you apologize,” to Steve.

  Paige, Brad’s wife, joined them in the living room. The three men on one side and the women at the far side.

  Jack’s expression was blank. He walked the two paces that separated them and extended a hand for Steve to shake.

  “You’re right,” he said

  Steve considered the hand, still frowning, and then softened and grabbed it with an exhale. Jack shook it hard and then twisted it into Steve’s body. Before anyone could react, he smashed the bottle he was holding on the edge of the table and plunged the jagged stub of the bottleneck into Steve’s neck. Blood squirted like a pulsing fountain and soaked the collar of his shirt. The women screamed and Brad joined them.

  Steve fell to his knees, coughing bursts of red mist and grabbing at his throat. Jack turned to Brad and lunged, hands clawing and grabbing, finding his opponent’s shoulder with his left hand and the Brad’s opposite arm with his right. In one powerful motion, he slammed Brad backwards into the wall and knocked over a floor lamp. The bulb popped in a strobe flash and the room dimmed, lit only by what streamed in from the kitchen. He rocked his head into Brad’s neck and bit down hard. Black blood spewed forth. Paige vomited into the kitchen while Ellen leapt for Jack.

  “Jack! Stop! What the…” her words turned into grunts and shouts.

  She climbed on his back, her arm around his neck trying to pull him off of Brad, but Jack turned his head and found the meat of her forearm with his teeth, tearing a large chunk of muscle loose. Carla knelt next to Steve, cradling his limp body in her arms and screaming, unable to do anything else. Jack let go and Brad fell into a twitching lump. He finished killing his wife, and then stumbled to the kitchen after Paige.

  When the police arrived, only Carla was still breathing. She was in shock and babbling about Jeff Bridges.

  “He played the bad guy in that movie,” she said over and over.

  Her shirt and skirt were soaked through with blood from the wound in her dead husband’s neck. Brad lay in the middle of a large, dark stain in the carpet. It was impossible to determine what blood belonged to which corpse. Ellen was propped in the corner of the room, her face unrecognizable. After the attack ended, she had settled there and bled out. Mouth-sized chunks of flesh were ripped from her body in multiple locations. Nosy neighbors crowded the apartment’s entry trying to see what was causing all the noise

  “What’s going on in there?” said a neighbor.

  “What the hell happened? Is that blood?” asked another.

  The policemen pushed them back and shut the door.

  “I’ve never seen any shit like this,” yelled one officer from the kitchen.

  Within minute
s, four more officers arrived on the scene and began questioning. Other than the noises, no one had a clue as to what had happened. Once the detectives sorted out the bodies and got a good look at Jack, there was no question which was the killer.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Arkansas, later that same night…

  “SHERIFF, I DID some snoopin’ like you asked,” Randy said, knocking on the door jamb to Roger’s office.

  The sheriff looked up from his files.

  “You find anything?”

  “In addition to the case we heard about in Indiana, I found cases in California, Florida and just a few minutes ago, Maryland,” Randy said.

  “No shit?”

  “None intended. You think they’re related?” asked Randy.

  “I dunno. I’ve never heard of anything like this, but I’d bet if you kept diggin’ you’d find more,” said the sheriff.

  “What are you thinkin?” Randy said.

  “I don’t know. Just a bad feeling is all.”

  “Maybe it is the apocalypse,” Randy said, that time without the chuckle.

  Both men were silent for a minute. Sheriff Rogers turned and pointed at Randy.

  “Was there anything… did you notice anything odd about any of those cases?”

  Randy gave him a look that conveyed horror and childlike innocence.

  “It’s all odd, sheriff.”

  Rogers shook his head.

  “I mean does anything stick out? Anything that’s common to each case?”

  Randy thought for a second and then answered, “Ya know, the latest one from Maryland struck me as a little creepy. Said that a man bit his wife to death … killed four people and then died. I called that station and talked to one of the uniforms. He said the only one who survived was some lady, story said she was babbling, something about the movies.”

  The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Movies? Random. I guess you never know what folks might say in those situations.”

  Sheriff Rogers grabbed Randy by the shoulder, “Listen, call Maryland back and tell them to check that perp for a brain aneurysm. Then follow up with the other places. Same question.”

  “Will do, sheriff. You got somethin’ on this?”

  “I don’t know what it could be, drugs maybe. It’s a lotta death to not be related. It’s got my asshole puckered.”

  ..ooOOoo..

  New Mexico…

  “YES, MAMA,” ROSALIE said into the phone. “He’s fine. It was just a cold. Same summer sniffles he gets every year. I think it comes from the daycare.”

  She twirled her hair in her fingers and tuned out the droning bitch who she had called mama for the better part of thirty years. Decades of advice that included, but was not limited to men, cooking, driving, study, shopping, housekeeping, child-raising, fashion sense and how to spend her money were lost on Rosalie. She just didn’t care to listen anymore. In her left ear and out the right.

  “Uh huh. I’ll do that, mama,” she said and switched ears to reverse the flow of traffic.

  When she shifted, something grabbed her attention. It sounded like the cry of an animal—the new kitten. The tiny calico was eight weeks old and only weighed about a pound. Rosalie’s six-year-old son, Alex, was content at torturing the poor creature. She peeked around the corner to see what was going on, but they were in his bedroom. The verbal assault continued from the electronic speaker at her ear.

  “Mama! I just took him to a movie. Christ, will you let it go? He’s fine.”

  Silence from the phone and from the bedroom. In that silence she realized what she’d said and the tone with which she’d said it.

  “Mama, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you, but you’ve got to let me raise my boy. No fever, just a snotty nose. What kid doesn’t have that?”

  Rosalie listened to the same spiel again out of respect until the second cry, that time more of a scream. A noise she’d never heard from a cat.

  “Mama, I gotta go, I’ll call you back,” she said.

  She set the phone down and walked down the hall to her son’s room.

  “Alex?” she said, pushing the door open.

  He sat with his back to her. She couldn’t see what he was up to, but the sound was like someone noisily chewing and smacking on a huge wad of bubble gum. She pictured a teenage girl twirling her hair on one finger.

  “Alex, baby? Whatchoo doin’?”

  Her little angel turned slowly toward her and she saw his innocent blue eyes were black and bloodshot. His face was smeared with blood. His hands held the lifeless, gooey body of the kitten, its belly ripped open and parts had been devoured. The boy’s expression was blank as he stared at her, still chewing. He swallowed the mouthful and his bloody lips curled back revealing that cute gap in his red-stained teeth. The tooth fairy had given him a dollar just two nights before. Alex screamed and launched from the floor. He ran straight at her, crashing his head into her stomach and knocking the wind from her lungs. She fell backwards into a sitting position against the opposite wall and gasped for air, eyes wide in anticipation and shock.

  “Baby, stop it!” she screamed. “What’s wrong? What did you do?”

  He stood back up and lunged again. This time his teeth made contact with her raised forearm, gashing it open. She batted him away screaming. He caught her arm again and bit down with strength she had no idea he was capable of. It was attack without fear. His teeth tore into her skin, ripping a flap loose. She pushed him away with one foot and backpedaled into the hallway, crying, holding the bloody wound on her arm and staring at him as he swallowed a sample of her meat.

  Alex grinned, growled and charged again. Rosalie tried to scoot out of the way but he grabbed her and clawed his way up her legs, snapping his jaws at her neck and face. She shuddered, terrified and confused and kicked out with both feet. There was enough force to send him back into his bedroom where he lost his footing, fell backwards and smacked the back of his head against a wooden nightstand knocking over several superhero action figures. It stunned him.

  Rosalie looked at the wounds on her arms, trying to make sense of the situation. Aside from the bloody hole, there was an oblong bite mark with an indentation for each tooth except the one he was missing on the top row. It seemed such a strange thing to notice, but she was his mother and he was no monster. He was her baby. Shock changed to concern for Alex and she stood and walked into the bedroom, careful to avoid looking at the dead kitten.

  “Dios Mio,” she whispered and crossed herself.

  Alex sat on the floor, panting like a wild animal.

  “Alex, baby, mama’s sorry she kicked you, but look what you did to my arm,” she said.

  He shifted and looked left and then right like a trapped beast. There was a drop of blood running down his top lip. He licked it away and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. She took another cautious step towards him, her only thought was to hug him and tell him everything would be ok.

  Whatever is bothering you, mama can fix it.

  “Alex?” she said.

  He moved slowly to stand and continued his heavy, labored breathing. His crazed look and bloody face were out of place against the background of cartoon characters and stuffed animals. She took one more step and reached out her hands in a come-to-mommy pose, wiggling her fingers for added enticement. It caught his attention and he snapped his teeth at her once, then again. She winced, drawing her hands back. He lowered his head and leered at her. She held her hands out again, trying to coax him into her arms. The next time he snapped his teeth, they bit into two digits of her left hand hard enough to draw blood. His eyes squinted with effort as he ground his jaws together.

  Crack! Pop! Then there was a wet rip as he yanked his head to the left. The awful noises preceded her screams. A symphony of pain. She looked at the gap in the silhouette of her hand and watched the blood pour to the floor. Bloody drool ran down her son’s chin. Rage boiled inside Rosalie’s chest. Motherly instinct fought the instinct for survival—eve
ry telling her he was just a child. A child with her severed fingers in his mouth, and the guts of a puppy in his belly.

  She grabbed a lamp from the table with her good hand and held it up like a weapon. She couldn’t use it…not on her son. Tears of pain and rage and sadness washed down her cheeks as she backed out of the room. She never took her eyes off of Alex’s doorway as she entered the kitchen and picked up the phone.

  Dial tone.

  9-1-1.

  Rosalie placed the phone between her shoulder and her ear. She wrapped a dishtowel around her throbbing hand, ignoring the wound on her arm. Instantly, the towel soaked through with blood. The operator answered but Rosalie couldn’t speak. She only cried. The voice on the phone asked her if she needed assistance…asked her if she was in danger…told her the police were on their way and that she, the operator, would wait on the line.

  “Please,” said Rosalie and then she set the phone down.

  It was all she could manage. She stumbled back to Alex’s room, weak from blood loss, weak from shock.

  Alex was slumped against his bed. The drying blood that stained his face stood in stark contrast to his waxy, pale, dead skin. The brightly colored bedspread, crayons and coloring books on his floor were spattered with blood and made the scene more surreal. Alex no longer moved, his chest no longer heaved and she had no explanation for what happened.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Arkansas, next morning…

 

  RANDY HUNG THE phone up with the coroner in California and marked a line through the state’s name on his legal pad. Similar lines crossed out the words: Florida, Indiana, Maryland and now New Mexico.

  “Sheriff,” he said as he entered Rogers’ office.

  “Yup?” the sheriff said.

  “No drugs. Annerisms just like you said.”

  “No shit.”

  “Nossir. None intended,” Randy replied.

  “Deke!” the sheriff hollered.

  “Yap!” he heard from another part of the station.

  A moment later, Deke popped his head into the office.

  “Hey, bro,” he said.

  Randy nodded.

  “I need a doctor, a scientist, something brain-related. Find me someone at the university or at the hospital. We need to speak this morning if possible. I’ll drive wherever they are,” the sheriff said. “Randy, get me as much info about those files as you can, tell them we think they might be related and we’re looking for connections. I need to know everything the killers were doin’ leading up to the murders. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  “Right,” Randy said.

  Deke was already on the phone calling the local hospital. Randy finished scribbling down what the sheriff said and got up to leave.

  “Sheriff,” he started and waited for his boss to raise his head before continuing. “You seein’ something I’m not?”

  “Just death, Randy. But you find anything that looks remotely similar in those files, you come get me. I don’t care what it is or what I’m doin’. This is priority.”

  “Right,” he said again and disappeared around the corner.

  Sheriff Rogers stared into space and lost himself in thought. He hadn’t even finished his first cup of coffee.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Still Arkansas, later that day…

  RANDY HAD ALL the faxes and printed emails on the desk in front of him. Best he could tell there was a survivor at every case except the local one. Police had thoroughly questioned each one as a suspect, but then details of the case had proven their stories true. Each killer died shortly after the attacks of an aneurysm, a brain attack. It was as if their minds cracked and caused the attacks, then turned on their owners and killed them too. He poured over the circumstances leading up to the incidents:

  - New Mexico, 6 year old boy and his mother. Everything was fine when they got up that morning, breakfast, trip to the mall, movie, and home. Boy eats puppy and attacks mother.

  - Maryland, friends get together for some poker, snacks and drinks. Argument over a movie character breaks out.

  - California, two couples go to a movie…

  Movie.

  In each case, a movie.

  “Sheriff!” Randy yelled and then put his head in his hands.

  Sheriff Rogers jogged into the room. “What? What is it?”

  Randy shook his head. “It’s stupid, sheriff.”

  “Not if it links them together it isn’t. Whatta you got?”

  “They all recently saw a movie.”

  The sheriff did a slight double-take, “What movie?”

  “Dunno. But in each case, they had recently seen a movie,” Randy said.

  “You’re right. That’s pretty stupid.” He paused, then tapped on the desk. “How recently?”

  “Within twelve hours. What if they saw something in the movie that…”

  “What? Made them mad? Come on, Randy,” the sheriff interrupted.

  “What if there was some subliminal message or something?”

  “Randy,” Rogers said.

  “What if the popcorn was poisoned?” he said.

  “In five different states? Less stupid, but still a stretch. Keep digging, maybe there’s something else.”

  Randy shrugged his shoulders, “No drugs, no former records…shit, sheriff, one of the attackers was only six years old. And here’s three more incidents I found this morning. Only thing common in all cases: Movie.”

  “Deke!” the sheriff yelled.

  They heard the scrape of metal-chair-feet against linoleum and then footsteps in their direction. Deke yawned as he walked in and nodded in response.

  “You find me a doc yet? Maybe a psychiatrist?”

  “Yep, got you an appointment just after lunch. I was coming to tell you about it when you hollered,” he said. “You figure somethin’ out?”

  “Not really. But we may have a lead. Do me a favor and grab the contents of that Mason boy’s pockets outta the evidence locker.”

  “On it, sheriff,” Randy said and popped up from his seat.

  “What are you thinkin’, boss?” Deke said.

  “Not me. It’s your dimwitted brother. Thinks maybe goin’ to the movies is killing people.”

  The sheriff’s eyes went somewhere else for a minute.

  Deke laughed, “And what, you’re strokin’ his pecker on that?”

  The sheriff didn’t crack a smile, only looked off into space.

  “No…but I’m startin’ to believe him,” he said and turned Randy’s notes around for Deke to read.

  As Deke read, Randy walked in with a plastic zip-lock bag. Inside was a crunched up ten dollar bill and two pieces of paper with print on them—movie tickets. Randy pulled the bag open and dumped it on the desk. He flipped one ticket stub over and read the words printed on its face. Deke glanced at them as well.

  “That new sci-fi movie with Jeff Bridges. Been wantin’ to see that’n. My girl wants to see it too,” Deke said.

  “Uh huh,” Rogers said, still off in space.

  “Hate that new 3D though. Gives me a hell of a headache,” Deke said.

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said.

  “No shit,” Randy said.

  The three sat in silence for a moment, two brothers staring at the movie ticket and the sheriff staring at nothing. Then Rogers blinked.

  “What’sat?” he asked, finally looking at the stub.

  “3D. That new kind gives me a headache. Not like the old blue and red glasses. This new stuff makes you queasy and gives you a headache. Like bein’ seasick.”

  “Really?” the sheriff said and looked at Randy.

  The brothers nodded. The sheriff’s eyes were wild for a moment, darting around the room, and then he smiled. There was no joy in it.

  “Let’s go on a field trip, boys.”

  Deke cocked his head and sighed, “Cindy’ll kill me if I go see that movie without her, sheriff.”

  “At’s an order, son.”

  “Roger t
hat,” he said.

  Randy laughed out loud at his brother, “Whipped much?”

  “Have sex much?” Deke said.

  Randy looked at his shoes. The sheriff laughed at them both. The clock said 9:45 am and Don Rogers was on the phone to the movie theater to request a special screening.

  “Randy, I want you stayin’ behind on this one. Can’t all be at the movies. I want you to keep digging and see if you can pin down exactly which movie they each saw—the killers. If it’s the same movie, we might be onto something. It’s Twilight Zone, but it’s something.”

  Randy looked confused, “What’s ‘Twilight Zone’?”

  “Nothin’,” said the sheriff.

  They contacted the theater owner and after some argument, told him what was goin on. He protested.

  “You think I’m responsible for the death of that family? That’s a horrible accusation,” he said. “What kind of police investigation are you running? You have psychic mediums sniffing out…”

  He droned on for a while until Sheriff Rogers could take no more and he interrupted.

  “Sir, I assure you that we’re not looking at you as a suspect. I just want to see if there’s any possibility here. I need you to run that movie for me this morning before you open.”

  After a bit more arguing over the phone, his wish was granted and Deke and Sheriff Rogers were on their way. Randy stayed behind and begged for information on the phone, calling theaters in each area for movie lists and times.

  The patrol car pulled into the empty theater parking lot. Moments later a minivan pulled in next to them. The sheriff and his deputy followed the manager as he unlocked the front door and past the counter to the office where he made a quick phone call.

  “My projectionist said the film is spooled up and ready to run, he took care of it last night. If you’ll have a seat in theater three, I’ll get it rolling. You’ll want these and if you sit in the center, you’ll get the best view. The 3D effect gets weaker as you move out from the center.”

  Then he handed them what looked like flimsy Ray-Ban style glasses.

  Sheriff Rogers counted the rows and then the chairs to find the center and then sat down. Deke sat to his right leaving a chair in between them and the house lights dimmed almost immediately. Within moments the projector was spewing images on the screen and the sound shook the walls. Blurry images on the flat surface of the reflective screen jumped off into their eyes and the two men laughed and cringed in unison as the story played before them. About halfway through the sheriff took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

  “Deke, you ok?” he said.

  “Head’s killin’ me, but I’m fine. Happens every time,” he said.

  Ninety minutes of visual and aural bombardment later, the credits rolled and the lights came up. The men took their glasses off and headed for the exit. The manager was in the office working on accounting and schedules. He looked up from his desk.

  “You two appear to be ok,” he said with a smirk. “What’d you think?”

  “Crap,” they said in unison.

  “Well that crap is making billions. 3D is the rage right now. People flock to it.”

  Sheriff Rogers’ stomach turned at the thought. If Randy’s hunch paid off, that could only mean a much larger body count. Something he hoped to avoid without trying to shut down the film industry. He shook the manager’s hand and thanked him and left with Deke in tow. They drove back to the station by way of a fast food drive thru and Randy was there to meet them in the doorway to the station.

  “All 3D, sheriff,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The movies, well of the eleven cases, I got an answer on nine of them, all the movies were in 3D. Not the same movies, but all 3D. You think that means anything?”

  “Shit, you said eleven cases? I thought there were eight?” the sheriff asked.

  “Found three more while you were gone,” Randy said and scratched his stubble.

  The men cast blank expressions at each other.

  “You think we’re chasing our tails with this movie lead?” asked Deke.

  “I ain’t got much else to go on,” said the sheriff. “Our case was pretty open and shut, but I’d like to know what causes a fifteen year old boy to eat his family and die in his back yard. And what could be so horrible that a mother would shoot her own son?”

  “Besides eating the family?” Randy said.

  They all nodded in agreement and not one could eat his lunch. Deke’s headache was worse. Even the handful of Tylenol hadn’t helped. He told the sheriff he was going to run home and grab his migraine medicine. Randy said he thought Deke was goin’ home to grab Cindy and make her squeal.

  “Long as he’s back in an hour. We’re all entitled to a lunch break,” was his response.

  The sheriff left to see that psychiatrist. Randy stayed behind to answer the phones and keep up the research. The doctor was in town, only a couple miles from the sheriff’s station. She was familiar in that “seen her around” way and Don Rogers was eager to hear how quickly she’d dismiss the situation.

  He pushed open the door to the office which was once a house. A little bell jingled on a metal spring and after a second or two the woman peeked from behind her office door into the waiting room. She was dressed like a shrink in a smart, conservative pantsuit, hair in a bun, and glasses. He figured her in her mid-thirties.

  “Sheriff Rogers?” she said.

  “Yes. Dr. Franklin?” he asked.

  “Call me Abbie,” she said and shook his hand.

  He smiled but didn’t extend the same first name courtesy. He liked being ‘sheriff’, and it kept him distanced from any potential future clients. He took a seat in her office and explained what was going on.

  “That’s terrible,” she said placing a hand on her chest.

  “It is. That’s why we’re not leaving out any possibilities. I need to ask you a question. I know it sounds far-fetched, but is it possible for something visual to cause a psychotic reaction?” he asked, surprised at his command of the English language.

  “Certainly, if it’s shocking enough. Witnessing the death of a loved one perhaps…” she began.

  “What about flashing lights or colors?” he said.

  “Strobes have been proven to cause epileptic episodes. Is that what you mean?”

  “I’m just going to say it, doc. Nationwide we’ve found ten other cases like ours in the past three days. I imagine there’ll be more today. All of them were horribly violent, seemingly unprovoked, and involved friends or family members. The only thing that links them together is that all the offenders had recently seen a 3D film. Not even necessarily the same film. The only common factor is the three-dimensional aspect.”

  The doctor turned her head and squinted at the sheriff in a very cautious manner. Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs under the desk.

  “I’ll admit that it’s a strange question. Very Twilight Zone.”

  The sheriff smiled at the notion as the doctor continued.

  “It does have merit from a medical standpoint. I suppose if flashing lights can cause seizures, other visual stimulus could cause psychotic breaks. Still, it’s very far-fetched and would be tough to prove,” she said.

  “How would you go about proving it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. You’d have to know medical histories of the persons affected. And from a scientific standpoint you’d need measurements.”

  “What kind of measurements?”

  “Well, you’d need to measure angles, refraction of the light through the projector lens, intensity of the lamp, distances from the screen, things like that. Each theater is different, each person is different. You said they were different films?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be a particular color or pattern…I’d have so many questions to ask.”

  The sheriff sighed, “I thought as much.”

  Just then, his cell phone rang. It was his office number.


  “Excuse me, doc. I’ve gotta take this,” he said and opened the phone.

  “Sheriff Rogers,” he said.

  “Sheriff, it’s Randy. Is Deke with you?”

  “No. He ain’t back yet?” he asked, his face losing color.

  “No.”

  “How long’s he been gone?”

  “Almost two hours.”

  “Damn. I should’ve known…Randy, I’ll check it out,” he said and hung up.

  “Doc, you want to ride with me? We might have a test subject.”

  ..ooOOoo..

  RANDY LOOKED AT the computer screen and then down at his notebook and counted. Seventeen cases now. Six in the last two hours. All grisly and unexpected. Always family members or close friends and always within twenty-four hours of seeing one 3D film or another. Suddenly another case popped up in his news feed. Then he received an email from the station in California. It listed four new cases. Then his phone rang.

  “Sheriff’s station. Deputy James speakin’,” he answered.

  “Randy?” said the sheriff, his voice shaky.

  “Yeah. That you, sheriff? You get hold of Deke?”

  Across town, the sheriff cleared his throat and looked around again at the mayhem in front of him. Dr. Abby Franklin stayed behind in the patrol car.

  Cindy was in the kitchen … and the living room … and the front porch. Deke was sprawled out on the floor of the kitchen, his face buried in the cavity where her right leg used to be attached. Her head was cocked at a right angle to the bloody stump of her neck. It looked like he hit her with an axe and then pulled the wound the rest of the way open with his fingers. When sheriff Rogers arrived, he was still chewing. A bullet to the back of the skull ceased that. It didn’t change the scenery any, but at least he’d stopped what was going on.

  “Deke’s… dead, son. Whatever got its claws in all those others got your brother. I’m sorry, Randy. I’m so sorry,” he said. “Jesus, what’s it been, forty-five minutes?”

  There was no response. The sheriff stumbled out to the car to meet Dr. Franklin’s gaze. His appearance must have frightened her as she went pale.

  “I’m so glad you’re ok. Was that a gunshot?”

  “Yes…How are you with crime scenes?” he said.

  “I think I can handle it,” she said, still a little shaken.

  “I’m not sure you can,” he said.

  He opened her door and waited for her to get out and straighten her suit jacket, preparing herself, before shutting it behind her. Then he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  “I want to help.”

  He followed her up to the porch where portions of Cindy, Deke’s girlfriend, lay at the end of a trail of splattered blood. Whatever the hunk of flesh was, it had been thrown from inside the house and slid across the porch to where it lay. Abbie Franklin took a breath and closed her eyes. Then she pushed the front door open and stood fixed at the sight. From her vantage point she could see the leg in the floor of the living room and then beyond to the almost-decapitated corpse with the dead man’s face on its belly. The back of his head was open in a gaping circular wound that still smoked. She didn’t go any further.

  “You ok?” sheriff Rogers asked.

  “Fuck no,” she said. “Take me back to my office.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  He hurried her outside and waited for her to catch her breath. She leaned against the car with tears in her eyes.

  “Doc, have you ever seen anything like that?”

  “Honestly, I’ve never heard of anything like that. What’s the murder weapon?” she asked.

  “He started with an axe. By the time I got in there, he was using his teeth. That’s when I shot him,” sheriff said and choked back the urge to puke.

  The pair got into the police car.

  “You’re telling me you think that was caused by watching a movie?” she asked.

  “He was fine this morning. We watched the movie and he said he had a headache.”

  Rogers started the engine and began to drive.

  “He was supposed to run home for some migraine meds and maybe a nooner on his lunch break…” he started and blushed.

  “I’m an adult woman, sheriff, and after what I’ve just seen, I think I’m beyond offending.”

  “Yeah. Well, he never went back to work. It’s just like the Mason case. Just like the other cases.”

  “I need to do some reading on this,” she said.

  “I need to get back to that poor bastard’s brother. He’s all the help I got left. Are you sure there are things written about this type of case?” he asked.

  “If not, then I need to get writing. How the hell do you shut down all the movie theaters in the world?”

  “Right. We’d sound crazier than a sack o’ rabid weasels.”

  She didn’t smile at the sentiment, only nodded. Then he stopped in front of her office and let her out. It was time to deal with Randy.

  The cruiser moved slowly as the sheriff worked over and over in his mind how to handle the situation. He couldn’t in good conscious tell Randy exactly what he saw. He didn’t want to say hey, I just shot your brother because he was eating Cindy. It took him an extra five minutes to get back to the station while he pondered. Randy was seated at the desk with a pint bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. It wasn’t open.

  “You wanna share that, son?” the sheriff asked.

  Randy looked up from behind the desk. His eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from crying.

  “If it’s ok with you, sheriff, I’ll just keep it for myself.”

  Rogers nodded.

  “At this point, we may just close up shop for the night.”

  “Was it the same?” Randy said. “Same as the Mason’s?”

  “Yeah. It was kinda like that.”

  “Was he dead when you got there?” Randy asked.

  The question took the sheriff by surprise. It was exactly what he hoped to avoid. He took a deep breath and decided honesty was the best policy.

  “No,” he said as a tear rolled over his left lower eyelid.

  “Did you shoot him, or did he have an annerism?”

  Rogers nodded and another tear spilled. “I shot him, Randy. I’m so sorry.”

  Randy stiffened, then took another swig of whiskey and looked at the sheriff and spoke earnestly.

  “Thank you, sheriff. I’d rather you took his life than that damned devil. Might still give him a chance at heaven, ya know?”

  “I should’ve known, should’ve watched him…”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Line of duty, I guess.”

  Sheriff Rogers exhaled nervously and walked around the counter to hug the boy. Tears spilled from his old eyeballs. Randy took another drink and handed the sheriff his notepad.

  “Twenty-four cases, sheriff. Deke makes twenty-five. That’s reported. I figure there’s at least twice, maybe three times that by now. It don’t include other countries either. I figure most countries have 3D movies as well, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. If this keeps up it won’t matter. Maybe it’ll just burn itself out.”

  Randy had a map printed out and stuck to the bulletin board. There were red push-pins stuck in it in all the locations where deaths had occurred. It looked like a sixteen-year-old’s acne ridden face. All random attacks, all over the place, same circumstances.

  Some technology company with the best of intentions designed something amazing for people’s entertainment and had inadvertently created a monster maker—a man-made disease with 100% mortality rate and a twenty four hour incubation time.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Somewhere in North Carolina….

  THE PARKING LOT was full. Folks lined up front to back and shoulder to shoulder waiting to buy tickets. Even more people filed out of the building from an earlier show that just ended. One man complained of a headache as he walked to his car.

  Somewhere in Montana…
r />   THE RADIO IN John’s car blasted his favorite song at the stop light. He banged his fists on the steering wheel in sheer delight to the annoyance of the elderly gentleman in the next lane. When the song ended he smiled and turned the volume knob to a more manageable level. A commercial came on. It spelled out the makings of a popcorn-munching, special-effects-laden masterpiece that was coming to a theatre near him. He opened his cell phone as the light changed.

  When his friend answered he said, “Dude! I know what we’re goin’ to see tonight.”

  Sixty thousand people in the listening area heard that same advertisement.

  Millions more saw the commercial trailer on television. Still more saw reviews in the paper, or in magazines. The weekend was coming and experts were estimating record box-office numbers. It was the latest 3D masterpiece and it was open and selling out in 4,476 theaters nationwide. Worldwide in two weeks.