Misfits, p.11
Misfits, page 11
The first thing he noticed was that Dredd’s truck was gone.
And the back door was wide open.
His mouth went dry. He became aware of the utter stillness of the forest. Not so much as a crunchy leaf skittered along the ground.
He peered into the dark interior of the cabin.
“Hello. Dredd, are you in there?”
Of course he wasn’t. He’d gotten in his truck and headed for safer ground, wherever that was. But why had he left the cabin wide open like this?
Reaching inside, he fumbled for a light switch. No, there wouldn’t be one because electrical lines didn’t run out this way. What he did find was a hurricane lamp hanging from a nail beside the doorway. A box of matches was on a small plastic table outside. Chuck had a hard time getting a match to light, the wooden sticks breaking in half in his thick, clumsy fingers, the damp heads reluctant to spark. He almost whooped for joy when one finally lit. He lifted the glass and touched the flame to the wick. The smell of burning kerosene was instantly nauseating.
The floorboards cracked under his foot as he stepped inside.
“Hello?”
He brought the lamp forward. The dim light couldn’t reach the distant corners of the room, but it illuminated enough to send a shock down his spine.
The cabin was in complete shambles. This wasn’t the kind of mess a person makes when they’re in a rush to pack and leave. Everything had been turned over and broken. Stuffing spilled from Dredd’s mattress. It had been thrown off the bed frame, landing upright in the makeshift kitchen, leaning against the leg of a table that had been flipped over as well. Clothes had been ripped to shreds, firewood scattered about, cans of food dented and pried open, their contents drying on the floor. A bag of flour had been used to paint the ceiling white. Shards of glass glittered under the lamplight. Newspapers and magazines were everywhere, like confetti. Chuck saw several torn covers of Judge Dredd comic books, imports from Ireland that sold for twenty-five pence.
That makes sense now, he thought.
What shook Chuck even more, once he got over what he was seeing, was the redolent stench of shit. Piles of excrement were everywhere, some of them watery and peppered with what looked like lumps of berries. He had to back out of the cabin and tuck his nose under his shirt to keep from gagging. His own unwashed body was nothing to write home about, but it was akin to the fresh scent of a summer breeze compared to the compounded waste in Dredd’s cabin.
Had Dredd gotten out before his place was trashed? Yes, his truck was gone, but could the Melon Heads figure out how to drive, if only for a short distance?
He stumbled into the yard. There was Mick’s crushed beer can from yesterday.
“Dredd!”
Nothing answered him back, not even the chirp of a cricket.
He was suddenly very aware of being utterly alone.
Or was he?
Hadn’t Mick said that the silence of the woods was a sure sign that the Melon Heads were near? They had certainly been here. Dredd wouldn’t do this to his own cabin.
He had to get the hell out of here. The feeling that he was being watched bowled him over. Something moved in the bushes behind him. He dropped the hurricane lamp. The flame sputtered out. No matter. He didn’t need it anymore.
Chuck hurried away from the yard, his hand running along the side of the cabin as he headed for his car. He kept taking worried glances behind him, waiting for the Melon Heads to attack as they had by the teepee. Once he saw his car, he started running.
The sound of breaking glass stopped him.
He spun around, his heart inching up his throat.
“Who’s there?”
It was the stupidest thing he could say, but his brain was wrapped in a panicked fog.
He heard crackling, like someone was breaking twigs.
Chuck slowly walked backward to his car. Something told him not to take his eyes off the cabin, not to turn his back on where the Melon Heads’ attack would originate.
A curl of black smoke licked over the roof. More smoke billowed upward.
They’d set the cabin on fire.
His feet grew three sizes and went numb. They crossed over each other and he fell.
I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!
With an agility he rarely displayed, Chuck turned over, got on his hands and knees, jumped up and sprinted the final ten feet to the car. He slammed the door shut and keyed the ignition, pumping the gas pedal. The engine coughed but wouldn’t turn over.
He slammed his elbow on the lock, and then realized all of the windows were open. With one hand cranking the starter, he rolled up the window on his side. It was a very small measure of the illusion of safety, but it was all he had at the moment.
A rock the size of a man’s head dropped from the trees, slamming the hood of his car. It made a big dent, settling into it like a meteorite.
“What the hell?” He cast his eyes onto the fabric-covered roof of the car as what sounded like hail pounded from above. A rock pinged against the back window. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the epicenter of the impact.
Chuck forced himself to stop hitting the gas. If he flooded the engine, he was as good as dead. A stick came whooshing out of the shadows, spinning end over end until it clanged against the car’s front grille. He thought he heard the crack of plastic. More sticks and stones rained down on his car. He couldn’t see who was throwing them, but his memory of their attack last night filled in the gaps.
Letting out a roar of both fear and agitation, Chuck twisted the key one more time. The engine belched and roared. He shifted into reverse, hit the gas, and barreled down the narrow drive. The rocks followed his exit. One of them sailed through the open passenger window and hit him in the temple. The pain didn’t register. He was only fixated on one thing: getting back to Dracula Drive.
The car bounced as it hit the lip of the decrepit road. Chuck jerked the wheel. The front of the car swung in a hard forty-five-degree turn, the frame rocking on its old shocks. His window shattered. Chuck slammed into drive and pinned the gas pedal to the floor. The back tires kicked up a whirlwind of dust and pebbles. The trees on either side of Dracula Drive whizzed by. Chuck kept his eyes forward, his chest almost touching the wheel, as he raced home.
Rocks and sticks quickly stopped coming his way, but in his head, he could still hear them bashing the steel and glass. Before he turned off Dracula Drive, he cast a quick glance in his rearview mirror.
Were they following him, sticking to the shadows?
How long would it be before they found him and burned down his house?
He had to warn the others.
Chapter Twelve
On a normal night, Mick wouldn’t have been able to sleep. He could forget about even trying now. The thick blanket draped over a sliver of the floor in Vent’s room provided little comfort. Dawn was just beginning to touch down. Mick lay on his back with his hands behind his head, replaying over and over what had happened out in the woods. He tried to carefully reconstruct every single moment from when they’d pulled up by the stick teepee.
A shiver ran through him every time he conjured up the images of the wild Melon Heads. Sure, he’d kind of seen one before with Dredd, but this was something out of a horror movie. It was like The Hills Have Eyes with those crazy post-nuke oddballs, but way, way worse. In the movie, some of the cannibals were scarier than the others, but you could still get a sense of their humanity. Not so with the Melon Heads.
Was that what happened when you were cut adrift from people? Or had they always been that way, only made worse by generations of inbreeding?
They scared the living daylights out of him. And they also held his fascination in an iron grip. He couldn’t stop thinking about them, no matter how repulsed he was by even the recollection of their faces.
“Fucking zombies on speed,” he whispered. Vent snored in the bed. They’d spent a couple of hours talking before Vent went all lights out. For a dude who only had to sit around with Heidi all night, he was weirdly worn out.
Mick, on the other hand, was amped. The adrenaline jolt had yet to wear off. He desperately wanted to go back to his shit-heap trailer, yet he was also terrified of what he’d find there. Or that they’d find him. Part of him thought, or maybe it was just a bit of lunatic fantasy, that the Melon Heads would leave him alone. That he could somehow communicate with them, much like Dredd must have, that he was on their side. Maybe he could even take Dredd’s place. Dredd’s cabin was no prize, but it was a hell of a lot better than Mick’s Airstream.
He had to talk to Dredd. The guy was pretty pissed last night – or maybe he was just wigged out. Either way, Mick could talk him down. There goes my supply of killer weed, he thought at the exact same moment Vent let out a room-quaking fart in his sleep.
Man, what the Melon Heads did to Dunwoody was insane. He’d caught glimpses of them going at the piece of garbage. It was hard to see with all their bodies crowded around him and the low light, but the sounds of his limbs being ripped free, and his screams would live with Mick forever.
Mick looked deep within himself for any sign of regret. So far, he couldn’t find a single shred. Any time it might have taken hold, he thought of Marnie’s face and the way she kept clutching her stomach and it simply fell away. Harold Dunwoody got what was coming to him. It saved the police and the courts a whole lot of trouble and money. Most of all, it saved Marnie from public embarrassment. It was like feeding criminals to the lions. The Romans were looked at as this incredible, advanced civilization, and they did shit like this all the time. It was a sport that people brought their kids to, for crying out loud. So no, Mick wasn’t going to feel sorry for what they did.
Okay, maybe stabbing that Melon Head crossed a line. If he hadn’t, Chuck might be right alongside Dunwoody, and that wasn’t an option. Dredd said he’d broken a rule. On the other hand, the Melon Heads needed someone to help them, especially in times of trouble. How many of them had feasted, or were still feasting, on Dunwoody? There was a chance Mick could redeem his trespass. He could show them that he was there to help. There were plenty of other wastes of space living in Milbury; wife beaters, child abusers, crooks who lived large by taking advantage of those less fortunate. Maybe he could scoop one of them up and bring them out to the woods. Let the Melon Heads see he was their new benefactor.
Brian Goodman was a prime candidate. Everyone knew he beat his wife and his kids. He cheated on his wife on a regular basis, mostly sticking it into bar whores for barely enough money to buy a pitcher of beer. Mick had even seen him take a piss on a stray dog outside of Kieran’s Pub, laughing like a hyena with his needle dick pinched between his fingers.
Yeah, no one would miss Goodman, except maybe the people he owed money to. And the bartenders. Mick would bet good money his own mother wouldn’t give a frog’s fat ass if he dropped off the face of the earth.
Too excited to lie around, Mick got up and slipped out of Vent’s window.
There was too much work to do. He couldn’t wait to get started.
* * *
Marnie woke up to Heidi nudging her shoulder. For a brief, blessed moment, she was pain free. Once she opened her eyes and became aware of her surroundings, it all ended. Her stomach felt like it was on fire.
“You want something to eat?” Heidi whispered. Marnie had slept next to Heidi, clinging to the edge of the bed, both to give her friend space and because she needed to crush the edge of the mattress with her hands every time a fresh wave of agony hit. She tried to roll over to face Heidi. The effort wasn’t worth the pain.
“I don’t think I’ll ever eat again,” she said into the pillow.
“When’s the last time you ate anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to get your strength back. At least let me bring you up some toast.”
Marnie’s hand found its way down to her lower abdomen where the worst of it all blossomed like a mushroom cloud. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t eat if I wanted to. Everything feels full…and strange. I don’t know how to describe it.”
The echo of Harold Dunwoody’s pained screams had haunted her all night. She thought it wouldn’t bother her, but it did. Sleep came in fits and starts and was filled with nightmares she thankfully couldn’t remember.
Heidi pressed the back of her hand to Marnie’s forehead. “I thought so. You have a fever. Sleeping next to you was like falling asleep by a fire. I’ll get you some aspirin.”
Marnie had to pee. She slipped out from under the covers, pulling the sheet back. Standing on wobbly legs, she glanced down at the bed, saw a circle of blood on the bottom sheet. It surely had soaked right through to the mattress.
Heidi came back with a glass of water and two aspirin. “Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry,” Marnie said, her eyes filling with tears.
Heidi put the water and pills down and covered up the stain. “I don’t care about that. I’m worried about you.”
“It’s been happening a lot. I should have slept on a towel or something.”
“What you should do is see a doctor.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. This is no joke.” Heidi swept the aspirin into the old Strawberry Cupcake trash can that had been beside her bed since she was six. “Forget those. They make bleeding worse. I’ll get you Tylenol. We’re going to have to take you to a doctor this morning.”
Marnie hissed as a wave of agony bent her over. It passed quickly, but it had wiped out the urgency of relieving herself. She was a mess and she knew it. The question was, which was worse: her body or her mind?
“Not here,” she said with one hand on the night table. “Maybe New Haven. Someplace where no one will find out.”
Heidi took her by the shoulders and helped her right herself. “Fine. Anywhere you want to go. We need someone to make you better.”
As Heidi led Marnie to the bathroom to clean up, Marnie thought there wasn’t a doctor in the world that would ever make her better. Not after waiting too long to see the damage Dunwoody had wrought, and especially not after the horror of last night.
Not ever.
Chapter Thirteen
Chuck called Vent from a pay phone outside Merck Chemists. The town was just beginning to come alive, blue-collar workers heading to George’s for bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, the newspaper, and collecting on their bets from last night’s games. Or paying up. George was the town bookie and short-order cook who made a mean breakfast on the cheap. Just don’t look at the floor too hard. You didn’t want to know what skittered around the old luncheonette.
“Hello,” Vent answered on the third ring. He coughed hard into the phone. Chuck had to pull the receiver away from his ear.
“Let me talk to Mick.”
“Who is this?”
“Really?”
“Oh, man, I’m so frigging tired. Hold on, Chuck.” Vent put the phone down. Chuck heard him shuffling around his room, clearing out his lungs. A door opened and Vent tromped away. He didn’t come back for over a minute. Chuck eyed the change on the shelf beneath the phone, waiting for the automated operator to tell him he needed to feed more into the slot.
When Vent returned, he said, “Dude, he’s not here.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know. I just know he’s not in my house. I even checked the basement.”
Dammit. First Dredd and now Mick.
“Dredd is missing,” Chuck said.
That seemed to shake Vent from his stupor. “Shit, did they kill him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. His truck was gone. But his cabin was destroyed. I went there this morning. As I was about to leave, it was set on fire. And then my car was pelted by rocks and branches. They fucked it up good.”
“Did you see them? Did they follow you?”
“No, and I’m pretty sure no.” Chuck had been wondering how far the Melon Heads’ reach extended. Did they have sentries all along Dracula Drive? It only made sense. You couldn’t maintain that kind of secretive existence without some kind of planning and preparation. Now, everywhere Chuck spied a clump of trees and bushes, he suspected there was a Melon Head peering at him through the leaves, noting his whereabouts, waiting for the moment to grab him.
“Maybe Mick went to Dredd’s and they took off. Did you check his trailer?”
Chuck had been considered indestructible by everyone for as long as he could remember. Fear wasn’t something he was allowed to show.
Today, he was afraid. There was no way he was going to Mick’s trailer alone.
“No. Your father still have that rifle?”
Vent’s old man used to be an avid hunter until his eyesight started getting bad from diabetes. He’d sold most of his guns but kept his first rifle, which had been given to him by his father. He’d often said he wanted to save it for his son, but with the way Vent was turning out, he wouldn’t trust him with a slingshot, much less a rifle.
“Yeah, he keeps it in the back of his closet.”
“I need you to get it.”
“Are you crazy, man? Him and my mom are sleeping. I’m not going in there.”
Chuck gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say to get it now. Wait until they’re out of the house. Then meet me at my place.”
He could hear the click of Vent’s throat as he dry-swallowed. “You want us to go out there, don’t you?”
“Yep. Only this time, we need to be ready for them.”
* * *
So far, Mick had bagged two rabbits. Their bodies, curled against one another in the leather bag strapped to his shoulder, bopped against his hip when he walked. His trailer was to his back about two hundred yards to the west. The long walk from Vent’s house to his rusted can of a home had taken some of the wind from his sails. His big plans would have to be adjusted to smaller ones for now. Hence, the bag of rabbits.
And the back door was wide open.
His mouth went dry. He became aware of the utter stillness of the forest. Not so much as a crunchy leaf skittered along the ground.
He peered into the dark interior of the cabin.
“Hello. Dredd, are you in there?”
Of course he wasn’t. He’d gotten in his truck and headed for safer ground, wherever that was. But why had he left the cabin wide open like this?
Reaching inside, he fumbled for a light switch. No, there wouldn’t be one because electrical lines didn’t run out this way. What he did find was a hurricane lamp hanging from a nail beside the doorway. A box of matches was on a small plastic table outside. Chuck had a hard time getting a match to light, the wooden sticks breaking in half in his thick, clumsy fingers, the damp heads reluctant to spark. He almost whooped for joy when one finally lit. He lifted the glass and touched the flame to the wick. The smell of burning kerosene was instantly nauseating.
The floorboards cracked under his foot as he stepped inside.
“Hello?”
He brought the lamp forward. The dim light couldn’t reach the distant corners of the room, but it illuminated enough to send a shock down his spine.
The cabin was in complete shambles. This wasn’t the kind of mess a person makes when they’re in a rush to pack and leave. Everything had been turned over and broken. Stuffing spilled from Dredd’s mattress. It had been thrown off the bed frame, landing upright in the makeshift kitchen, leaning against the leg of a table that had been flipped over as well. Clothes had been ripped to shreds, firewood scattered about, cans of food dented and pried open, their contents drying on the floor. A bag of flour had been used to paint the ceiling white. Shards of glass glittered under the lamplight. Newspapers and magazines were everywhere, like confetti. Chuck saw several torn covers of Judge Dredd comic books, imports from Ireland that sold for twenty-five pence.
That makes sense now, he thought.
What shook Chuck even more, once he got over what he was seeing, was the redolent stench of shit. Piles of excrement were everywhere, some of them watery and peppered with what looked like lumps of berries. He had to back out of the cabin and tuck his nose under his shirt to keep from gagging. His own unwashed body was nothing to write home about, but it was akin to the fresh scent of a summer breeze compared to the compounded waste in Dredd’s cabin.
Had Dredd gotten out before his place was trashed? Yes, his truck was gone, but could the Melon Heads figure out how to drive, if only for a short distance?
He stumbled into the yard. There was Mick’s crushed beer can from yesterday.
“Dredd!”
Nothing answered him back, not even the chirp of a cricket.
He was suddenly very aware of being utterly alone.
Or was he?
Hadn’t Mick said that the silence of the woods was a sure sign that the Melon Heads were near? They had certainly been here. Dredd wouldn’t do this to his own cabin.
He had to get the hell out of here. The feeling that he was being watched bowled him over. Something moved in the bushes behind him. He dropped the hurricane lamp. The flame sputtered out. No matter. He didn’t need it anymore.
Chuck hurried away from the yard, his hand running along the side of the cabin as he headed for his car. He kept taking worried glances behind him, waiting for the Melon Heads to attack as they had by the teepee. Once he saw his car, he started running.
The sound of breaking glass stopped him.
He spun around, his heart inching up his throat.
“Who’s there?”
It was the stupidest thing he could say, but his brain was wrapped in a panicked fog.
He heard crackling, like someone was breaking twigs.
Chuck slowly walked backward to his car. Something told him not to take his eyes off the cabin, not to turn his back on where the Melon Heads’ attack would originate.
A curl of black smoke licked over the roof. More smoke billowed upward.
They’d set the cabin on fire.
His feet grew three sizes and went numb. They crossed over each other and he fell.
I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!
With an agility he rarely displayed, Chuck turned over, got on his hands and knees, jumped up and sprinted the final ten feet to the car. He slammed the door shut and keyed the ignition, pumping the gas pedal. The engine coughed but wouldn’t turn over.
He slammed his elbow on the lock, and then realized all of the windows were open. With one hand cranking the starter, he rolled up the window on his side. It was a very small measure of the illusion of safety, but it was all he had at the moment.
A rock the size of a man’s head dropped from the trees, slamming the hood of his car. It made a big dent, settling into it like a meteorite.
“What the hell?” He cast his eyes onto the fabric-covered roof of the car as what sounded like hail pounded from above. A rock pinged against the back window. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the epicenter of the impact.
Chuck forced himself to stop hitting the gas. If he flooded the engine, he was as good as dead. A stick came whooshing out of the shadows, spinning end over end until it clanged against the car’s front grille. He thought he heard the crack of plastic. More sticks and stones rained down on his car. He couldn’t see who was throwing them, but his memory of their attack last night filled in the gaps.
Letting out a roar of both fear and agitation, Chuck twisted the key one more time. The engine belched and roared. He shifted into reverse, hit the gas, and barreled down the narrow drive. The rocks followed his exit. One of them sailed through the open passenger window and hit him in the temple. The pain didn’t register. He was only fixated on one thing: getting back to Dracula Drive.
The car bounced as it hit the lip of the decrepit road. Chuck jerked the wheel. The front of the car swung in a hard forty-five-degree turn, the frame rocking on its old shocks. His window shattered. Chuck slammed into drive and pinned the gas pedal to the floor. The back tires kicked up a whirlwind of dust and pebbles. The trees on either side of Dracula Drive whizzed by. Chuck kept his eyes forward, his chest almost touching the wheel, as he raced home.
Rocks and sticks quickly stopped coming his way, but in his head, he could still hear them bashing the steel and glass. Before he turned off Dracula Drive, he cast a quick glance in his rearview mirror.
Were they following him, sticking to the shadows?
How long would it be before they found him and burned down his house?
He had to warn the others.
Chapter Twelve
On a normal night, Mick wouldn’t have been able to sleep. He could forget about even trying now. The thick blanket draped over a sliver of the floor in Vent’s room provided little comfort. Dawn was just beginning to touch down. Mick lay on his back with his hands behind his head, replaying over and over what had happened out in the woods. He tried to carefully reconstruct every single moment from when they’d pulled up by the stick teepee.
A shiver ran through him every time he conjured up the images of the wild Melon Heads. Sure, he’d kind of seen one before with Dredd, but this was something out of a horror movie. It was like The Hills Have Eyes with those crazy post-nuke oddballs, but way, way worse. In the movie, some of the cannibals were scarier than the others, but you could still get a sense of their humanity. Not so with the Melon Heads.
Was that what happened when you were cut adrift from people? Or had they always been that way, only made worse by generations of inbreeding?
They scared the living daylights out of him. And they also held his fascination in an iron grip. He couldn’t stop thinking about them, no matter how repulsed he was by even the recollection of their faces.
“Fucking zombies on speed,” he whispered. Vent snored in the bed. They’d spent a couple of hours talking before Vent went all lights out. For a dude who only had to sit around with Heidi all night, he was weirdly worn out.
Mick, on the other hand, was amped. The adrenaline jolt had yet to wear off. He desperately wanted to go back to his shit-heap trailer, yet he was also terrified of what he’d find there. Or that they’d find him. Part of him thought, or maybe it was just a bit of lunatic fantasy, that the Melon Heads would leave him alone. That he could somehow communicate with them, much like Dredd must have, that he was on their side. Maybe he could even take Dredd’s place. Dredd’s cabin was no prize, but it was a hell of a lot better than Mick’s Airstream.
He had to talk to Dredd. The guy was pretty pissed last night – or maybe he was just wigged out. Either way, Mick could talk him down. There goes my supply of killer weed, he thought at the exact same moment Vent let out a room-quaking fart in his sleep.
Man, what the Melon Heads did to Dunwoody was insane. He’d caught glimpses of them going at the piece of garbage. It was hard to see with all their bodies crowded around him and the low light, but the sounds of his limbs being ripped free, and his screams would live with Mick forever.
Mick looked deep within himself for any sign of regret. So far, he couldn’t find a single shred. Any time it might have taken hold, he thought of Marnie’s face and the way she kept clutching her stomach and it simply fell away. Harold Dunwoody got what was coming to him. It saved the police and the courts a whole lot of trouble and money. Most of all, it saved Marnie from public embarrassment. It was like feeding criminals to the lions. The Romans were looked at as this incredible, advanced civilization, and they did shit like this all the time. It was a sport that people brought their kids to, for crying out loud. So no, Mick wasn’t going to feel sorry for what they did.
Okay, maybe stabbing that Melon Head crossed a line. If he hadn’t, Chuck might be right alongside Dunwoody, and that wasn’t an option. Dredd said he’d broken a rule. On the other hand, the Melon Heads needed someone to help them, especially in times of trouble. How many of them had feasted, or were still feasting, on Dunwoody? There was a chance Mick could redeem his trespass. He could show them that he was there to help. There were plenty of other wastes of space living in Milbury; wife beaters, child abusers, crooks who lived large by taking advantage of those less fortunate. Maybe he could scoop one of them up and bring them out to the woods. Let the Melon Heads see he was their new benefactor.
Brian Goodman was a prime candidate. Everyone knew he beat his wife and his kids. He cheated on his wife on a regular basis, mostly sticking it into bar whores for barely enough money to buy a pitcher of beer. Mick had even seen him take a piss on a stray dog outside of Kieran’s Pub, laughing like a hyena with his needle dick pinched between his fingers.
Yeah, no one would miss Goodman, except maybe the people he owed money to. And the bartenders. Mick would bet good money his own mother wouldn’t give a frog’s fat ass if he dropped off the face of the earth.
Too excited to lie around, Mick got up and slipped out of Vent’s window.
There was too much work to do. He couldn’t wait to get started.
* * *
Marnie woke up to Heidi nudging her shoulder. For a brief, blessed moment, she was pain free. Once she opened her eyes and became aware of her surroundings, it all ended. Her stomach felt like it was on fire.
“You want something to eat?” Heidi whispered. Marnie had slept next to Heidi, clinging to the edge of the bed, both to give her friend space and because she needed to crush the edge of the mattress with her hands every time a fresh wave of agony hit. She tried to roll over to face Heidi. The effort wasn’t worth the pain.
“I don’t think I’ll ever eat again,” she said into the pillow.
“When’s the last time you ate anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to get your strength back. At least let me bring you up some toast.”
Marnie’s hand found its way down to her lower abdomen where the worst of it all blossomed like a mushroom cloud. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t eat if I wanted to. Everything feels full…and strange. I don’t know how to describe it.”
The echo of Harold Dunwoody’s pained screams had haunted her all night. She thought it wouldn’t bother her, but it did. Sleep came in fits and starts and was filled with nightmares she thankfully couldn’t remember.
Heidi pressed the back of her hand to Marnie’s forehead. “I thought so. You have a fever. Sleeping next to you was like falling asleep by a fire. I’ll get you some aspirin.”
Marnie had to pee. She slipped out from under the covers, pulling the sheet back. Standing on wobbly legs, she glanced down at the bed, saw a circle of blood on the bottom sheet. It surely had soaked right through to the mattress.
Heidi came back with a glass of water and two aspirin. “Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry,” Marnie said, her eyes filling with tears.
Heidi put the water and pills down and covered up the stain. “I don’t care about that. I’m worried about you.”
“It’s been happening a lot. I should have slept on a towel or something.”
“What you should do is see a doctor.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. This is no joke.” Heidi swept the aspirin into the old Strawberry Cupcake trash can that had been beside her bed since she was six. “Forget those. They make bleeding worse. I’ll get you Tylenol. We’re going to have to take you to a doctor this morning.”
Marnie hissed as a wave of agony bent her over. It passed quickly, but it had wiped out the urgency of relieving herself. She was a mess and she knew it. The question was, which was worse: her body or her mind?
“Not here,” she said with one hand on the night table. “Maybe New Haven. Someplace where no one will find out.”
Heidi took her by the shoulders and helped her right herself. “Fine. Anywhere you want to go. We need someone to make you better.”
As Heidi led Marnie to the bathroom to clean up, Marnie thought there wasn’t a doctor in the world that would ever make her better. Not after waiting too long to see the damage Dunwoody had wrought, and especially not after the horror of last night.
Not ever.
Chapter Thirteen
Chuck called Vent from a pay phone outside Merck Chemists. The town was just beginning to come alive, blue-collar workers heading to George’s for bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, the newspaper, and collecting on their bets from last night’s games. Or paying up. George was the town bookie and short-order cook who made a mean breakfast on the cheap. Just don’t look at the floor too hard. You didn’t want to know what skittered around the old luncheonette.
“Hello,” Vent answered on the third ring. He coughed hard into the phone. Chuck had to pull the receiver away from his ear.
“Let me talk to Mick.”
“Who is this?”
“Really?”
“Oh, man, I’m so frigging tired. Hold on, Chuck.” Vent put the phone down. Chuck heard him shuffling around his room, clearing out his lungs. A door opened and Vent tromped away. He didn’t come back for over a minute. Chuck eyed the change on the shelf beneath the phone, waiting for the automated operator to tell him he needed to feed more into the slot.
When Vent returned, he said, “Dude, he’s not here.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know. I just know he’s not in my house. I even checked the basement.”
Dammit. First Dredd and now Mick.
“Dredd is missing,” Chuck said.
That seemed to shake Vent from his stupor. “Shit, did they kill him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. His truck was gone. But his cabin was destroyed. I went there this morning. As I was about to leave, it was set on fire. And then my car was pelted by rocks and branches. They fucked it up good.”
“Did you see them? Did they follow you?”
“No, and I’m pretty sure no.” Chuck had been wondering how far the Melon Heads’ reach extended. Did they have sentries all along Dracula Drive? It only made sense. You couldn’t maintain that kind of secretive existence without some kind of planning and preparation. Now, everywhere Chuck spied a clump of trees and bushes, he suspected there was a Melon Head peering at him through the leaves, noting his whereabouts, waiting for the moment to grab him.
“Maybe Mick went to Dredd’s and they took off. Did you check his trailer?”
Chuck had been considered indestructible by everyone for as long as he could remember. Fear wasn’t something he was allowed to show.
Today, he was afraid. There was no way he was going to Mick’s trailer alone.
“No. Your father still have that rifle?”
Vent’s old man used to be an avid hunter until his eyesight started getting bad from diabetes. He’d sold most of his guns but kept his first rifle, which had been given to him by his father. He’d often said he wanted to save it for his son, but with the way Vent was turning out, he wouldn’t trust him with a slingshot, much less a rifle.
“Yeah, he keeps it in the back of his closet.”
“I need you to get it.”
“Are you crazy, man? Him and my mom are sleeping. I’m not going in there.”
Chuck gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say to get it now. Wait until they’re out of the house. Then meet me at my place.”
He could hear the click of Vent’s throat as he dry-swallowed. “You want us to go out there, don’t you?”
“Yep. Only this time, we need to be ready for them.”
* * *
So far, Mick had bagged two rabbits. Their bodies, curled against one another in the leather bag strapped to his shoulder, bopped against his hip when he walked. His trailer was to his back about two hundred yards to the west. The long walk from Vent’s house to his rusted can of a home had taken some of the wind from his sails. His big plans would have to be adjusted to smaller ones for now. Hence, the bag of rabbits.
