Midnight Grinding (19 page)

“Oh, dear God, what’s happening?” he gasped, slumping to his knees in the dust and manure of the barn floor. His hands went to his neck, which was now rigid, the muscles taut, stretched to their limit. His fingers played across the knots and found them huge and pulsating. They flexed beneath the thin membrane of skin as if something were there, suddenly awake and restless. Something
alive
, yet part of him.

Dear Lord in heaven, what’s wrong with me?
The searing agony in his neck continued to intensify. It almost felt as though his head was attempting to pull itself from his body. But that was utter nonsense, wasn’t it? He knew at once that it was not as the tendons in his neck began to snap, one by one. At the same instant, the arteries tore open, flooding his esophagus with a gorge of fresh blood.

He opened his mouth to scream for Estelle, but to no avail. The cartilage of his larynx pulled apart, the vocal cords popping like strands of rotten twine. He fell upon his back, crushing the inflamed nodule behind his left ear. Hot blood bathed the side of his face as it ruptured. There was blood everywhere. It coursed in swift rivulets down the front of his blue chambray shirt.

The agony reached a crescendo that Henry could no longer endure. He felt himself slipping into merciful unconsciousness. But before that blessed oblivion came, something unfolded from that burst knot behind his ear. Like a gory spider it passed before his eyes, flexing and unflexing. It looked as though it was
—
no, it couldn’t have been
—
but it
was
, a tiny, perfectly formed
hand
.

***

It opened its eyes.

The murky shadows of the barn’s interior seemed to have lost their depth, the sparse light intensifying to brilliance near overbearance. The optical nerves adjusted swiftly however. It stared at the body that lay on the earthen floor several feet away. The liver-spotted hands were gnarled from the final throes of boundless agony, the trunk of the neck ragged and frayed like the end of an old rope, the tendons and bloodless arteries exposed.

The transition had gone well. Yes, there had been pain, but wasn’t there always discomfort in every form of change? From the expulsion of an infant from the womb to the passage of the soul at the point of death, there was always a violent rending involved. There had been a period of horror at first, a few seconds of confused fear when the host had failed to understand the nature of what was taking place. But there was no fear now. Only understanding and total acceptance.

The Henry-thing struggled from its prone position, the newly formed limbs jerking erratically. The swollen knots had sprouted skinny, malformed appendages, an alien life form’s blind interpretation of the human form. Silently, it strained to a stance, trying hard to keep its balance. It took a few staggering steps, each movement increasing in coordination. Yes, it was much better this way, without the cumbersome weight of the farmer’s body. Existence would be much simpler with the physical condition reduced to a minimum. The cerebral state would reign as it should
—
as it had reigned for years in the dank liquid world of the well.

A low growling came from the barn door. The Henry-thing turned on under-developed legs and faced Old Sam. The dog bared its teeth at the scent of fresh blood and this
thing
that stood before him. There was some nagging familiarity about this strange, creature, a mixture of emotion that Old Sam couldn’t quite comprehend.

The thing took a couple of faltering steps forward, its jaws working silently.
Go on, boy,
echoed words with no sound.
Get outta here!

The hound reacted in absolute terror at the realization that the words in his head were his master’s voice and that the thing in question possessed his master’s blood smeared face. Old Sam’s mind snapped. He ran like hell across the open field and into the woods beyond. A power company worker would discover the poor dog a few days later, three counties away, having literally run itself to death.

A pang of remorse flared in the Henry-thing for a second, then faded. A sound caught its attention, drawing it like a magnet through the barn doors and into the warm sunlight of the yard beyond. The sound of singing drifted from the backdoor screen of the white farmhouse. It was a sweet sound that stirred something in the underlying psyche that had once been Henry Beck. For a moment it stood trembling in indecision. Then, tentatively, it crept to the rear of the house.

Through the wire mesh of the screen door it stared at the woman who stood washing dishes at the kitchen sink. Estelle, singing an old-time hymn, her voice as light and musical as that of a songbird. Estelle, the woman Henry Beck had fallen in love with the first time he had seen her sitting alone at the grange hall square dance in the autumn of 1938. Estelle, the woman who, for so many years, had shared his laughter and tears, who had endured the hard times along with the good.

It stood there uncertain, the confusing emotion welling up like a dam on the point of bursting. It wanted to call out to make its feeling known. But as Estelle began to turn toward the door, a great fear washed into its mind.
Can’t let her see me
…
not like this!

Estelle Beck walked idly to the back door and looked toward the barn. Henry’s work had grown quiet in the last few minutes. She had a sudden whim to take him some coffee and a wedge of pecan pie and maybe take a look at the chair he was making for the new grandbaby. She had stepped outside with the snack in hand, when she noticed the tracks in the dust of the back stoop. They were tiny, peculiar looking tracks the likes of which she had never seen before. About the size of a raccoon print, but strangely
human
in shape.

“Henry!” Estelle called with a half-smile on her face. “Henry, come out here and take a gander at these queer little tracks.” After receiving no response from her husband, she went out to the barn to see what was keeping him.

***

It fled deep into the wooded hollow, through the tangle of briers and bramble, to the cool, babbling brook of Green Creek. In its ears rang the awful sound of a woman’s hysterical screams, brimming with terror and grief. It was a sound that wracked the Henry-thing’s very existence with a hurt that went far beyond mental boundaries. A sound that bit down deep into the tender meat of its soul.

It collapsed into the cool rush of the backwoods branch, letting the water wash away the congealed blood that covered it. The veins and arteries underneath had sealed upon its metamorphosis. A single quart of life’s fluid coursed through the disembodied head, the pulse of its temple circulating the blood in absence of a working heart.

Eventually the screams gave way to the wailing of sirens and then the sound of men with guns walking through the woods. The creature spent that night hidden beneath a mulberry bush, shivering against the cold. The awful ache of betrayed love thrummed through every nerve ending. It fell asleep, its thoughts torn between the woman Estelle and those who had been forever left behind in the depths of the ancient well.

In its troubled dreams, the dying words of its own kind drifted on the dark currents of its slumber. They steeled its floundering resolve and told it exactly what must be done to survive.

***

Estelle sat numbly in the front porch swing. She watched the last car pull from the gravel drive and head up the main road toward town. The Reverend Ford, who had said comforting words over Henry’s closed casket, had been the last to leave. Her son and daughter had made their hasty exit right after the burial, making excuses that Estelle did not question in the shadow of her grief. She reckoned she couldn’t blame them for wanting to shut out the horrible events of the past few days. She would have done the same herself, but the recurring nightmare of Henry’s headless body kept replaying unmercifully, turning her into a nervous wreck.

What was it she had overheard the sheriff tell the reverend earlier that day? That Henry’s head had not been cut off, but rather
pulled
off by some great force? A cold shudder ran through the woman’s body and she got up to go inside, straightening her black dress and removing the dark net of the mourning veil.

She was about to open the door, when something drew her attention to the flower garden across the drive. Something was singing
—
singing in Henry’s voice.

In a daze, Estelle found herself in the garden, standing there amid marigolds and iris, steadying herself beside the concrete birdbath. It was an old Jimmie Rogers song, one that Henry had sang to her numerous times during their courting. Her husband had always had a fine singing voice, a deep baritone that rumbled a head above the rest in the pews at church. But now the tone seemed different. It was almost as if Estelle wasn’t actually hearing the voice, but rather
thinking
that she did.

Abruptly, the singing ended. She felt a presence behind her, an overwhelming sensation of someone standing there.

“Henry?” she whispered.

I love you, Estelle.

The widow’s heart beat like a triphammer and she took a deep breath.
There are such things as ghosts
, she thought and turned around.

Estelle Beck screamed until she collapsed into the wilting greenery of her flower garden, the eerie image of Henry’s smiling face wedged in the bough of a silver maple tree following her into blessed oblivion.

***

The tranquilizers that Doc Rhodes prescribed for her after the fainting spell helped Estelle sleep better that night. But it did not stop the dreaming.

She dreamt that Henry was there with her, in the brass-framed bed they had shared since their wedding night. She had been sleeping and he had come to her.
I love you, Estelle,
he whispered, his hot breath in her ear.
I love you, too,
she gasped, relishing the closeness of him.
I love you so very much.

Then they had kissed, a deep endless kiss. Their tongues entwined with a relentless passion they had lost with their youth, yet had now regained. Their saliva mingled. An unpleasant taste lingered in Estelle’s mouth. It was the taste of stagnation and sulfur and a vile rankness she could not quite place. But she had not pulled away, wanting to hang onto Henry as long as she could, even if it was all in her mind.

The dream ended when she brought her arms up to run her hands along her lover’s muscular back and found nothing there.

***

The headaches worsened as the week drew on, as did the soreness behind her ears, and every night there was the sound of singing in the garden.

THINNING

THE HERD

When I was a kid watching all those great Universal monster movies on TV, I often fantasized about my favorite monsters battling it out. You know, Frankenstein’s monster slugging it out with the Mummy, or the Wolfman going toe-to-toe with the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

In my boyish imagination, I sometimes wondered how it would have been if those old movie monsters had somehow taken over the earth. In such a world, would vampires and werewolves be allies…or enemies?

Chaney waited until the first, pale hint of dawn seeped over the flat Texas horizon. Then, making sure everything was set, he descended the rusty ladder of the old water tower and made his way to the barn across the street.

He was the thirteenth in line. When his time came, he stepped up to the landlord’s desk and appraised the man. He was human
—
that was easy to see. Fat, lazy, willing to bow to those who had taken command of the new frontier. His name was Hector. He had a patch over one eye, a prosthetic leg that needed oiling, and a monkey named Garfunkel who perched like a growth on the landlord’s shoulder and picked lice from his master’s oily scalp.

Hector eyed the gaunt man in the black canvas duster with suspicion. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”

Chaney’s impatience showed as he reached into his coat for his money pouch. “You gonna flap your lips or rent me a bed for the day?” Gold coins jingled within the small leather bag like the restless bones of a ghostly child.

“How do I know you are what you say you are? There are plenty of bounty hunters about these days. Doesn’t pay to rent out to strangers, especially when you cater to the type of clientele I do.”

“Your clientele is going to fry out here if you don’t hurry up and give the man his bed,” growled a customer at the end of the line.

But Hector was not to be rushed. “I’ll need proof.”

Chaney smirked. “What do you want? An ID? How about my American Express card?”

The landlord reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a small, golden crucifix. “Grab hold of this.”

Chaney averted his eyes, as did the others in line. “Is that necessary?”

“It is if you want a bed.”

The stranger nodded and extended a pale hand. He closed his fist around the cross. A sizzling of flesh sounded as contact was made and a wisp of blue smoke curled from between Chaney’s fingers. “Satisfied?” he asked in disgust.

“Quite.” Hector pushed the register toward him and collected the gold piece Chaney had laid upon the counter. The one-eyed landlord noticed that Chaney carried a black satchel in one hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

Chaney flashed a toothy grin. “A noonday snack.” He shook the black bag, eliciting the muffled cry of an infant from within.

By the time the first rays of the sun had broken, they were all checked in. The barn’s interior was pitch dark, letting nary a crack or crevice of scorching sunlight into their temporary abode. Chaney found a bed on the ground floor, he removed his long coat, hanging it on a peg over his bunk, and set the satchel close at hand.

He lifted the lid of his sleeping chamber and scowled. Just a simple, pine wood casket. No silk liner, no burnished finish, and no ornate handles on the sides; just a no frills bunk in a no frills hotel. He wasn’t complaining, though. It would suit his purpose well enough.

“Lights out!” called Hector, laughing uproariously at a joke that had lost its humor years ago. The tenants ignored his mirth and set about preparing for a good day’s rest. Chaney followed suit, taking a packet of graveyard earth from his coat pocket and spreading it liberally in the bottom of his rented coffin.

When every lid had been closed, Hector stepped outside the barn, shutting the double doors behind him. He took a seat on a bench out front, laid a pump shotgun across his knees, and started reading an old Anne Rice novel he had bought from a traveling peddler.

The morning drew on, the sun rising, baking the Texas wilderness with its unrelenting heat. The little town moved as slow as winter molasses. Its inhabitants went about their normal business, or as near normal as could be expected after the much-heralded End of the World.

The courthouse clock struck twelve o’clock before Chaney finally made his move. It was safe now; his neighboring tenants were fast asleep. Quietly, he lifted the lid of his casket and sat up. “Snack time,” he said to himself and reached for the satchel.

He opened it. The first thing he removed was the rubber baby doll. He laid it on the barn floor, smiling as it uttered a soft “Mama!” before falling silent again. Chaney then took a .44 AutoMag from the bag and began to make his rounds.

He didn’t bother to pull the old “stake-through-the-heart” trick. To do so would be noisy and messy and net him only a small fraction of the undead he had come there to finish off. Instead, he used the most state-of-the-art anti-vampire devices. He placed Claymore mines at strategic points throughout the barn’s interior. But they were not ordinary Claymores. He had replaced the load of ball bearings with tiny steel crucifixes and splinters of ash wood.

After the mines had been placed and the timers set, Chaney knew it was time to take his leave. He walked to the barn doors and, cocking his pistol, stepped out into the hot, noonday sun.

Hector was snoozing on the job, of course. The landlord’s head was resting on his flabby chest, snoring rather loudly from the nose. Chaney stood before the man and loudly cleared his throat.

The fat man came awake. Startled, he stared up at Chaney. “Hey,” he breathed. “You ain’t no vampire.”

“No, I ain’t,” agreed Chaney.

“But I saw your hand burn when you touched the cross!”

Chaney lifted his scarred left palm to his mouth and peeled away a thin layer of chemically-treated latex with his teeth. “Special effects,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Chaney brought the muzzle of his .44 to the man’s forehead. “That you shall be…traitor.” Then he painted the barn wall a brilliant red with the contents of the man’s disintegrating skull.

The bogus vampire walked to where his primer-gray van was parked near the water tower. He got in, started the engine, and cruised slowly down the empty street of the town. He checked his watch, counting the seconds. “Five…four…three…two…one…”

The Claymores went off first. Their metal shells split under a charge of C-4, sending thousands of tiny crosses and toothpick-sized stakes in every imaginable direction. The projectiles penetrated the caskets, as well as their sleeping occupants. Then they traveled onward, piercing the walls of the makeshift hotel. The old structure, already weakened by time and weather, could take no further abuse. It collapsed in a dusty heap, burying fifty dying tenants beneath its crushing weight.

Chaney watched in his side view mirror for the
coup de grâce.
It came a moment later. A glob of wired plastic explosive belched flame, splitting the steel reservoir of the water tower in half. A cascade of water crashed down upon the collapsed barn, drenching the jagged timbers and whatever lay beneath it. The significance of that crowning touch was that the water was holy. Chaney had blessed it, using a prayer he had bought from a convent across the Mexican border, before he had set the timer and joined the others in line.

“Filthy bloodsuckers!” said Chaney as he headed for the open desert. He pushed a tape into the cassette player and rocked and rolled down the long abandoned highway toward the sweltering blur of the distant horizon.

***

“You sure you don’t want something to drink?” the bartender asked Stoker, who sat alone at a corner table.

“No,” replied the bearded man. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? Beer, whiskey? Some wine, maybe?”

Stoker stifled a grin. “No, thank you.”

The hefty bartender shrugged and went about his business. The tavern, named Apocalypse After Dark, was empty except for Stoker and the barkeep. A wild-eyed fellow had been playing the slot machine an hour before, but the geek had left after his tokens were depleted.
Ghoul
, Stoker had thought to himself.
Probably rummaging through the death pyres right now, looking for warm leftovers.

But Stoker had no interest in cannibals that night. At least not the kind that sneak around in shame, feeding off disposal plants and graveyards.

He sat there for another hour before he heard the sound that he had been waiting for. The sound of motorcycles roaring in from the west.

Headlights slashed across the front window of the saloon. Engines gunned, then sputtered into silence. Stoker tensed, wishing he had ordered that drink now. His hand went beneath the table, caressing the object he wore slung beneath his bomber jacket.

He watched them through the front window as they dismounted their Harley Davidsons like leather-clad cowboys swinging from the saddles of chromed horses. There were an even dozen of them; eight men and four women. Another woman, naked, sat perched on the back of the leader’s chopper. She was chained to the sissy bar, a dog collar around her slender throat keeping her from escaping.

“Poor angel,” whispered Stoker. He was going to enjoy this immensely.

The batwing doors burst open and in they came. Bikers: big, hairy, ugly and ear-piercingly loud. They wore studded leather with plenty of polished chains, zippers, and embroidered swastikas. On the back of their cycle jackets were their colors. A snarling wolf’s head with flaming eyes and the words BLITZ WOLVEN.

“A round for me and the gang before we do our night’s work,” bellowed the leader, a bear of a man with matted red hair and beard. His name was Lycan. Stoker knew that from asking around. The names of the others were not important.

The bartender obediently filled their orders. Lycan took a big swig from his beer, foam hanging on his whiskers like the slaver of a rabid dog. He turned around and leaned against the bar rail, instantly seeing the man who sat alone in the shadowy corner. “How’s it going, pal?” Lycan asked neighborly.

Stoker said nothing. He merely smiled and nodded in acknowledgement.

“How about a drink for my silent friend over yonder,” the biker said. “You can put it on my tab.”

The bartender glanced at the man in the corner, then back at Lycan. “Told me he didn’t want nothing.”

“What’s the matter, stranger?” asked a skinny fellow with safety pins through each nostril. “You too good to drink with the likes of us?”

“I have a low tolerance for alcohol,” Stoker said. “It makes me quite ill.”

“Leave the dude alone,” said Lycan. “Different strokes for different folks, I always say.”

The skinny guy gave Stoker a look of contempt, then turned back to the bar.

“It takes all kinds to make a world,” replied Stoker. “Especially a brave new world such as this.”

“Amen to that,” laughed Lycan. He downed his beer and called for another.

“Blitz Wolven? Does that have a hidden meaning? Are you werewolves or Nazis?”

Lycan’s good-natured mood began to falter. He eyed the loner with sudden suspicion.

“Maybe a little of both. So what’s it to you?”

Stoker shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” said an anorexic chick with a purple Mohawk. “Or bat or rat…depending on what supernatural persuasion you are these days.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, dear lady.”

“Well, enough of this gabbing, you freaks,” said Lycan. “Time to get down to business.” They left the bar and walked to the far end of the tavern where a number of hooks jutted from the cheap paneling. Stoker watched with interest as they began to disrobe, hanging their riding leathers along the wall.

“What is this?” he asked. “The floor show?”

“You know, buddy,” said Lycan, his muscular form beginning to contort and sprout coarse hair. “You’re whetting my appetite something fierce. In fact, you might just be our opening course for tonight.”

Stoker sat there, regarding them coolly. “I’m afraid not, old boy. I’ve got business of my own to attend to.”

They were halfway through the change now. Faces distorted and bulged, sprouting toothy snouts and pointed ears. “Oh, and what would that be?” asked Lycan, almost beyond the ability to converse verbally. He stretched his long, hairy arms, scraping the ceiling with razor claws.

Stoker stood up, stepped away from the table, and brought an Uzi submachine gun from under his jacket. “I’ll leave that to your brutish imaginations,” he said, and opened fire.