The Horribles Page 7

  “I can only imagine what those monsters did to you.”

  “Please . . . please . . . please.” Those three words were all she could muster before collapsing back into Sheldon’s arms.

  “It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll . . . protect you.” That was the first time those words had ever escaped from him. Just yesterday, he’d had a hard time taking care of himself. And now this tattered soul was relying on him for strength and protection. Instead of feeling panic at the additional responsibility, he seemed to grow, to stand a few inches taller. Another’s reliance on his ability to protect was good medicine, plain and simple.

  “Now, let’s get you some clothes.”

  t h i r t e e n

  The pressure against his chest released. Evan could breathe a bit easier, but all the adrenaline made him suck in quick gulps of air. On the verge of hyperventilating, he opened his eyes long enough to see a pair of leather gloved hands (powerful, unforgiving hands) reach in and scoop up another child from the pile. No one resisted. Everyone was asleep, relaxed, pictures of bliss on their cherub faces. He closed his eyes.

  God, make this all be a bad dream. Let me open my eyes again and I’ll be at my house . . . at Sheldon’s house and we’ll be watching TV, eating popcorn. Mom and Dad will be there . . .

  Another stolen glance outside the belly of the beast reminded Evan this wasn’t a dream. They were inside some type of warehouse with high ceilings. Machinery spinning, hammering, vibrating. Children were scooped up and thrown over the backs of the riders. Some type of assembly line was formed to remove the “cargo.” Soon Evan would be plucked out from the manure, garage-smelling monster. One second, he was relieved to be getting out. The next, he was flooded with terror, the kind that started in his gut, spiraled up his spine to the base of his neck, enervating his entire body. The permanent kind. Forever fear. That type of fear didn’t go away when Mother or Father turned on the lights, made a sweep of the closet and under the bed, and reassured their child there was no such thing as monsters.

  In Evan’s world, monsters were for real. The parade was real. His parents were dead; every adult was . . . probably even Sheldon. And soon, Evan believed he would be dead, too. No one was going to turn on the lights and banish the bogeyman back to hell. He was with the bogeyman—bogeymen—and . . .

  . . .this was hell.

  Vice grip hands, burning hot under the leather, dug into Evan’s shoulders before yanking him from the mass of bodies and throwing him on the back of a rider. A living sack of potatoes.

  Try to be loose. Try to stay calm. No matter what, play along. Play the part. Pretend to be asleep. Don’t start to cry. Swallow the tears. Someone will come. The police. Sheldon. Sheldon will come . . . I just know it.

  He tried not to flinch as he was tossed back down onto the cold cement ground. He could feel a warm body next to him, and then another dropped down on his other side. They were being lined up in a row, but what for? He felt something wet contract around his ankles.

  Rope? Great. Now what do I do?

  If only he could hear what was going on. More than any other time in his life, he wanted nothing more than to be able to hear.

  Eyes closed. Completely dark. Ears permanently sealed from the outside world. Forever silent. The only noise screaming from within. He battled with his own terror, locked in a wrestling match to see who persevered. And he felt his grip slipping.

  He couldn’t play this game anymore. Just when he was preparing to open his eyes, open his mouth, and scream until his vocal cords burst, something grabbed his shoulders and shook him lightly.

  He opened his eyes, pretending to be groggy. Play the part! A distorted reflection of himself, terrified, bewildered, stared back at him. A rider knelt down in front of him. The reflection was from the mirrored helmet. His captor reached a gloved hand up—leather, sloughed off skin from a molting python—and messed the top of Evan’s hair like Sheldon was fond of doing. He jerked away from its touch. The helmet tilted to the side, as if to contemplate Evan’s reaction, and then shrugged. It patted Evan on the head, gave the boy two thumbs up, stood up, and moved to the next kid in line.

  Now I’m even more confused . . . frightened . . . alone. What was that all about? It was almost nice to me.

  Evan took his first real look at his surroundings. The inside of the warehouse was stuffed full of machinery, but at a closer glance the machines were like nothing he’d ever seen. The material of the entire warehouse—floors, walls, ceilings—was so unfamiliar and alien that, again, he thought he may be dreaming.

  Everything around him was alive. Giant compressors covered in fleshy membranes heaved and swelled as if breathing. Crab-like things skittered through the rafters, dropped down from the ceiling, and sped across the floor. Off to the left was what he believed to be a generator. He could see thick power cables running in and out of it. There was a logo on the side, a circle with a lightning bolt cutting through from top to bottom. It looked like it had been a standard generator at one point, but now it seemed to be covered in a pulsing mass of skin.

  Evan knew he wasn’t dreaming because not even his own nightmares could think of something this strange.

  To the side of the generator were a number of green barrels. Hoses ran to each barrel and back into the mass of steel and flesh. Those barrels were full of fuel and they fed the generator, keeping it alive, keeping everything alive.

  Big, white tentacles crept out from the top of the generator. The slick, pulsing fingers extended throughout the warehouse, up through the rafters, snaking around the fluorescent lighting, into all the machinery, connecting everything together. He watched a blue arc of electricity run along one of the fingers, up a wall thick with veins and down into a machine directly to his right.

  That generator is the brain, the master, and all those white things are nerves.

  The pig beasts from the parade were all lined up facing Evan and the other children. They were slumped over (Dead? Turned off?) with gaping holes in their freakish abdomens. The arms were much longer than they should have been and the back legs were not much more than stubs. Nerves from the generator ran to each one of the pigs and were buried into the top of their heads. Evan had been inside one of them. They all had been.

  A huge metal door began to slide open behind the pigs. It rolled up on tracts into the rafters. A single rider came in towing another trailer. It stopped. The door ratcheted closed. The trailer opened and a pig beast lumbered out, slick with oil, pink flesh, its snout scorched from exhaust, flesh torn from its metal scaffolding insides. Pistons pumped, fuel burned, and the pig hitched and shook as it took its place next to the other creatures.

  The rider dismounted and walked over to the beast, using a knife to cut thick leather stitching running the length of its swollen abdomen. A green gas spilled out and dissipated, revealing a metal crate filled with more sleeping children stuffed inside like sardines. One by one, they were removed and placed in line like the others.

  Evan looked to either side at the other children. They weren’t having the same experience as him. No panic. No expression. No tears. Only a look of utter bliss, Christmas morning with a decorated tree and countless presents. The children were happy, all of them, except for Evan.

  He started to cry then, tears rushing down his dirtied face. His whole body shook. And no one was concerned with his misery. All of Poe’s Creek’s children continued to stare at a sea of blissful nothing. The riders busied themselves emptying the cargo. He could have screamed at the top of his lungs and no one, nothing, would’ve even acknowledged his rage.

  He cried alone. His fear was something he would have to overcome by himself. If only Sheldon were here. His friend knew what it was like to be afraid of everything around him. They could be terrified together.

  Where’s Sheldon?

  f o u r t e e n

  First, Sheldon had to get the girl some clothes, and then figure out a way to get those cuffs off.

  The back seat of the cruis
er was empty and he wasn’t about to search around in the front.

  “Maybe we can find you something in the trunk. A jacket, at least.” She was tethered to him, wouldn’t let go of his shirt.

  “What’s your name?” Sheldon said.

  “Kah . . . Kyra.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. Uh, mine’s Sheldon.” I’m no good at this. Just don’t look at her chest. Not now.

  “Sheldon . . . ”

  “Yep. I’m, uh, from Poe’s Creek. How ‘bout you?” So awkward. They had walked to the rear of the car, her shuffling behind him, following so closely her toes rubbed up against the back of his feet.

  A very long pause, and then “Pah . . . Parkston,”

  “Parkston? Whoa, you’re a long way from home.” Sheldon walked a few steps toward the trunk of the car and stopped. It would be locked. He needed keys. The cop had to have them. He turned toward Kyra and gently touched her arm. “Did the parade come through your town, too?”

  She nodded her head slowly.

  “Any chance the police are following you?” Kyra looked toward the slumped over mass of the dead trooper next to the cruiser, and then back toward Sheldon.

  “No.”

  “Of course not. The parade made sure of that, didn’t they? Look, I’m going to go search for the keys, and I want you to stay right here.” She threw herself at Sheldon, almost knocking the wind out of him. He was sore all over and her desperate clinch only added to the pain, but he didn’t push her away.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you. I just don’t want you to have to see him . . . it.” Sheldon slowly untangled his shirt from her grip. “Just wait right here. I have to try to find the keys to the trunk and to the cuffs. Can you do that for me?”

  A pause. Infinite silence. Even nature seemed to have taken a break, leaving them in a sensory vacuum. As if she suddenly remembered to breathe, Kyra finally took in a lungful of air and reluctantly nodded her head. Her eyes volleyed from Sheldon to the body and back.

  Nature seemed to relax and exhale, also. A gentle breeze rode atop the harvest-ready stalks of corn and broke like a wave against Sheldon, Kyra, and the car.

  Kyra tucked her shackled fists under her chin and turned her back to the breeze. She kept her face toward Sheldon. He shivered and wished he’d thrown more clothes on before venturing out this morning, as if he’d had a choice or the time to make a wardrobe change before being forced out the door.

  He shuffled around Kyra, never turning his back on her, maintaining eye contact the entire time, as he made his way back toward the trooper, only turning away from her when his heels bumped up against something hard and wet. His toes made a squelching sound in his sneakers.

  Who was he kidding? Didn’t want her to see anything. He was a regular Galahad. A knight in shining paisley. He was in no hurry. Sheldon knelt beside the trooper’s corpse . . . at least what was left of it.

  The engine was lodged in what used to be the pelvic area of the cop. Shards of splintered bone and tangled ribbons of organs spilled out along the metal edges. Everything was sticky with oil and coagulated blood. The rubber hosing that had almost squeezed the life out of him spread along the ground in all directions. Legs jutted out from one side and a ruined torso—minus a head—occupied the other end.

  Sheldon needed to make quick work of finding the keys before he started to heave on the entire mess.

  Key chain. Blood. Key chain. Intestines. Key chain . . . He was going to be sick.

  Blindly feeling along a thigh to the waist, eyes half shut, Sheldon worked along the belt.

  Key chain. Rotting meat.

  His fingertips grazed a mass of what could only be keys, but with the engine pressing down, he would never be able to work them free. He needed more leverage.

  Great. He would have to touch that thing. He glanced over his shoulder back toward Kyra. She turned her back to him and stared into the cornfield, lost in its whispering secrets.

  The engine was an unearthly balance of mechanical engineering and freakshow. Dendrites of flesh wrapped and twisted around metal. Deep within, Sheldon thought he could make out a mass of soggy grey. That must be the brain.

  For a flitting moment, when he first palmed the engine, he felt something. Right there in the forefront of his thoughts, and then quickly gone. It was similar to the buzz that had come through the bedroom window as the parade passed his home; the sickly and fevered vibrations that had given him a crippling migraine.

  No headache this time, though. Instead, vivid images. Carnage. A hundred small towns—a thousand—just like Poe’s Creek. Streets littered with corpses of politicians, teachers, mothers and fathers. Broken bodies shoved into storefront windows. Mannequins mixed in with corpses. Scenes of unabated rage as grown men and women tear through each other’s flesh with bare hands. Teeth and fingernails, the sound of smacking, chewing, growls and gurgles. Amalgamates of human tissue and steel skittering through the blood-soused streets, piercing fleeing souls with fangs and metal teeth. Spiders. Pig beasts rearing up out of the trailers. No. Nothing like this should exist. It wasn’t possible. Their exteriors stolen carcasses from a slaughterhouse. Empty cavities crammed full of hydraulics, pistons, fuel lines, and a revving engine. Eyes glowing with the electric charge of spark plugs.

  The engines are alive. Don’t you get it? We’re the host and they are parasites. Oh, God, help us all.

  The pigs waddle over to the curb and tear at their stomachs. It opens a cavity large enough for someone to crawl inside. And all the children willingly do this. A rider comes along and stitches up the holes. The parade drives away, leaving behind an empty and dead ghost town. Taillights disappear over the horizon.

  Inside a large warehouse. The children are loaded onto some type of conveyor belt. They’re shuttled down the line. Everything is alive. Everything is a part of the parade. The riders peel off all the leather. They’ve taken their helmets off, too.

  Sheldon sees their faces and screams.

  f i f t e e n

  This time it was Kyra who comforted Sheldon, hurrying over when he screamed. He was on his back, trembling. In one hand, stretched toward the star-filled sky, was the keychain. His other hand was clutched in a fist and held tightly to his chest. Kyra knelt down beside him and patted his shoulder.

  “I know what this is all about . . . We have to hurry before it’s too late. I saw what was behind the masks and I understand. I get it. The parade is alive and this is all about survival. We have to go and save the children. Me and you, Kyra. I need your help. Will you help me?” He was crying again, but not from his own fear. He cried because deep down he already felt there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable. “Will you help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get the hell on the road.” Sheldon held out his hand. Kyra took it in both of hers and helped him to his feet. Already, he was starting to become comfortable with her naked flesh. He barely paid it any mind. But, goddamn, she was beautiful.

  They walked back to the trunk. Sheldon tried all the keys in the cuffs until they clicked open. Kyra worked her hands free, the cuffs falling to the ground, and she threw her arms around him.

  Her body next to his felt good, real good.

  He bent over to the keyhole on the trunk, went through the same finding-the-right-key game until the trunk clicked open. He grabbed a gym bag and started fishing through its contents.

  “Here’s a T-shirt. It’ll be too big, but better than nothing.” Sheldon handed the shirt to Kyra. She slipped it on quickly, while he searched for a weapon or anything useful. Nothing. He was about to close the trunk when something in the back corner caught his eye. He grabbed a shooting range headset and slammed the trunk shut.

  COVER YOUR EARS SHELDON IT’S THE ENGINES THEY’LL MAKE YOU DO . . .

  Those were the words scribbled in Evan’s notebook—“cover your ears”—and Sheldon had felt what the parade could do to someone from a distance. What would it be like if h
e was right next to it? Would he try to do himself or Kyra in? He gripped the headset in his hand, tossed it in the air a few times and then hung it around his neck.

  He looked up when a door closed. The cherries went dark. The dome light went out and the only illumination was from the night sky. Kyra was no longer by his side. She’d walked back to the front of the car, killed the cherries, and shut the door. He watched her tip-toe over to the body, grab it by the feet, and start to drag the mass over toward the shoulder of the road. Her pale legs seemed to glow in the dark like a grave robbing ghoul.

  He was about to ask her what she was doing, to yell at her to not touch the engine, when headlights appeared far off to the right. He froze. She continued to drag the body around to the front of the car.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  He was going to flag down the car, get help once and for all. That’s what he was going to do. He started toward the middle of the road with intentions of walking to the highway. His hands were already raised.

  “No, Sheldon!” Kyra’s raised voice startled him. She’d been so soft spoken. He turned to face her, confused. She barely looked up from her task and hurried the pace to get the body into the ditch.

  “But they may be able to help . . . ”

  “It’s the parade.”

  That was it. Up until that moment, those sparse words were the most she’d spoken, and they were enough to change Sheldon’s mind. Whether the oncoming car harbored another monstrosity from the parade was irrelevant. He was not about to find out. He sprinted back toward Kyra, grabbed one of the legs, and helped her drag the body the rest of the way. It was heavy with the added weight of the engine and Sheldon was convinced his sore back would snap in two before they were done. Kyra kept silent. If the weight bothered her, she hid it pretty well.

  They crouched down in front of the hood and waited for the car to pass. Sheldon held his breath and Kyra’s hand. His heart pistoned in his chest, his throat, and fingertips. The headlights got larger. God, I hope we’re far enough off the main road. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he couldn’t see the Horribles then the Horribles couldn’t see him.