Terror Town (36 page)

And when it stopped spinning Andrew saw nothing but darkness. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Everything was blurry. The steering wheel was in his hands. The windshield was fractured and speckled with cherry splotches. The hood was crumpled and a thin line of smoke was sneaking out from under the car. Looking through the smoke he could see the Mustang: the driver’s door was open, the driver had a crushed head, but worse than that, his jaw had been pulled from his face.

Andrew turned away.

There was a girl lying on the road leaking generous amounts of blood from her mangled legs. Her legs were broken, so terribly broken. They looked like they had been smashed apart with a sack full of scrap metal. Beyond the girl, he could see a wooden stop sign post that had been snapped in half. It looked like a broken stalk of corn now, dry and forgotten at the end of a season. There was knapsack next to the sign, sitting up straight as if nothing had happened. Its contents were spilled across the intersection.

4

Dean opened his eyes for what seemed like the first time. He smelled blood, dust, rotting food, gas, sweat, smoke, and dirt. He shifted his weight and his head rolled around his broken neck like a golf ball circling the hole. He looked at his friend and grinned.

Things became clear.

Dean had been given a seat at the Master’s table. He was one of the chosen few, a disciple. Andrew, unfortunately, was not a disciple. He was to be made an example of: a warning sign for others. There was a new law, a new power.

All hail the new regime.

∞∞Θ∞∞

Andrew, still shaken from the accident, couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His friend was alive; Dean was alive! He was hurt badly (
Oh so badly, how can anyone be alive when they’re hurt so badly? It’s not possible, is it? No! It can’t be possible! It just can’t be!
) but he was alive! Thank heaven! He said, “Thank ‘effing Slayer dude; you’re alive! I figured you were dead meat for sure!”

Dean growled, revealing the animal-like teeth growing inside his mouth. He reached out, grabbed Andrew by the hair and pulled.

Andrew, surprised and distressed, tried to say something half-funny. Something like:
Hey man, don’t squeeze the merchandise.
Or:
You broke it you bought it!
But all that came from his mouth was ARRRAGHHHH!

Dean yanked hard, ignoring the fact that Andrew wore a seatbelt.

Andrew slapped at Dean’s hands. He managed to say, “Don’t asshole! That hurts!”

Dean let go. He opened his door, pulled himself from the wreckage and walked around the car, favoring one leg. Blood ran from his face, neck and hand. His head rolled around his shoulders in a slow moving circle; his neck was clearly broken.

Andrew watched in shock, thinking his friend’s teeth were best suited for a saber-toothed tiger. Once he realized that he was in danger, he tried to roll up his window. Too late: Dean reached through the opening and grabbed Andrew by the hair. Then he pulled,
really
pulled.

Inundated with pain, Andrew waved his hands frantically and slapped at nothing, screaming: “The seatbelt’s on! The seatbelt’s on!”

Dean pulled harder.

Andrew tried to unlock the belt. He was willing to do anything to relieve the pressure in his head, which seemed to be getting torn from his body.

Dean yanked in sharp violent surges. Seatbelt or no seatbelt, Andrew was getting out of the car.

Andrew gained a new fear: he thought his neck would snap. It seemed more than possible; it seemed unpreventable. His fingers danced around the seatbelt switch. Every time he thought he had it, Dean jerked him and his thumb slid off the button.

He began crying, kicking his feet. Drool hung from his bottom lip. A long red crack appeared just below his hairline. The crack his skin crack widened; then widened again. Blood poured down Andrew’s face and into his eyes. He tasted it in his mouth and realized that his forehead was being torn apart.

Dean yanked again and again.

Squiggly-cracks emerged like miniature earthquakes, cutting across Andrew’s brow. Screaming, he slammed his thumb onto the seatbelt button and pushed it hard. This time it worked; the seatbelt released. The belt slithered across his waist.

Dean pulled on Andrew’s scalp one final time, heard a
RRRRRIP
and stumbled back. He tripped and fell, holding a flap of hairy skin. Looked like a rug, or a flattened puppy. He dropped the pelt and stood up.

Andrew was bald now; he was scalped. His bony white skull glimmered beneath the car’s interior light. There was hardly any blood on it, except around the fault line, the place the skin tore free.

Andrew saw himself in the rearview mirror. In a different set of circumstances he would’ve looked funny. His haircut was preposterous. It was clean-cut, right to the bone. He put a shaky hand on his head, knowing but not really knowing––not really
believing
. His eyes widened. His mouth crept open.

He whispered, “No.”

It didn’t hurt, not the way you might imagine it would. It was stinging and it was numb; it felt itchy, cold, and just plain wrong. But pain wasn’t the right word. All of his nerve-endings were sitting in the dirt like road-kill, so no––there wasn’t much pain at all. It felt terrible though. It felt worse than anything he had ever imagined.

Dean reached into the car, grabbed Andrew’s shoulders and dragged him––squirming and begging––through the open window. He dragged him past the injured girl, the girl with the broken legs. He dragged him past the corpse inside the other car, whose skull had had been crushed, whose jaw had been torn from his face. He dragged him towards the broken stop sign, scalped head reflecting in the moonlight. Then he lifted Andrew up and fulfilled his Master’s commands. He slammed Andrew’s body on the broken STOP sign pole, growling insanely.

The wooden pole tore through Andrew’s back, ripping apart his intestines as it shot through his belly.

Andrew screamed once, but only once; he couldn’t do it again.

Dean stumbled across the road, still favoring one leg. He grabbed the girl by the face and dragged her––kicking her broken legs and screaming––towards the sign.

The girl’s name was Amy Lopes. She was nineteen. She liked Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, and books by J. K. Rowling. And for some unknown reason she thought about J. K. Rowling, her wonderful storytelling ability, and the book she was currently reading:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
Then Dean slammed her body on top of Andrew and she didn’t think about anything else.

∞∞Θ∞∞

∞Θ∞

~~~~ CHAPTER SIX: THE JULIE THREAD

1

Julie Stapleton crawled out of bed wearing nothing more than a pair of underwear. She crossed the room and flicked on the overhead light. Thinking about her conversation with Paul LaFalce, she wondered what happened. Was he playing a trick on her, making a sick joke that wasn’t funny? Somehow she doubted it. Paul liked comedic movies and smoking pot. Sick humor wasn’t his style. So what did the phone call mean? Was he in trouble? Was he hurt? She thought about the way he was screaming and goosebumps cultivated her arms. She needed to do something, but what?

The obvious answer: dial 911.

But what if Paul was playing a practical joke on her? What then?

The fact of the matter was this: she didn’t know Paul very well. He was three years older and they had been seeing each other less than three months. She wasn’t even sure if they were a couple or not. She
hoped
they were, and some days it
seemed
like they were, but other days it was hard to tell. He kept secrets; that was the truth of it. He kept secrets and some days he acted strange, like he wanted to get rid of her as fast as possible. She had to wonder, what did
that
mean? For all she knew, Paul was seeing another girl. So how much could she trust him? And how much did she know about this guy? Unfortunately, not enough––so where did that leave her?

Truth or fiction, television taught Julie that calling 911 meant traced phone calls. And if the call were traced, her parents would be notified, even if she didn’t offer up her name.

And if her parents were notified she’d get in trouble.

She didn’t want that.

Her parents thought she was too young for a boyfriend. Of course, she disagreed. But if they knew she was dating someone three years older they wouldn’t be impressed. Plus Paul had a motorcycle. She had to take
that
into consideration too. Guys with motorcycles were bad news, her parents often said. They were nothing but trouble and innocent girls should stay away from them.

If she called the police she’d get trouble. And if he were playing a malicious joke she’d be heartbroken. However, if Paul was in trouble and she did nothing, she’d never forgive herself. Not ever. Doing nothing while her boyfriend (if that’s what he was) screamed would haunt her for the rest of her days.

She had to act. That’s what it came down to; she had to do
something
––even if it meant getting in trouble.

∞∞Θ∞∞

Julie’s parents were asleep. Gina Stapleton––Julie’s mom––was on the far side of the bed, close to a window and a patio door that opened onto a newly renovated deck; Ron Stapleton was stretched out like a grizzly bear; his left foot hung from the mattress, showcasing toenails that needed to be trimmed.

Ron pulled his foot beneath the covers, turned on his side and tried to ignore the exchange. He had to work in the morning; he needed sleep.

“No,” Julie said. “I’m not sick but we need to talk.”

“Now? We need to talk
now
?”

“Yes.”

“It can’t wait?”

“Mom, listen. And don’t get mad; just listen. I couldn’t sleep. Actually… I fell asleep and woke up. And I have this friend named Paul. He used to go to my school. He works over at Hopper’s Gas. He works the night shift.”

Julie sat on the edge of the bed next to her mother, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper. She said, “I phoned him. That’ll probably make you mad and I’m sorry. But I was awake and bored. I knew he was sitting at work so I phoned him. The thing is, after I talked to him a few minutes he started screaming.”

There was a break in the conversation.

Gina said, “What do you mean,
screaming?
”

“I mean he was screaming… like he was under attack. The truth is, I’m worried about him, mom. I’m worried.”

Gina closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. She was too tired for drama, and she wasn’t completely sure she understood what Julie was telling her. She said, “Do you phone this boy in the middle of the night often? Is that why you’ve been dragging your butt around lately?”

“No Mom,” Julie said, aggravated. This wasn’t the discussion she wanted to have. Not while Paul needed help. “I think we should call the police.”

Gina recognized the truth: this conversation was going to be bigger than she wanted it to be. Ron was right. It was time to change rooms.

“Get up,” she said.

Julie made her way to the center of the room while her mother crawled from bed. They left the room together. Gina turned off the light and closed the door. Once they were in the kitchen Gina poured water into a glass and Julie sat at the kitchen table.