The Devil Next Door (30 page)

“Of all the things,” Warren said. “Cops, Poaching in our territory.”

A fuzzy half-memory swept through the archaic ruins of his mind. Those men. He felt he knew those men.
He could see them…around a fire, yes. Cooking trout in a pan. Drinking beer. A fishing trip. Yes, Warren had been on a fishing trip with these men. Ray Hansel and Paul Mackabee. Trooper Hansel. Trooper Mackabee. They were old friends of Warren’s. Both old hands on the state force. Warren knew them well. Drank with them. Fished with them. Jesus, Ray and Paul—

Then it was gone. He didn’t know who they were and cared even less. Poachers. Goddamn poachers.

He sighed. “Sonsofbitches,” he said.

“You seeing this, Kojozian?” Shaw said. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

The big man shook his head. “I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it. I think somebody ought to go over there and remind those monkeys that this is
our
beat.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Warren said.

“You think I should?”

“I insist.”

“Yeah, I insist, too,” Shaw said. “Of all the things.”

Kojozian slid a length of chain from his belt. It gleamed in the dying light…except where it was stained with something dark. He walked right across the street, huge, long-limbed, almost ape-like in his stride. One of the state troopers looked up. He had a leather sash with human scalps sewed to it tied around his throat. When he saw Kojozian coming, he rose up, brandishing his bloody knife.

His eyes luminous with ferocity, he charged.

“This guy’s not real bright,” Warren said.

“No, he’s not bright at all,” Shaw agreed.

The trooper darted in, slashing at Kojozian as the big man swung the chain over his head. He slashed, he jabbed, he tried to get in to draw blood. Kojozian stood there, oblivious to it all. He baited the trooper in. Thinking he had an easy kill, the trooper jumped in for a killing blow and Kojozian brought down the chain with all his muscle and weight behind it. The chain made a sharp whooshing sound and then made contact with the trooper’s head. His scalp was peeled from forehead to ear and he went down to one knee, shrieking. Kojozian brought it down again and split the crown of his head open.

The trooper shook and shuddered on the ground, but he was done.

Kojozian stood over him, bringing the chain down again and again until it was dyed red and tangled with hair and meat.

Meanwhile the other guy came after him.

“Hey, you better watch it,” Shaw called out.

But Kojozian was too intent on beating the other trooper into about two-hundred pounds of raw, red meat.

The trooper slashed with his knife and caught Kojozian across the ribs. He slashed his face, his arms, almost got his throat but Kojozian snapped the chain to his temple and down he went. Standing there, bleeding and dazed, Warren decided it was time to help him. He and Shaw went over there.

“You could’ve stepped in,” Kojozian said.

“I thought you could handle them,” Shaw said. “I guess I was wrong.”

Kojozian grimaced. “I don’t care for your tone.”

“Easy,” Warren told him.

“Fuck that,” Kojozian said and punched him right in the mouth. When he tried to get up, he punched him again.

Warren stepped between them with his stick. Good thing, too, because Shaw looked pretty mad. “Listen,” Warren said. “You guys wear the badge. Act like cops. Use your knives.”

They both pulled their blades and circled one another. Kojozian kept wiping blood from his eyes and Shaw tried to stay on his blind side. Kojozian jabbed and Shaw brought his knife around in a quick arc, laying his arm open. Kojozian let out a cry like an enraged bear and, trying to keep the blood from his eyes, slashed out wildly back and forth. Shaw sidestepped him, ducked down low, and jabbed him in the ribs.

“Nice,” Warren said, lighting a cigarette.

Kojozian was fighting sloppy now, just whirling around with his blade, slashing out blindly as he wiped blood from his eyes. Shaw played him, let him get in close, and then darted away. Kojozian leaped at him. Shaw jumped away, let the bigger man’s forward momentum carry him. Then as blood yet again filled Kojozian’s eyes, Shaw slipped behind him and buried his blade between his shoulders. Once. Then twice. Kojozian fell to one knee, crying out, and slashed Shaw on the elbow and Shaw stabbed him in the chest.

Kojozian dropped his knife…lumbering, trying to find his feet, but weak now from the pain and the blood which poured from him.

“Let me see that knife,” Warren said.

He took it from Shaw, went up behind Kojozian and slit his throat.

The big man went down, coughing out ribbons of blood, squirming in a red sea of his own making.

“Come on,” Warren said. “We have police work to do.”

They left Kojozian dying on the sidewalk…

44

Macy did not scream.

When they saw what had happened in the police station, she did not open her mouth and let the scream out that was no doubt building in her. Nothing so Hollywood or dramatic. She did not even bite down on her fist like some damsel in distress in an old movie. In fact, she did nothing. She stood there by Louis’ side, absorbing the atrocity before them. It was as if some insane war between dog and man had broken out and they were viewing the aftermath. But maybe it was even more than that. Like some great machine had sucked in dogs and men, filling the police station itself with meat and bloody mucilage that had overflowed those walls and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Louis stood there with her, just sickened and shocked and appalled. A mutilated body or two at the scene of an accident was bad enough. You were offended, but at least you could wrap your brain around it. Two cars met, two cars were smashed, what was driving them was turned to pulp. But what about something like this? How did you view slaughter like this and what did viewing it do to you? The squad room of the police station was a horror, just the bodies of men and the carcasses of dogs all tangled together, split and rent and disemboweled. The floor a river of clotted waste like something that might be shoveled from a slaughter house pit.

Macy opened her mouth and said something perfectly unintelligible, but Louis understood. He understood just fine. Something in her, something good and necessary and human, had been laid bare and she was bleeding inside from a dozen cutting wounds. He took her by the hand and led her from that terrible place, the raw hot smell of death just nauseating.

It was just getting worse. Hour by hour.

And in his mind, he could not stop hearing Earl Gould’s voice:
All of them out there…animals, they are regressing to animals, throwing off the yoke of intelligence and civilization, returning to the jungle and survival of the fittest…

God.

That explained the savage regression of human beings here and around the world…but what of these dogs? Dogs could be very savage, of course, their instinctive behavior was only kept at bay through breeding and discipline imposed by their owners…but what about
these
dogs? From what he was seeing, they had regressed, too, becoming less like domesticated dogs and more like wolves, savage blood-hungry wolves.

Did they have the gene, too? The dogs? Or was it not quite that simple? The regression of humans was more than just psychological, he was thinking. Maybe they didn’t sprout fangs or become hairy proto-humans like in the old movies, but the activation of that gene…well, it had to trigger biochemical changes in the human animal. And if the chemistry was different, more basic and animalistic, then obviously bodily secretions would be altered, too. Perhaps it was some chemical signature the dogs smelled, some odor that caused an aggressive response in them.

Louis supposed he’d never really know.

Outside, they stepped over bodies and dogs and that was when Louis went down on one knee and threw up. Oh, it had been coming for some time and when it arrived, it hit him hard like a good kick to the belly. Cold sweat popped out on his forehead and the world spun on its axis and down he went, his knee hitting the concrete hard and his hands slapping hard enough to make them sting. What was in his stomach came out in a warm, almost satisfying, gush as if he were voiding toxins or bad meat out of his system. He had no idea what he’d last eaten, but there it was, splashing onto the sidewalk.

Finally, the gagging stopped and blood finally made it back up into his head. “Macy,” he said. “Macy…”

She stood there, unmoved by what he had just done and what she was seeing all around her. Her eyes were wide and teary. They blinked. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed. Her hands were knotted into fists at her side. Her mouth hung open. But other than that, she was just gone. She’d seen too much, absorbed too much, and something in her had simply said, screw this, and shut down.

Louis reached out and grasped her left ankle. “Macy? Honey, are you all right?”

But she did not answer.

She was in shock or something, he figured.

He pulled himself up and put his hands on her shoulders. “Macy?” he said in a very soothing voice. “Listen to me now. I know this is bad, but you can’t let it get to you. You have to fight against it.”

But she was done fighting.

Louis took her hand in his own and it was chilly, moist and limp. She walked with him for maybe ten feet, then she moaned and folded right up. She fell against him and he caught her, which was a good thing because she might have split her head open on the sidewalk otherwise. She fell into him, loose and flaccid and he immediately gathered her up in his arms. She was a small girl, but he was amazed at how terribly light she was. He got her over to the grass, away from the splayed death all around them and gently set her down. She was breathing and her pulse was strong. Just shock. Just nerves. Just your average fainting spell and who more deserved one?

“It’s gonna be okay,” he told her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

Although he did not like the idea of being out in the open and defenseless on Main Street, he knew there were things that had to be done. Things maybe he should have done hours before.

He pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911.

It rang and rang…but there was no answer.

No answer.

That meant emergency services were down and why the hell wouldn’t they be? He scooped Macy up and carried her over to the Dodge, wondering how it all looked from above. The bodies and the dogs and some crazy guy carrying a teenage girl in his arms. Jesus, like something off a paperback book cover or a movie poster. All that was lacking was some burning buildings behind him and some rolling plumes of smoke, maybe a couple smashed cars.

Leaning Macy against him, he opened the Dodge, then slid her into the seat. Her face was covered in a dew of sweat. Her eyelids flickered a few times, but she did not wake. He secured her with the seatbelt and shut the door…

45

The shadows were long.

It was almost time.

The Huntress was still waiting in the second hand store which was now growing wonderfully dark as the sun fell behind the trees leaving a smear of blood on the horizon. True nightfall would be in fifteen minutes.

The clan was growing impatient.

She made a grunting sound and they quieted.

Out in the street, the girl was in the car. The man was standing beside it, looking confused, looking troubled. The Huntress could smell his indecision, his weakness, blowing through the screen of the window. He was ripe for the taking. If they rushed out now, he might fight, but it would be half-hearted, without conviction.

She waited, sniffing the air.

She smelled green, growing things, the musky urine scent of the pack. She was catching a curious after odor of the girl in the car, too. The scent of her body wash, her sweat, the perfumed stink of her hair, and the ripeness between her legs that made the Huntress feel hungry.

The males of the clan smelled it, too.