The Last Customer (14 page)

           
The sting of reality bit hard. Zoelick thought of his partner.

Zastrow was in danger.

The reality bite dissipated. Fear took over and as he prepared to leave the store, something caught his eye. Blood dripped from the ceiling.

2

Zastrow walked two steps behind the wounded young man who grabbed at his bloody chest and moaned. Even though the guy was severely injured, He remained skeptical. Small puddles of blood dribbled along the blacktop as they walked across the parking lot. The kid tripped, losing his balance. Lunging forward he cupped his right hand beneath the kid’s armpit. The kid was strong. His arms were solid, muscular.

He helped the kid as he hobbled, until they reached the police cruiser. Zastrow placed the kid’s hand on the hood. He hunched over, supporting himself, taking quick shallow breaths and continued grabbing at his chest wound.

Zastrow needed a rest too, but only for a moment. All of this sudden his movements were making him dizzy and none of this was helping his hangover. Shaking his head, he walked toward the back car door and unlocked it.

The door slid open. Zastrow stopped it with the palm of his hand. “Have a seat, sir. Try to relax.
Real
quick, what’s your name? Are you able to tell me?”

           
The wounded kid looked up. His eyes were demeaning, they laughed at him and for a moment, Zastrow wondered if the kid was faking his injuries. The convincing agony of pain was absent. There was something insincere about his facial expression. The kid’s dramatics were strange, like this was all a joke. But the hole in his chest suggested otherwise.

           
“Sammael. Call me Sam.” He said, looking up at Zastrow.

           
“Okay Sam, what happened?” Zastrow asked. He reached into the front seat of the cruiser and retrieved his radio set. He placed the receiver to his mouth, but didn’t speak. He expected an answer from Sam. Instead, something wet and muscular shot from Sam’s chest and slid around Zastrow’s neck. It clamped down tight and squeezed. Zastrow dropped the radio, fumbling for it as it fell to the blacktop. He turned to the store and tried to call out for Zoelick. He couldn’t. His airway was cut-off. Panic seized him. The sudden pressure to his head made his eyes feel like they were going to pop out of his head.

Zastrow’s knees hit the pavement. With both hands, he pried at the slimy vine wrapped around his neck while he attempted to spin and again, he tried to yell, his mouth opened, but nothing came out, his throat was clamped shut. His airway was restricted.
 
The lack of oxygen caused his cheeks to burn. He swallowed, trying to breath.

What the hell
was wrapped around his neck? It felt like a skinned snake.

Whatever it was, Zastrow couldn’t get a solid hold on it. He felt faint and his head ached. His finger slid along the length of the snake. It felt like it was lined with silicon, causing him to lose his grip. His hand slid off, and trying to grab this
vine-thing
was like trying to pin down a ball of mercury. He lowered his right hand to his belt. He grasped his nine millimeter. He aimed it at the slimy vine and then twisted his hand upward, beneath the wet-thing and fired. The vine snapped and let go.

Zastrow fell backward. He wrapped his hands around the pistol grip. Quickly, he aimed at Sam. The snake wiggled back and forth from his chest wound. It looked like a third arm as it coiled in and out of his wound. The tip of the vine branched out into four sharp ends that looked like thick silver fishing hooks.

Another gunshot rang out. “What the hell?” Zastrow screamed. The slimy thing whipped at his hand as he pulled the trigger.

The gun powder felt hot, burning against his face. His right eye stung, it felt wet.

With his left hand, he reached up and touched the tender spot near his temple.

“Holy shit!
”

Zastrow had shot himself in the head. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be fatal. It didn’t hurt, yet, and he was fully conscious.

Maybe he just grazed himself?

He prodded his fingers at the jaggedly torn skin. Blood spat out in thin streams. It splattered across his lap. Some of it painted the pavement.

         
 
Sammael laughed.

           
“You bring new meaning to the word misfire. I was going to take your head off, but this is much more amusing.”

           
Another shot rang out. This one slammed into Sam’s shoulder. Pink mist erupted in a cloud behind his head. Sammael fell to the ground. He overdramatically screamed, still laughing, while grabbing his fresh bullet wound. “Oh my lord…you hit me. Ouch,
ouchy
,” he roared. His laughter was hard and guttural. He started to gurgle like an infant in the depths of a temper tantrum.

           
Zastrow watched, terrified. Sammael crawled toward him. He swatted the gun from his hand and jumped on top of him.

Sammael straddled him digging his knees and then his torso. Zastrow felt cold all over. His limbs became numb. He was scared, trembling. The only warmth he felt was his urine when his bladder let loose. Sammael smiled. He wrapped his hands around Zastrow’s neck. His elongated fingernails dug deep into the soft flesh above his Adam’s apple. He was tearing into his throat—the pain was intense. Time slowed. He couldn’t scream; he gargled and choked. His skin peeled back from around his throat.

Sammael’s fingers sunk into Zastrow’s neck, wrapped around his spine, and twisted until his neck finally snapped.
 
He tugged Zastrow’s head from side to side and after a short struggle, his head uprooted from his neck. Blood gushed heavy and quick from the stump. A smug grin washed over Sammael’s face as he stood and stared at the eight pound head of Officer Zastrow.

He liked taking heads. They were a wonderful souvenir.

Sammael turned toward the store. A smile pulled his cheeks taught as he walked toward the shattered doors.

3

The store was dark. The only illumination was the moonlight as it danced off the white walls. Everything was too quiet, unnerving.

Click. Click.

Confused, Zoelick turned from left to right then tilted his head up to the ceiling. The click of tiles slipping from their grooves floated into his ears. He heard something crawling, but it was coming from the ceiling. His eyes locked on
her
face. It was a woman, a strikingly good looking woman. She looked down at him with blue eyes that twinkled in the reflective light. As awkward as the situation was, he couldn’t deny this woman’s beauty. She appeared flawless, like an airbrushed model. The moonlight casted a cold spotlight upon her. The back of her silky blonde hair was highlighted, making her appear angelic. Her beauty was undeniable. It was stunning, even as she dropped from the ceiling...he’d never seen a prettier woman.

Somehow—scared as he was—the woman’s physical perfection stole his focus. A slithering vine shot forward from her stomach. It curled around Zoelick’s neck, clutched his throat, and tightened. It happened so fast that he didn’t have time to react. He paid no attention to his service revolver as it dropped to the floor. Within seconds, the gorgeous woman’s beautiful face burned into his memory. His hands shot to his throat. He pried at the slimy, snaky vine.

The attractive woman wrapped her legs around his waist. Her thighs felt like iron, as her feet locked near his pelvis. She crushed his torso and pushed his femur bones outward. Her strength was amazingly intense and she effortlessly popped his hips out of place.

Zoelick could feel his guts churn and compress, his bowels weakening until they let loose. The stink was putrid. His body strained, he couldn’t hold himself. Blood filled his face, his eyes started to bulge to the point they were bursting from their sockets. His vision went hazy. Tears streamed down his face. Something indefinable moved into his view.

          
The beautiful woman’s head swiveled forward. Her neck stretched and elongated to unrealistic proportions. Her skin cracked as it stretched. There was crunching and popping noises emanating beneath the skin of her neck. Her head continued stretching—nearly a foot in front of his—yet her body remained clamped on his back. A sick smile pulled taught across her mouth.

            
The sight of this was so frightening, that Zoelick’s heart wasn’t just pounding—it felt like it was going to explode right inside his chest. Although horrified at what he was witnessing, and in terrible pain, he couldn’t stop looking at her stunning face.

This wasn’t possible.
He was going to faint. Distant echoes floated into his ears. Someone was yelling.
It was Gardner.
But it was too late. Zoelick’s head lifted, tore, and fell from his neck. It hit the tile at the exact moment that his intestines dropped through his rectum. A mass of guts, blood, feces and gore piled on the floor beneath him. His eyes hemorrhaged and fell from his head. The blonde woman shot forward, lunging like a panther, and then she headed for the door and ran outside.

4

Officer Zoelick’s head rolled across the tile floor. His thick brown hair soaked up the blood puddle on the floor, making it look slick, lubricated in dark red fluid. His oval shaped cranium stopped when his nose nudged the bottom portion of a dusty rack. It tilted backward, lolled and stopped.

Gardner was in shock. He wanted to scream. He started forward when suddenly his feet stopped—he froze. His sight flashed white. He was given a vision.

In the vision, Sammael’s jaw opened. His teeth jutted forward and he smiled, exposing his razor sharp teeth. He entered the police cruiser and drove off into the night.

The vision was quick.

The police car
, it belonged to Officer Zoelick.

Dizzy, Gardner’s thoughts swam back to the present.

What did the vision mean?

Gardner looked around the store. Shelves were broken and merchandise was scattered across the floor. The window and door were shattered. Glass peppered the tile. Even more terrifying, was the fact that Gardner was alone and vulnerable. He stood amongst the carnage and gore of four dead bodies.

           
Where did the demon go?

           
He stood on shaky legs. He stumbled toward the back of the store. He was lost. He was too weak to fight this battle. A sick depression set in as he acknowledged that he was in over his head. His faith was frail. There were people who needed his help and he was incompetent—helpless.

           
Where were the Gasper boys?

 
They must have gone to his house to call the police
.

           
The girl, she must be on her way to the house too.

           
He had to help, didn’t have a choice.

           
Standing, he lowered his head. He prayed for the answers.

Why was his strength so weak?
His visions wouldn’t answer.
His intuition did.
God was angry with him. He’d neglected his duty. He disregarded the gift he’d been given and he felt void. He’d been blessed with the gift to serve the greater good and he hadn’t used it. Over the years, his gift had exhausted him. His exhaustion reformed his idea of what the gift was. His tired mind convinced him that it was a curse. Because of this, he’d retired. He hung up his fight, and that was wrong. He knew it.

           
A rush of excitement and adrenaline seized him. He ran out the broken door, sprinted through the parking lot, and chugged up the gravel driveway toward his house.

He would fight the unholy. He had to.

And then he remembered…
Donna.

Chapter 12

1

Donna Gardner’s charcoal colored Jeep strolled down Main Street. The night breeze whistled through the open driver’s side window. The spinning wheels created a pleasant distraction. It didn’t sooth Donna’s troubled mind, but the cool summer night air felt refreshing.

The blinking lights of Main Street found Donna’s sight, causing her head to ache with each flutter. She continued forward, cruising along the downtown stretch. The stop-and-go-lights stopped switching colors at exactly midnight. Now, they only flashed red.

She came to a halt and cranked her neck from left to right. Life within the town had diminished. There was nothing, but dark stores and streetlights. The townsfolk rested. There were no other cars in her path or nearing. Everything was silent. She rolled down the passenger side window causing a tunnel of air to circulate through her jeep. She took deep breaths and ran her hand through her hair. She peered toward the downtown, straining her eyes to see. The shops which lined the main strip all had dark windows, some held ‘closed’ signs. The town would be lifeless until Monday morning. She proceeded on her way.

Donna pressed her foot on the accelerator. The jeep sped forward, past
Shuett’s
hot dog stand. A small hole-in-the-wall eatery, which was very popular on warm summer nights. The fresh dogs and cool ice cream treats served as a social outpost for the townsfolk. For now, the stand and parking lot were deserted.

In that moment, fear encompassed Donna Gardner.
What had Leslie seen in his visions?
She knew something bad was amidst their sleepy town. He wouldn’t have told her to leave in the middle of the night if his worries hadn’t been life threatening. Given the past, Donna knew that questioning her husband was a waste of time. She trusted him with every fiber of her being. He was a good man and he knew things that most others couldn’t fathom. Just the look on his face let her know that something very awful was happening. She could feel it grating her insides and chilling her nerves. Fear penetrated her, all the way to her core. Terror permeated in her bones. For now, she would drive, until Leslie called her. She couldn’t go to the police station, yet. There was nothing logical to report. She wouldn’t know what to say.