The Last Customer (19 page)

Thompson watched, frozen, while the laughing man leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel tight, bracing himself. The laughing man tilted his head back and cackled harder.

The blunt force of Thompson’s car door smashing inward—and ripping his leg off from below the hip—happened so fast that it took a moment for him to acknowledge the intense pain. He was thrown across the interior of his squad car and his body landed in the passenger seat. His left leg remained pinned between the driver-side door and the crushed steering wheel.

Arterial spray painted Thompson’s face when the car flipped over. It rolled onto its side and then tipped onto the roof. A shower of blood dropped on Thompson, drenching his uniform.

Thompson fell to the top of the car, which was now upside down.

Screaming, his first reaction was to grab his shotgun. Normally, it sat holstered in its rack near the center counsel. Now, it was sticking halfway outside of the vehicle, through the shattered windshield and the barrel was bent.

He couldn’t quite reach the butt-stock. His fingers scraped against the edge of the cold metal. Each movement hurt. His wrist felt shattered. Sharp pains exploded through his forearm and shot to the tips of his fingers. He could barely apply any strength to his hand. The shotgun fell onto his chest. The loss of blood made him nauseated, faint and woozy. The sound of footsteps outside of the car drifted in. He tilted his head backward in order to see.

The laughing man leaned down and rested his forearms across his knees. He smiled. His lips were torn up to mid-cheek level. His teeth protruded out from his mouth like a sick clown and his eyes were pure white, no pupils.

Gravel tore at Thompson’s back when the
laughing man
dragged him out of the vehicle, onto the grass, into the ditch. Blood continued to pump from his stump.

The last thing that Officer Fred Thompson saw before he blacked-out from the pain were the wet snakes slithering out of the laughing man’s hands, chest and mouth. They waved back and forth like the hair of medusa before they shot into Thompson’s face.

4

When the police cars collided, Donna had flown into the windshield. The weight of her body had pushed the large glass shield forward. It didn’t break-free and Donna bounced, hard, back into the seat. Her neck cracked when it slammed into the headrest. She bit into her tongue and blood seeped from her mouth. She leaned forward and grabbed her forehead. It felt hot. Blood leaked out of a long tear above her right eye. Her vision was hazy, at best and she was more disoriented than she’d been previously.

Looking out the windshield, she saw Sammael standing over the police officer from the car they’d hit.

           
Squinting to see, she saw the snakes waving out of Sammael. This time, they slithered out of more places than his chest. They must have ripped through every organ of the body he possessed. They swayed back and then shot forward. Torn skin hung from the holes where the snakes rattled. One of the scaly vines took the officer’s head clean off, launching it high into the night sky.

           
Watching the decapitation, Donna brought her hand to her mouth. She was appalled, disgusted. She watched as the spinning head slammed against the road. It bobbled a few feet and then stopped next to the vehicle. Blood flung from the neck-stump and sprayed the windshield.

Reacting fast, Donna grabbed the door handle and pulled. It wouldn’t open. She turned left. The side window was shattered. She kicked out the loose particles of glass jutting from the window rails. Forcing herself onto her feet, she leaned out the window. She fell from the car and hit the blacktop. She sprung to her feet, looked right then left.

Legs pumping in stride, she ran toward the dimness of Main Street. She ran toward the flashing red lights. She sprinted half of a mile before turning back to the tangled mess of police cars. She was amazed. Sammael hadn’t caught up to her.

As quick as her relief set in, it diminished. An obnoxious creak pierced the silence. Metal twisted with metal. Donna watched, horrified, as the police cruiser drove out of the ditch. Steam hissed from beneath the hood. The headlights illuminated the steam, making it appear foggy.

The engine revved, hard. The wheels spun. Rubber burned.

Sammael was going to run her down.

5

Minutes earlier, Sammael’s boots crunched while he stepped across the gravel that lined the shoulder of the highway. Whistling while he walked, he calmly approached the cruiser he’d
borrowed
from Officer Zoelick. He wrapped his elongated fingers under the door handle and pulled. The bones beneath his fingers were lengthening. They threatened to rip through the tips of his fingers. The skin that he wore was dying. It looked like cheap leather that had been bleached. It was splitting and peeling.

Sammael pulled the crinkled driver’s side door open and sat behind the wheel. He cranked the key in the ignition. A maniacal smile stretched wide across his face. He laughed heartily.

The squad car started easily enough. Separating his squad car from the second squad car—the one he’d slammed into the ditch—was another story. The bumper wouldn’t untangle from the smashed in door panel, where Officer Thompson’s leg remained clamped between the door and steering wheel. Meat spilled from the stump. It stewed in the steady flow of erupting blood.

           
Sammael revved the engine, slammed the car in reverse, then drive, and then shot into the street. Tires screeching, he was free.

           
With a grin and a wink, he turned to Officer Fred Thompson’s decapitated head. It rested in the middle of the seat, where he’d placed it. Sammael looked down at the waxy bulb of Thompson’s head, smiled, and asked, “That wasn’t so hard. Was it?”

           
Sammael bent forward. He placed his thumb and index finger between Thompson’s lips and pushed them open. He spoke for Thompson, “No, that wasn’t so hard. Thanks for ripping my head off. It was too heavy for my neck anyway.” Sammael cackled as he patted the abandoned head.

Thompson’s neck stopped bleeding. There was a thick pool of blood beneath it soaking into the seat cover. It looked thick like black syrup.

           
Sammael lifted his head toward the road ahead of him. He’d given Donna a good head start. Now, he would have fun with her. She was only a short ways ahead and it would take less than a few moments to catch up. He didn’t want to kill her, that wasn’t enough. He wanted to torment her body while she burned. She was running into town, hoping that someone would see her, help her. He smiled at the thought. If she found someone, then he would have another body to play with and she would feel the sting of guilt, knowing that she’d caused another human life to end, tragically. That and the body he wore had worn out significantly.

Maybe she would lead him to a new one.

           
Shining the police cruiser’s headlights at Donna’s back, he smiled big.

           
The car jerked forward as he floored it.

6

Donna felt the warmth of the headlights shining on her back. She watched, frightfully, as her shadow elongated on the ground in front of the heavy splash of fluorescent light. Looking forward, she lengthened her stride. Frightened as she was, she wouldn’t stop—not without a fight.

God helped those who helped themselves.

Donna believed that everything happening was part of a plan. She believed that destiny was written—tonight had been written, and she would fight to survive because she valued her life. Winded and hurting, she would go until her body quit, until she was unable to move. The dim lights of the small downtown began to brighten. The stop and go lights flashed red, in unison, from street to street. She hoped that no one was out walking the streets. It was a Friday night. Even so, the town’s nightlife, which consisted of one small bar called “The Pub”, was sure to be closed. Due to the county fair, the town was deserted.

Dodge Junction wasn’t known for its night life. If one wanted a fun tavern, they would travel to places like Jefferson or Watertown, and thank God for that. She didn’t want anyone to see her. She didn’t want to bring anyone else into this nightmare. She didn’t want anyone to help her—that
someone
would end up
getting
killed. She dreaded the idea and she wouldn’t let it happen.

           
The squad car’s engine roared as the edge of Main Street emerged. She hoped to take cover before she got to First Street.

She glanced back, using her peripherals.

She would run into the cornfield. Hopefully, she would lose Sammael, and then jump back onto the street, when she passed Main.

Millen’s Dairy was the first shop in sight. Behind it, there was an alleyway that veered into another alley, through the back. If she could get to the slim, brick corridor, she might be able to lose Sammael. That was being hopeful. God only knew what kind of vision and senses Sammael possessed.

He might be reading her thoughts right now.

She didn’t know. Still, escaping through the alley was a plan and she went with it.

           
Bolting left, she twisted her ankle. A sharp sting ran up her leg. She stumbled, but didn’t fall. Her arms flew out in front of her. She quickly kicked off her shoes so she could run faster.

She hit the grass and darted into the cornfield. If her feet got cut-up,
oh well
. Cuts and bruises were worth the price of survival.

           
The mud felt cold as it seeped between her toes. She raced down the first row of corn and ducked through the stalks and hit the third row from the road. She continued forward, into the darkness. The moonlight shed a hazy glow between the swaying cornstalks and she followed the illuminated tassels. The field held a cold blue hue in the moon filled night.

           
The high beams from the police cruiser startled her when they shined brightly through the dancing corn. She heard the tires spinning in the mud, tearing up the crops. She didn’t stop. If she could make it another four hundred feet—she could turn right and hit the downtown area. She could make it to the alleyway. The police cruiser wouldn’t fit through the slim brick path, even if forced. It was too narrow. She hoped she wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t been in that alleyway for a long time and her memory might be serving her incorrectly.

           
The squad car suddenly moved faster. The front bumper was so close that it kicked-up mud onto the back of her legs. It sped forward, threatening to run her down. If the bumper caught her calves, she’d be ripped under and spit out the back.

           
With no time to think, she spun right. Scared, she wanted to scream. Her foot landed on a jagged rock. It ripped through her skin, shredding the bottom of her foot. The pain was excruciating. With each step, the tear lengthened, messily. The sensation of blood running from the wound sickened her.

In the distance, she saw the red stop and go lights. Her arms pumped hard and her lungs burned fiercely when she kicked her legs forward. She jumped out of the cornfield as the squad car slid sideways. It nearly clipped Donna’s legs out from under her.

           
She ran up the side of the ditch. Her feet staggered when she hit asphalt. The cold road was soothing—for a quick second. The headlights blinded her. The police cruiser leapt out of the ditch. The front wheels hovered above the lip of the road and then the front end dipped down. The cruiser lurched toward her.

To Donna, the cruiser looked like a giant metal shark with its jaws opened, preparing to attack. When the cruiser landed, it was as if the jaws had snapped, barely missing her.

She ran across Millen’s parking lot and ducked around back, nearly running into the dumpster. It was set crooked and it blocked the entrance into the alleyway.

In the near distance, Donna heard the cruiser’s engine revving, harder. There was a metal cough and the engine sputtered. She was no mechanic, but it sounded like something vital had broken.

           
The second story of the brick structure above Donna displayed three windows, the one above her creaked open. The dirty glass slid upward and a pudgy faced woman grunted as she forced her pasty head into the alley.

Donna jumped back and leaned against the dumpster. She didn’t want the pudgy woman to see her. She was in a vulnerable position. From where she stood, the cruiser could run her down, easily. She looked up.

           
“What the hell is going on down there?” the pudgy woman hollered. “People
gotta
work in the morning.” Her chubby face poked further out the window.

           
Donna remained silent. She didn’t want the woman to see her. She wanted her to stick her fat face back inside her apartment and close the window.

If Sammael saw the chubby woman, he’d be tempted to possess her, kill her, or both, and Donna didn’t want to drag anyone else into this nightmare.

           
“Sorry. Please, close the window.” Donna called up to the woman.

Her round face glared down. She was frowning. A puzzled look spread across her pasty, dough-face.
Donna recognized her.

           
“Is that you, Donna?” The woman called. She seemed calm now, almost friendly.

           
Donna silently sobbed. She feared the danger of this woman. All she could think to say was, “Yes, but please, close your window and go back to bed. You don’t need to come down here.”

The sound of the cruiser’s engine revved again. Donna turned to see where it was.

           
It was parked across the street, facing forward. Donna could see Sammael’s silhouette. He was a black figure, behind the windshield. Wild snakes coiled around the form of his body.