The Last Horror Novel in the History of the World (8 page)

In all of these myths, the thing is pure evil.

“I got a feeling,” says Old Burt, “those things are testier than the children.”

“They are,” says Manny. “At least, says the legend.”

“This another Mexican thing?” asks Tyler.

Manny nods, and Old Burt just stares at him. “I’m so fucking happy you fuckers lost the Alamo,” he says.

Teddy rolls up the sleeping bag and Scarlett holds the pillows. She smiles at him. “You ready?” she asks.

Teddy grabs the bag, takes one last look around. “Yep,” he says. He smiles back at her, “Time to hit the road.” Teddy walks to the front door; Scarlett lingers behind mildly, casting a nostalgic gaze at the place they’ve lived the past year. She remembers the times, the day they moved in. How they’d ordered pizza and drank cheap wine from plastic cups, sitting Indian style on the floor eating, talking about how they’d decorate the place once they’d built the energy to unpack.

The door opens.

Scarlett hears it.

Hears Teddy step into the day.

But then, another sound .  .  .

“How many rounds y’all got left?” Old Burt asks Manny and Tyler.

The boys fish their pockets, check their clips, look at Burt with worry. “Four bullets,” says Tyler, and Manny says, “Six shells.”

“I got four rounds in my revolver,” he looks out the window. “Eighteen shots total,” he continues, then beneath his breath begins fruitlessly counting the many queer creatures. “We are surely fucked,” he says.

Teddy screams, “Close the door,” and Scarlett turns to the sound of his screaming.

From inside the dark room, outdoors shines devastatingly bright, hideously lit, so the shape of the door seems the sharpest rectangle ever laid eyes on by man. In that rectangle, Scarlett sees, though she can’t quite comprehend it, the black, hairy hands converging on Teddy, fits of them creeping up his legs and torso, and Teddy punching them from him, but there are way too many.

If she were closer, she would see, the evil hands clenched tight to Teddy’s clothes, plucking his balance from him as the weight of the hands slowly but surely drags him down to the cement, where the critters clutch him to the ground and begin to scrape into his flesh, working their way into his muscles, spilling his blood, as Teddy screams his anguish, launches his imperative again at Scarlett, “Close the door, close the door, close the door.” And she flings herself to the knob of the thing, slams it shut, falls to her knees against it hysterically, sobbing a terror-laden woe.

Outside Teddy’s eyes are open toward the bluest sky he’ll ever see, and the fingers of the hands are moving lickety split, mincing his body into bits, flecks and globules—Teddy’s blood draining out across the white cement of the driveway all around them.

Blue Parson’s opens a beer, guzzles it.

“How many of those are left?” Old Burt asks.

Blue lowers his beer from his lips, pants breath, wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. “Thought you didn’t drink,” he says.

“I don’t,” says Old Burt, “but just fucking tell me.”

Blue looks into the ice chest. “Four Millers,” he says, “one Bud.”

“All cans?” Old Burt asks.

Blue nods, “All cans,” he says.

“Burt, what the hell you getting at?” asks Mindy.

Old Burt looks at her. “Well,” he says, “there’s five us guys,” he looks at each of the men, “and, if it comes to it, one of us might need to create a distraction,” he looks out the window at the hands, “I’m not certain they know we’re here, or what their intentions are, but, when they figure it out, and we figure them out, one of us might need to draw ’em off.” He looks at Tessa, looks at Mindy. “I wouldn’t feel right asking one of you ladies to do it,” he smiles, “might mean certain death and all,” he says. He looks out the window again. “We ain’t got no straws,” he says, “I’m proposing we pluck beers for it. Reach in blind, each of us men,” he nods at the others, “whoever gets the Bud, gets the duty.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Tim. “There’s six guys. Me, Blue, you, Manny, Tyler and Rob.”

Old Burt laughs. “I would never trust this job to no nigger,” he says, and Tyler is almost certain Old Burt winks at him.

Blue finishes his beer, drops it on the ground and steps on it. “Let’s do it,” he says, “so we can get back to drinking ’em.”

Tyler pulls a Miller.

Blue pulls a Miller.

Old Burt pulls the Bud. He smiles. “Figures,” he says, “beer’s been an eternal enemy.”

Old Burt takes Manny’s shotgun, gives it to Tyler, takes Tyler’s pistol. “Shotgun’s the best weapon to protect against intruders,” he says to Tyler, “and Manny can’t shoot for shit.”

“What are you gonna do?” asks Tessa.

Old Burt looks at her, “I got an arsenal in my house,” he says, “automatic rifles, grenades, a flame thrower.” He nods, “I’m gonna try to get over there, make massacre on these little nigger hands.” Then Old Burt opens his Bud. “Bill W. asked for whiskey on his death bed,” Old Burt says, “he was the founder of AA,” he sips the beer, “nurses refused him, said he was out of his wits with the pain, said he would regret it. I’m not certain how. He died a day or so later. You think God gets mad at you for falling off the wagon right before you die?” Old Burt asks.

Blue opens another beer, “Who gives a shit?” he says, and Old Burt and Blue cheers.

Below the tree house, the hands are growing thicker, festering like a business of flies, climbing each other, knocking each other down.

“They know,” says Old Burt. “It’s time,” he chambers a round in the 9 mm, tucks the gun in his waist band. “The zip line will hold me?”

“Tested at over 300 pounds,” Blue says.

“I’m well under that,” says Old Burt.

“This is crazy,” says Tessa.

“What part of it?” asks Rob.

Old Burt zips out into the air above the black hands. They seem aware of him, follow him down the line.

He lands in a clearing, draws the 9mm and blasts two rounds, runs toward his house.

The hands give chase, begin to circle him in the road. He fires two more rounds, then throws the unloaded 9, draws his .38.

He jumps over a progression of hands, shoots once and a hand explodes, its fingers toss in several directions. He kicks a few away from him, runs on, fires another shot.

There is a stalled F-150, and Old Burt jumps on the hood of it, climbs to the cabin roof, surveys the hands surrounding him.

He reaches his free hand in his pocket, pulls out a Miller. He cracks it open, begins chugging away.

Several of the hands have reached his legs. He kicks again, fires again. The beer is empty. He flings the empty can down at the hands. He places the mouth of his .38 to the side of his head. He waves goodbye toward the tree house. Old Burt cocks back the hammer. Old Burt squeezes the trigger.

His brains are forced out his skull in a gush, and the hands climb upon him, begin to scrape him apart.

“Know why he drank Coke so much?” asks Tyler.

Everyone in the tree house is silent.

“He said it was the most racist drink he knew. He said that used to, years and years ago, it was made from wine and cocaine and sold as a sex drink, and that lots of people in Europe loved it. He told me the Pope drank the stuff, and gave the inventor a medal for it. He said that, when Coke finally got to the states, that they had to take the wine out because of some temperance movement, but that, for a long time, they’d left the cocaine in. He said that at first, they only sold the stuff in drug stores that black folks couldn’t go to on account of Jim Crowe laws, but, when they figured out how to bottle it, that black folks could drink it, and white folks had this idea that blacks were drinking the stuff and running around raping white women, so they decided to take the cocaine out to stop all the raping.”

It is quiet again.

Then Tessa asks, “Tell me again why the hell you hung out with him?”

Tyler doesn’t answer her.

“What now?” says Mindy when the black hands head back toward the tree house.

“I’ve got three shells,” says Tyler. “Anyone want me to shoot ’em?” They look at him nervously. “In the head,” Tyler clarifies. “You won’t feel anything.” Tyler looks out the window. “It’s either that or them,” he says. “I’ll probably do myself, once they get closer.”