Authors: Jeremy Laszlo
There’s nothing here. Not a god damn thing. So why am I so haunted by it? Why do I keep wanting to come back here? What’s drawing me to this little dried up speck on the map? Someone has busted into the fountain drink display, throwing the cups and lids everywhere across the floor. I kick them aside before walking up to the Coke and pressing the button. Nothing happens. A guy can dream.
Outside, I listen to the breeze and wait for the sounds of footsteps or someone coming out to find me. If there’s no one in this town and there’s nothing left to take with me, then what the hell am I doing here? What am I doing in this little worthless town looking for something? There’s a knot in my stomach and I begin to suspect that I’m going insane and that I’m letting the madness make the calls. I can’t have that. I need to stay alert, stay in control. I have to get to the girls. I can’t just go wandering off toward random, stupid hunches in the middle of nowhere.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. I walk around the exterior of the building, searching for a sign, something that I’m supposed to understand, to make sense of all of this. Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m forcing myself to be distracted from the horrors of reality. I open the bathroom door and find nothing inside, except that the septic tank has overflowed. Slamming the door shut, I decide to head back to the truck, until I see it.
There’s no reason why a two story house should be such a vortex, calling to me, but there it sits, like a great monolith, waiting for me to discover it. I take a step toward the house and feel myself understanding. That’s it. Yes, that’s why I’m here. Even though she’s dead, gone, and in another life, I know that Lindsay would have me go check it out. I know that this is exactly the sort of thing that would make Lindsay smile with glee and excitement. It’s a red house on a slope just a hundred yards away from the gas station and now that I look at it, I see the footsteps in the mud leading down to the gas station. Yes, there’s someone in there. There are boards over the windows and there is nothing over the door. I turn around and look at the earth beneath my feet. There were people here. Someone has walked to this bathroom or at least to the gas station.
That’s it? I look at the house and feel a sinking uncertainty in my stomach. There’s no reason for me to go up there. If that house hasn’t been looted, then that means there is probably someone living in it. It is high enough up on the hill that it has a pretty good look out over the town from its second story. It also has a pretty good view of the south route out of town. If I was to pick a place to set up camp in this town, that would be a pretty tempting choice. But then again, that was Lindsay’s expertise. I’m the traveler. She was the hunter, the camper, and the killer.
“This is it,” I say to myself, taking a step back. I turn toward the truck and start walking. I open the passenger door and grab my pack and strap on my machete and bladed stump harness. I take my time getting ready, keeping my ears open for any sign that they’re on to me. If they know I’m coming, then they’ll be more likely to prepare for me. I’m starting to regret kicking over those shelving units. I close the driver and passenger side of the truck, locking it with the keys before going around back. I could haul all of the food into the front of the truck, but that wouldn’t really stop anyone if they saw them. I can stop them from taking the truck though.
I walk over to the Corvette and crouch down next to the tailpipe and stuff the keys into it, hiding them so that if I don’t make it and Lindsay’s ghost ends up getting me murdered, no one is taking that truck on a joy ride. Standing up, I draw my machete and take in a deep breath. “I’m about to do something very, very stupid, Lindsay,” I say to the ether before making my way toward the house.
With every footstep, I’m beginning to realize more and more how much of a stupid plan this is. I reach the base of the hill and look up at the house. The boards were put on pretty terribly, which means that they were in a hurry or they don’t know a damn thing about putting nails through boards. There’s also no real signs of exterior reinforcement or fortifications. Whoever this is must feel pretty certain that they’re alone in this town or that they’re safe. Or, I could be a fucking lunatic who has no idea what’s real anymore and just feels like wandering strange towns and entering into stranger houses still. I shake my head and approach the house. I only have one machete left, so I sheath it. I’ll only take it out if I truly need it.
I climb the hill and almost immediately realize how out of shape and damaged my body truly is. I’m malnourished, weak, and completely in need of some serious medical attention. My face hurts like hell and my stump is killing me after the freak in the encampment decided to try and rip off my arm after strangling it. I ascend the hill with labored breathing and aching joints, wondering how much longer I can keep this up. I should find a pharmacy and look for some supplements or something to take to try and level out my condition. Maybe there is still protein powder out there. That might do some good.
When I reach what I’m certain is the lawn, I survey the house again, taking in all of its features. The shutters have been closed and then boarded up meagerly. The porch wraps around the house for the majority, except for in the back where I’m assuming the pantry and the kitchen are. I move quietly, wanting to avoid any disturbances. I think back to Jason and wonder if this is another scenario like that. I know that I should call out, but I decide that I’m going to wait for a moment, look over the entire house before I give myself away, not that wandering around the building isn’t taking care of that enough. I make my way around the side and see that there are several garbage bags covered in a fine layer of dust sitting against one of the doors and I know exactly what is happening here.
This is not a Jason scenario. This is something far worse. I can smell it from where I stand, maybe thirty yards from the house. It hits me like a brick in the nose and I immediately raise my stump to cover my nostrils as I look at the bags with my eyes watering. It stinks so bad that I think I might gag, but I’m quick to recover. I’m used to this sort of horrendous abomination. I don’t need to guess or be frightened by it. I want to know why. Why do they do it? Why do they suddenly think that it’s a reasonable thing to do.?
Around the back of the house, I find more and more of the bags stuffed up against a detached garage that is painted red and white as well. I want to be certain. I don’t want to enter this house with any sort of misconceptions about what is happening here. I approach the pile of sacks and the stench is so bad that I bend over and start to gag. I cover my mouth and stand up, blinking several times, getting ahold of myself before approaching the bags again. I reach out with my bladed stump and slice open the back, letting the putrid, rancid odor burst forth like a hellish belch. Reddish, gray liquid and chunks pour out of the bag and all over the others, spilling across the ground. I look down and see a rotting hand much smaller than mine, and several bones. I look up from the hand that has fallen out of the hole and back up at the bag where a tarnished, rotting face stares past me with one eye that is shriveled. I turn around and look at the house. Fucking cannibals.
I walk around the building again and decide that there’s only one course of action to take here. I’m going to go back down to the truck. I’m going to get a container of gasoline and I’m going to return, light the whole damned place on fire and let the savages burn alive. I’m sick of these monsters living in the same world as I am. Why should I play by the rules while these abominations wander around doing whatever they want? It’s time for me to start doing what I want and right now, I want to burn some demented fuckers alive.
When I’m walking around the front of the house, heading back to the truck, there’s a disturbing thought that creeps into my mind. Where is he getting the meat? Where are
they
getting the meat, more likely? There’s no one in the town, so that means they have to be getting the meat from somewhere else. I look back at the garage and suddenly feel something very wrong inside of me. Whoever is inside of that house, they have to be keeping their victims nearby or inside the house. Feeling the weight in my pack, I know that I have my bolt cutters with me and that the garage around back had been locked shut with a padlock.
“Damn it, Lindsay,” I growl before heading back to the garage. I move low to the ground, quietly. I can’t hear anything inside, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t watching me. The moment they come out, I plan to race down the hill to get to the truck. I make my way to the garage and drop my pack quietly before unzipping it and pulling out my bolt cutters. I look up at the house one more time, making sure that there’s no one watching me or coming for me. Cutting the padlock, I toss it into the dirt nearby where it makes a soft thud. Pulling open the doors, I look into the darkness and regret everything.
There are bodies hanging upside down from chains in the rafter of the garage. All of them are missing their heads, feet, hands, and skin. The floor is covered in blood and the whole place reeks of rot. I suppose whoever is eating them doesn’t really care about the condition of the meat he’s eating. Some of the bodies are children and others all appear to be women. They are motionless, hanging from their chains as they languish in the darkness. I close the door and look back at the house. I have to act. I have to do something about this psychopath.
Sneaking up to the kitchen door, I peek in through the window and see only the darkness of the house. The kitchen is large enough to have a staff working it, which makes me wonder how well-to-do the owners had been. I can see the hallway that leads into the house, but it’s too dark to make out anything. I pull away from the window, afraid that there are two hungry eyes in that darkness, watching me with envy and delight. Maybe he wants me to come in. Maybe that’s what he wants. Perhaps I’m just playing into his sick, demented plan. Slowly, I reach out for the handle and give it a try. There’s no give at all. It’s locked. I release the knob and stand very still, listening to the movement in the house, trying to pinpoint where exactly this killer might be lurking. From my circumnavigation of the house, I found only two other doors, which means I need to move.
The door on the side of the house is locked as well. I look down at the black bags that are full of body parts and I feel nothing but a consuming rage. Maybe they’re all dead. Maybe his victims are the people hanging in the garage and I’m going in there to fight him and who else knows, when I could just burn them all alive. I try to peek in through the window of the door, but the curtain is pulled over the window and there’s nothing visible. I take a step back and decide that it’s not worth it. I should just go get the gasoline and burn the place down. There’s no one in there, or else they’re all asleep. I take a step off the porch and start heading for the truck. It’s time to make a pyre again out of these monsters.
I think about all the bad men I’ve killed on my journey across the country and I wonder if I’ve made it a little easier for those who aren’t evil or wicked. I wonder if the people out there who don’t feed on the living or hunt the weak are doing better. Or am I just putting a bunch of Band Aids on the leaking dam? Walking toward the slope, I figure that it’s better to try and rid the world of some evil people than stand by and do nothing. After all, that’s all that matters. Trying to make the world a better place doesn’t always work, but it’s still worth the effort.
“Help us!” A voice rips through the air and I freeze before my foot can land on the ground beneath it, and look over my shoulder at the house. It was a small voice, the kind of voice that barely makes it through the walls, but I heard it nonetheless. Turning around, I look at the house and I know that there’s someone in there. But what if it’s a ruse? What if they’re trying to lure me into the house in order to kill me and eat me?
“Then the joke’s on them.” I rip my machete free and start running back toward the house.
Maybe they’ve left the house, searching the town for supplies or fresh victims, and those they’ve captured are locked inside the house, waiting to be rescued. If that’s the case, then I’m the only hope they’ve got. Even if that isn’t the case, I’m still the only hope they’ve got. If the cannibals are in there, then I’m the only person who can do anything about them. I rush onto the porch and stop just short of the door and look at my dark reflection in the window against the bright world behind me. Without a moment of hesitation, I give the door a kick that sends it flying open, covering the floor with splinters from the door frame. Light swirls and fills the darkness of the gloomy house and I suddenly hear the noises. They’re upstairs.
Stepping into the house, I toss my sunglasses aside and look into the gloom, my eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. I don’t see anyone waiting to attack me. I step into the dated foyer and look around, listening to the thumping and the banging upstairs as a woman screams for help again, this time, very loud.
“Shut up, bitch!” a voice snaps at her. “Whoever the fuck you are, you best keep on moving. You hear me!”
“Let go of my baby!” the woman shrieks again at the top of her lungs as I make my way toward the stairs. “Help, please, help us! He has my baby!”
“Shut the fuck up!” the man roars.
“Help,” a smaller voice cries, the voice I had heard in the first place.
I take each step quietly, making my way up the stairs, listening to the struggle. Whoever he is, he doesn’t have a gun. If he had a gun, the woman would be dead and so would the smaller voice. I don’t know if it’s a little boy or a little girl, but they’re all still alive. There’s a bloodcurdling scream and I know that I need to move. At the top of the stairs, I turn toward the only door that’s shut. There’s a light underneath the door, escaping into the hallway, flickering. It’s a candle. Gripping my machete, I approach the door and listen as there’s more movement inside. I feel the knot constricting inside of my stomach and I don’t want to open that door. I don’t want to know what’s inside there. The smell is horrendous.
With a loud boom, the door bursts open with the force to implant the door knob into the wall, keeping the door open. There’s no door stopper and the man inside gets a full look at me and I see him. He has a knife in his hand and a dirty, dingy hand wrapped around a little girl’s throat. She has tears running down her face that has been savagely maimed as the man waves the knife out at me. It looks like a steak knife and the blood on it is obviously from the girl. The man is completely naked and has a full erection. The woman is lying by the bed, naked and sobbing in fear for her little girl. The man has a long scraggy beard in thick black hair hanging over his face. There are candles all about the room and strange drawing on the walls. This man broke a long time ago and this is all that’s left of him. I take a step forward and hold out my machete. I don’t want to know what’s been happening here. I shouldn’t have gotten this involved. I should have burnt them all to the ground.
“Let the girl go.” I give the man this one warning.
“Drop the machete and I’ll let her go,” the man snaps at me, his teeth are stained and dark. They’re rotting out of his mouth.
I look around the room. There’s a baseball bat leaning against the wall right next to my bladed stump. Even if the bastard tries to attack me, I’m going to gut him with my bladed stump, but the baseball bat would work nicely. I figure from his distance, if he charges me, I can reach the bat and swing it just in time. “You’ll let the girl go?” I ask him.
“You got it,” the man grins, giving away his motives.
I drop the machete.
The man hurls the girl aside, she lets out a scream that is cut short when her head smashes into the bedside stand that her mother’s right foot is near. She drops like a sack of potatoes and doesn’t move, but that’s not my concern at the moment. My concern is the naked cannibal charging me, still sporting a full erection. I reach for the bat and swing it upwards as fast as I can. The man is closer to me than I realized. The bat smacks into his hand and wrist with my full force and speed with a loud, sickening crack that matches the sound that escaped from the girl’s head when she hit the bedpost. The man shrieks and slams into the dresser before I bring the bat down again on his head. Like the girl, he drops to the ground limp, but he doesn’t stay that way. I watch him twitch and quickly start to recover.
Planting a foot on his wrist, I swing the baseball bat down with all my strength on the man’s ruined hand. I feel the cracking of the bones reverberating through the wooden bat and the sounds rippling through the air. The man screams as I roll him over and plant a foot on his stomach before I swing with all my might at his exposed testicles and penis. I hit him once and listen to the shriek of agony before I swing again and again, beating his genitals until they’re nothing but swollen, bruised, bleeding ghosts of their former selves. The man is whimpering and crying when I take the bat to his knees so he can’t walk or crawl away. He passes out from the pain, but he’s not dead. Not yet.
The woman is on the floor next to the girl, her arms wrapped around the girl and her face twisted in sorrow and horror. I walk up to her, looking at her. I can’t help but stare. She is beautiful, nowhere near the sculpted figure of Lindsay, but she has a beautiful face, something Lindsay did not have. Her body is skinny, suffering from the travel and the forced survival. I jump at the sound of movement in a closet and I quickly reach out with my bladed stump, putting it between me and the closet, waiting for another attacker. The closet looks like a rape dungeon with metal bars. Behind the bars, a small figure lurks.