Shallow Veins (The Obscured Book 1) (25 page)

A knock at the door. It wouldn't be Butcher, he has a key. No one but the boy at the front desk knows the room is occupied. He holds his breath and listens.

Another knock, this time louder.

"Father?"

He gets up and reclaims the shotgun from the bed, waking it from its nap.

"Father Curtis, I know you're in there. I'm a friend of Franklin. He sent me to help."

The old man looks through the eye-hole. The face at the door is familiar, perhaps a man he's seen around town or at service, no one he knows personally. He also appears unarmed, though in Father Curtis' experience that doesn't make the man any less dangerous- not where The Obscured are concerned.

"He didn't tell me he was sending anyone."

"Things changed," the man says, "there was trouble. He was hurt."

"What happened?"

"Please let me in, I'll explain everything."

Father Curtis presses the shotgun to the door, chest-level, grimacing from the weight. “If he really sent you, you must know the password.”

A pause. “Of course I do.”

“Well?”

Another pause. “Jake.”

“Very good,” the priest says. “Very good.”

He pulls the trigger. A massive hole punches through the door and the man behind it. The shot buries into the wall beyond. A second later, the sound of a body slumping to the ground.

Father Curtis lets the shotgun touch the floor. He opens the door to inspect his kill, finding a pair of arms and what's left of a plumber from the stomach down.

He stands over the body. “There was no password, you wicked perversion of-”

Something crawls out of the plumber's stomach. It wriggles out from the black intestines and plants its legs into the meat of the plumber's legs, hooks into the muscle with the needle grips Father Curtis knows too well.

All heart-brains have them.

“Oh, Hell,” Father Curtis sighs.

**

The hearse shrieks to a stop. Butcher jumps out onto the walkway, the smell of burnt rubber in the dusk as a shout rises up from the other end of the building.

He draws his gun as he spots the motel's only other guest running from the direction of Room Fourteen, a haunted look in his eyes.

“What's going on,” he shouts at the man.

“I- I don't know, there's a man with a gun and he's fighting a...a snake.”

The kid from the front desk leans nervously out of the office door. “You guys got here fast,” he says.

“You dialed 911?”

“Like ten seconds ago. That's not a Halloween costume, is it?” He points to Butcher's uniform. “Aww, shit, please tell me you're the cops.”

The idiot really didn't see my face, Butcher thinks. “Yeah, I'm the cops. Now I need both of you to get inside and lock the door behind you. We'll handle this from here.”

The two men run inside, going as far as drawing the blinds in the front window before hiding under the desk.

Butcher knows if the kid just called in an emergency, he has less than four minutes before half the Shallow Creek Police Department shows up at Sweet Haven Motel. While he would love some backup, they'll be wondering why Butcher is here before they are, and most curious of all without his partner or his cruiser. Four minutes until the questions that don't have answers start.

That leaves him less than three to kill a monster.

As he nears Room Fourteen, the extent of the damage becomes more obvious, making him increasingly nervous for Father Curtis- shattered windows, broken doors, sparking wires where light-bulbs used to be, and a persistent gurgle-growl coming from somewhere inside Room Seventeen, the door of which is slightly open.

With the tip of his boot he pushes the door the rest of the way open. His gun stays trained in the open space. The already familiar smell of The Self hits his nose, like petting zoo meets rotting meat, and there's a dull chopping sound as well. He strains to see in the darkening room, only making out silhouettes at first, the dark details slowly filling in, but when he finally makes out the full picture of what's happening, the scene on the floor just beside the bed, he wishes he hadn't looked at all.

A Self with black salamander body and the vague head of a mantis is crouched over Father Curtis, its legs, though human at the top, end in clawed feet that pin the priest to the floor. Its fingers are long, tube-like needles half-buried in the side of the old man's bloody temples, cloudy fluid pumping through them. The sounds are like a starving dog that's just taken down its first prey in weeks; fevered and blood-drunk.

Father Curtis' eyes, so scared and hurt, meet Butcher's and ask for mercy. Beg for him to end the pain.

Butcher feels a deep hatred rise up in his throat. His innards fill with acid and his hands curl into claws. With no thought to his own life, he throws the door the rest of the way open and falls on the monster, grabs it by its slimy-slick neck and pulls it off the priest. Its needles yank free of the priest's skull, and the old man cries out from the sudden extraction.

Butcher tosses the thing against the wall and gets in its big, ugly face. "Keep your dirty claws off him," he growls and punches it once, twice in the fleshy part of its head.

It gags up a putrid laugh in his face. "You'rre too late, old blood, we havve what we nneed from the priest."

“Not if I put you down first.”

The creature stops smiling.

“What's wrong? Such a big head and you still can't broadcast satellite?”

It hisses and cracks him in the face with its beak. Butcher tastes blood as he reels backward, head swimming, and nearly falls to the floor. He catches himself on the edge of the bed and brings his gun up, determined to end this thing.

“Lower.” A weak voice comes from the floor. It’s Father Curtis, and he’s barely holding on.

Butcher drops his aim a few inches and fires off a round, then another, then again, each shot more powerful than the last, until the final blast is like a volcano long overdue. By the time he’s done there’s nothing left of the creature but a pile of limbs and pieces at the foot of a smoldering wall, and then, like the woman back at the church, the pile turns to black ash.

Once he's sure the job is done, Butcher goes to the side of the old priest and checks for a pulse. It's weak, and getting weaker. Outside the sun is sinking in the sky.

“You have to make me a promise,” the priest rasps.

“Save your strength.”

“There's...nothing to save. Don't try to…tell me otherwise.”

Butcher nods.

“Whatever happens here, keep it quiet, or others will...come looking. Promise me.”

“You have my word,” Butcher says, and the old man's face relaxes. “I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I'm glad you left me that note.” The old man looks confused. “The one on my car,” Butcher adds.

Father Curtis shakes his head. “Don't lend your trust lightly. This is a dangerous game. A game with...too many players.” His eyes feel heavy. The lids begin to close.

“Father, you have to tell me where the book is.”

“Hmm?”

“The book, the one they're looking for.”

“Of course, yes. Find it…find it before they do.” His words slurring now.

Butcher shakes him, hearing sirens in the distance. “Father, you have to tell me where it is.”

“A friend. A friend has it.”

“Who?”

“The first torch…that lit up…Shallow Creek.”

“The Mayor?”

Father Curtis' eyes close.

“God damn it, don't leave me with this.” Butcher grips the man's shirt, angry, his eyes stinging.

The priest's eyes just barely open. “Stop...taking…the Lord's name in vain.”

Butcher lets out a laugh, his mouth thick from tears. Father Curtis' eyes close again, but this time, they don't open again.

Butcher feels a sinkhole form inside of him. He feels more loss, more regret than when his own father died. It's as if he mourns not the friendship they had, but the one they were supposed to have.

The sirens are closer now, less than a minute away, which means it’s time to go. Yet he doesn't get up. He can't leave the man like this.

A shard of glass falls from the broken window and shatters on the ground, catching Butcher's attention. On the windowsill, watching and listening, the woman's hand is perched on long, articulated legs. It scurries out the window, down the motel wall and away.

Butcher knows if it gets back to the others they'll know where to find the book. He knows that means trouble in ways he can't imagine. It also means he'll be letting down Father Curtis, breaking the final promise he made to the man.

He's nervous. He's hurt. But most of all, Franklin Butcher is pissed off.

Chapter Eight: Sundown to Showdown  

On the long, flat stretch of road heading into town, framed on both sides by tall grasses, there aren’t enough lights to beat back the night. There are no stores, no houses, no storage sheds or power plants buzzing with electricity, nothing except moonlight and wind and the chirp-scratch of crickets.

Up the road a bit something moves. Scuttling out of the inky dark and along the asphalt, the Self hand moves with daddy-long-leg speed. It keeps its body low to the ground and its finger-eyes open for predators.

A pair of eyes forms on the horizon in the direction it came from, two yellow balls in the dark distance growing from pinpoint dots of pale yellow to something larger, moving fast, gaining on the hand.

Coming into view, the eyes belong to a speeding car, black paint in black night.

The hearse roars through the night. Behind the wheel, Butcher pushes the old car past its limit. His face is hard through the windshield, eyes on fire, his hand crushing the wheel.

The hand scurries along the road at an impressive rate, and Butcher knows where its heading- into town, wherever Kevin is hiding. He knows the consequences of letting the little monster find the big monster, but more to the point he refuses to let Father Curtis' killer go free.

He pushes the hearse harder.

The hand becomes aware of the car gaining on him, just a hundred yards behind now, breaking its eye-fingers to look behind without stopping. Focusing in with bird eyes, it sees Butcher's face through the windshield. It pushes out extra legs to run faster.

Eighty, sixty, fifty yards back, Butcher grabs his gun off the passenger seat.

Thirty, ten, five, he rolls down the window. Aiming left-handed and steering with his right, he fires on the hand-creature. It leaps back and forth on spindly legs, barely slowing down. Butcher only manages to hit asphalt and dirt, nothing more.

Annoyed, he tosses the gun back onto the seat and then, with both hands on the wheel, he veers sharply. Tires squeal as he tries to run the creepy little bastard down. Every time he veers, the hand responds, staying out of reach.

After the third try, the hand leaps onto the car.

"No you don't, you little shit." Butcher swerves wildly, trying to shake the thing, but it manages to claw its way up the front panel and onto the hood. The wind blasts it, blowing through the hairs on its stick legs, but it holds on tight and begins to work up the hood toward Butcher.

"Nope. Nope, nope, nope." He clutches the window lever and spins it as fast as he can, rolling up the glass, the hand-thing on the windshield wiper now, gripping it and working its way around to the driver's side. And then, as the window is almost rolled up, with just a few inches to go, the lever falls off.

Butcher stares at the piece of junk in his hand.

"You're kidding me."

The hand sticks a finger through the open space, staring at Butcher with the veiny eyeball at its tip. Butcher smacks at it with the broken lever and strikes it in the eye. It shrieks and withdraws out the window, hurt. Butcher shouts, but a second later the smile is wiped from his face.

The hand-creature launches through the open window. It attaches to his face, bug-legs wrapped around his head and woman-fingers reached out to smother him. Butcher stomps on the brakes and brings the hearse to a crooked, smoking stop in the middle of the road. He swipes at the hand with the broken lever but catches himself in the side of his head- the flash of squiggly light tells him it was a bad idea.

Butcher drops the lever, grabs the hand-creature with both hands and with all his strength pulls the thing away from his face. It holds tight, bug-legs dug into his cheeks and neck, hooked around his ear, human fingers stretched out, and he can feel what it wants, see what it wants, pictures of it shoving all its fingers into his mouth and down his throat to choke him.

He pulls harder until its bug-legs stretch so far a few tear and pop and snap free from the hand to hang dead on his neck.

He squeezes the bleeding thing until his hands shake. He wants to crush it in his fingers, squish the pseudo-life out of it.