13 Drops of Blood (11 page)

They were to be exterminated.

* * *

Jonathan Weakley stood at the edge of the pit like a proud father, looking at his latest monstrosity, the 750-pound wolf spider.

August Monk stood at his side. “You ready, Jon?”

“I’m ready.”

“You sure ‘bout this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Oh I know, but I want to get rid of the rat and the bullfrog, and losing a few others won’t be the end of the world. I can re-stock the zoo. Besides, this is going to be fun.”

“Absolutely.” Monk said. He closed his eyes and raised his hand.

On the far side of the Pit, Bill Watt began spinning the handle on a crank-wheel. Down below, a large metal door lifted from a cage. Once the door was completely open, Bill spun a different handle. This caused the back wall inside the open cage to move forward. And as this happened, out came the perfect ten, God’s people, all seventy-three of them.

They were in the pit.

And they were terrified.

Six-hundred-and-fifty-seven pairs of eyes looked upon them. Mouths were hanging wide open. And for a moment, nobody said a word.

Then Helga walked away from the others and stood in the center of the dugout with her hands balled into fists. She didn’t look afraid; she looked like she was trying to lead her people.

She lifted her chin and said, “Friends and neighbors, look around you. Look at what you’re doing and what you have done! This is not the Lord’s way. This is Satan’s doing, the pathway to hell. The Dark Lord is leading you astray.”

Monk didn’t want to hear it. He said, “You sure Jon?”

Jon nodded and Monk raised his hand a second time.

Bill Watt took hold of a large handle that was attached to a complex pulley system. He spun the wheel.

Eleven cage doors began opening at once.

The wolf snarled. The gorilla began beating its chest. The rattlesnake hissed and the rat scampered in a circle. The spider got down low and tried to squeeze beneath the rising door. The scorpion stood tall and raised its tail. The bullfrog jumped, knocking its head against the cage roof. The wasp stung the ground beneath its feet twice and the grizzly bear growled.

The crowd released several collective gasps.

God’s People began stirring. Most stayed close to the cage but a few began to wander. Frail screams were released. Children buried terrified faces against their mother’s dresses. Fathers cursed Jonathan’s name.

“This is going to be good,” Jon whispered.

A string of saliva dangled between Monk’s thin lips, he looked terrified. And a moment later the spider squeezed its body under the cage door.

It was free. And it was Hungry.

* * *

Eight long, hairy legs scampered across the ground with incredible speed, creating a sound similar to a trotting horse. Each leg was the size of a tree trunk, orange on one side and brown on the other. It hard-shelled back was as thick as the bible.

It leapt.

Helga turned her lanky body towards the giant arachnid with her mouth gaped in fear and her tongue pulled so deep into her throat you’d think she was trying to swallow it. She stepped back, looking directly into three rows of eyes. From her perspective the eyes looked like a deformed face.

As the 750-pound spider knocked her down she couldn’t help noticing that the creature smelled like a barn. The spider nuzzled closer. Its two front legs held her shoulders, two long, orange, mandibles snapped together, tearing away her face and half her skull. Helga’s blood and brains spewed into the air.

Then all the people of Monk Town flinched and God’s People started running. But there with no escape plan, only the need to move.

Four children stayed where they were, three girls and a boy.

The boy’s eyes were glued in place. He watched the giant spider with his hands at his heart. If not for the fear in his eyes, he’d look like he had fallen in love.

Next to the boy, a girl with pigtails began pissing herself.

And next to the girl with the pigtails, a girl wearing a bright yellow dress had her hands over her eyes, her shoulders raised to her ears, and her elbows tucked into her waist. Her knees were pressed together, making her legs look like they were melting. She was whispering, “Stand still and nothing will hurt you.”

On her left stood a two-year-old girl.

The two-year-old had baby-smooth skin, blonde curly hair, and wasn’t much bigger than a newborn. She watched people running and the giant spider cocooning Helga, but she didn’t understand what was happening and she thought she might be dreaming.

Then the 650-pound wingless wasp squeezed free of its cage and came straight for her, moving in a clumsy stumble. One front leg was broken and it was trying to fly, but with no wings it just couldn’t do it.

Suddenly the girl with the pigtails and the girl with the yellow dress ran in opposite direction, each of them screaming. This caused the boy to snap free from his daze and fall on his ass.

Then the wasp attacked the two-year-old. It knocked her over and stung her right between the eyes, killing her instantly. With her head pinned to the earth, the boy could see blonde hair turning into red strings of goo.

* * *

Now that the cages were open, Bill Watt wondered if he would end up in hell. If so, somehow it seemed fitting. Opening the doors was a sin.

Looking down, Bill watching the rat step from its cage. Then a man named Davis Poppy (who wasn’t exactly sure why he sided with God’s People) ran directly into the rodent and quickly lost half an arm. “Oh Gawd!” He screamed with blood gushing from an elbow. Then his feet started moving and he ran towards the scorpion. The scorpion, ignoring Davis, scurried across the Pit and attacked the spider. In retaliation, the spider released a web that shot through the air and pinned Father Maloney to the wall. And as that happened, the rattlesnake slithered into Bill’s field of vision and snatched up little Betty Whitman, swallowing the boy––shoes and all––in a quick, uncaring gulp.

Bill looked at the gorilla.

Its hands were two feet wide and three feet long. It’s teeth were the length of a man’s arm. The beast stepped from its cage with its head low, grabbed a woman and tore her in half.

Bill’s eyes drifted.

Suddenly, it seemed, there was too much going on.

He saw a pool of blood in the center of the Pit. He saw spider webs spraying across a wall. He saw a string of intestines falling from the wolf’s mouth. He saw a man with no legs crawling with his hands. He saw people running into animals, into each other, and into the cages. He saw a ten-year-old girl stumbling into the 850-pound lizard as blood poured from her mouth. He saw a six-year-old boy leaning against a torso with his guts lying in his lap. He saw a headless woman falling to the ground and man that must have been stung by the wasp; his chest was so swollen that he looked like a bursting water balloon. He saw a man climbing the wall and a girl with an eyeball hanging from her head.

And these were people he knew, every one of them. They were friends and neighbors, the people of Monk Town.

Bill looked across the Pit.

Jonathan was leaning over the rail.

Monk was sitting in his chair, wondering if he had gone too far.

And below the two men, people screamed and ran in circles, looking for safety, looking for help. But there wasn’t anywhere to hide. The Pit was just a big circle, a bunch of cages and pulleys and a gigantic locked door.

Nothing more.

* * *

Monk saw the 9,000-pound grizzly bear pounce on a boy’s chest, flattening him like a manhole cover. He saw the wolf chasing the children, biting one boy in the neck, and thrashing him about. He saw the wasp leap onto the lizard’s back and pierce the reptile with its stinger. He saw a man hitting another man with a severed arm.

Monk looked away. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He said, “Shit Jon, are you seeing this?”

“This is unbelievable,” Jon agreed, pointing. “Look at that.”

Monk looked. He saw the rat standing in front of its cage, eating Davis Poppy’s arm. He saw the wolf jump onto the rat’s back and bite its throat; the rat squealed and rolled over with its feet kicking and its nose twitching. He saw the grizzly take a swing at the scorpion, ripping the insect in half; white mushy puss emptied on a rope of webbing. He saw a five-year-old with no hand, screaming as blood poured from his wrist. He saw Ruth Huppert, dressed in her homemade sack, holding a child’s head. He saw two women hiding behind the turtle, which was still in its cage and appeared to be sleeping.

“I don’t know where you’re pointing.” Monk said.

“There, see! Look at the frog. See what it’s doing?”

He looked at the bullfrog, which was jumping up and down, crushing things. He watched as it landed on the wasp, squishing the insect’s white and green innards into paste. And when the frog leapt again it smashed the Pit’s caged ceiling so hard that the building shook and the cage broke open.

The gorilla––being the smartest animal––looked up, pounded its chest and ran for the opening. The frog bounced again and the beast swatted it across the room.

Without hesitation all 650 paying spectators screamed in terror and made for the door. Absonoff got there first, followed by Keller and Norton King––but there was a problem. The door swung in, not out, and when people tried to leave they got congested in the doorway and the door became jammed.

There was no escape.

The gorilla crawled up the wall and onto the main floor. And when it saw the people of Monk Town, it attacked.

* * *

In the end less than fifty survived.

One survivor was the town’s only scientist, Jonathan Weakley. He left early the next morning with his head hung low. Nobody said goodbye; nobody wished him well. Unwanted and unappreciated, Jon made his way to New York City with the status of failure. But he was no quitter; he had drive and he had ambition. He had hopes and dreams––
big
dreams. He was going to make something of himself; he was going to be a superstar. The world would look upon his creatures with wonder.

All that stood in his way would be punished.

* * *

ZOMBIES:

THE HANGING TREE

Doc said, “Don’t you play games, Red. The Hanging Tree is off limits.”

Red snickered, gazing through the drizzle of rain, past the water falling in drips and drops from the rim of his leather hat. Looking into Doc’s eyes he could see more than simple fright. He could see dread, as honest and true as the sky above them, and the nightly darkness that was on its way to conceal the town.

Hubert Turret, commonly referred to as Doc, looked more like a gunslinger than a doctor, standing at the side of the road with his black, rawhide jacket wrapped around his muscular body and his long fingers tickling the smooth, ivory-plated handle on his gun. He was an influential man, handsome yet rugged, capable of taking care of terrible business in desperate times, even when the business disagreed with him on a personal level. And tonight, that’s exactly what the situation happened to be. It was terrible business and he wanted no part of it. Dealings were of the killing nature, which was never easy for
any
good-hearted soul, especially the likes of Hubert ‘Doc’ Turret. He was trained to save lives, not extinguish them.

He said, “The hanging tree––”

“The Hanging tree
was
off limits, Doc.” Red Coltrane wasn’t all that different from Hubert Turret. He was strong and lean, thoughtful yet commanding. He didn’t enjoy killing, but did what needed to be done. It was in his nature.

He pointed a dirty finger at Mort Clancy.

Mort, with his knees planted in the mud and a noose wrapped around his scrawny neck, looked pathetic. He was like a mangy dog sealed up in a man’s body. No effort put into his wardrobe, posture, haircut or hygiene. No attempt at being happy, healthy, respected or educated. He wasn’t feared. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t appreciated or hated. Add it up and what do you get? Not much. Just a skinny drifter with a neglected beard, a funky smell, and no one giving a rat’s ass about his wellbeing.

He wasn’t a bad guy, oddly enough. He wasn’t dishonest or corrupt, but the fact of the matter was this: Mort wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and more nights than not he earned himself the title of ‘most likely to drink himself sick and pass out in the gutter.’ Sometimes reputations are forged through exaggeration and fabrication. His wasn’t. His was earned, night in and night out. If they handed out awards for boozing his mantel would be loaded with trophies.

“It
was
off limits,” Red went on to say, still pointing at Mort. “Until
this
piece of shit decided to shoot Sheriff Gill.”

Mort slinked away from the two men, eyes slithering from one to the other apologetically. He scratched his beard and snorted back a throat full of earthy phlegm.

There was no question as to whether or not Mort Clancy killed Sheriff Gill. Everyone knew that he did. He shot Gill inside
Good & Weston’s Tavern
the previous night with a handful of spectators bearing witness. There was no reason for it, unless alcohol consumed was considered an incentive. After a few too many wiggly-suds he pulled his gun from his holster and shot the man point blank, right between the eyes. Simple as that.

Doc looked over Red’s shoulder. His eyes skimmed the row of building on his left. There were more than a few faces behind the windows. He supposed they had a right to be curious. Killings and executions weren’t exactly common in Ghoutan, population less than seven hundred and fifty. But they weren’t exactly unheard of either. If he were inside one of those buildings, he’d be eyes to the glass as well.