The Cellar (19 page)

“Fine,” he lied. “Is Larry alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“For God’s sake, get help. Get him a doctor. An ambulance.”

“Are you coming down?”

“I’m going after the beast.”

“No!”

“Get Larry help.” He pushed himself away from the window and crossed the room to the dresser. Shoving the machete under his belt, he tugged the top drawer open. The dead husband’s Colt .45 automatic was just where Maggie had left it. Depressing a button, he dropped its empty clip. He took the oversized, twenty-shot clip from his pocket and rammed it up the handle. It locked into place. Priming a cartridge into the chamber, he ran from the room.

In the corridor, he stepped over the bodies and rushed downstairs. He ran into the kitchen. His flashlight picked up blood on the floor. He followed its trail to the pantry, through an open door, and down a flight of steep wooden stairs to the cellar.

The moist cellar air was chilly and smelled of earth. Sweeping the area with light, he saw stacks of bushel baskets, shelves laden with dusty canning jars. Out of curiosity, he abandoned the trail of blood and stepped closer to the baskets. Behind them, just as described in Lilly Thorn’s diary, he found a hole in the dirt floor.

He returned to the dark blood spots on the dirt and followed them to the right where they stopped in front of an upright steamer trunk set flush against the wall. He saw quickly that the trunk was latched shut. The beast couldn’t have hidden itself inside.

Two gunshots came, faint with distance. For a
moment, he worried. Then he realized that Donna must have fired his rifle to draw attention, to draw the police and help for Larry.

Setting his flashlight on the dirt floor to the right of the trunk, he tucked the Colt into a pocket of his parka. He slipped his fingers between the trunk and the wall, and pulled. With a gritty scraping sound, the trunk came away from the wall. A rope handle dangled from the back of the trunk. The rope was dark with wet blood.

Where the wall should have been, Jud found a tunnel. Picking up the flashlight, he entered it.

Realizing that Larry was dead, Donna ran to the front door of the house. She used two shots to blast apart the lock of the door. Even then, she had to throw her shoulder against the solid wood several times to smash it open. She stepped into the entry hall. “Jud?” she called.

She heard no answer. She heard no sound at all. She called him again, louder this time. Still, no answer came.

Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she slid the road flare out of her rear pocket. She twisted off its cap. Reversing the cap, she rubbed its striking surface against the end of the flare. At first, there was only a spark. On the second stroke, the flare sputtered to life, its brilliant blue-white tongue casting a glow that lit the entry hall and
much of the stairway. Slowly, she climbed the stairs. She continued climbing, even when the light of her flare illuminated the bodies at the top: Roy face down, the nape of his neck mauled to red pulp; a strange white creature on Roy’s back. When she saw the stump of its neck, she gagged. Turning away, she threw up.

Then she resumed climbing. She reached the top of the stairs and stepped over the bodies. She walked down the corridor to Maggie’s bedroom, took one step inside, and called out, “Jud!” She crossed the hall to Lilly’s room, and again called to him. Again, she got no answer.

She returned to the head of the stairs. Even with the beast lying dead at her feet, she felt an icy reluctance to venture down the corridor to the other rooms. “Jud!” she yelled. “Where are you?”

When no answer came, she walked quickly down the narrow hall. She shoved aside two of the Brentwood chairs marking the future Ziegler exhibit. At the far end, she stepped into the room to her left. The flare cast fluttering light on the walls, the rocking horse, the twin beds, and the wax figures of Lilly Thorn’s slaughtered children. “Jud?” she asked quietly. Nothing in the room stirred.

Crossing the hall, she twisted the knob of the nursery door. When it didn’t give, she remembered Maggie saying it was always kept locked. She kicked it twice. “Jud?” Then she muttered, “Damn it.” She looked for a safe place to put the flare. Crouching, she propped it against the wall.
The wallpaper began to blacken and curl. Standing, she unslung the rifle and shot through the crack where the lock tongue entered the jamb. She recocked it. Then she nudged the door with her shoulder. Feeling it give, she picked up the flare. She slung the rifle over her shoulder and shoved open the nursery door.

“Jud?” she called. She stepped into the room. Her flare lit an empty cradle, a playpen, a doll house nearly as high as her waist. It also lit buckets, a mop, three brooms, a carpet sweeper, and a table littered with sponges, rags, furniture wax, cleaning fluid, and window polish. Apparently, the nursery had been taken over by Axel for storage.

Donna backed out. She hurried through the corridor, past the Brentwood chairs, and stopped near the bodies. She gazed at the door to the attic. It stood wide. “Jud?” she called up the stairs.

She began climbing the stairs. They were very steep. The walls seemed close, as if they were pressing in on her. She hurried. Above her, the door stood open. She climbed to it, and hesitated before stepping inside. “Jud, are you in here? Jud?”

She ducked through the low doorway. In the circle of light cast by her flare, she saw a rocking chair, a pedestal table, several lamps, and a sofa. She stepped away from the door. Moving sideways, she squeezed between the table and sofa. Ahead stood a weaver’s loom. She skirted to the left of it, swung a leg over the high roll of a rug, and stumbled to keep from stepping on a hand.
Catching herself against a chair, she whirled around, saw wild hair, wide-open eyes, torn shoulders and breasts.

Not Jud, thank God.

Mary Ziegler.

From ankle to hip, little except bones remained of Mary’s right leg. Donna turned away, doubled over, and vomited. Her stomach, already empty, kept convulsing, wracking her with pain. Finally, it stopped. She wiped the tears from her eyes and started back toward the door.

She stepped over the rolled rug. She pressed sideways between the table and the sofa. Then, just ahead of her, the door slammed shut.

Jud made his way farther into the tunnel, crouching beneath its low ceiling, trying to fight off the sense of suffocation caused by its narrow walls. In places, the earth was shored up with boards. The work of humans.

Wick Hapson, maybe. Or Axel Kutch.

Jud knew, even before stepping into the tunnel, where it would lead him. But he hadn’t realized it would be this far. For some reason, the tunnel was not straight. It meandered like an old river, with twists and loops, and hairpin turns. At one point, it split into a Y. Jud went left. The tunnel curved, rejoined the other branch, and continued toward the west.

At every turn, his finger tensed on the pistol trigger ready for an abrupt assault by the wounded
beast. But rounding each, he saw only more tunnel and another bend.

Soon he began to wonder if he had somehow passed the opening he’d expected to find. He remembered the Y. Perhaps the right-hand branch led past the house entrance before curving back to join the one he’d taken.

That seemed unlikely. Still…

He stepped around a bend, and the tunnel opened. With a sweep of his flashlight, he found himself in a cellar. Pillows and cushions, like islands, littered the floor’s blue carpet. In a far corner was the beast.

Jud walked toward it. The creature lay on its back, white arms clutching a pillow to its chest. Its long, pointed tongue hung from a corner of its mouth. Kneeling beside it, Jud pushed its snout with his gun barrel.

Dead.

Its lower body was sheathed with blood. He quickly checked, and saw that Lilly Thorn’s description of the sex organ had been accurate. Amazed and disgusted, he backed away.

He climbed the wooden stairs and entered the kitchen of the windowless house.

Axel Kutch, hunched like a wrestler in front of the attic door, grinned at Donna. His bald head gleamed in the light of her flare. Curly hair matted his bulky shoulders, his arms and chest and belly—but his penis stood hairless, thick and shiny and tilted high. He limped toward her.

“Stay back.”

He shook his head.

Threatening him with the flare, Donna tried to unsling her rifle.

A two-fingered hand grasped her wrist. It twisted sharply. The flare dropped, but he didn’t stop twisting. Donna spun sideways, off balance, and fell to her back. Still clutching her wrist, Axel kicked her in the side. He dropped to his knees. Picking up the flare, he jammed its unlighted end into a crack between the sofa cushions above Donna’s head. Then he threw a leg over her. He sat on her belly, pinning her arms to the floor.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

She struggled, trying to free her arms.

“Stay still,” he said.

“Get off!”

“Stay still!”

Bending, he pushed his mouth against hers. She bit his lip, tasting the salty warmth of his blood, but he didn’t stop kissing her. She bit again, savagely
tearing the flesh of his lip. With a grunt, he pulled away. The back of his hand clubbed her face.

Weak from the blow, she tried with her free arm to shove him away.

He knocked her arm down, then punched her twice in the face.

Each blow was a stunning explosion of pain. Barely holding onto consciousness, she knew that he was tearing open her blouse. She heard buttons skitter across the floor, then felt the rough touch of his hands. Though her arms were free, she couldn’t find strength to lift them. He pulled at her bra. When it wouldn’t come off, he broke the shoulder straps. Donna felt the looseness, then the chilly bareness of her breasts. Axel squeezed them. The pain helped clear her mind. She felt the suck of his mouth. Then he was tugging at the belt of her corduroys.

She realized she could lift her arms. Opening her eyes, she saw Axel kneeling between her legs, head down as he worked to open her pants.

She reached behind her head. Stretched her arm. Grabbed the shaft of the flare. In a single swift motion, she plunged its sputtering head into Axel’s left eye. He shrieked as the room went dark. She shoved the flare harder. A warm wetness spilled onto her hand as the flare slid deep. Axel’s rigid body bucked with convulsions. She pushed him off and rolled away from his body.

Ahead of Jud, blue light glowed from the living room. He approached silently. He peered around the corner. The sight staggered him. Glancing to his left, he saw the front door. It was no more than six feet away.

Maggie and the creatures were probably thirty feet from him. One, underneath her, would be slow getting free. The beast at her rear wouldn’t be able to see him. But the one at her head was facing his way. He couldn’t possibly make the door without it noticing him.

He pressed himself to the wall, out of sight. For several seconds, he listened to the grunting and the slippery smacking sounds. Maggie was gasping. From the violence of the sounds, he guessed that they would soon be done.

Once they were finished, his chance of escape…

Escape?

Christ, he’d almost forgotten what he’d come here to do.

He’d come here to kill the beast.

He’d come to stop it from murdering again.

Except it’s not one beast, it’s five. Maybe more. That doesn’t change the purpose of the mission. It doesn’t change the need for them to die: If anything, it increased the urgency of the task.

Lunging away from the wall, Judgment Rucker
crouched and fired. A beast shrieked as the bullet crashed through its head. It stumbled backward, penis sliding from Maggie’s mouth, ejaculating onto her face and hair.

The one behind her looked. Caught a bullet in its right eye. Slumped onto Maggie’s back.

Jud held fire, watching Maggie struggle. The dead beast on her back fell away. She rolled off the live one, and lay on her side so that her body protected it from a shot by Jud.

Slowly, she stood up, being careful to shield the beast with her body. It got to its feet behind her. She began walking toward Jud.

“Bastard,” she muttered. “Who do you think you are, bastard? Sneaking in here? Shooting us up? Killing my darlings?”

She kept limping toward him, dragging a leg that looked as if it had been chewed many years ago, and healed badly. Her ancient, swaying breasts were lined with scars and recent cuts, some bleeding. Blood dropped from her scarred shoulders and her neck. Jud knew why she wore a scarf in public.

“Stop,” he said.

“Bastard!”

“Damn it, I’ll drop you!”

“No you won’t.”

Suddenly, he heard snarling on the stairway behind him. He pivoted and fired at the darting shape. It shrieked but didn’t stop. The claws of the beast with Maggie slashed across Jud’s back. He
lurched forward, turning, jerking the machete out of his belt. The claws swiped again. This time, he lopped off the creature’s arm. He shot it once in the chest, then turned his gun to the beast leaping from beside the bannister post. His snapping finger blasted three holes into it. It fell.

Maggie dropped to her knees beside it. She hugged the white body, crooning, “Oh Xanadu, Xanadu. Oh Xanadu!”

Her back was a disfigured mass of scar tissue and bleeding cuts.

“Oh Xanadu,” she sobbed, cradling the dead beast’s head.

“Are there more?” Jud asked.

Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to hear.

Stepping around her and the body of Xanadu, Jud approached the stairway. He saw dim blue light in the upstairs hallway. Silently, he began to climb.

Donna staggered down the front porch stairs. She slumped against the newel post, hugging it to keep from falling. The rifle strap slipped off her shoulder. She heard the walnut stock batter the railing. Probably put a scratch on the stock.

She wondered, vaguely, if the scratch would anger Jud. Men could be funny about that kind of thing.

God, would she ever see Jud again?

Where could he…?

A distant popping noise interrupted her question,
and answered it. She raised her head. She heard more of the strange, low popping sounds, and she knew it was gunfire.

Gunfire muffled by the brick walls of the house without windows.

Watching the house, she heard another shot. Then three quick ones.

She started to run. The hanging rifle slapped her leg. Without slowing, she gripped the sling and swung the rifle in front of her. She gripped it solidly with both hands.

She glanced at the Chrysler, far to the right. Sandy’s head was visible. The girl was locked in, safe.

Donna climbed awkwardly over the turnstile. She sprinted across the road. Then up the dirt driveway. She tried to remember if the rifle was cocked. Couldn’t remember. As she ran, she worked the bolt. The ejected cartridge spun up and hit her face, its point jabbing her upper lip. Blinking tears away, she rammed another cartridge into the chamber.

Approaching the front of the dark house, she slowed to a trot. She shifted the rifle to her left hand. Heavy. She propped its butt against her hip and pulled open the screen door. She tried the knob. Locked. The screen door swung back, bumping her shoulder.

Damn!

She aimed at the door crack next to the knob.

It’s getting to be a habit, she thought.

The thought didn’t amuse her.

Cautiously, Jud stepped into the main bedroom. The mirrors exposed every corner. No beast. He looked inside the open closet. Satisfied that nothing would jump out at him, he stepped closer to the bed.

Wick Hapson, naked except for a leather vest, lay facedown on the sheet. Chains anchored his wide-spread arms and legs to the bedposts. His face was turned to the left.

Kneeling, Jud looked into his eyes. They were wide with fear. His lips were trembling. “Don’t kill me,” he said. “Christ, it ain’t my fault. I just gone along. I just
gone along!
”

As Jud left the room, he heard the blast of a gunshot downstairs.

Donna drew back the bolt. As the shell spun out, she saw that the ammunition clip was empty. Her mind flashed a memory of the live cartridge stabbing her face and falling to the dirt of the driveway. No chance of finding it.

Okay, nobody had to know the rifle was empty.

She shouldered open the door and lurched back at the sight of two hideous beasts lying sprawled near the foot of the stairway. Their shiny flesh looked pale blue. The severed arm of one lay near the wall.

Stepping around them, she glanced into the living room. Two more.

“Jud?” she called.

“Donna? Get out of here!”

His voice came from upstairs.

Damn it! his mind screamed. What was Donna doing here?

He ran toward the last room, the room where he and Larry had heard strange breathing sounds that afternoon. The door was open slightly. Through the gap, he saw a blue light. He kicked the door, lunged into the room, and aimed at a pale figure crouched in a corner.

He held fire.

In the dim light, he saw dark hair hanging to her shoulders. She cradled something in her arms. An infant. Its snout, clamped on her dug, was sucking loudly.

Groaning, Jud backed toward the doorway.

Donna, reaching the top of the stairs, saw the naked, ravaged form of Maggie Kutch limping toward the far end of the hall.

“Mom!”

Her head snapped to the side. Sandy, in tears, stood in the foyer looking up at her.

Donna looked again down the corridor. Maggie glanced back. Donna saw a butcher knife in the old woman’s right hand. Donna shouldered the empty rifle. “Drop it!” she shouted.

Jud turned, faced Maggie, and started to raise his pistol. The knife plunged.

He was astonished.

He couldn’t believe it.

That shiny, wide blade was actually vanishing into his chest.

She can’t do this, he thought.

He tried to pull the trigger.

His hand didn’t work.

She can’t!