Anything Can Be Dangerous (17 page)

The Skinwalker roared again, and he
looked up to see more sections of the wall and door disintegrate in
front of him, torn away as if no more than—

Suddenly he had something.

Something ... not right.

He’d located a spongy potato-size mass
deep in his guts and pulled it out of the wound amid a river of
gore.

The moment he did, the Skinwalker fell
apart. The individual components of its morbid construction spilled
to the ground in a horrible avalanche, splattering across the floor
with a sound Jimmy knew he’d never forget.

He stood quivering in the aftermath,
too fearful to move. The pain in his stomach seemed to have dulled
from the shock of thwarting an unnatural death, but he knew he
desperately needed to haul ass to a hospital.

He staggered forward.

A frightening numbness had crept into
his body, reminding him that he didn’t have time to waste being
squeamish, and despite the fact he was still barefoot, he quickly
waded through the mound off spilled viscera blocking the
doorway.

Tissue squished between his
toes.

Harder items poked into his
heels.

He slipped twice but managed to keep
his balance, emerging from the pile only to collapse to his knees
as the last of his strength fled from his body.

Clear of the mess, he dropped to the
floor and lay there for what seemed like eternity, one hand clamped
over his gut, until he saw Sheriff Pickett push to a stand not far
away. Riverwind’s trio of bullets dotted the man’s bulletproof vest
like medals of Honor.

“
You alive, Cooley?” he
asked.

Jimmy tried for a “Yes, Sir, I am,”
but only uttered a grunt.

The man stepped forward, eyes widening
when he beheld the full extent of Jimmy’s condition. “My, God, son
... What the hell happened to you?”

Jimmy shakily removed his hand from
the wound for the Sheriff to see, only then realizing that he still
clutched the thing he’d ripped out of his body.

He looked down and uncurled his
blood-splattered hand.

And almost screamed at what he
saw.

He stared at the thing, shaking his
head as he tried to tell himself that it couldn’t be what it looked
like.

“
Holy Jesus,” Pickett
gasped. “Is that one of your kidneys?”

Jimmy dropped the organ on the floor
and swung toward the mass of dismembered animal parts.

“
Easy!” the Sheriff said,
quickly restraining him. “We have to get you to the
doc!”

“
It’s not dead!” he cried
as Pickett lifted him to his feet. “The finger’s still in me! It’s
playing possum, Sheriff! It’s gonna try and get me
again!”

He tried to break away, his mind
racing to think of a way to burn the remains or blow up the
building before it was too late, but he didn’t have the strength to
resist and before he knew it Sheriff Pickett had ushered him out
the front door and into a patrol car.

“
Keep pressure on the
wound,” Pickett told him. “We’ll get you patched up in no
time.”

Jimmy wanted to tell him that was
exactly what the witch wanted, why it had played dead and allowed
them to escape, but the words came out as little more than mumbling
that even he couldn’t decipher.

The Sheriff started the
car.

Switched on the lights and
siren.

And as they pulled away, Jimmy thought
he saw Detective Riverwind’s corpse standing in the entryway of the
building, the Skinwalker’s four-fingered hand jutting from the hole
in the man’s throat, waving to him, like an old friend promising to
come visit again.

Once Jimmy was healed.

* * *

MATT HULTS ~ lives in Minneapolis,
Minnesota with his wife and two children. Books of the Dead Press
released his first novel ‘Husk’ in 2011.

* * *

Preview of:

MATT HULTS -
HUSK

STILLWATER, MINNESOTA

Five Years Ago…

Black.

The suspect had painted every inch of
his house black.

Obscured by snowfall, it looked like
nothing more than an apparition in the storm, but through the
binoculars its sinister presence loomed as large and solid as a
monolithic tombstone.

Homicide detective Frank Atkins
lowered the binoculars and handed them to his squad partner as the
remaining S.W.A.T. officers took up positions to their left and
right.

“
This is it,” Frank said.
He unslung the HK sub-machinegun from his shoulder and flicked off
the safety. “We’re going to need to move fast to cross that field
without being spotted. This psycho is a slippery son of a bitch. We
can’t give him the slightest opportunity to get past
us.”

Martin DeAngelo peered into the
binoculars. “You do your thing, Detective. We’ll do
ours.”

“
I mean it,” Frank replied.
“I want this bastard taken down once and for all.”

The officer smirked. “Just because
you’re qualified for this shit doesn’t make you my commander.
Follow my lead and leave the noble quest for vengeance up to the
prosecutors, okay?”

Frank looked to the house with the
word on the forefront of his mind.
Vengeance.
That’s exactly what it came to.
Vengeance for Christine Mitchell. For Katie Hart. For Sean Edwards.
Vengeance for the adolescent boy they still couldn’t identify.
Vengeance for all of them.

“
Jesus,” DeAngelo
commented, still gazing through the binoculars. “I can already hear
the insanity plea.”

Frank racked the first round into the
breach of his weapon. “If I find him first, he won’t be going to
court.”

Maybe it was the hiss of contempt on
Frank’s tongue, or the soft squeak of rubber as his hands wrung the
handle grip of is weapon, but DeAngelo’s stare broke from the house
and regarded him with a creased look of uncertainty.

“
You don’t really mean
that, do you?”

Frank held his gaze. “Like you said,
lieutenant: You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

The man opened his mouth to reply when
the voice of the taskforce commander came to life on their radio
headsets.

“
Move in! Everyone, move
in!”

The tactical team plunged out of their
cover of evergreens and charged toward the farmhouse, plowing
through snowdrifts to the war-drum beat of the twin air-units
approaching fast from the south.

The black house loomed ahead. No
lights, no sign of movement.

They’d closed within yards of the
target when a cataclysmic blast of thunder exploded overhead,
shaking the air with the concussive force of a bomb. Three serpents
of lightning slithered earthward through the flurries, striking a
canted weathervane atop the killer’s rooftop. Sparks showered in
every direction.

Several of the men stopped in
mid-stride, dropping into defensive postures.

“
Jesus!” someone yelled
over the radio.

“
What the hell was
that?”

“
Everyone in formation,”
Frank roared.

Praying they hadn’t lost the element
of surprise, he crouched behind DeAngelo, staying close when the
man hefted his riot-shield and rushed up the front steps to the
porch. Another officer, Sergeant Rice, heaved a battering ram
against the front door, pulverizing it in a hail of splinters and
paint chips.

“
Police! Search warrant,”
Rice shouted as a second officer tossed a stun grenade into the
farmhouse’s foyer.

Inside, the decoy device exploded,
sending out a mild concussion to disorient anyone in the immediate
area. The tac team rushed through the smoke in a stacked,
two-by-two formation, spurred on by Rice shouting, “Go, go, go,
go!”

Frank followed in line behind
DeAngelo, moving fast and low. He kept one hand on the S.W.A.T.
officer’s shoulder and held his breath when they crossed over the
threshold.

Smoke swirled in the air.

Combat boots hammered the
floor.

Three groups of officers, all entering
the house from separate locations at once, began calling off
cleared areas of the home. Frank and his squad entered a brightly
lit foyer flanked by open doorways. Ahead lay a staircase and a
long hall that extended toward the back of the house.

Contrary to the exterior paintjob, the
walls and floors inside the home appeared immaculately clean. The
walls looked smooth and unblemished by age, dotted by dozens of
pictures in decorative frames. Ornate woodwork made up the
baseboards and trim. Hardwood floors gleamed, exuding the scent of
fresh polish. 

From the hallway, Frank glanced into
the living room on his right. He spotted a host of nick-knack
covered end tables, chairs with white doilies draped over the
armrests, and a plastic-sealed couch with an eye-sizzling floral
print.

“
That room’s clear,”
DeAngelo said. “Stay with me, Detective.”

Frank’s hand had come away from the
officer’s shoulder while he contemplated the dichotomy of their
suspect’s strange dwelling, and he rushed to catch up. The forward
half of their twelve man team raced up to the second level, leaving
Frank and DeAngelo to lead the remaining squad members deeper into
the house.

A third of the way down the hall, they
came upon a half closed door yet to be checked.

“
Basement,” DeAngelo said.
He kicked the door open, and the stairwell beyond expelled a hot
breath of putrescence. The stench of decay invaded Frank’s lungs,
causing his chest to heave with a reflexive cough.

“
Police,” he yelled. “We’re
armed.”

He followed DeAngelo down the stairs,
passing between mortar-caked stonework that brought to mind the
crumbling tunnels of a subterranean tomb. A bare light bulb over
the lower landing cast a fiery glow on the walls, and combined with
the smell of death assaulting his nostrils, Frank imagined he’d not
only trod into the domain of a killer but had descended into Hell
itself.

Four steps from the bottom Kale Kane
lunged into view. Their suspect sprung from an open doorway to the
right of the landing, brandishing an automatic weapon that exploded
to life in a blaze of fire and noise.

“
Look out!” Frank cried,
but it was already too late.

The first barrage of gunfire hit
DeAngelo’s shield center-mass then trailed up the stairs toward the
other officers behind them. Bullets cut a dusty trail of
destruction along the walls and risers as stray shots whined off
the house’s cave-like foundation.

Hot lead cut the sleeve of Frank’s
uniform. More screamed past his helmet.

DeAngelo fired two rounds from his
sidearm. It was all he had time for. Following the second shot,
sparks leapt from the stone on his left and a ricochet tore
ear-to-ear through his head. Blood and brains sprayed Frank in the
face.

He fired a burst from the MP-5, but
the shots went wild as DeAngelo’s body collapsed backward against
him.

The other officers higher up the steps
erupted into a fury of shouts and hollers, everyone struggling to
flee the cramped stairwell and retreat toward safety. Return fire
sputtered overhead, amplifying the chaos and adding to the cries of
several men shrieking in pain.

Half-blinded by the rain of debris
coming off the walls, Frank shoved DeAngelo’s corpse toward Kane
with all of his might, slamming the killer back into the room he’d
emerged from.

The gunfire ceased.

Frank charged after Kane before he
could regain the advantage. He rounded the corner in time to see
the madman slap a fresh clip into his weapon.

Frank rammed him in the chest,
tackling him to the ground.

Kane’s weapon roared, spitting fire
inches from Frank’s face.

The two struck the floor and rolled
apart, each coming up into a half-crouch with only a few feet
between them.

Both snapped up their weapons. Their
gazes locked over the gun sights.

“
Drop it,” Frank
shouted.

The killer’s eyes reflected the ugly
orange light of the basement like twin flames set in the sockets of
a half-rotten skull. They flashed with undeniable glee as he
retracted his upper lip in genuine smile of delight.

“
Fraaaaaaank!”

Frank shuddered at the sound of his
name. It gusted from the killer’s mouth in an elongated breath of
mixed wonder and jubilation.

“
I said drop
it!”

Kane’s smile only broadened. “You’re
early, Detective Attkins. Not that it will do you any good. I’m
finished.”

Frank’s heart thundered in his chest.
Sweat slipped from under his Kevlar helmet and cut trails down his
cheeks. Behind him, the stairwell rumbled and creaked as the SWAT
team reassembled.