Point Pleasant (37 page)

When Tucker headed out to the barn to gather shovels, Ben went out to the Camaro and grabbed the Remington Tucker had lent him along with the remainder of his bag of rock salt. He put the salt and duffel bags into the bed of Tucker’s truck—they had already agreed they would take it, rather than the Camaro, given the terrain of the road that led up to the old factory—and he pulled out his phone to dial Nicholas’ number once more. It went to voicemail again.

At the sound of the beep, Ben spoke. “Nic, where are you? I’m still at Tucker’s, but we’re going in just a minute. You can meet us at the factory. Or not if you’ve got something going on in town. But just let me know everything’s okay. Okay?”

Ben hit ‘End’ when Tucker reappeared. He had two shovels and a coil of rope. He tossed everything into the bed of the truck. The clang of the shovels against the metal of the old Ford echoed across the quiet landscape.

Ben climbed into the passenger seat as Tucker slid in the driver’s side and cranked up the engine. Tucker glanced at Ben. They did not speak. He put the truck into reverse, made a left onto River Bend, and drove west toward the direction of the road that would lead them to the factory.

The section of blacktop where Ben had parked the Camaro the day before now resembled a small disaster site. The trees lining the road were charred and bent backwards as if a blast of
something
had forced them all into that position. The truck bounced over the broken asphalt, and Ben noticed that Tucker had a vise grip on the steering wheel.

They drove in tense, alert silence and kept a cautious eye on the surrounding forest when the truck finally turned onto a disused gravel thoroughfare.

Tucker slowed the truck’s speed as it bumped and heaved along. After a slow crawl up the winding lane, the derelict factory came into view. Ben realized that despite spending twenty years in Point Pleasant, he had never once laid eyes on the place that had helped serve as a catalyst for his writing career.

The building loomed tall and ominous. Its gray brickwork was solid but cracked open in some spots from harsh winters and decades of neglect. Ben wondered if the factory had gone out of use not because of the end of the war but because of the dark presence in the surrounding woods.

Tucker parked, and they got out of the truck with their shotguns in hand and duffel bags full of supplies thrown over their shoulders.

“Don’t suppose your pal
Raz
told you where to dig?”

“No.” Ben frowned and peered up at the expanse of the factory.

“Of course he didn’t,” Tucker sighed. “Tell me again why he can’t dig up his own damned sigil?” he asked as they walked.

“Said it ‘repels’ him. I guess he can’t get near it.”

“You think he’s here now?” Tucker asked, scanning the area.

Ben assessed the trees that lined the road they had just driven up and nodded. “Probably.”

“Comforting,” Tucker grumbled.

“Let’s go have a look around inside,” Ben said. He took out a flashlight and tilted his chin to the main entrance.

Tucker glowered with apprehension, but he followed.

When Ben pulled at the front entry door’s handle, it opened with a heavy groan and screech of rusted hinges. Tucker’s forehead wrinkled, and he held up his shotgun.

“Someone forgot to lock up.”

Ben walked inside the dark entryway and grimaced at the stale smell of mildew. “Maybe they left in a hurry. How long’s it been since anyone was up here?”

“
Years
, it’d have to be,” Tucker replied with a heavy shrug.

Ben aimed his flashlight around the empty hallway. There was just enough sunlight filtering in through the windows that they could navigate the large, empty rooms with relative ease, but the absence of a stable overhead light gave the factory an eeriness that only added to Ben’s disconcertion.

Ben wandered to the right, through an open doorway, and surveyed the factory floor.

It was a huge, open space with old machinery pushed into the corners. Everything seemed to be covered in a thick, white film of dust and mold. Most of the windows were broken. Ivy crept in through the frames from where it grew up the side of the brickwork. Stunted photosynthesis had turned the foliage the shade of blood. Ben indulged in a moment of delirious fantasy in which he imagined that the forest was
eating
the factory. Soon, the building would be completely consumed by the wilderness.

“Looks clear to me,” Tucker whispered, following close as Ben ventured to the middle of the factory floor. “Maybe we should check out the other side.”

Ben hummed in response, and he was somehow sure that the room was not of importance. “Lead the way.”

Tucker turned with the barrel of his Remington pointed toward the entryway. Ben’s ears strained to hear the sound of something—
anything
—that could be in the factory with them, but the only noise he could detect was the constant echo of their shuffled footsteps against the concrete floor. The quietness of the factory and the surrounding forest was almost maddening.

Tucker led them across the length of the factory through abandoned hallways and empty offices to the other side of the building, which bore an almost identical machine room and open floor plan. This side of the building, however, was in shambles. A large, gaping hole marred the north-facing wall. The opening itself was about thirty feet tall and ten feet wide. Bricks littered the area around the breach.

“Did they ever start to demolish this place?”

Tucker shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“How did that happen, then?” Ben asked, indicating the ruined wall.

Tucker gave Ben a
look
.

Ben trained his flashlight to the south wall and moved closer. The brickwork there was also smashed, but not all the way, and heavy machinery was turned over in front of it.

A sudden, wild idea flitted across Ben’s mind like the flickering of a black-and-white reel on one of the Marquee’s projection screens: someone—or
something
—had been thrown through the side of the factory, and the far wall had slowed the subsequent crash. Ben kept the thought to himself, but his imagination ran wild with images of Mothra versus Godzilla, and Tokyo as it was devastated in their path.

Tucker did a sweep of the room as Ben contemplated the state of the walls. When Tucker spoke, his voice echoed unnaturally. “Well, where the hell are we supposed to dig?”

Ben turned. Before he could answer, a loud creaking and groaning penetrated the air. Tucker raised his shotgun, and Ben spun toward the perforated north wall. He heard the sound of rustling, but his brain registered its source too late. An ancient oak hurtled through the ceiling and crashed down a few feet from where he stood.

Ben fell to the ground and covered his head as the tree pinned him under a bed of branches and leaves. Chunks of wood, brick, and ceiling tile rained from above. Ben curled his knees to his chest when some of the debris fell atop him.

“Wisehart!” Tucker called from the other side of the room. Ben remained inert even as he heard the other man’s footsteps pound across the floor. “Son, say something!”

The heavy scent of sap and earth permeated Ben’s nostrils as he swatted at the leaves around his face. He pushed himself up, wrestled his way through the branches, and stood on shaky legs that were knee-deep in foliage.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ben said while Tucker helped him out of the mess of limbs.

“Shit on a stick, I thought it squashed you!”

Ben shook his head and appraised the tree; it was huge.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Me too.”

They retreated, and Tucker raised his shotgun again to aim its barrel up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and then to the now-massive gap in the side of the building.

A warm rivulet of
something
trickled down Ben’s forehead, and he reached up to inspect the source. When he checked his fingers, they were covered in red. “Shit.”

Tucker yanked an old bandana out of his back pocket and offered it to Ben before he edged closer to the opening in the wall with his Remington at the ready.

Ben winced, putting the bandana to his forehead and pressing it to the wound. It stung, but the amount of blood was not worrisome. Aside from a light dizziness that he attributed more to the rush of adrenaline than to the head injury, Ben felt fine. He pocketed the bandana, grabbed his own shotgun, and brought it around from where he had slung it over his shoulder.

“See anything?” Ben called.

“Nothing.”

Ben joined Tucker and eyed the forest. It was still and silent now that the leviathan of a tree had come to a rest. The absence of birdsong made the situation even more surreal.

“Okay, asshole!” Ben yelled into the woods. He was somehow certain that Raziel was responsible for the tree’s abrupt fall. “If that was you, you almost killed me!”

“Don’t call the angel who just dropped a tree on you an ‘asshole,’ son,” Tucker said and widened his eyes. “I don’t wanna find out what he does when he’s offended.”

Ben snorted with derision. “Oh, so now you believe he’s an angel?”

“I don’t know what I believe, but I sure as shit ain’t convinced he’s a nice guy,” Tucker replied and gestured to the tree.

Ben’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grabbed it with the hope that it was Nicholas. His screen showed a missed call from no number. Anxiety flooded his chest. He dialed for voicemail, navigated through the robotic woman’s notification, and then frowned at the recording.

“
My apologies. I expected you to be further away. The floor is broken now,
” Raziel said, and his voice was still a fluctuating lilt of high-to-low tones.

Tucker leaned in and listened while the message played. They eyed the tree, and Tucker scoffed.

“So that’s where we dig?”

“Looks like.”

“Well, now we gotta move a damn tree,” Tucker grumbled as he lowered his shotgun. “I’ll get the truck. We can haul it back enough to work.”

“I’ll set up the salt,” Ben said. “Just in case.”

Tucker nodded and hurried to the exit. Ben draped his shotgun over his shoulder by its strap and retrieved the duffel bag he had been carrying from where he had dropped it when the tree fell. He pulled out the bag of rock salt and set a perimeter around the room.

When he was finished, Tucker had pulled his truck around to the side of the building and was working to tie the coil of rope to his rear bumper. Ben abandoned the almost-empty bag of rock salt and went to help. He tied the other end of the rope to the base of the tree trunk.

“Think it’ll hold?”

Tucker pulled his keys out of his pocket and sighed. “We’ll find out,” he said before he walked around to the other side of the truck and climbed inside.

Ben stood back as the engine sputtered and rumbled to life. Tucker pushed down on the accelerator to move the truck forward at a slow crawl. The rope ran out of slack, and the truck stalled as the weight of the tree held it in place.

“C’mon,” Tucker groused from inside the truck, and the engine revved a bit as he pushed down on the accelerator with more force. The truck jerked forward, and the slide of branches across the concrete floor indicated that Tucker’s plan was working.

“You got it! Keep going,” Ben called out.

Tucker’s truck moved onward. Its front nudged closer to the forest. The oak slid across the floor. The broken concrete was revealed inch-by-inch as the tree was hauled outside until Tucker had to stop and turn to reverse and aim the nose of the truck off to the right lest he drive straight into the tree line.

When Tucker had dragged the tree as far as it could go, Ben sealed the final edge of the salt line now that the tree was out of the way. Tucker ambled out of the truck and examined the floor.

The main impact had cracked open an area on the floor that was about ten feet wide. Ben had not considered how they would break through the concrete, so he supposed he could let the near-death experience slide for now.

“All right,” Tucker said as he untied the rope and tossed it into the bed of the truck. “Let’s get to work.”

Ben took off his coat. It was freezing in the factory in only a t-shirt, but he was sure that would change once they started digging. He draped the garment over the edge of the truck bed, grabbed his shovel, and strode over to the cracked floor.

Ben and Tucker used their shovels as leverage to pry large chunks of broken concrete from the ground. They loosened as much as they could, and Ben finally pulled at pieces with his hands until they came free.

Ben started a pile a few feet away. He moved the larger pieces of rubble over, mindful of the fact that Tucker’s back was probably best spared the job. Within twenty minutes, the two of them had cleared a large enough area on the floor to start digging.

Ben wiped at his forehead with his forearm, and a film of sweat and blood smeared across his skin.

“Now comes the hard work,” Tucker said and gripped the handle of his shovel.

Three hours later, Tucker took a break and urged Ben to do the same. They stood in a hole that was almost six feet in depth and width. Tucker winced when he tried to climb out.

“Here, I’ll give you a boost,” Ben said.

He bent down and laced his fingers together. Tucker put his right foot into Ben’s palms and pulled himself up and out of the pit while Ben pushed. Ben gripped at the side and pulled himself up with a little help from Tucker. They stood on the concrete of the factory floor, panting for breath and wiping at their brows.

“This is a young man’s game,” Tucker said after he took a draught of whiskey. “My back ain’t cut out for this.”

“You take a while, I’ll keep going,” Ben said.

Tucker flumped against one of the nearby machines and had another swig of whiskey. “Maybe Sheriff’ll show up, give you a break.” Tucker spoke the words with ease, but his tone was filled with a derisiveness that bristled at Ben’s nerves.

Ben pulled out his phone. It was after one o’clock, and he scowled to see that he had no missed calls or messages.

“Where the fuck is he?” Ben muttered as he dialed Nicholas’ number for the fourth time that day.