The Reckoning (22 page)

Darth made it to Craig’s school in twenty minutes flat. Three patrol cars, two ambulances and a SWAT van were on the scene. Royce tucked Code Blue under the passenger side seat and joined the press of terrified parents and morbid onlookers.

No sign of Craig. It looked as though some children were being treated for shock. One little girl, screaming out of control, was being held down on a stretcher by two paramedics.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. McCulloch.”

It was Chalmers, wringing his hands, his face chapped red from the cold, eyes terror-stricken.

“Craig said it was an emergency, wanted to use the phone, but I was sure it was just a ploy to get attention.”

Royce shook the vice principal’s bag of a body, emptied it of any pomposity that was left.

“Where is Craig?”

Chalmers stuttered. “That—that person. A monster. He broke a policeman’s neck. But Craig got away. During the noon playground period.”

Royce spun to go. Chalmers hung on.

“Mr. McCulloch. The police. They’ll want to talk to you.”

He shoved the school official off him and rushed to Darth.

Halfway up the stairs in Tony’s building the blood showed up: goblets, then pools. Ears ringing, he swung Code Blue to the ready as he tracked the splotchy trail in the carpeting down the hall.

The lawyer was sitting in his swivel, swigging from a bottle of Presidente with his left hand because his right hand and most of his right arm were missing. A sharp spike of grisly bone hung from Tony’s shoulder. The desk was turned over, files and books trashed. Blood-stained. Wearing his fedora, Tony looked like a Mexican Mickey Spillane.

“Mean sonofabitch,” Tony slurred, then spat something harsh-sounding in Spanish Royce couldn’t understand. Royce assessed more damage. His friend’s nose was nearly bitten off, hanging precariously by a thread of flesh. Air whistled from the stub of cartilage.

Tony recognized Royce.

“Phone, downstairs. Tried. Got too tired.”

Royce gently spun Tony to face him.

“Craig, Tony. Craig?”

“He got him.”

Tony’s face was deflating. Royce did some quick thinking, removed the calf-high stretch sock from his right foot, used it as a tourniquet to tie off what was left of his friend’s arm, though it looked, by the amount of soak on the floor, like whatever blood was going to be lost had already left his friend’s body. Tony asked for a cigarette, and Royce found a blood-soaked pack and Tony’s Zippo on the floor. He gently inserted the filter tip between Tony’s mouth and lighted the cigarette. The lawyer took a deep drag.

Tony’s body vibrated, and the cigarette dropped from his lips as he blew smoke, coughing. “What kind of man are you? Fuck you, Royce. Fake…”

Royce pressed his forearm across the man’s chest, holding him down.

“Ah, shit, bud,” Tony rattled, eyes fluttering like rolling cue balls. “I’m the fake. Full of caca. I hate you all. Hate me for trying to be like you.” He dropped the brandy bottle. The liqueur’s sweet smell mixed with the coppery odor of blood, hitting Royce’s empty stomach. His bowel cramped.

Tony gurgled. “Smart kid. Knew what to do. Took a cab here. Then the monster came, and I couldn’t stop him…
Aye. Son muchos los diablos y poco la agua bendita.
”

“Pardon?” Royce said.

Tony laughed. “Look! There are too many devils loose and not enough holy water to go around.”

The lawyer’s body vibrated again.

“It’s going to be okay,” he assured Tony, pressing down harder. “I’ll get downstairs. Phone for an ambulance. Baltimore General’s just a few blocks away.”

Down in the producer’s office he snapped on the lights and located the phone next to a film editing machine.

It rang before he could pick it up.

“Hey, it’s your main man.”

“You fuck!”

“Don’t yell at me while I’m digesting lunch. A special treat—a Mexican hot wing. Not bad, but it sure could stand more green chili.” Cliff chuckled.

“You dirty fuck! I’m going to kill you!”

Cliff giggled again.

“Looking forward to our get-together tonight, Royce. I’d make a point of being here. Otherwise, poor Craig is never gonna come out of that closet. And I mean never.”

Royce started on his fourth tequila shooter, scratched his lower lip with his thumbnail and felt the booze-warmth ebb in his body. Above the bar was a small Christmas tree and lights and foil garland around the mirror. Over the speaker system came a weepy Latino ballad.

At another time, Royce might not have fared well at Rosie’s Bar on Fountain Street. But tonight, not even the toughest of the tough in the place wanted to fuck with him. He had trouble written all over him, exemplified in the revolver handle that just peeked from the flap of his right suit coat pocket whenever he leaned forward at the bar.

Mucho trouble.

Royce spun on his stool, watched a thick-muscled Slav sporting a pony tail break some balls at one of the pool tables. He figured most of the patrons for blue-collar workers too hyper from working the late shift to go home.

He turned back to his drink. The liquor wasn’t affecting him, at least not in ways he could detect. Maybe because he’d been drinking steadily all day.

Like the other guys in the bar, Royce was hyper, but his late shift was just beginning. He checked the clock on the wall. Bar time. Seven minutes fast. He looked at his Seiko and immediately longed for Leslie. Part of the reason he’d not been picked on in the joint, aside from the heavy revolver in his pocket, was all the talking to himself he’d been doing.

Mostly telling Leslie he was sorry. Telling her he missed her. Telling her not to worry about Craig. Telling her the truth for once.

No, he hadn’t loved her. Never did. Maybe now.

His body shuddered. Fear, booze, self-loathing.

God will get you, Royce McCulloch. God already has.

Poco loco.

That afternoon, he’d stood outside Tony’s office until the ambulance arrived, then split. For an hour he just drove aimlessly, crying, not knowing what to do or where to turn. He must have been a strange sight, a weeping man at the wheel of a Porsche Carrera. The police were out. No doubt he was suspect one in the murder of his wife, which is why he had not gone home or back to his office.

Then, after his drive, he’d done something kind of loony. He’d rented tapes of Coppola’s
Bram Stoker’s Dracula
and Romero’s
Night of the Living Dead
at a Blockbuster video store. But where to play them? Eventually, he’d ended up at an adult bookstore on O’Donnell Street, where you could enjoy the comforts of a private, VCR-equipped jerk-off closet (with roll of toilet paper) if you rented an X-rated tape. He rented a gem called
Boobarella
, then snugged himself in with a fifth of Pancho Villa tequila he’d bought along the way for company. The TV screen was splash-stained, and it didn’t take much imagination for him to figure out the source of the stains.

Royce had never been much of a horror movie fan, but he found a raw, campy appeal in the Romero movie, and the Dracula movie’s sex scenes turned him on. The flicks also gave him ideas on how to deal with his adversaries.

By the time he got around to
Boobarella
the tequila had taken its toll. He was sweating profusely and overwhelmed by the titty tonnage presented in the video, on the verge of
ad nauseam
. But yes, he was hard.

Royce had turned up the sound so he could better hear the hyper moans of pleasure. Laughing, he drove the base of the tequila bottle down on his crotch. He wanted to crush the boner, destroy the penis.

“Deeegenerate,” he’d spat to himself.

And if thy cock offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee. Where was his holy redeemer?

The fucking cock. It was all the fucking cock’s fault.

Then he’d forgotten all about sex entirely, and for a few minutes he’d entertained the notion that the cramped booth was really a time machine. He talked to Les on their wedding day, to Jesse as they enjoyed the male-bonding serendipity of an FAC in the Village, to Carly as they shared a bottle of wine on Isla Mujeres.

Sorry, lady. Oh, so sorry.

He commanded his time machine forward to the present, utilized its telepathic feature to speak with Craig.

I’m coming for you.

The future? For that he didn’t need a time machine.

“You’re a long time dead,” Jesse had told him.

He’d left the bottle and the horror tapes for the next customer, then turned in
Boobarella
and made sure—eyes slow-focusing—the tattooed guy behind the counter tore up the MasterCard carbon for the seventy-dollar deposit he’d had to fork over.

Next stop was Home Depot, where he purchased a wooden picket fence post (nice and pointy) and a mallet. Then he was off to Kmart, where, lumbering stiffly down the aisles, he bought some odds and ends: two cans of Sterno, sandwich bags, a Korean-made ski parka with zippered pockets, a six-cell flashlight, three Bic cigarette lighters, three polyester pillows and a heavy hunting knife with serrated blade and leather sheath.

Finally, he had purchased a sixteen-ounce cup of coffee at a Circle K store, parked at the Parkville Mall, sat in the car and sobered.

Killing time.

Killing time before they took him over to the other side: death.

Thinking, mulling things over, he had driven some more. He drove as far west as Catonsville, as far south as Glen Burnie, then north and east to Rosie’s.

Royce fast-forwarded his ravaged brain cells to present time. He looked at his watch again and left the bartender a twenty-dollar bill.
Merry Fucking Christmas
.

Outside the bar a light snow was falling. Again. He took a leak in the parking lot. He then opened Darth’s trunk, took the Colt from his suit coat pocket, removed the suit jacket and slipped on the parka. Zipped in the parka’s left pocket were two baggies of purple Sterno jelly. He slipped Code Blue into the right pocket, which he left unzipped.

From the trunk he also pulled the sheathed knife, snapped the sheath to his belt. Then he grabbed the fence post and mallet and pitched them into the front seat. Finally, he got his hands around the pillows, which, after closing the trunk and unlocking Darth, he stuffed into the passenger side seat.

He turned the key in the ignition, instrument lights glowing, engine revving.

I’m coming for you.

Royce parked Darth beside the loading dock, braced himself, and climbed the stairs.

The door was open.

He switched the flashlight on in his left hand, held Code Blue in his right, stepped inside. Immediately, he was sickened by the smell of death.

Like a deep diving sub at the bottom of a black abyss, he took small, hesitant steps, his flashlight pooling along the planked floor. He found debris: sheep’s organs, a bloodied men’s golf shirt, fast-food containers, a months-old copy of
The National Enquirer
, a grimy heating pad, a fax machine and camcorder, fingerprinted with blood.

The tequila was keeping his heart from pounding out of his chest.

There was more: empty plasma bags, piles of women’s clothing, including bras and thong panties, some of it bloodied. A couple wigs, one flaming red, one platinum blonde. Plastic purses. There was a woman’s shapely leg buzzing with flies, fuck-me pump on the foot, and what looked like a woman’s breast sealed in plastic wrap. Royce shuddered, struggled to keep the bile from coming up his throat. So this is what became of the missing hookers.

Stroke of midnight. He came upon an old horsehair couch, its cushions badly stained. Tucked between the cushions was a large medicine bottle marked with bloody fingerprints, labeled “Anadrol 50 mg. Anabolic Steroid.” Next to the couch was a television and VCR. The video player was running.

Suddenly the set hummed and buzzed, screen brightening.

Home video for the demented. Royce recognized the jarring camera angles and shitty sound—Cliff’s signatures.

There was Marvin enjoying himself (boner coming out of his pants fly) on the couch with Carly, the man’s face firmly wedged between the woman’s deep cleavage. Carly nursed the P.I. while she yanked on his dick with her hand. Poor Marvin looked drunk. Carly poured whisky on Marvin’s head and her mammoth jugs, which looked blemished by irregularly shaped bruises. Moaning, Marvin lapped at the glowing breast meat.

“You like these?” she simpered.

“Mmmmmmmm.”

Slurp. Lick. Hiss. Royce’s cock pulsed.

Carly went to her knees, spread Marvin’s legs open, buried her face in his groin. The detective wore a shit-eating grin.

Up to now it looked like an old stag movie, down to the garter belt and torn stockings Carly wore. Then it turned into something darker.

Marvin screamed. The camera steadied, set down on a tripod or shelf. Marvin struggled.

“Please…Please, no.”

“Yummy yum yum.”

Marvin screamed.

Arterial blood hosed from Marvin’s groin, drenched Carly’s face. Suddenly Cliff rushed into the scene and shoved Carly aside to suck on Marvin’s groin wound himself. Meanwhile, Carly gulped Marvin’s cock and balls down gator-style. Marvin’s body convulsed. When Cliff was done sucking blood, he reached for a machete on the floor and stood up, towering over Marvin. Cliff swung the weapon up.

“Nooooo!” Royce screamed futilely.

Cliff severed the detective’s head with one blow.

The video hissed. A rough cut, a new scene. Royce tightened his grip on the pistol. Carly, again dressed like a whore, had Craig on the couch. The boy looked stoned, could barely keep his eyes open. Traumatized. Face battered. Maybe drugged.

Carly kissed him all over his face, smearing the pulpy bruises, licked him like a lioness drying her newborn.

“Such a pretty boy,” Carly cooed.

Now she forced the boy’s hands to her hellish breasts. Craig’s hands dropped heavily. She put them back.

“In a few years, Craig, you’ll want to play with these instead of Nintendo. Want to play with them so bad. Like your stepdaddy does.”

Royce seethed. The goddamn bitch.

“Put her there, pal.”

Royce spun into an outthrust hand—a glove of skin on the end of bloody, grisly bone.

Royce gasped, drew back, tilted the light up.

There was Cliff in that same leather outfit of his, but without the dark glasses. Royce shined the light in Cliff’s face. The man’s corneas were blood red.

“Hey, old buddy.”

Cliff dropped the skeletal arm. It shattered on the floor.

“Your buddy is a little spicy,” Cliff said and belched loudly. He giggled. “That’s not bad manners, that’s good Mexican.” The man wiped his skull with his hand, bloodying his scalp.

Royce’s nostrils flared.

“Where’s Craig?”

Cliff smirked. “The closet. Where else? Kind of a goofy kid if you ask me. Maladjusted. Probably grow up to be a faggot, like his stepfather.”

Royce brandished the gun. Cliff noticed the weapon and smiled.

“You really think that’s gonna do you any good? Against me?”

“We can see.”

“You all packed?”

“No.”

Royce thrust the flashlight barrel between his legs so he could steady the gun with two hands. He raised the weapon, hands trembling. He took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The Python kicked and scorched a hole in Cliff’s vest at his right nipple.

Cliff jerked, then jammed his thumb into the puckered wound, popped it back out like a New Year’s Eve cork. Smiling, he said, “Sorry, old buddy.”

Royce fired two more times, blasting lead into Cliff’s stomach.

Cliff jolted twice, saw the two holes smoking in his gut but seemed only annoyed.

“You promised to come with us.”

“Let Craig go, then I’ll go with you. I promise.”

The vampire advanced on Royce. Royce aimed at Cliff’s head, fired and missed. He tried for a leg shot, firing the weapon until it clicked impotently, and only managed to nick his attacker’s right ankle.

Cliff giggled. “I promise,” he mocked. “I promise. Let’s seal it with a kiss.”

Before Royce could draw back, Cliff’s blotchy face filled his entire field of vision as fingers of steel clutched him firmly. Gnarly teeth with the stench of used dental floss closed on his mouth. A kiss.

A gross smooch, then the ugly choppers bit into Royce’s neck. The flashlight fell from between Royce’s knees.

Royce screamed, slammed the pistol against the side of Cliff’s head and dropped the weapon. The vampire backed off, displaying blood-soaked fangs. Royce’s left hand shot to his ripped and bleeding neck.

“Sweet, buddy. A double shot of corpuscles.”

Cliff butted his head against Royce’s with a dull crack. Royce stumbled back, his forehead searing hot. He bent forward and choked. Blood rushed to his head.

That’s when Royce pulled his emery board crucifix from his coat pocket and theatrically displayed it to Cliff. Cliff didn’t seem impressed and advanced on him.

“You gotta be kidding, old buddy. Those only work if you believe. And I
know
you don’t believe—in anything!”

Royce dropped the crucifix and trudged heavily to where the flashlight had rolled to a rest. He leaned forward, a rush of pain sending shock waves through him. Cliff limped towards him.

A boot toe struck Royce’s scrotum. He went down on one knee and heaved on the flashlight.

“Feeling a little pukey?”

Royce dropped the gun, which Cliff retrieved and flung away—the weapon shattering through a painted-over window. Royce reached into his pocket as he retrieved the light and shook the vomit off it. Cliff kicked him on the right side. His kidney scolded hot.

“Jesus,” he moaned wetly, clutching at his side, then took a sledgehammer blow on the right side of his face. Royce went over to the left, rolling through the barf but managing to hold onto the light.

He rolled several feet, made himself dizzy. Groaning, he drew himself upright. He dribbled acid saliva on the floor. Fuck, there wasn’t one place on him that didn’t hurt.

Standing now, he pivoted wildly with the light, head spinning. Hot mucous spewed from his nose and mixed with the blood and bile in his mouth. He lumbered, swinging the light.

“Craig,” he gasped.

“Hey there!”

His left kneecap cracked, kicked in. Royce cried out, went down again, this time on his back. The light rolled out of his hand. He was in darkness, chest heaving. Royce sobbed. Blood backed up in his throat.

“Craig,” he choked.

The flashlight bounced high, now in the Cliff’s hand. The sonofabitch towered over him, then leaned over, snarling.

“I don’t take shit from anybody!”

Cliff grasped Royce’s shirt collar, easily drew the man upright so that his feet were inches off the floor—dead lifting him. The two were now up close and personal, nose to nose.

Royce reached into his right pocket, clutched at a baggy of fire juice and the cigarette lighter.

“You above all should know that, Royce.”

The stench, spittles of blood and decaying meat.

Royce pulled the bag out, splat it against Cliff’s kisser, immediately smelled acrid petroleum. Cliff yowled, dropped the flashlight to rub his wildly blinking eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Cliff let Royce go.

Royce reached into his right pocket for the Bic, flicked the lighter and touched the flame to Cliff’s chin.

Vvvvruuush.

The fire sucked oxygen and flared, turning Cliff’s domed head orange. He zigzagged screaming, hands pin-wheeling.

Punch drunk, Royce trailed the dancing torch. He came up from behind, kicked Cliff squarely in the ass.

Cliff went down on his knees, his flaming arms reaching heavenward.

Royce located the flashlight and went in search of Craig, bleating the boy’s name from his bleeding mouth.

Cliff had said the boy was “in the closet.” That clue eventually brought him to the row of locker doors, most of them open and off their hinges. He cautiously ducked his head in one, shined the flash on the debris-strewn tile floor: lumber, wire spools, broken tile. Along the tile walls were meat hooks.

Panting now, he stepped inside, bouncing the light beam off the walls.

In the far corner of the cooler was a single sheep’s carcass lying on its side. Royce started for it.

“Fuck.”

He lifted up his left foot, now attached to a nail and board. Cursing, he pried the board off his shoe. The nail had spiked deep, but he’d felt more inconvenience than pain.

Had your tetanus booster recently, Mr. R.?

He hobbled on.

The curly mound seemed to heave, still alive.

Couldn’t be. No head.

He leaned over, felt the tremble coming from it.

Royce shined the light into the pocket of flesh, right in Craig’s bloodied face. He was in some kind of shock, eyes open but not recognizing anything.

“Craig.”

Louder. “Craig!”

He gently touched the boy’s right cheek. Craig’s eyes fluttered; his mouth opened, silent-screaming. He clawed.

Royce captured the boy’s arms, pulled him from the woolly cocoon.

“Craig, it’s Royce.”

The fifth-grader went into convulsions.

Royce shook him hard.

“Craig. Damn you!”

The orange glare from outside the refrigerator went out. Not a good sign. He had to get that boy awake and to safety, then lure Cliff outside to Darth.

Royce pulled Craig to his feet. Shook him again. Slapped him.

“Craig!”

Royce made a fist, popped it into his stepson’s right cheek.

Finally, he was coming out of it.

“Surface, boy,” Royce whispered. “Please.”

Craig recognized Royce. He clutched at his stepdad’s waist. Royce hugged him back.

“It’s okay now,” Royce said, words muffled. “Can you walk?”

Craig nodded, shaking life back into his legs. Then he saw Royce’s face and flinched back.

Royce pulled him tighter, saying, “Just don’t look at me. An accident. We’re going to make it.”

Royce took his stepson’s hand and they headed for an open door, using the flashlight to guide them. Craig’s small fingers held tightly onto Royce.

Royce hobbled fast, favoring his hurt foot, taking them towards the dockside door.

“You couldn’t be that fucking lucky!”

Hot teeth clamped onto Royce’s left ankle. He quickly handed Craig the flashlight, shoved the boy forward.

“Get to the door and run like hell!”

Craig hesitated, terror-bugged eyes glaring at the gruesome, hissing thing that had dragged itself along the floor to capture Royce with its mouth.

“Run, Craig. Run up Ordinance Road. To a bar, anywhere there’s people. A phone. Get the police!”

The boy turned and ran.

“And whatever you do, don’t come back here!”

Royce pulled his knife, stabbed the point into Cliff’s head, which had the look and texture of a burnt baked potato.

Cliff shuddered, let go, glared at Royce with eyes that glowed like hot suet.

“You didn’t finish the job, Royce. Ready to go?”

Yeah.

He bolted towards a wavering pinpoint of light at the far end of the slaughterhouse. A beacon.

Craig.

Royce went for the light, at the same time screaming for Craig to beat it. From behind he heard scampering sounds, something dragging itself, fast.

He was within thirty feet of the door when he stumbled, fell headlong. Royce got to his feet, limped on. But it had given Cliff all the time he needed. Just as Royce reached the door Cliff sprang up and tackled him. They hit the floor, rolled head over heels. Now Cliff was on top of him, pressing down on him, smothering, almost sexual.

He whispered, “I’m beginning to think you never really liked me.”

Cliff gaped his jaws open wide shark-style and dug into Royce’s groin, ripping cloth, tearing delicate skin.

“Ah fuck!” Royce spat. He jammed the blade of his knife between Cliff’s teeth, breaking some off but failing to wedge the maw open. He yelled out, his scrotum tearing.

Light hit his face. Craig stood above him.

“Get the fuck out of here, you little shit!” Royce cried.

Royce wailed in pain.

“Yum yum yummy yum!”

Royce pressed the knifepoint to Cliff’s right eye, bopped the handle with his palm. The eyeball split open like a fruitcake cherry.

“Fuck!” Cliff wailed.

Cliff stopped chewing on Royce’s ball sack to feel at his empty eye socket with his singed hands.

“You blinded me, you motherfucker!”

Royce shoved the monster off him with his foot, rolled and started crawling through the door, then stood to run, clutching at his bleeding nuts.