Tim Curran - The Devil Next Door

But then A woman and two naked girls came rushing out of the potting shed where they’d been waiting all along. Mad things with wild hair and grime-streaked faces. Their eyes were huge and staring, lips pulled back from teeth.

And Mike, his brain reeling and misfiring, recognized them.

Or who they had once been.

Kylie…Elissa…those girls are Kylie and Elissa Sinclair. And that’s their mom…Maddie, Maddie Sinclair.

This passed through his mind like a dying echo, but had no true substance and quickly faded.

Matt turned and kicked out at the woman, driving her back. But as he did so, one of the girls took a long-tined meat fork and stabbed him in the side. He let out a yelp of pain and turned to fight and the other girl slashed him across the throat with a knife.

No!

Mike jumped in, diving on the woman, trying to thumb out her eyes and get his teeth to her throat, but she threw him off. Threw him down. Kicked him and kicked him again until he rolled away, panting and stunned and breathless. She left him there and joined the two girls in goring Matt, taking him down, hunters to prey, slashing and cutting and stabbing him until he was a coiled up thing on the ground, raw and red-stained.

Mike crawled off towards the hedges.

One of the girls came after him.

He tripped her up and punched her twice in the face, feeling her lips mash against the teeth below. She went down but not before laying his face open with her nails in four red stripes.

Mike ran off.

He looked back once, knowing his brother was beyond help.

The woman and the girls were poking Matt with their forks and jabbing him with their knives. He was making a hoarse bleating sound, but he was all used up. He barely moved. The woman and the girls were spattered with blood. It stood out in bright, vibrant contrast to their pale faces.

As Mike ran off, he saw the woman hike up her sundress and piss on his brother, scenting him with territorial pheromones.

Marking her kill…

For the longest time, there were only the sounds of shovels scraping concrete, of things popping and snapping and dripping. The kid was stuck to the concrete and it took some work for them to shovel him free. It was back-breaking labor, all right, messy, dirty, stinking work. But under Warren’s direction, they finally got the kid’s body into the wheelbarrow and by then they were sweating and filthy and not in the best of moods. Then they stood there in sweat-stained and gore-streaked uniforms, not saying anything, just looking at the stain on the sidewalk and the red sprawl of arms and legs spilling over the sides of the wheelbarrow.

“That’s it,” Warren said, studying his pink-stained hands. “That’s it.”

“Now what?” Shaw said to him, his fat face beaded with sweat.

Kojozian smeared blood over his chest.

A crowd had gathered to watch-men, women and even children-and they pressed in close as they dared, not really amused or horrified or suffused with any other emotion you would readily expect. Others had came, sure, but they got out of there right away when they saw what was going on and maybe when they saw how that crowd looked, what was in their eyes and, more importantly, what wasn’t. Their eyes were dead, distant moons that looked and watched, but did not seem to see. Some of the men pulled off cigarettes and a few of the women held babies. Many were naked. Many had painted arcane symbols on their chests. They admired the X on Kojozian’s face. One old lady had brought her knitting. A little boy had a sucker in his mouth that he slurped on.

“Our uniforms are a mess,” Shaw said. “They smell.”

Warren scratched his head, wondering why that mattered. They were cops. They had to keep the uniforms on, especially the shiny badges. People would know them by these things. Symbols of office, of authority.

Kojozian said, “What do we do with this kid? We just gonna wheel him around all day?”

“Why don’t you dig a hole,” one of the crowd said.

“Sure,” said another. “A hole is where something like that belongs.”

“Plant flowers on top so it looks nice,” said the old lady with the knitting.

But Warren explained to them that this was police business, official business, and you just couldn’t go burying a dead kid anywhere you wanted. There were rules and regulations to be followed. Rituals. Yes, rituals that must be observed. They just didn’t understand.

“I say we find out where he lives and bring him over there,” Kojozian suggested.

Warren shrugged. “Yeah, that might be the thing to do. Whoever he belongs to will like that, don’t you think?”

Kojozian grinned. “It’s the least we can do.”

The kid who was working the sucker stepped forward. “That’s Ryan Soames. He delivers our paper. I know where he lives. It’s just a block over.”

“Okay, kid,” Warren said, “lead the way.”

Kojozian pushed the wheelbarrow down the sidewalk, the kid out in front, marching like he was in a parade. Behind them, the crowd plodded along. They were all excited to get to the kid’s house. This was really gonna be something…

After Ray Hansel and Paul Mackabee of the State Police CSI left Greenlawn High School and Principal Bejamin Shore and the crime scene in general, they drove through the town, trying to get a feel for it. And what amazed them most was that they couldn’t.

The town felt…what?

Hansel wasn’t sure exactly, but almost blank, empty, deserted. The way a ghost town would feel, the sense that it was unoccupied. That you were the only thing in it. And that didn’t make much sense because he saw people out in the streets walking, washing their cars, shopping, women pushing baby strollers and men leaning on the backs of pickup trucks, chatting, as men will do. There was life, there were people, but why could he not feel them? Although it made absolutely no sense on the surface, Greenlawn was like a town peopled by mannequins, dummies. Things that looked like people, pretended to be people, but were not people.

You be careful with that, Hansel told himself, you be real careful. There’s something wrong here and you know it. If all goes to hell as you are suspecting it will, there’s going to be need of a few clear, clean heads that can do some thinking.

“ Don’t know about you, Ray,” Mackabee said, “but I’m getting a chill right up my spine.”

“ Me, too.”

They listened silently to the squawk coming over the radio and it did not allay their fears much. There were a couple of old houses burning on Water Street on the north side. A couple kids had drowned in the Green. Lots of domestic disturbances. A couple of assaults. A child had gone missing after school. And there had been no less than three reported suicides within the hour. All this in Greenlawn. Whatever this was, it was building, gaining momentum.

Maybe if it had just been here and not the rest of the country they might have felt a little relieved. But it was everywhere and that scared the shit out of both men.

Hansel thought: Nowhere to run. No matter how bad it gets here, there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No safe harbor. One town will be just as insane as the next.

Jesus.

He drove downtown and pulled up before the police station, a tall and narrow slab of pale brick. He stood there on the sidewalk, sensing things that he did not like.

An old man walked past and his eyes were filled with murder.

A woman walked by holding a little girl’s hand and there was something almost synthetic about the expressions on their faces.

“ I’m gonna go grab a cup of coffee across the street,” Mackabee said and from the way he said it, the idea of that disturbed him.