Tim Curran - The Devil Next Door

But he just shook his head. “No, you won The Lottery.”

“Yes, The Lottery,” another said.

And soon they were all chanting it with dead voices: “The Lottery, The Lottery, The Lottery, The Lottery…”

The Lottery? The Lottery? It didn’t make any sense, but then again, maybe it made all the sense in the world. They sure as hell weren’t talking about the state lottery drawing, Winfall or Megamillions, no this particular lottery was of a much darker variety and she damn well knew it. Because right then as they ringed her in and she saw the stark madness in their eyes and what they were holding in their hands, she knew. She knew. Because they were all around Shannon’s age and Shannon had been reading a story for school called “The Lottery.” Rosemary knew the story. She’d read it in school herself. And in that story, the person that won the lottery was “No!” she said to them. “You can’t do this! You can’t do what you’re thinking!”

“Yes, we can,” Tommy said.

“Please!” she cried, holding out her hands in supplication. “That’s just a story! It’s not real! You can’t do this! You can’t do something like this!”

Now they were grinning and raising the shards of brick in their hands. Behind her was a wall and before her, only the kids themselves. If she wanted out, she would have to go right through them. But it was too late, because it began. Rosemary ducked under the first few shards, but others struck her legs and chest. She cried out in pain and two more shards struck her head, putting her right down to her knees.

And then all the children came forward.

They threw more chunks of brick and with everything they had. Rosemary’s scalp was cut open, her flaxen hair going red with a blossom of blood. Another hit her nose hard enough to break it. Another knocked three teeth out of her mouth and still another peeled the flesh away from her cheekbone. And they kept coming, stones and rocks and missiles, knocking her senseless. Before she fell, a cruelly aimed hunk of brick caught her right in the left eye, smashing it to pulp right in the socket.

And through bloody vision she saw her daughter there amongst them.

Shannon stood there, grinning.

“WHAT IS THE LAW?” she said. “WHAT IS THE LAW?”

With a wet and tormented moaning coming from her lips, Rosemary pitched straight over and then the kids circled around her, pummeling her from above with more shards of brick until she stopped moving, until her legs kicked with weak spasms and blood ran from her shattered skull and punched-in face.

Laughing, the kids kept at it for some time…

Night was coming fast now and Mr. Chalmers, content now for perhaps the first time in his life with who and what he was, smelled it on the breeze. Dogs howled in the distance and he listened, judging from the sounds just how far away they were and if they presented any danger to his clan.

He was watching his hunters by the fire.

In what had once been his backyard, they were hard at work applying what he had taught them. Using the limbs of straight saplings, they were fashioning spears. After the limbs were peeled, the ends were split so the blade of a knife could be inserted and lashed into place. Now they were fire-hardening the points as he had also showed them. Chalmers himself had learned this technique in survival school while he was in the Army. And though much of his former life was now misty, indistinct, or absolutely incomprehensible, he remembered this.

Somewhere, a few streets away probably, there rose a chorus of blood-curdling screams. They came and went, rising and falling with a rhythmic cadence. These were not the screams of agony or fear, but of joy. The night was coming and the clans were getting excited for the barbarity and promise that only darkness could bring.

Chalmers had once been married. Many, many years ago. His wife had passed on and he had never remarried, remained childless to this day. But he had always wanted children, felt the paternal pangs for a brood of his own. And then, as he entered his sixth decade, the pangs for grandchildren.

Now he was satisfied.

Now he had children.

They were his hunters: a ragged, disparate group with naked, oiled bodies, dirty faces and grubby bodies painted up with earthen browns, electric blues, and blood reds. As he watched them by the fire, he saw that they had threaded and knotted beads, feathers, and tiny bones into their hair. With their naked, lithe bodies and the ritual painting, it made them look fierce.

There were a dozen of them. The youngest was six and the oldest was twelve.

Their parents had abandoned them-heeding the call of the wild that had been activated within them to run free-and Mr. Chalmers had brought them together into a cohesive whole. And tonight, he would lead them against the other clans.

Mr. Chalmers still wore his favorite khaki pants, though very dirty now, and boots, but he had torn off his shirt and took to wearing his dead wife’s fox coat that had been stored in mothballs in the spare bedroom. He had cut off the sleeves so that all could see the many tattoos sleeving his arms from his days in the Army. Although for many years he had kept them covered, grim reminders of his days in the Vietnam War when he led reconnaissance patrols and hunter/killer teams deep into enemy territory, he now revealed them. They were badges of honor, symbols of military blood rites, of combat and life-taking.

The children, his clan, respected him and knew he was their leader.

Those that dared question that, he had beaten. And one particularly arrogant fifteen-year old boy, he had murdered, slitting his throat using the same knife had carried during the war: a K-Bar fighting knife with a ten-inch carbon steel blade. He now wore the boy’s ears on a necklace around his throat along with his scalp.

The screams rose up again.

His clan jumped around the fire, imitating the sounds, bristling with excitement for the hunt that would begin soon, the raiding against other neighborhoods.

His blood running hot and sweet, Chalmers felt more like a man than he had since his days laying ambushes along the Ho Chi Minh Trail many years before. He had a plastic tube of eyeliner in his hands. Breaking it open with his K-Bar, he covered his fingertips in the black make-up. Carefully, just as he had in the war, he painted black tiger-striped bands across his face, darkening his chest and arms.

Tonight, after so long, he was returning to the jungle…

As they got closer to downtown, they stopped talking. Maybe the conversation hadn’t been much to begin with, but as they started getting a good look at the town and what was going on, it was like they had been gagged, rags shoved into their mouths and taped in place.

“It’s the whole town,” Macy said, not trying to hide the emotion that welled up in her now. It filled her, sank her down to new depths of despair. “It’s the whole town, Louis! The whole town has gone crazy!”

“Just take it easy,” he said, finding it extremely hard to take it easy himself.

But it was everywhere and it wasn’t just a matter of feeling something was wrong now, for you could see it: cars were smashed and left out in the middle of the street, houses were burning, garbage cans were overturned, windows smashed, naked corpses sprawled in yards. Like a tornado of destruction had passed through.

Something had snapped here.

Something had given way.

The whole damn town needed to be buckled down in a straight jacket. Louis watched it all and he was just beyond words to sum it up in his own mind. You’d pass through blocks of wreckage and madness, then, two or three streets over, things seemed perfectly ordinary. People were washing their cars and walking their dogs and cutting their grass. But he had a pretty good idea that those people were not sane either. There was no way they had not heard of what was going down around them, yet they went about their boring little chores like all was well with the world. The only thing that gave Louis hope were the neighborhoods where there were no people at all, nothing to suggest there was anyone around but a few curtains parted to see who was driving by.