65 Proof (38 page)

She silently cursed her husband. Why didn’t he properly stock this place? Getting nuked would have been better than this.

Her hand closed around the fire axe.

The scream woke her up.

Marge’s face burned with fever. Infection, she knew. In a way, a blessing. Consciousness was far too horrible.

“Billy?”

Whimpering. Marge squinted in the darkness.

“Mommy?”

She shifted, the pain in her legs causing her to cry out. She unconsciously reached down to touch them, but felt nothing.

They’d eaten her legs last week.

“What’s the matter, Billy? Are you hungry, honey?”

“I made a sacrifice, Mommy.”

He crawled out of the shadows, handing Marge his tiny, dirty foot.

The drool that leaked from her mouth had a mind of its own.

“You…you have to do it, Billy.”

Billy was crying.

“You have to do it for Mommy. Mommy can’t cut off her second arm. I can’t hold the axe.”

“I wish Daddy were here.”

“Daddy!” Marge’s face raged with anger, madness. “Your father did this to us! He got off lucky!”

She stared a her baby boy, legless, pulling himself along on his hands. Damn the world, and damn God, and damn Josh for letting this…

There was a noise coming from the door.

It was a knock! Someone was knocking!

“Billy! Do you hear it! We’re going to be…”

Billy swung the axe.

“This one’s still alive!”

Officer Carlton leaned over the small boy, checking his pulse. He was awful to look at, legless and caked with blood. His mouth was a ruin of ragged flesh.

No — not a ruin. The flesh wasn’t his.

“Jesus.”

His partner, Jones, made a face.

“Looks like the kid ate his mom. There’s another body over here. My guess it’s the homeowner. Why’d they come down here?”

Carlton shrugged. “The father had a history of paranoid behavior. Maybe he convinced them it was a nuclear war.”

He squinted at the father’s corpse. The bones had been broken to get at the marrow inside. Carlton shivered.

“There’s a hidden room back here. Look, the shelf swings away.”

The hinged shelf moved inward, revealing a large pantry, stocked with canned goods. Enough for years.

“Now, Billy!”

Carlton caught the movement and spun around, in time to see the little creature with the axe bring it down on his partner’s head.

Carlton’s jaw dropped. The woman — the gory, limbless torso that they thought was dead — was undulating across the floor towards him like a gigantic worm.

He drew his gun. The axe hit him in the belly.

“We’re saved!” the mother-thing cried.

Her voice was wet with something. Blood?

When she bit into his leg, he realized it was drool.

Marge slithered away from the light. It was too bright outside. There was probably radiation coming in, but she didn’t pay it any mind.

Her only motivation was hunger. And the food was in the hidden room.

Part of her brain recognized the can goods around her, recognized that they contained edible things. But her attention was focused on the police officer, cowering in the corner, holding the pumping wound in his gut.

Her mouth got wet.

She crawled, inch-worm style, up to him.

“Get away, lady!”

Billy crawled past her, faster because he still had arms. The cop screamed, and Billy hacked at his flailing legs like kindling.

A sound mixed in with the screams, and Marge realized it was laughter.

Her son was laughing.

“Billy! Don’t play with your food!”

“You killed Daddy.”

Billy had his mouth full of something purple, and his eyes were far away.

“Yes I did, Billy. I killed him so you could have food. But we have enough food now for weeks. And these men have families, who will come looking for them. We’ll never be hungry again.”

Billy chewed and spit out something hard.

“Daddy is inside me.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a little inside me, too. Your legs and arms.”

Marge almost smiled at the child’s analogy.

“That’s right. Mommy is a little inside you.”

Billy narrowed his eyes.

“I want all of you inside me.”

Marge watched her son drag himself over to the axe.

Billy opened his eyes. The sheets were soaked with sweat. He turned in bed and shook his wife, who was snoring softly.

“Jill! Wake up!”

Her eyelids fluttered. “What’s wrong, Billy?”

“Get the baby!” Billy rolled over and strapped on his prosthetic legs, snugging the belts tight. “It’s happening!”

Jill sat up. The air raid siren cut through their bedroom like a scream.

“The bombs are dropping, Jill! We have to get down to the shelter! Hurry!”

He hobbled out of the room, Jill joining him on the stairs with their six month old son. The siren was louder in the night air. On the horizon was a horribly bright light, and a pluming cloud in the shape of a mushroom.

He opened the door to the underground shelter, ushering his wife and son down the stairs, frightened and anxious and…salivating.

This is from the first anthology I ever appeared in, The Many Faces of Van Helsing, which had nothing to do with the Hugh Jackman film but was released at the same time to capitalize on it. I don’t do many period pieces, and don’t do many stories set in foreign countries. I also don’t do many vampire stories, even though I love to read them. This is set in England in the 1960s, and I paid a lot of attention to vernacular, trying to get it to sound right.

“T
hree stinking quid?”

Colin wanted to reach over the counter and throttle the old bugger. The radio he brought in was brand new and worth at least twenty pounds.

Of course, it was also hot. Delaney’s was the last pawnbroker in Liverpool that didn’t ask questions. Colin dealt with them frequently because of this. But each and every time, he left the shop feeling ripped off.

“Look, this is state of the art. The latest model. You could at least go six.”

As expected, the old wank didn’t budge. Colin took the three coins and left, muttering curses under his breath.

Where the hell was he going to get more money?

Colin rubbed his hand, fingers trailing over dirty scabs. His eyes itched. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing gravel. His stomach was a tight fist that he couldn’t unclench.

If he didn’t score soon, the shakes would start.

Colin tried to work up enough saliva to spit, and only half-managed. The radio had been an easy snatch; stupid bird left it on the window ledge of her flat, plugged in and wailing a new Beatles tune. Gifts like that don’t come around that often.

He used to do okay robbing houses, but the last job he pulled left him with three broken ribs and a mashed nose when the owner came home early. And Colin’d been in pretty good shape back then. Now-frail and wasted and brittle as he was-a good beating would kill him.

Not that Colin was afraid to die. He just wanted to score first. And three pounds wouldn’t even buy him a taste.

Colin hunkered down on the walk, pulled up the collar on his wool coat. The coat had been nice once, bought when Colin was a straighty, making good wage. He’d almost sold it many times, but always held out. English winters bit at a man’s bones. There was already a winter-warning chill in the air, even though autumn had barely started.

Still, if he could have gotten five pounds for it, he’d have shucked it in an instant. But with the rips, the stains, the piss smell, he’d be lucky to get fifty p.

“Ello, Colin.”

Colin didn’t bother looking up. He recognized the sound of Butts’s raspy drone, and couldn’t bear to tolerate him right now.

“I said, ello, Colin.”

“I heard you, Butts.”

“No need to be rude, then.”

Butts plopped next to him without an invite, smelling like a loo set ablaze. His small eyes darted this way and that along the sidewalk, searching for half spent fags. That’s how he’d earned his nickname.

“Oh, lucky day!”

Butts grinned and reached into the street, plucking up something with filthy fingers. There was a lipstick stain on the filter, and it had been stamped flat.

“Good for a puff or two, eh?”

“I’m in no mood today, Butts.”

“Strung out again, are we?”

Butts lit the butt with some pub matches, drew hard.

“I need a few more quid for a nickel bag.”

“You could pull a job.”

“Look at me, Butts. I weigh ten stone, and half that is the coat. A small child could beat my arse.”

“Just make sure there’s no one home, mate.”

“Easier said,” Colin thought.

“You know”—Butts closed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils”—I’m short on scratch myself right now. Maybe we could team up for something. You go in, I could be lookout, we split the take.”

Colin almost laughed. He didn’t trust Butts as far as he could chuck him.

“How about I be the lookout?”

“Sorry, mate. You’ll run at the first sign of trouble.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

Butts shrugged. His fag went out. He made two more attempts at lighting it, and then flicked it back into the street.

“Sod it, then. Let’s do a job where we don’t need no lookout.”

“Such as?”

Butts scratched his beard, removed a twig.

“There’s this house, see? In Heysham, near where I grew up. Been abandoned for a long time. Loaded with bounty, I bet. That antiquey stuff fetches quite a lot in the district.”

“It’s probably all been jacked a long time ago.”

“I don’t think so. When I was a pup, the road leading up to it was practically invisible. All growed over by woods, you see. Only the kids knew about it. And we all stayed far away.”

“Why?”

“Stories. Supposed to have goblins. Bollocks like that. I went up to it once, on a dare. Got within ten yards. Then I heard the screaming.”

Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to quit wasting time with Butts and think of some way to get money. It would be dark soon.

“You think I’m joshing? I swear on the head of my lovely, sainted mother. I got within a stone’s throw, and a god-fearful scream comes out of the house. Sounded like the devil his self was torturing some poor soul. Wet my kecks, I did.”

“It was probably one of your stupid mates, Butts. Having a giggle at your expense.”

“Wasn’t a mate, Colin. I’m telling you, no kid in town went near that house. Nobody did. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I bet there’s some fine stuff to nick in there.”

“Why haven’t you gone back then, eh? If this place is full of stealables, why haven’t you made a run?”

Butts’s roving eyes locked onto another prize. He lit up, inhaled.

“It’s about fifteen miles from here. Every so often I save up the rail money, but I always seem to spend the dough on something else. Hey, you said you have a few quid, right? Maybe we can take the train and —”

“No way, Butts.”

Colin got up, his thin bones creaking. He could feel the onset of tremors in his hands, and jammed them into his pockets.

“Heysham Port is only a two hour ride. Then only a wee walk to the house.”

“I don’t want to spend my loot on train tics, and I don’t want to spend the night in bloody Heysham. Pissant little town.”

Colin looked left, then right, realizing it didn’t matter what direction he went. He began walking, Butts nipping at his heels.

“I got old buds in Heysham. They’ll put us up. Plus I got a contact there. He could set us up with some smack, right off. Wouldn’t even need quid; we can barter with the pretties we nick.”

“No.”

Butts put his dirty hand on Colin’s shoulder, squeezed. His fingernails resembled a coal miner’s.

“Come on, mate. We could be hooked up in three hours. Maybe less. You got something better to do? Find a hole somewhere, curl up until the puking stops? You recall how long it takes to stop, Colin?”

Colin paused. He hadn’t eaten in a few days, so there was nothing to throw up but his own stomach lining. He’d done that, once. Hurt something terrible, all bloody and foul.

But Heysham? Colin didn’t believe there was anything valuable in that armpit of a town. Let alone some treasure-filled house Butts’d seen thirty years back.

Colin rubbed his temple. It throbbed, in a familiar way. As the night dragged on, the throbbing would get worse.

He could take his quid, buy a tin of aspirin and some seltzer, and hope the withdrawal wouldn’t be too bad this time.

But he knew the truth.

As far as bad decisions went, Colin was king. One more wouldn’t make a dif.

“Fine, Butts. We’ll go to Heysham. But if there’s nothing there, you owe me. Big.”

Butts smiled. The three teeth he had left were as brown as his shoes.

“You got it, mate! And you’ll see! Old Butts has got a feeling about this one. We’re going to score, and score big. You’ll see.”

By the time the rail spit them out at Heysham Port, Colin was well into the vomiting.

He’d spent most of the ride in the loo, retching his guts out. With each purge, he forced himself to drink water, so as not to do any permanent damage to his gullet.