The Devil Next Door (39 page)

There would be no place for thinkers in this new world of darkness.

She stared out, watching them. There wasn’t much else to do. Some of the smoke had cleared and she now wished it hadn’t. Things were revealed now that she did not want to look upon. For suspended over the fire from a tripod of what looked like aluminum tent poles secured at their apex with electrical tape, was the body of a boy. He was being smoked and from the smell—that sickening odor of blackened meat—he had been cooking for some time.

Macy squirmed now.

There were horrors and there were horrors. She had seen things, witnessed things, been humiliated, beaten, and abused, but this she could not look upon…a child cooked over a fire.

But what came next was infinitely worse.

A man and woman came to the fire. The man had a knife and the woman had a metal pail. He prodded the boy’s corpse with his knife, making it swing back and forth with a slow grisly motion. The boy’s flesh was blackened in places, his belly was bloated pink-yellow and shiny like that of a roasted pig. The man jabbed the knife into him and hot juice ran into the fire, sizzling. Using the knife, the man began slicing slabs of meat, sawing them free. He tossed these to the crowd. He hacked off the boy’s genitals and dropped them in the pail. Then he peeled the flesh from his belly and chest, carefully carving it until it came off in a single sheet he yanked free.

The savages around him, their faces oily and flickering with impure light, could barely contain themselves.

With a forceful plunge, he buried the knife just below the navel and slit the boy gut to throat. He cut free the stomach, liver, kidneys and intestines. It took some time. As he did so, the others were eating, chewing on the flesh, their faces smeared with blood and fat. The internals went into the pail. Using the haft of the knife, he broke through the boy’s ribs, pounding and pounding until the bones gave. Using his hands, his snapped the ribs free and tossed them aside. He cut through the lungs, peeled them back, and sliced the muscled mass of the heart free. It, too, went into the bucket.

The crowd of savages were roaring and squealing with delight.

Macy did not want to look, but she could not help herself. She looked over at the roped-up man and the three women. The one woman looked up at her as before. She was gagged like the others so she did not scream. But judging from her wide, tear-filled eyes, she wanted to.

The boy’s corpse was cut free.

The man dumped it on the floor. Using a hatchet, he chopped off both legs, then the arms. The crowd took charge of these, fighting over them, biting and scratching. The head he did not share. He chopped at it until the cranium was smashed and then he peeled the scalp and shards of bone free, snapping them like crab’s legs. He slit the membrane and exposed the brain. Several women had gathered around him now and he happily shared with them. They sat in a crude circle, dipping their scabby fingers into the skull and scooping out hunks of brain that they chewed almost delicately, sucking them between their lips and pulping them with their teeth.

Meanwhile, the woman with the pail divided up the intestines which were quickly spitted on sticks and roasted in the flames. Blood and fat dropped from them, sputtering on the coals.

Macy saw the heart get pierced with a stick and looked away.

She needed to throw up and not so much from the sight but from the smell. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the woman licking the inside of the boy’s skull clean while the bloody man with the knife violently fucked one of her friends.

Oh God, that stink.

Then Macy realized someone was behind her. Her bra was cut free, then her panties. Callused fingers gripped the globes of her ass, slapped them, poked them with stubby fat fingers. A man. It was a man. He was pressed up against her and she could feel his hardness spearing between her legs. He licked her neck and breathed into her ear. His breath stank like a gangrenous wound.

He reached up and cut the ropes holding her wrists. She hit the altar and prepared to fight him. She had no doubt she was going to be raped. But she would not make it easy. He grinned down at her, his eyes like open infected sores.

He reached for her with crusty, bleeding hands…

63

Getting down out of the tree was not quite as simple as getting up it, Louis found out. After the clan had gone away and he had a chance to breathe, he waited a time and then began his descent. He went slowly because he was no kid anymore and a drop out of a tree might mean a broken limb. And something like that tonight in Greenlawn was deadly. So he climbed down slowly. Then about eight feet from the ground his foot slipped off a limb and he nearly fell right onto the pavement. A lucky grab saved his bacon. His hand hooked around a limb and he lowered himself to safety.

And then he ran.

Like a hunted animal he ran home.

When he finally made it to his house on Rush Street, he was panting and sore and drenched with sweat. He collapsed in his front yard and just breathed. He looked up at the stars through the tree branches and was amazed that they were still the same. Shouldn’t they have changed, too?

Finally, he sat up.

It wasn’t safe to be lounging around like this and he knew it.

His brain kept telling him he needed a plan, a mode of survival…but there was nothing. What could he do? Where could he hide? The world had fallen to barbarism and the wild things were everywhere.

He looked down Rush Street.

The streetlights were still on, moths and insects circling them. All the houses were dark as tombs. The Merchant’s next door. The Maub’s, the Soderberg’s, the Loveman’s. Even the Gould’s. There was only a dead silence coming from the Starling’s and Kenning’s across the street. Nothing but shadows, the breeze stirring tree limbs. Usually at night like this you could hear a few cars in the distance, the distant rumble of trucks out on the highway. But tonight…nothing.

He heard a dog howl in the distance.

A shouting voice from several streets away.

He smelled smoke on the breeze from burning neighborhoods and firepits.

Nothing else.

Just the steady sighing respiration of the night world. Probably, he imagined, exactly how summer nights had sounded during the Pleistocene after the retreat of the glaciers.

He got to his feet and walked across the yard and there, stopped dead. Two of his windows had been shattered. The front door was standing wide open. Within was the blackness of plundered crypts. There. Now what? Did he run off or did he dare go in there and face what had done this, what might still be waiting inside?

A weapon.

He would need a weapon. He still had his lockblade knife in his pocket, but he wanted something bigger that he could strike from a distance with.

His mind frantically searched for something. There were plenty of things in the garage. But his keys were still in the Dodge on Main. He remembered there was a rake in the backyard. Better than nothing. Carefully, staying in the shadows, he scouted his way back there, expecting long-armed, hollow-eyed slavering things to leap out at him at any moment.

There was the rake right where he’d left it two weeks before after cleaning up the weeds in the garden. He could hear Michelle’s voice bitching at him to put it in the garage before it rusted.

Michelle, Michelle, Michelle…Good God.

But he couldn’t think about that, he couldn’t—

The door to the garage was wide open.

Dick Starling had escaped.

Now the night seemed more dangerous than ever. But he knew he had to look, to find out. He crept over there. It looked like the door had been kicked in. Dick Starling had been rescued by one of them. It was quiet inside. Raising the rake with one hand, Louis groped in the darkness, found the switch, clicked it on. The light would be like a beacon to them, but he had to take the chance.

Dick Starling was gone, of course.

Louis had a crazy, demented hope that one of them slipped in here and killed him…but no. He was just gone. The duct tape had been cut free of his wrists. It was all over the floor like shed snakeskin. The chain and Masterlock were nowhere to be seen.

Get moving.

He set aside the rake and grabbed a hammer. Then he shut off the light and tip-toed across the yard. He went in the back. Creeping up the back stairs into the kitchen. Silence. He waited, waited some more. He moved down the hallway, sweat running down his face. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain someone would hear if they were there.

He smelled blood.

In the living room, he clicked on the light. There was a body sprawled on the carpet. A woman. Naked, pale. Blood was splattered up the walls, soaking into the carpet. She had been gutted like a steer, her entrails stretched across the room like dead snakes.

He turned away.

Bonnie Maub. It was Bonnie Maub from a few houses away. She had come here, maybe looking for help and…well,
they
had gotten here. Maybe Dick Starling. Maybe the ones that had set him free. His stomach in his throat, Louis looked at her a little closer. Other than her abdomen being ripped open, there didn’t appear to be any other damage. He was no anatomist. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like whoever had killed her had taken some of her guts with them. She looked awfully…
hollow.

Enough.

He was going to the Soderberg’s. Mike Soderberg had guns. Back outside then, hammer gripped tightly, waiting for death to come for him. He slipped past the Merchant house, moving quietly down the sidewalk to the Soderberg’s. It was dark. He crouched by the rose bushes, his head rioting with their perfume. He could see no outward damage. Maybe the savages had overlooked it.

Cautiously, his heart in his throat, he crept up to the house…

64

Macy, the rope still binding her wrists, was dragged over to the foot of the altar where the other captives were herded. Here was the man, the other three women she had seen. All roped-up like swine ready for the spit. There were others in the shadows, she knew. She could hear them sobbing and crying out, but could not see them.

The man who had brought her over had left her.

She had thought for sure he would rape her, but the old woman at the fire called out to him in some coarse tongue and he went over to her. Macy was forgotten. At least for the time being. The stench in the church was indescribable. Just filthy and low. Blood and meat and carrion. A high, hot stink of absolute dark corruption like the den of buzzards or vultures must smell. And these things that held her captive were no more human than that. Just beasts. Crawling, flesh-eating beasts. Many of them were still at the fire, feeding on the corpse of the roasted boy. He had been sheared down to bone in many places. His ribs were standing out, shining and well-plucked. She could see the vertebrae at his throat.

How long?

How long before it’s me they cook like that?

The stink of the burning flesh and meat was probably the most offensive thing she’d ever smelled. It revolted her and…intrigued her at the same time. She did not know exactly why. Only that somehow, some way, it was almost…
familiar.
Like she had smelled it long ago in a dream. And realizing this, she wondered if it was not some warped race memory kicking to life in her, remembering the smell of roasted boy from some dim, bone-heaped cave of prehistory.

God.

The old woman with the pendulous breasts came over with two boys. They were naked, their bodies blackened with ash. The old woman wore nothing but a sort of shawl made of canvas or maybe skin. She pointed at the captives with dirty fingers, mumbling something under her breath that was absolutely unintelligible. The boys seemed excited. Down on their knees, they crawled past the captives, poking them with their fingers. The tied man was oblivious to it. The woman who’d looked up at Macy with shocked eyes just sobbed. The other two women gasped.