Post by Kentucky on Oct 12, 2019 22:49:25 GMT
At the bottom of the hill it sat, a taut beast of steel and paint in the throes of its life. A red freight container, now pale and choked in kudzu, it had once been a beacon of amusement but had since been discarded into the woods. Formerly it was a fireworks stand sitting on the border, those from the north driving down to buy what was illegal in their state. Children would come with their parents on the Fourth of July or New Year's and buy as many fireworks as they needed, then drove back and set them off. Fire in the sky, sparks and lights flashing against a smog colored air. These were some of the last remnants of hope in a world gone mad; a world that had always been mad.
A sense of bemusement settled on the container this day. Once, it was on the side of the highway, but now it was lost to the wilds of a forest. A bundle of questions should have circled its presence, but there was not a soul to neither ask nor answer. Still, it was a strange thing, with a fat cartoon boar on the front, a banner of words unfurling under the boar's head. Piggins Liggins Fireworks and BBQ. The cartoon did not serve to provide any information. It was fading fast, the paint stripped from exposure, the eyes of the boar now a rotten eggshell white, holes missing throughout. The questions still lingered.
Who moved it? When did it get there? Where was it? Why did they get rid of it? How did they move it?
Most importantly; what was inside?
Eddie Wilton
Also Known As [MICKEY]
Danwood, South Carolina
2010
Eddie Wilton had never been especially humble. This especially extended to his work, of which he had been with for three years now. He was a young thirty-two now, a life of Columbia police work far behind him. Sure, the paperwork loads had only grown since his acceptance and the business itself was more rife with buzzing bees and corporate laymen, but it also meant one thing; he was one important mother. He adored the stares and the gleans, the thanks and the praises, and he especially enjoyed the women; his girlfriend wouldn’t be hurt by what she didn’t know. She should be happy she got with a guy like him, unlike that last jerk-off she was with before. Daniel. Goofy fuck.
Eddie was getting one of the stares right now. His armor was donned and he was the third one out of the car. FBI SWAT. The coolest of the cool, the baddest of the bad, and did he feel bad. Two of the suits had taken the front, moving towards the doors while he and two squad members readied their weapons next to their own vehicle, a black SUV that reached the height of Eddie’s helmet. Today was a day for a full kit but it was still a simpler job for a simpler facility. The Haven Organ Transplant Center in Danwood, situated just a ways from the Florence hospital just up the road. It had become apparent to the agents on the case and later Eddie that some employees were using it as a drug running gig. The center itself was attached to the Florence hospital, which was a branch of Haven Health, a corporate medical office that ran most hospitals in the Carolinas. Calls and talks were made by the lead agents on the case, the two men walking to the doors now. At every opportunity, the business curbed them, citing patient confidentiality and company secrets and other blatant excuses in the face of the federal government itself. One of the agents, Martin Nicolson, had taken to a county judge and asked for a warrant; stonewalled there too. It wasn’t until through the efforts of him, his partner Earl Lindon, and the Columbia SAIC that the judge relented. Eddie and four of his compatriots; Jason Rowland, Dwight Miles, Art Lawson, and Steve Moore; were put into the raid to make sure things didn’t get messy. Things wouldn’t. Eddie watched an actual van pull up beside their SUV, another group of SWAT climbing out and running around the side. Time to get moving.
But the stare. It was some kid, fresh out of med school in his early 20s, glaring at Eddie while sweeping the sidewalk. Eddie didn’t change his expression; he knew that the black letters on his chest were the main attraction, not his muscles nor even his red sun-boiled skin. He wasn’t that full of himself, at least. The two agents walked past the kid while Jason took the lead of the men in the back. Eddie was third in line, an MP5 in his hands and the heat beating on his head. They all wore dark green garb and looked near special forces in their appearances; the group of five moved towards the doors while the two FBI agents stepped back, one of them, Martin, pulling a pamphlet of paper from his jacket pocket. The first two men headed to the doors and it was only a matter of time for things to get kicking off. The kid stopped sweeping, but Eddie had no sights for him. They fast-walked around the side, a bland white door sitting near the back corner of the building. The five men stacked up next to it, Steve approaching the door.
For a brief moment, Eddie went over the details they had been told. Reports of gang activity in the area had led to this building, employees seen driving a pickup truck from the back filled with garbage bags on more than one occasion. It fit the profile of a meth gang that had sprawled up and the linkings to a gang in Georgia were withstanding. Extensions of Dixie Mafia confederations, lost to the winds and throwing Oxycodone in whichever direction they could. It was a miracle they had even stumbled upon the case; the agents had been following a gang murder that occurred near the Carolina borders, spreading from one state to the next. Eddie was born and raised in South Carolina; these two had driven down from Charlotte to show him and the other Columbians how shit was “supposed to be done.” That’s what Lindon had told them at the briefing. Eddie still didn’t like him and wanted him to get the hell back to his cushy little city.
The lock on the door burst in a puff of smoke and the first man went in; Art, followed by Dwight, followed by Eddie, followed by Jason, followed by Steve. There was screaming inside; the first thing Eddie saw was a lit corridor, two women in white scrubs throwing their hands up in shock. “FBI! SEARCH WARRANT! FBI SEARCH WARRANT!” An alarm began blaring, panicked cries screaming down the halls. Two armor clad men moved to the women, one pulling zipties from his belt and the other watching with the barrel of his gun. Eddie followed the left, Art in front of him and Steve right behind. More nurses and med students greeted them with shock and confusion, some silently holding their hands up and some getting to the grab. “GET UP! GET UP OFF THE GROUND!” Eddie screamed, Art moving to help the ones off the ground out of there. Three more of the bastards had been contained and Eddie’s teeth nearly chipped. They were annoying him, but he resisted kicking them with his boot. He didn’t need his teammates or these dumbass kids filing a brutality claim on him, so he kept his mouth shut and his limbs to himself. The world was a bunch of fucking sissies; sometimes Eddie felt like he was the last man on this planet who could do the shit that others found hard.
They kept moving. The lights shut off and the men stopped. “Who hit the breakers?” Art called over the radio chatter, awaiting a response with a shaking hand. “No one. The lights aren’t off over here.” It was the other team leader speaking; he was monotone in pattern, a tone recognized by Eddie in his years of service. I’m just doing my job. It said and it said nothing else. They were all still paused and a harsh breath came from Steve. Eddie tightened his chest but he didn’t scare easy. “Just our sector then?” He asked. A moment passed. “Affirmative.” There was more radio chatter afterwards; reports of secured civilians. No meth yet.
Eddie flicked his flashlight on as the other two did the same. They all knew the layout of the building; they were heading into the back, the storage area where a multitude of utility closets sat in wait for janitors and other handymen needed on site. This was where the meth was going to be; he was sure of it.
The lights flickered back on and the three men stopped again. Art reached for his radio. “Lights are back on. What’s going on TOC?” They waited for a response, the flashing red lights of the alarm blaring along with a shrill noise. “DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW.” TOC returned to life. “Electrical outages possible. Proceed with caution, there may be an extra set of breakers.”
Eddie swallowed. An extra set of breakers? That would be pretty hard to miss in the layout of the fucking building. He always swore other people’s incompetence was going to be the death of him. Notwithstanding, he pushed further into the building before they reached the door into storage. He remembered it was not a particularly big room, big enough to store a meat freezer’s worth of organs before they were transferred as well as enough supplies for the janitors to mop the place up. There was unlikely to be anybody back there at this time of day and if there was; they weren’t going to be up to anything good. They stacked up against the door and Art motioned to Eddie quickly. He understood, pulling a flashbang from his belt as Steve picked the door open. Click. The metal door unlocked, creaking amongst scatters of distant yelling. He threw the flashbang in and they closed the door, then opened it after the all familiar crackled burst. They moved in, Eddie’s eyes to the corners, to the walls, to the ceiling, all around him. Shelves stacked with spray bottles, brooms, cardboard boxes, discarded packing peanuts, empty bins once full of tools, lightbulbs, and other handymen weapons. The room was stocked full of all but any person. They kept their guns drawn, Steve walking towards the freezer.
“Clear!” Art called out and Eddie could see his mustache quiver. Goofy fuck. “Clear!” Steve called too, slamming the freezer door shut. A clasping, grasping noise ripped from it, air sealing the organs in their icy lair. Eddie stepped over boxes, feet kicking against hammers and nails as he walked. He didn’t speak, walking towards the sole closet in the room. “Prepping to breach.” He whispered over the radio, grabbing the door knob and swinging it open. He jumped back, gun raised and finger mere millimeters from the trigger. It was dark, but he could see through it. More shelves, packed with cleaning solutions and the like. Three cardboard boxes sat on the floor and a hanging light fixture swung from the ceiling. A pull chain descended from it and Eddie’s hand gripped it tight. He jerked down and it flickered for a moment, buzzing trickling through the area from its incandescent glow. An orange light that put the room into new meanings; shadows cascaded from the walls, forming long shapes that could hide anything they wanted in them. Eddie shoved a foot out, gently knocking the boxes around below him.
A trap door.
A trap door was beneath the boxes. Eddie felt his tongue twist, his gizzards strangled by permeating confusion. This definitely wasn’t on the layout. “TOC, found a trapdoor. Further advisement required.” He stared at the trapdoor; it was wooden and old. Grooves ran through it, all leading to the ringed pull handle, this one made of rusted iron. “Sending team. Await further instruction, do not proceed.” Eddie felt his hands shaking; Art and Steve came from behind him, staring at him. He could feel eyes on the back of his head. He spun around, the gun aimed too close to his compatriots. Steve took a step back; Art did not. “I’m not waiting.” Eddie said, but Art shook his head. “You’re fucking waiting.”
“Steve, pry it open.” Eddie was staring at Art. Steve looked to him, then began pulling the prybar off of his back. Art grabbed his shoulder, but Eddie put a hand out in defiance. “Stop it. They’re gonna run out the back unless we hurry.” Art glared back. “Fuck off.” He stood his ground, but Eddie always got what he wanted. “They’re going to fucking get away. Pry it open.” He growled and Steve moved past them both. “Fucking, goddamn. TOC, Blue-3 and Blue-6 are proceeding.” Blue-3. I am not just a number. Eddie squinted as the trapdoor popped up, leading into a now lit wooden staircase. “Flashing.” Eddie threw one down and Steve slammed it shut; Art stood behind them, ratting them out to TOC. I’ll be the one with the awards. You’re nothing.
Eddie was the first one down. “I’ll watch left.” He said and Steve nodded. “Right.” They descended the stairs, dust and dirt bursting from each whistling step. Art looked down at them from above, his weapon drawn. Eddie and Steve’s lights flicked on.
The cellar was long but not wide. It stretched further then their flashlights could shine, beams too spread out to make impressions of what lay ahead. The floor, the ceiling, and the walls were all made of dirt, held up by wooden supports every few yards. “I’m right behind you.” The radio called, Art’s voice on the other line. He didn’t bother turning. A few seconds later he turned it off, TOC and Jason getting on his nerves in their feeble attempts to get him to stay back. He would never listen. Nobody owned Eddie Wilton.
Dust fell through the beams. A humid heat swamped them, thick layers of armor nothing but sweat traps now. Eddie’s neck grew red, slippery and wet amongst the fever. There was a fever down here and Eddie realized it when he reached the middle of the room.
It started as boxes. Open coolers full of rotting flesh and organs, body parts sticking from them, grasping for Eddie’s legs. He resisted the urge to throw up as they went further into the maze, a haze of gore before them. A pedestal sat amongst the mess, white with a note taped to the side. Sitting upon the top of the pedestal was a face. A face, a face stretched over a wooden ball, holes in the skin where it had torn. The face was given new eyeballs but there was no nose nor ears. One eye was blue, the other brown, each sitting inside a groove on the wooden ball. Black, blonde, brown, and red hair had been taped to the scalp, flowing below the pedestal to the ground. The mouth was wide open, baby teeth and adult teeth alike rowed haphazardly inside the sphere. The mouth was neutral but the eyes were wide open and flies buzzed about the ball. The note on the side read four words. I LOVE MY MOMMY. Eddie stood still in his tracks, hands lowering with his gun. His mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. His flashlight no longer shone on the effigy, illuminating the dirt floor below him.
Gunfire rang out; one shotgun blast. Art screamed but Steve said nothing as Eddie saw his silhouette tumble forwards. A man with a shotgun rose from the boxes and Eddie brought his gun up as the pump racked. Five bullets was all it took; his flashlight shone on the man’s chest, three holes spurting blood and two more ripping through his cheeks and neck. He turned and saw another silhouette and he fired. Ten more bullets rang off the walls, ten more bullets drove themselves into the dirt. The man ran into the dark and disappeared and Eddie followed. “BLUE-6 IS DOWN, OFFICER DOWN!” Art was shouting, but Eddie pursued. His feet hardly worked and he caught hold of a box. Eddie fell, his sunglasses skidding into the dark. The armor racked his brain, racked his body. He felt the fever, the fever came back, the fever was always there. When Eddie got up, the suspect was gone.
Only one person had escaped.
***
Long Pond State Forest, New York
2014
Here there was an old couple. A man and a woman in their seventies, they had hiked through Long Pond State Forest every morning give or take for fourteen years now. There were a few times they missed it, such as vacations or special holidays, but they were otherwise consistent in their routine. Nothing had ever happened out here that made them fearful for their livelihoods. There were a few strange happenings with drug addicts, the homeless, or drug/booze-addled teenagers, but nothing that made them scared to return. They had walked here for fourteen years. They would continue to walk here until the day they die.
Here there was a man. A man who had escaped custody from the police four years ago. A man who was not done with his mission, a man who would never be done with his mission. He fled South Carolina and headed north where he would start a new branch of worship. The transplant center was many moons behind him. He had never walked through these woods before but he was here under special occasion. Today he had leather gloves on and a .45 pistol in his waistband. Today he was pulling a rope, a rope tied around the neck of a preteen boy behind him. He did not know the age of the boy. He wanted to know the age but he had no need to get attached. The man had done this for many years. He was middle-aged, in his fifties but already graying. His hair was long and so was his beard. He had debated putting on more weight near December so he could pretend to be Santa Claus. The man walked down the path, the boy behind him. Two socks had been tied around the boys head, gagging his mouth. Two more had been tied around his eyes. His hands were bound with zipties and he went wherever the rope took him. The boy had been playing in the woods, skipping stones in a pond when the man had come up to him. He figured the boy a weird one. The boy was breaking the wings of ladybugs and dropping them on a small island in the middle of the pond, commentating on their survival aloud and to himself. The last survivor was to get the honor of a penthouse suite in the boy’s bug aquarium, but none would be getting room and board. The man and the couple crossed paths and the husband raised his hands up. “Now, sir…” The man shot him first. He stood for a few moments while his wife whimpered and then the man shot her too. A hole in her throat and a hole in his knees. The man walked towards and shot them twice more in the head, spilling their brains and their skulls to the wind. The boy was crying and screaming through his gag but the man took him further.
Here there was a hiker. He found the rotting corpses hours later in the day. He called 911 immediately as any good citizen were apt to do. The police came as fast as they could to meet up with them.
Here there was an informant. A park ranger, he traversed the area in earnest and for three months he awaited reports. He heard tell of disappearing kids in the area and the informant looked further in earnest. They caught him on a security camera near one of the ranger stations; a former employee of an organ transplant facility in South Carolina and a warrant for his arrest was out. The informant told a certain someone. He was not apart of them; he was just a siren. The someone nodded in earnest and told him he was safe, his kids were safe. He would not be involved. This was true; the park ranger would not be involved.
Here there was someone. A group of people. They were part of no government, though they had similar markings. They were an entity. A collection of people that told other people what to do. Connections were drawn. This was the man they were looking for. This man had ties to things that the someone dealt with. The someone were outlaws. They were pariahs. Letters were sent out to one, two, three, four, five, six, seven people.
The people were expected to serve their country, willing or not.
A sense of bemusement settled on the container this day. Once, it was on the side of the highway, but now it was lost to the wilds of a forest. A bundle of questions should have circled its presence, but there was not a soul to neither ask nor answer. Still, it was a strange thing, with a fat cartoon boar on the front, a banner of words unfurling under the boar's head. Piggins Liggins Fireworks and BBQ. The cartoon did not serve to provide any information. It was fading fast, the paint stripped from exposure, the eyes of the boar now a rotten eggshell white, holes missing throughout. The questions still lingered.
Who moved it? When did it get there? Where was it? Why did they get rid of it? How did they move it?
Most importantly; what was inside?
Eddie Wilton
Also Known As [MICKEY]
Danwood, South Carolina
2010
Eddie Wilton had never been especially humble. This especially extended to his work, of which he had been with for three years now. He was a young thirty-two now, a life of Columbia police work far behind him. Sure, the paperwork loads had only grown since his acceptance and the business itself was more rife with buzzing bees and corporate laymen, but it also meant one thing; he was one important mother. He adored the stares and the gleans, the thanks and the praises, and he especially enjoyed the women; his girlfriend wouldn’t be hurt by what she didn’t know. She should be happy she got with a guy like him, unlike that last jerk-off she was with before. Daniel. Goofy fuck.
Eddie was getting one of the stares right now. His armor was donned and he was the third one out of the car. FBI SWAT. The coolest of the cool, the baddest of the bad, and did he feel bad. Two of the suits had taken the front, moving towards the doors while he and two squad members readied their weapons next to their own vehicle, a black SUV that reached the height of Eddie’s helmet. Today was a day for a full kit but it was still a simpler job for a simpler facility. The Haven Organ Transplant Center in Danwood, situated just a ways from the Florence hospital just up the road. It had become apparent to the agents on the case and later Eddie that some employees were using it as a drug running gig. The center itself was attached to the Florence hospital, which was a branch of Haven Health, a corporate medical office that ran most hospitals in the Carolinas. Calls and talks were made by the lead agents on the case, the two men walking to the doors now. At every opportunity, the business curbed them, citing patient confidentiality and company secrets and other blatant excuses in the face of the federal government itself. One of the agents, Martin Nicolson, had taken to a county judge and asked for a warrant; stonewalled there too. It wasn’t until through the efforts of him, his partner Earl Lindon, and the Columbia SAIC that the judge relented. Eddie and four of his compatriots; Jason Rowland, Dwight Miles, Art Lawson, and Steve Moore; were put into the raid to make sure things didn’t get messy. Things wouldn’t. Eddie watched an actual van pull up beside their SUV, another group of SWAT climbing out and running around the side. Time to get moving.
But the stare. It was some kid, fresh out of med school in his early 20s, glaring at Eddie while sweeping the sidewalk. Eddie didn’t change his expression; he knew that the black letters on his chest were the main attraction, not his muscles nor even his red sun-boiled skin. He wasn’t that full of himself, at least. The two agents walked past the kid while Jason took the lead of the men in the back. Eddie was third in line, an MP5 in his hands and the heat beating on his head. They all wore dark green garb and looked near special forces in their appearances; the group of five moved towards the doors while the two FBI agents stepped back, one of them, Martin, pulling a pamphlet of paper from his jacket pocket. The first two men headed to the doors and it was only a matter of time for things to get kicking off. The kid stopped sweeping, but Eddie had no sights for him. They fast-walked around the side, a bland white door sitting near the back corner of the building. The five men stacked up next to it, Steve approaching the door.
For a brief moment, Eddie went over the details they had been told. Reports of gang activity in the area had led to this building, employees seen driving a pickup truck from the back filled with garbage bags on more than one occasion. It fit the profile of a meth gang that had sprawled up and the linkings to a gang in Georgia were withstanding. Extensions of Dixie Mafia confederations, lost to the winds and throwing Oxycodone in whichever direction they could. It was a miracle they had even stumbled upon the case; the agents had been following a gang murder that occurred near the Carolina borders, spreading from one state to the next. Eddie was born and raised in South Carolina; these two had driven down from Charlotte to show him and the other Columbians how shit was “supposed to be done.” That’s what Lindon had told them at the briefing. Eddie still didn’t like him and wanted him to get the hell back to his cushy little city.
The lock on the door burst in a puff of smoke and the first man went in; Art, followed by Dwight, followed by Eddie, followed by Jason, followed by Steve. There was screaming inside; the first thing Eddie saw was a lit corridor, two women in white scrubs throwing their hands up in shock. “FBI! SEARCH WARRANT! FBI SEARCH WARRANT!” An alarm began blaring, panicked cries screaming down the halls. Two armor clad men moved to the women, one pulling zipties from his belt and the other watching with the barrel of his gun. Eddie followed the left, Art in front of him and Steve right behind. More nurses and med students greeted them with shock and confusion, some silently holding their hands up and some getting to the grab. “GET UP! GET UP OFF THE GROUND!” Eddie screamed, Art moving to help the ones off the ground out of there. Three more of the bastards had been contained and Eddie’s teeth nearly chipped. They were annoying him, but he resisted kicking them with his boot. He didn’t need his teammates or these dumbass kids filing a brutality claim on him, so he kept his mouth shut and his limbs to himself. The world was a bunch of fucking sissies; sometimes Eddie felt like he was the last man on this planet who could do the shit that others found hard.
They kept moving. The lights shut off and the men stopped. “Who hit the breakers?” Art called over the radio chatter, awaiting a response with a shaking hand. “No one. The lights aren’t off over here.” It was the other team leader speaking; he was monotone in pattern, a tone recognized by Eddie in his years of service. I’m just doing my job. It said and it said nothing else. They were all still paused and a harsh breath came from Steve. Eddie tightened his chest but he didn’t scare easy. “Just our sector then?” He asked. A moment passed. “Affirmative.” There was more radio chatter afterwards; reports of secured civilians. No meth yet.
Eddie flicked his flashlight on as the other two did the same. They all knew the layout of the building; they were heading into the back, the storage area where a multitude of utility closets sat in wait for janitors and other handymen needed on site. This was where the meth was going to be; he was sure of it.
The lights flickered back on and the three men stopped again. Art reached for his radio. “Lights are back on. What’s going on TOC?” They waited for a response, the flashing red lights of the alarm blaring along with a shrill noise. “DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW. DISARM SYSTEM NOW.” TOC returned to life. “Electrical outages possible. Proceed with caution, there may be an extra set of breakers.”
Eddie swallowed. An extra set of breakers? That would be pretty hard to miss in the layout of the fucking building. He always swore other people’s incompetence was going to be the death of him. Notwithstanding, he pushed further into the building before they reached the door into storage. He remembered it was not a particularly big room, big enough to store a meat freezer’s worth of organs before they were transferred as well as enough supplies for the janitors to mop the place up. There was unlikely to be anybody back there at this time of day and if there was; they weren’t going to be up to anything good. They stacked up against the door and Art motioned to Eddie quickly. He understood, pulling a flashbang from his belt as Steve picked the door open. Click. The metal door unlocked, creaking amongst scatters of distant yelling. He threw the flashbang in and they closed the door, then opened it after the all familiar crackled burst. They moved in, Eddie’s eyes to the corners, to the walls, to the ceiling, all around him. Shelves stacked with spray bottles, brooms, cardboard boxes, discarded packing peanuts, empty bins once full of tools, lightbulbs, and other handymen weapons. The room was stocked full of all but any person. They kept their guns drawn, Steve walking towards the freezer.
“Clear!” Art called out and Eddie could see his mustache quiver. Goofy fuck. “Clear!” Steve called too, slamming the freezer door shut. A clasping, grasping noise ripped from it, air sealing the organs in their icy lair. Eddie stepped over boxes, feet kicking against hammers and nails as he walked. He didn’t speak, walking towards the sole closet in the room. “Prepping to breach.” He whispered over the radio, grabbing the door knob and swinging it open. He jumped back, gun raised and finger mere millimeters from the trigger. It was dark, but he could see through it. More shelves, packed with cleaning solutions and the like. Three cardboard boxes sat on the floor and a hanging light fixture swung from the ceiling. A pull chain descended from it and Eddie’s hand gripped it tight. He jerked down and it flickered for a moment, buzzing trickling through the area from its incandescent glow. An orange light that put the room into new meanings; shadows cascaded from the walls, forming long shapes that could hide anything they wanted in them. Eddie shoved a foot out, gently knocking the boxes around below him.
A trap door.
A trap door was beneath the boxes. Eddie felt his tongue twist, his gizzards strangled by permeating confusion. This definitely wasn’t on the layout. “TOC, found a trapdoor. Further advisement required.” He stared at the trapdoor; it was wooden and old. Grooves ran through it, all leading to the ringed pull handle, this one made of rusted iron. “Sending team. Await further instruction, do not proceed.” Eddie felt his hands shaking; Art and Steve came from behind him, staring at him. He could feel eyes on the back of his head. He spun around, the gun aimed too close to his compatriots. Steve took a step back; Art did not. “I’m not waiting.” Eddie said, but Art shook his head. “You’re fucking waiting.”
“Steve, pry it open.” Eddie was staring at Art. Steve looked to him, then began pulling the prybar off of his back. Art grabbed his shoulder, but Eddie put a hand out in defiance. “Stop it. They’re gonna run out the back unless we hurry.” Art glared back. “Fuck off.” He stood his ground, but Eddie always got what he wanted. “They’re going to fucking get away. Pry it open.” He growled and Steve moved past them both. “Fucking, goddamn. TOC, Blue-3 and Blue-6 are proceeding.” Blue-3. I am not just a number. Eddie squinted as the trapdoor popped up, leading into a now lit wooden staircase. “Flashing.” Eddie threw one down and Steve slammed it shut; Art stood behind them, ratting them out to TOC. I’ll be the one with the awards. You’re nothing.
Eddie was the first one down. “I’ll watch left.” He said and Steve nodded. “Right.” They descended the stairs, dust and dirt bursting from each whistling step. Art looked down at them from above, his weapon drawn. Eddie and Steve’s lights flicked on.
The cellar was long but not wide. It stretched further then their flashlights could shine, beams too spread out to make impressions of what lay ahead. The floor, the ceiling, and the walls were all made of dirt, held up by wooden supports every few yards. “I’m right behind you.” The radio called, Art’s voice on the other line. He didn’t bother turning. A few seconds later he turned it off, TOC and Jason getting on his nerves in their feeble attempts to get him to stay back. He would never listen. Nobody owned Eddie Wilton.
Dust fell through the beams. A humid heat swamped them, thick layers of armor nothing but sweat traps now. Eddie’s neck grew red, slippery and wet amongst the fever. There was a fever down here and Eddie realized it when he reached the middle of the room.
It started as boxes. Open coolers full of rotting flesh and organs, body parts sticking from them, grasping for Eddie’s legs. He resisted the urge to throw up as they went further into the maze, a haze of gore before them. A pedestal sat amongst the mess, white with a note taped to the side. Sitting upon the top of the pedestal was a face. A face, a face stretched over a wooden ball, holes in the skin where it had torn. The face was given new eyeballs but there was no nose nor ears. One eye was blue, the other brown, each sitting inside a groove on the wooden ball. Black, blonde, brown, and red hair had been taped to the scalp, flowing below the pedestal to the ground. The mouth was wide open, baby teeth and adult teeth alike rowed haphazardly inside the sphere. The mouth was neutral but the eyes were wide open and flies buzzed about the ball. The note on the side read four words. I LOVE MY MOMMY. Eddie stood still in his tracks, hands lowering with his gun. His mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. His flashlight no longer shone on the effigy, illuminating the dirt floor below him.
Gunfire rang out; one shotgun blast. Art screamed but Steve said nothing as Eddie saw his silhouette tumble forwards. A man with a shotgun rose from the boxes and Eddie brought his gun up as the pump racked. Five bullets was all it took; his flashlight shone on the man’s chest, three holes spurting blood and two more ripping through his cheeks and neck. He turned and saw another silhouette and he fired. Ten more bullets rang off the walls, ten more bullets drove themselves into the dirt. The man ran into the dark and disappeared and Eddie followed. “BLUE-6 IS DOWN, OFFICER DOWN!” Art was shouting, but Eddie pursued. His feet hardly worked and he caught hold of a box. Eddie fell, his sunglasses skidding into the dark. The armor racked his brain, racked his body. He felt the fever, the fever came back, the fever was always there. When Eddie got up, the suspect was gone.
Only one person had escaped.
***
Long Pond State Forest, New York
2014
Here there was an old couple. A man and a woman in their seventies, they had hiked through Long Pond State Forest every morning give or take for fourteen years now. There were a few times they missed it, such as vacations or special holidays, but they were otherwise consistent in their routine. Nothing had ever happened out here that made them fearful for their livelihoods. There were a few strange happenings with drug addicts, the homeless, or drug/booze-addled teenagers, but nothing that made them scared to return. They had walked here for fourteen years. They would continue to walk here until the day they die.
Here there was a man. A man who had escaped custody from the police four years ago. A man who was not done with his mission, a man who would never be done with his mission. He fled South Carolina and headed north where he would start a new branch of worship. The transplant center was many moons behind him. He had never walked through these woods before but he was here under special occasion. Today he had leather gloves on and a .45 pistol in his waistband. Today he was pulling a rope, a rope tied around the neck of a preteen boy behind him. He did not know the age of the boy. He wanted to know the age but he had no need to get attached. The man had done this for many years. He was middle-aged, in his fifties but already graying. His hair was long and so was his beard. He had debated putting on more weight near December so he could pretend to be Santa Claus. The man walked down the path, the boy behind him. Two socks had been tied around the boys head, gagging his mouth. Two more had been tied around his eyes. His hands were bound with zipties and he went wherever the rope took him. The boy had been playing in the woods, skipping stones in a pond when the man had come up to him. He figured the boy a weird one. The boy was breaking the wings of ladybugs and dropping them on a small island in the middle of the pond, commentating on their survival aloud and to himself. The last survivor was to get the honor of a penthouse suite in the boy’s bug aquarium, but none would be getting room and board. The man and the couple crossed paths and the husband raised his hands up. “Now, sir…” The man shot him first. He stood for a few moments while his wife whimpered and then the man shot her too. A hole in her throat and a hole in his knees. The man walked towards and shot them twice more in the head, spilling their brains and their skulls to the wind. The boy was crying and screaming through his gag but the man took him further.
Here there was a hiker. He found the rotting corpses hours later in the day. He called 911 immediately as any good citizen were apt to do. The police came as fast as they could to meet up with them.
Here there was an informant. A park ranger, he traversed the area in earnest and for three months he awaited reports. He heard tell of disappearing kids in the area and the informant looked further in earnest. They caught him on a security camera near one of the ranger stations; a former employee of an organ transplant facility in South Carolina and a warrant for his arrest was out. The informant told a certain someone. He was not apart of them; he was just a siren. The someone nodded in earnest and told him he was safe, his kids were safe. He would not be involved. This was true; the park ranger would not be involved.
Here there was someone. A group of people. They were part of no government, though they had similar markings. They were an entity. A collection of people that told other people what to do. Connections were drawn. This was the man they were looking for. This man had ties to things that the someone dealt with. The someone were outlaws. They were pariahs. Letters were sent out to one, two, three, four, five, six, seven people.
The people were expected to serve their country, willing or not.
