Bad Things Read online

  Dibs knew there was something up in her voice. They could easily piece together that once Dibs told her where he was, that's when the slick-skinned, red-eyed freakshow gave them a visit. They aren't entirely sure how many there were. The image of those red eyes and the burning blue flame from that sword was enough to freak them both the hell out.

  Kate grew up in the country. She's shot things before. She's fought things before. Seen some crazy things, but nothing like that. Dibs is similar, but different, she thinks. NYPD can show you some things, she knows. She's guessing he's fired his gun in dicey situations before. She's never shot anyone, but she feels more than comfortable putting a bullet into those freaks that messed with her house. Seems like only a natural extension of the red high heel.

  The town seems empty, like a town full of ghosts. It’s not insanely late either. There should be folks up watching TV or grabbing a late dinner, fresh off the night shift, or at least a few drunks hitting the bar. But there’s none of that. Even with the power out, there should be some folks out walking around. Checking things out. There’s nothing. Not a soul in sight. Not a flicker of life to be seen.

  Dibs jams the brakes and skids into a parking spot at the station. He looks to Kate, who readies her bat. Dibs pulls his Glock. He flings the Blazer’s door open. The door of the station is shattered into a billion pieces. It’s dark inside. Dibs reaches back into the Blazer and pulls out two Maglites, handing one to Kate.

  Turning them on, they see dabs of goo on the pavement in front of the station. The color seems different under the moonlight, but it looks similar to what they saw at Kate’s place. Yellows and reds mixed in a thick form of matter. A spray of what looks like human blood. They both swallow hard, reconsider that run like hell idea, then push through with weapons ready. Their beams of light cut through the dark station house, looking more like lightsabers than flashlights.

  Kate gasps. Not a gasping type of woman, but she couldn’t help it.

  On the floor is Larson cut in two. One half near the door and the other a few feet away, near the desk where Carol is usually perched. Looks like his insides have been scooped away. More like torn and gnawed away. As if he's been ripped open by an animal that hasn't eaten in days. The floor is sloppy with his remains.

  Dibs moves his light across the room. There’s no sign of anyone. Carol is nowhere to be found. No sign of the slick-skinned freaks either. He pushes forward and sees that the holding cell has a single chair in it that wasn’t there before. The cell door has been mangled. Bashed open from the inside.

  “What the hell?” Dibs mutters to himself.

  Kate motions to Dibs’s office with her bat pulled back. Something is in there. A shadow moves ever so slightly in the window. The door is closed. Dibs never closes that door.

  Dibs nods, cuts his Maglite off, then readies his Glock while moving toward his office. He kicks the door open. A gunshot blasts as the door busts free.

  Dibs and Kate hit the floor, dropping like sacks of potatoes. A bullet zips above their heads, blowing out a hole in the wall behind them.

  Mara steps out with a smoking Glock in her hand. “Shit. Sorry. Shit. Dammit,” Mara stammers, eyes wide as pies. “Sorry. Didn’t know it was you.”

  Dibs pushes himself up off the floor. Squinting hard, he struggles to place where he's seen this girl before. It snaps into place as he observes from Kate's expression that she knows her. She goes to the high school, was interested in New York. Mara is her name. Carol said something about Mara coming to the station. Her and Art Pendergrast in a car.

  “Hey—” he barely gets out as Kate pushes past him.

  Kate sees the fear in the teenager who’s trying so hard to be tough. She wraps her arms around Mara tight. She tried to get Mara to join the cheerleading squad last year. A fool’s errand, she knew, but the kid can move. Mara, somewhat politely, told Kate to suck it. Kate wasn’t offended. She thought the squad could use some of that attitude.

  Dibs lowers his gun, watching Kate hold her. Mara trying to hold it together. A hard sniff. Beating back the tears. Avoiding eye contact. He knows the kid has been through something similar to them, maybe worse. He's heard a little about her parents too. Met her dad. Thinks of Walter at the diner and his Superman pose. That's enough to generate some sympathy.

  “Mara, is it?” He moves closer as Kate releases her.

  Mara nods, checking her Glock. Her eyes continually scan the station, watching for movement through the windows and the blown-out door.

  "We know some things." Dibs looks her up and down, checking for injuries. "You know some things. Maybe between the three of us we can piece this whole damn thing together."

  "Got big doubts, Chief," Mara says. Her voice has a little bit of a shake to it, but there's still an edge on top. She moves toward the gun rack. "There's some rotten-ass shit floating in Stagstone."

  "Well aware," Kate says.

  “Painfully,” Dibs adds.

  “Yeah?” Mara stops. “Do tell.”

  “Some dark, mean things with slick skin and red eyes that giggle like schoolgirls?” Dibs pauses for effect. “Oh yeah, and these cute little toys that burn blue that can probably cut through an engine block. That kinda what you’re talking about?”

  Mara nods, stuffing her Glock behind her back into her jeans.

  “That what happened here?” Kate asks.

  “Indeed.” Mara checks a shotgun from the rack. “All that and more.”

  “That what happened to you and Art Pendergrast tonight?” Dibs asks.

  Mara stops cold. She retreats into the back of her mind while her eyes float.

  Dibs starts to say something. Kate puts a hand up, letting him know not to press her.

  “Yeah,” Mara says after she gives her hands a hard shake. “I came in here. You must’ve heard that too.” Dibs nods, urging her to give her side of the story. “Those things got him. I came here for help. I got nothing from that Carol. I got pissed off at her bullshit and wanted to beat the piss out of her. I left for a little bit.”

  "I get that," Dibs says.

  "I got even more pissed that I needed her help, so I walked around some outside, then came back here." She starts jam-loading shells into the shotgun like she was born to. "I saw those things outside, but it was peaceful at first. They weren't killing or going nuts, ya know? So I slipped in through the back and found a spot where I could kinda see and hear what was up." She stops. Her mind has hit pause. Memories getting ahold of her.

  “Well?” Dibs blurts out.

  Kate shakes her head. "It's okay, Mara. Take your time. Talk when you're ready."

  "Those things, they're all together. But someone, or thing, is leading them," Mara says, going back to loading the shotgun. "Something about four wives and this guy who was doing the talking is their husband."

  “You fuckin’ kidding me?” Dibs thinks of getting it on with one of those things. Shudders.

  “The Christiansen brothers were here too.”

  Dibs and Kate look to one another.

  “They looked the same, but they were different. They were with them too. With those things. The guy, King I think they were calling him, he gave Carol and Larson a choice.”

  “What was that?” Dibs asks.

  “They could be with them or…” She pauses, points to Larson’s chewed up remains. “Be food.”

  “And that worthless sack of shit Carol chose—”

  “They’re from another part of the universe. They escaped or something, came here because they were unwanted. Outlaws he said." Mara closes her eyes, trying to remember it all. She doesn't want to repeat this shit. "It's like they have a process. A way to survive and thrive here. The wives can turn people into a part of their group." She claps her hands, remembering the important part. "That douchebag? The one who looks like a hipster Jesus?"

  “King looks like Jesus?” Kate asks.

  “Yeah, kinda. He can turn people, but the wives have to start it, I think. It’s complicated, but it�
�s like they need each other. They flip folks to their way of thinking, and then after they get flipped, they have to eat one of their own to complete the transformation.”

  Dibs’s and Kate’s heads spin.

  “They like people meat. Our insides.” Mara’s eyes begin to gloss over. “King bit Carol hard on the neck. Not the fun way, but she seemed to dig it. Then Carol went apeshit and tore into what was left of Larson. Her eyes rolled back and then they got these streaks in them.”

  “Streaks? In her eyes? Like a hangover, red lines?” Dibs asks.

  “Worse. Thicker, bloodred streaks. The Christiansen brothers had them too. Creepy shit, man. Then something happened," Mara says, leaning the barrel of the shotgun on her shoulder.

  “What?” Dibs clears his throat. “What happened?”

  “The wives and King held the sides of their heads. Like the worst migraine ever. Doubled them over. They screamed, then stopped. They were really, really pissed off and left in a major huff.”

  “When did they leave?” Dibs asks.

  “About ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  Dibs looks to his watch, then to Kate.

  "That was probably when we killed it," Dibs says.

  “I killed it,” Kate adds. “You were there, to be fair.”

  “Whatever.” Dibs doesn’t want to get into it. “How many wives were there? You said four, right?”

  Mara nods. “But two took off while Carol was on the phone.”

  "That means there are only three left," Dibs says.

  “Good math, big brain.” Kate snickers.

  Mara has to laugh on that one.

  "They want to turn as many as possible," Mara says, checking the sweet sixteen thirty-eight on her ankle. "They'll need a lot more than just Carol and the dumbass meth twins to take on the planet. They need to grow that into some real numbers in a hurry."

  “Where were they headed in that huff you talked about?” Dibs asks.

  Mara tosses each of them a shotgun. “Carol told them about some big party.”

  Dibs thinks of the crowd attending the party at Darius Voss’s ranch. “Shit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Grunts in the dark. Not the good kind.

  Lights flicker, fade, then slip into black as if they've been exhausted. More grunts, coupled with some curses and the sound of a motor starting, then stalling.

  “Today, people,” Voss blurts out, voice drenched in frustration.

  The lights give it another go. They flicker, then fade, then burn even brighter as they breathe light and life into the massive party room. Members of the staff are drenched in sweat, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They've been working on a generator in a usually hidden utility room just down the hall.

  Voss barely acknowledges their efforts as he raises his hands in triumph. As if he did a damn thing aside from being a prick about it. The crowd goes nuts. Cheers, woots, and wails of glee fill the air. Bottles open. Corks pop. The music sends the hundred-plus crowd into a frenzy, as if they've been let loose from their cages. Nobody does a Stagstone party like Darius Voss.

  Looking out over the crowd that bounces, jumps and gyrates, Voss’s pride swells even larger. He knew his party was going to be dope, as the kids say. Do kids still say dope? Off the hook, maybe? Fly? He can’t keep up, nor has he really tried. He’ll go with dope.

  “Dope shit indeed,” he mutters to himself, accepting a glass of champagne from a twenty-something waitress.

  He watches her ass pass by as she smiles politely and moves on to his guests. Voss recalls the sexual harassment training he was advised to give his employees. Thinks of the Me Too conversation he had with his consultants as he takes in every curve of the young lady’s body. He’s almost positive none of those things apply to him. Fairly positive.

  Glancing away from his eye assault, he sees some movement outside the party room windows. The glass stretches from floor to ceiling. The back yard is lit just enough for the party to enjoy how goddamn awesome his home is. The Tetons are framed perfectly just above gorgeous trees, the breeze swaying them ever so slightly. But there’s something else out there. Several figures move in the night. Walking toward the house, actually. Voss squints hard, trying to make out what's out there. Seems like a few of them are taller than the others. The rest seem standard height, people height, but a couple tower over the rest.

  He rubs his eyes, not believing it. He cuts through the dancing guests. Making his way to the windows, he presses his face to the glass. He can't believe what he sees. “That one kinda looks like Jesus.”

  The lights go out again. Music stops.

  "Oh, come the hell on," Voss calls out.

  The lights flicker on. The group outside is closer. The bigger ones look different now that they are closer to the house. They’re dark, with a shine to them. Voss thinks he recognizes one of the normal, people-looking ones. Other than Jesus, of course.

  Lights go out, then flicker just fast enough to see out the windows.

  Voss's heart pounds. He takes a drink as the room goes dark again. He lets the bubbles tickle his nose. Voss is searching for some form of comfort right now, and champagne more than qualifies.

  The generator cranks in the next room. The engine hums. The lights blaze on once more.

  Voss sucks in hard. His eyes pop wide as he stumbles back from the glass.

  Outside the windows is a bone-chilling sight. The remaining wives stand along with Carol and the Christiansen brothers. King stands in the middle. The wives' eyes burn red. Their blades burn blue flames. Slobber drips from Carol’s and the brothers’ mouths. Pulpy, red streaks stretch across their eyeballs.

  King lifts the severed head of one of the valets.

  Voss screams the scream of a thousand lady-boys. The entire party whips around to the windows. A room collectively frozen together in shock.

  King smiles, then waves to party with his free hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mara bounces around in the back of the Blazer like popcorn.

  Kate has her fingernails dug deep into the dashboard, clinging to safety any way she can.

  Dibs is driving his cop machine like a man on fire. Abusing his cop privilege to the highest degree, Dibs pushes the pedal to the floor. Balls to the proverbial wall. The Blazer is pushed beyond its limits. Beyond its advanced years. Homes and businesses scream by the side windows at blinding speed. Zeppelin is pegged at twenty and no one has said a word since they left the station.

  They hit a pothole at sixty mph. Mara bounces off the roof, landing on a pile of shotguns, a few assault rifles and assorted gear in the cargo area behind the backseat. A box of shells spills open, sending ammo rolling in every direction. A rolling spread of ballistic Tic Tacs.

  “Dibs!” Kate calls out, noticing Mara being flung around the back as if she’s a Great Dane’s favorite toy. “Easy now, baby.”

  “Fuck easy.” Dibs’s knuckles pop as he grips the wheel tighter, pushes the pedal down harder.

  “Baby…” Kate trails off as they round a corner way beyond the recommended speed limit. She strains her voice to be heard over Page and Plant hosting a rock ‘n’ roll orgy in her eardrums. “What is the plan, exactly?”

  Dibs pauses. He hadn't really considered an actual plan of any kind. He just slipped into a green-light mode and jumped in. He hasn't felt this kind of power surge since New York. The type of feeling he thought he wanted to get away from. Like an ex-lover you know is bad for you, but you keep on ringing the doorbell for more.

  He always loved the fight. The action. The spike of adrenaline of working the big bust. It was the after that he hated. The jockeying for credit. The politics of being a hero, the positioning, the framing of doing the right thing for people. The grabbing hands that grab all they can.

  This. This shit here.

  This is what he missed. Blazing headlong into a shitshow with his hair on fire, determined to do damage. He felt this when he crushed running backs back in the day who
dared to try running up the middle. Only this time, he's got an old-ass sports utility vehicle packed with guns, ammo, his badass girlfriend and a teenager with a more-than-mild attitude problem.

  “Hell yes,” he mutters to himself.

  Screaming above the drum solo, Kate palms the window. “Is that Hell yes you have a plan or are you in your special place?" She's known him to utter this same phrase while wrapping up the act of making sex. Glancing forward, she thumbs toward the right. “Take this street."

  Dibs cuts the wheel hard.

  Mara faceplants into the back window. “Dammit, Dibs,” she says, peeling herself from the glass. “Enough of this shit…” Her words trail off as they come up over the hill, revealing Voss’s massive mansion-ranch. The sprawling monument spreads across the windshield like a portrait to easy money and unearned ego. It's lit up like a tiny city. The only lights in a sea of dark.

  Dibs locks up the brakes.

  Mara flip-flies over the cargo area, landing face-first in the backseat. Her angry eyes burn a hole into the back of Dibs’s skull, but she is relieved that a twelve-gauge is no longer lodged up her ass. New York, she tells herself. Your amazing New York life can still happen.

  Even at this distance from Voss’s place they can see that something is up. People are running like crazy in and around the front and sides of the house. Hard to make out precisely what is what. The lights in the windows seem to move as shapes blur the view from inside. The place has the look and feel of an angry beehive waiting to burst wide open.

  Dibs leans back to Mara. “You said they needed to grow their numbers, right?”