Bad Things Read online

  “I did.” Mara checks that her nickel-plated sweet sixteen thirty-eight is still good.

  “You said they needed to be flipped by one of the what, wives, then they need to eat another one, right?”

  “No,” Kate butts in. “I think that’s close but—”

  “What is it then?” Dibs asks.

  “I’m going to tell you if you’ll let me.” Kate takes a deep breath, trying to ignore that they already sound like an old married couple. “Mara said, correct me if I’m wrong, that King had to turn them. And one of the wives had to kill the meat one with the blue fire swords. After that, the one King turned had to eat the one the wives cut open. Eat their own to transform she said.”

  Dibs pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mara, is that what you said?”

  "Did indeed." Mara clucks her tongue. "They share. The eating is a group thing. They tore open Larson and went all pigs in a trough-style on his ass."

  Dibs holds up a hand, not needing that much detail. He thought Larson was an idiot, but he didn’t want the kid gutted and dined upon by polygamists from outer space.

  Dibs, Kate and Mara turn, looking out the front windshield. They wince in unison at the show. Doesn’t look good in there.

  “How many people are at that party?” Kate asks, rubbing her forehead.

  “Hundred easy. Maybe one fifty.” Dibs points to the side of the mansion. There’s a chopper parked on a helipad. The rotors are starting up, about to take off. “Voss brought in folks from the Jackson Hole airport. Think he even brought some pro girls in from the Idaho Falls region.”

  They see a pack of people attack the helicopter, tearing the pilot out from the cockpit. One new member of the King pack pokes its head up too far only to have it removed by the spinning blades. The head flies, sailing clean over the rest of the King pack pulling apart the pilot. Blades still whirling above.

  “They got hookers in Idaho?” Mara asks.

  "Oh, do they." A smile spreads across Dibs’s face as he nods, as if lost in a memory. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kate's look of confusion mixed with a touch of disgust. "That's what I've heard." Dibs pats Kate's leg. "You hear stories."

  Someone on fire is being chased across the front yard. He streaks across the open land of the Voss ranch like a human torch. Dibs, Kate and Mara all cock their heads, watching. The fire-man is pulled down quickly by three greyish party members. None of them seem to care that they are starting to catch fire as well. A torn, flaming arm flips up into the night.

  Dibs, Kate and Mara look to one another in a silent moment of agreement. Let’s do this.

  Dibs jams the Blazer out of park and punches the gas.

  “You mind getting a few of those shotguns ready, Mara?” Kate asks.

  “On it.” Mara spins around and goes to work locking and loading. She hands a box of shells to Kate, who starts stuffing them into her pockets.

  The distance between the Blazer and the house is getting shorter and shorter. They’ll hit the ranch in seconds, not minutes. A runaway train filled with bad intentions and shotguns. The tires leave the road, landing on dirt. Mara grabs the back of the front seats. She's ready this time. Guns and assault rifles at her feet. Shells ready to go. Glock stuffed in the back of her jeans. Thirty-eight on her ankle. For once, she's thankful for her parents and their batshit crazy ways.

  The Blazer hits a big hole. The tires find air before coming down hard to the ground.

  "I'll ask again, do we have a plan?" Kate grips the oh shit handle tight—never has something been more appropriately named.

  “I do not.” Dibs focuses on the insane scene playing out through the windshield. “Not a single plan to speak of.”

  “Well, some of these people might still be people. You know?” Kate says. “A lot of them might be just running for their lives.”

  “Point?” Dibs regrips the steering wheel, pressing down the pedal harder, hoping there’s more juice to give. The rambling Blazer is about a hundred yards from the house with no intention of slowing down.

  Mara smiles huge, one palm bracing on the roof and the other holding a shotgun. She’s loving the vibe they’ve got going here.

  “Point being, if you’re thinking what it seems like you’re thinking, then there’s a greater than zero chance that we could harm some innocent folks.”

  Dibs blinks.

  "Meaning Stagstone civilians. Ya know? Who aren't aliens."

  “I hear you.” Dibs shakes his head, frustrated. “We’ll do our best. But…”

  They hit the property at ramming speed. The bumper tags the group that’s on fire in the front yard. They’re each sent airborne, burning arms and legs flailing into the starry night.

  “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

  Mara releases a battle cry from hell. Dibs’s eyes go wide with excitement. He joins in, wailing hard with his arms pushed out stiff as a board on the wheel. Kate screams right along with them. Her vocal cords push their limits, reaching the point of almost shredding apart. Mara beats the roof with her fist. Their faces reach bloodred status, expressions frozen, with eyes and mouths open wide, releasing a rebel yell out into the night.

  The Blazer makes impact with the house, the front door exploding into a thousand toothpick scraps. Glass shatters. Destroyed drywall plumes into dust, twirling into the air like ghosts of high-end construction past. Two bodies plant on the grill, their faces bouncing off the hood. They look up at the windshield. Dibs sees their red-streaked eyes and breathes a small sigh of relief. Hate to start this thing on a wrong note.

  He cuts the wheel hard, locking up the brakes. The tank-like Blazer skid-slides to a twisting stop in the middle of the massive foyer, only missing the stairs by inches.

  “Shotguns, please!” Dibs calls out.

  Mara toss-drops two into the front seat. Thinks fast. Shotgun or handgun? She hears her father’s teachings inside her head. Close quarters? Could go either way. Trust your feelings. She goes Glock.

  A red-eyed blonde with massive fake double Ds leaps then lands at the window next to Mara. Her seven-layer-dip makeup face is smeared with blood from her forehead to her neck. A flap of someone else’s skin is stuck inside her ample cleavage.

  Mara opens fire with her Glock, hammering away. The backseat window spiderwebs then drops glass down to the floorboard. Two ample holes pop in double Ds’ head, sending her flying back with heels up in the air. “Goddamn Idaho hookers.” Mara grabs a shotgun, then jumps out from the Blazer.

  Chaos on the dance floor. The music still blares; a random ’80s hair band anthem. Hard to tell which one it is over the screaming and crunching of bone. A seven-foot wife slices a chubby man in two with its blue-blazing machete. A red-eyed woman in a blood-soaked party dress and a shirtless waiter dive in for a bite of meat.

  Dibs blasts the head off a bartender. He’s sure it was a bad guy. Fairly sure. Turning around, he, Kate and Mara form a circle in the middle of the dance floor, growing tides of insanity rising around them. From this spot, they can see the hallways that splinter off, creating arteries off the party room and into the massive home. Pools of blood lay scattered about. Body parts litter the area.

  Outside the window, the helicopter explodes.

  Dibs fights the urge to panic, instead zeros in on something going on in the corner. One of the wives has its hand on Voss’s head. He’s terrified, sucking in huge gulps of air with his chest heaving in and out. The wife’s red eyes glow as she raises her machete, the blue fire burning along its edge. She moves the blade between his eyes while gripping his shaking, sweat-drenched head, hair soaked as if he just stepped out from the shower.

  Mara puts two in the head of a rampaging tech-hipster douchebag.

  "Nice," Dibs says, then turns back to Voss.

  The wife is holding the blade a hair away from Voss’s beady-ass eyes. A man in a black suit swoops in, taking a chunk from Voss’s neck. A spray of blood spits from under his jaw. Voss’s eyes go wide, then close.


  “Jesus,” Dibs says.

  Dibs gets spun around by another Idaho hooker. She latches her hands around his throat, lifting him up off the dance floor.

  "Baby, you're cute as hell, but…" Dibs coughs out. The Idaho hooker giggles like a robotic schoolgirl, raising him even higher in the air. He chokes. Spit flies. He reaches around then grins big. "I don't pay for Idaho sex."

  Dibs pulls his backup snub-nosed from behind his back and stuffs it down into her open mouth. He pulls the trigger once, twice for clarity. Her head explodes from the back into an orange and red goo and she drops to the hardwood. Dibs makes a note that the goo was just like the crap that came out of that wife at Kate’s house.

  "Nice," Mara says, putting her foot deep into the nuts of a party boy.

  “Yeah,” Kate says, blowing the party boy’s head off with a shotgun blast. “Real nice.”

  Dibs can’t help but be taken back by how well Kate handles a weapon. He’ll have to ask her about that later. He blows Kate a kiss, then turns his attention back to Voss and the wife.

  The wife stands over what looks like a portly financial planner with her blue flame fresh from cutting him open. Voss is on his knees, chowing down. Voss finishes and stands, blood and meat hanging from his hipster beard.

  "Well, shit," Dibs says.

  Voss’s body starts to tremble and shake. It only lasts a second or two, but it seems like forever. His eyes pop open, streaked with the now familiar pulp. Thick red lines like highways to hell. A cold, thin smile spreads across his face. The wife gives him an ever-so-slight kiss to the forehead as Dibs watches Voss’s transformation from unbearable ball-busting douche to blood-lusting alien douche.

  Someone passes by the wife, rubbing its shoulder lovingly as he moves.

  Dibs’s eyes follow the back of the man dressed in a black suit. He only caught a glance of him with Voss. The dark suit walks away from the dance floor as calm as can be. Dibs didn’t catch his face, but he’s guessing this is the Creepy Jesus he’s heard about. The man’s hands are crossed, locked behind his back as he strolls through the carnage, seemingly without a care in the world. Dibs swears he can almost hear him whistle just below the raging guitar solo straining the dance floor speakers.

  An inhuman wail sounds.

  Dibs whips back around. Voss, the newly formed blood-lusting alien douche, is running in his direction like a rabid beast. Teeth showing. Drool flopping. Legs pumping hard, stomping across discarded human flesh en route to Dibs.

  Dibs cracks a tiny smile. “Not even my birthday, bitch.”

  Dibs flips the shotgun up in the air, twirling it around to grip the barrel like a baseball bat. He pulls the shotgun-slugger back, setting his feet. Voss launches, full throttle. Dibs swings with all he has. The shotgun smacks Voss in the face with a crack of bone and cartilage. The butt of the shotgun peel-rips away from Voss’s skin as perfectly white teeth fly from his mouth.

  Mara blows the foot off a MILF before putting two into her skull.

  Kate tags a CPA with a gut shot before cutting him in half with the follow-up shotgun blast. She remembers him rubbing her back a little too long while doing her taxes last year. Gives him another burst to make sure he's down for the count.

  Voss comes up fast with a swipe across Dibs’s face, leaving claw marks that stretch from his ear to his lips. Dibs can't believe it. Actually, he can. Voss is fighting like a drunk stripper pissed about being lowballed for a dance. Dibs dabs his finger in his own blood. Gives it a taste. Then flips the shotgun up in the air once more. This time the trigger lands where Dibs’s finger can do the talking. The first point-blank blast blows Voss back across the dance floor, skidding on his ass. The second explodes Voss open from the neck up, a spurting firework display of orange and red.

  “You enjoy that?” Kate asks.

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  Kate rolls her eyes, then takes out a bartender before grabbing a bottle of the good stuff. Even in the middle of a full-on war of the worlds, Dibs can’t help but marvel at this woman. Cheerleader coach. Teacher. Sex goddess. And whiskey queen of Stagstone, who can handle her business like she was born to take shit down.

  Dibs scans the room. It's thinned, but there are still some problems to solve.

  King stands at the far end of the dance floor, just off into the shadows of the hallway. Enough to be seen, but hidden at the same time. Dibs feels his stare even though he can’t see his face, let alone his eyes. The man in the black suit raises his hand up and twirls his finger in the air. The wives stop. The blood-lusting aliens freeze from their feeding and mayhem. A silent moment.

  Dibs, Kate and Mara form a circle with guns ready. Heart-freezing seconds pass.

  The wives and aliens run as hard as they can toward the man in the black suit. Toward their leader. King turns away, leading his growing flock down the hall.

  Before Dibs, Kate and Mara can even begin to process what has happened, they are all alone. Surrounded by blood and bodies. Gore and the orange and red goo peppered and pooled on the hardwood floor. Splattered on the walls. There's a leg stuck in the chandelier. A head rolls, then stops in the center of the floor. There are two half-eaten bodies on the hood of the Blazer. Deep scratches clawed along the sides of the doors. Joan Jett plays overhead.

  Mara looks to Dibs. Dibs alternates looks between her and Kate. A spray lines across Mara's face like war paint. The scratch from Voss stretches and burns along the side of Dibs’s right cheek. It still bleeds, but he knows it will stop soon.

  Kate drinks from the bottle of the good stuff. “Well, bad boys and girls?” Kate says, swallowing hard. She wipes at a spot of alien goo on her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing it. “What the hell do we do now?”

  Dibs blinks.

  Mara shrugs.

  "I mean, I'm not too proud to admit I'm pretty screwed up over this." Kate puts her hand out, showing her shaking fingertips. "But I'm ready to do what we need to do."

  Dibs nods, loving it.

  Mara is starting to think the Cheerleader Master of Stagstone High is a little bit okay.

  “Well.” Dibs looks around. “Thinking we need to visit a friend of mine.”

  Kate’s and Mara's eyebrows rise. Whom?

  “A friend who has access to bigger guns.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Walter and Stella move with extreme purpose.

  Their twin boys buzz around their feet, fueled by the manic energy they were born with. Everyone in the house knows their role. Knows what tasks they need to perform and in what order. After all, they've been planning/waiting for this day for a long time.

  Stella is worried. Walter knows it. He’s worried too.

  Where is Mara?

  She’s rebellious as hell, never been truly onboard with any of this, but she’d never just leave the family. Not come home. Not at a time like this. She knows how to read the signs. She’s been trained. Her eyes are keen. Her will is sharp. She’s the seed of Walter and Stella, by God. What could she possibly be doing that would keep her away from the family compound on the most important night of their lives?

  Stella gives Walter a hard look as she passes by with her arms filled with cans of tuna and baked beans. Walter tries to hide his concern, but she sees right through it. The twins run with their arms full of rifles and knives.

  "Down to the Life Raft,” Walter says to Stella and the twins. He picks up an AR-15 that slipped out through one of the twins’ scrawny arms.

  The young twins scurry down a set of stairs like the tiny child devil beasts they are. Their little feet hit the concrete stairs with a pit-pat hum. Eyes wild with excitement, as if it were Christmas morning. No, it’s better. This is the time they've heard about since they were born. Admittedly, that wasn't too long ago, but it's been a long time for them. They've listened to the parents tell tales about the end. When the BLEEP was going to go down. They know the old man means SHIT when he says BLEEP, but the twins humor his old ass.

  They d
idn’t know what would bring the end. Maybe racial tensions, religious zealots bent on hitting reset on the planet, maybe zombies. Or, they don’t want to jinx it by saying it out loud, but maybe, just maybe, it could be aliens. Both the twins’ minds bounce with the possibility of living out their video game fantasies. Of moving those ideas into the real world. They are only ten, but they know how to wield iron. How to make a Glock rock. How to pump lead into those who wish them and their town harm.

  They rarely talk, the twins. It’s one of the many things that creeps Mara out about them. They seem to communicate with simple nods, hand motions and eye contact between themselves. They’ve never liked or trusted Mara, but they respect her. She’s got skills. She’s also got some crazy in her eyes that scares the poo out of them. They do not share the same level of concern their parents have about their sister’s whereabouts.

  They reach the cold slab in the large area known in the family as the Life Raft. In simple terms, it has all the makings of a high-end bomb shelter. There's a builder in Montana Walter befriended at a conference about the end of the world. The builder specializes in luxury bomb shelters and offers a friend price to like-minded folks. Still cost a pretty penny, but this is an integral part of the family, and they felt it was worth the investment.

  Four bedrooms. A living room. Dining room and kitchen to die for, but not to die in. Polished concrete floors, steel appliances, multiple gas-powered generators that can be switched to solar if needed. Shelter also houses fifty-seven-inch TVs in most rooms. They've stocked all the DVDs you could think of. Series after series of TV shows, along with box sets of classic concert films and hundreds of movies from every decade and genre. Walter ordered them by the boxful since DVDs are on the cheap these days. All that digital blah blah won’t amount to a short stack of monkey turds when the world goes belly up, Walter says.

  Walter comes down and motions for the twins to fill up the gun racks. There are a few "just in case" guns down here, but it's hardly stocked to game-time capacity. Stella stacks the cans in the huge pantry. Walter checks the vault-like freezer.