Bad Things Page 4

  Dibs sits watching the town wind down, his burger untouched in front of him. He thought he might come here and let his mind unwind. Take an inventory of the day. Let the thoughts file away where they need to in his jumbled mind. Reconcile all his ideas about Rose’s farm, the dumbass Christiansen brothers and his unhelpful chat with Daniels at the base. No such luck. Dibs is just as lost as he was before the nipple-growing coffee.

  The townsfolk around him are all talking about the weird occurrences of the day. News spreads fast in a small town. Like a lit match dropped in a stack of gasoline-soaked rags.

  Things have just been a bit off ‘round here.

  Potential cattle rustlers going around at nights.

  Did you hear about that drug craziness with those brothers?

  There are a couple of things said by the locals that Dibs hasn't heard as well. Things he didn't know about until he sat down at Maria's. One of the many reasons he comes here. It's a great place to grab a bite, but also, if you open your ears, you can soak in a lot of what's going on around town. Right now, he's hearing new things.

  People seem to be missing appointments.

  Not answering phone calls.

  Cell phones haven’t been working in certain places.

  Dibs picks at his burger and stares out the window again. Something is going on. He knows it, but has no idea what it is. He’s got a lot of mileage on him as a cop, but this is a new one. He rubs his hand over his gun. No intention of pulling it, but he likes to know it’s there.

  Dibs glances over toward the end of the bar. One man sits alone at the end of the long, polished wood bar. He’s been listening to all of this as well. Soaking it in, just like Dibs. His eyes are wide. Dibs can almost see the excitement vibrating through like a tuning fork. Dibs knows this guy. This guy. This guy and/or his wife calls the station at least once a day.

  The guy at the end of the bar gets up suddenly, taking an almost Superman-like pose. A version of Superman that looks worried and excited at the same time. The terrified savior of Stagstone.

  Dibs grabs a fry, watches the guy, Walter, stand like a statue, perhaps hearing some sort of theme song in his head. Walter's eyes are dancing, his large frame bouncing as he bobs on his heels, nervous excitement surging through every part of his supersized being. He stands like a heroic, six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound wall of worry that's risen up from a barstool.

  Walter knows what he’s heard. It’s in his eyes. He’s locked in on some information he’s been waiting to hear. Pieces of what’s been wedged between the lines of their conversations have captured all of Walter’s attention. There’s a darkness layered over their banter. Walter knows damn well what’s happening. He knows that the end of the world as we know it is coming.

  Might already be here.

  Chapter Nine

  Walter dives face-first into his truck.

  Massive tires. A thick, black lightning bolt painted on the doors of the faded red, late model Ford. A series of scratches run down the sides like it was attacked by a hundred cats. Spinning in the seat, Walter sits upright, banging the back of his head on the fully stocked gun rack. Fumbling for the keys, he fires up the engine and slams it down into R. Tires scream. Heart hammers hard in his chest. Fingers fidget-stab a text to his wife, Stella. A single word.

  TEOTWAWKI.

  He hopes Stella remembers the plan. All the plans actually. Prays that she remembers what it is she’s responsible for. They only reviewed it twice this month, less than average. The lack of focus makes him sick right now. This is big. Everything counts in large amounts, and every step must be taken in a precise order without a hint of deviation.

  Walter guns the aging V8 engine as he blows past the city limits. His truck roars up the street, cutting through the dark, quiet streets of Stagstone. His favorite conspiracy radio show hums in the background. Walter doesn't even hear the rants and raves being spit out by his beloved host. It's all background noise to him now. Focus is in high demand now. He and Stella always knew this day would come, but they didn't know when. The how is still a mystery, but make no mistake, it’s here now. They’ve been preparing for this since they first met.

  Since their first date. First kiss. First time they made sex.

  Walter likes the phrase made sex. Makes him smile. Not sure why, it just does.

  Walter makes a hard right, landing with a twist onto a dirt road. Tires churn the earth, tearing ass into the night. Knows at this speed he can count down from thirty and reach the house right as he hits zero. However, given what he's heard tonight, he needs to make it home before that. More like he's got a standing ten count to get home. He jams down the gas with a stomp.

  Ten.

  He slides in a Whitesnake CD.

  Nine.

  It’s quite some distance before he gets to the house, but the extra juice Walter's giving his big red monster ride is going to slice his regular travel time down to nothing. Not something he's done before. He can just feel it. Time is everything. Every second counts when the shit is coming down.

  Seven.

  There’s a high fence circling around a big, extensive section of clear-cut land. Much like Rose’s farm, but there is no livestock here. Nothing inside the fenced-in area but open land with a few small sheds here and there. Beyond all that is what looks seemingly like a typical house. Seemingly. From a distance.

  Five.

  Upon closer inspection, the entire house is made of concrete. Floor to ceiling rock. No front door can be seen, no entrance on the ground level. He's gaining ground at a rapid pace. He'd yell, but that might reduce his super dialed-in level of focus. Through the windows, Walter can make out the outlines of Stella and the kids racing around inside the house. The steel shutters snap closed in place. They cover all the windows around both floors of the house. They lock in place one after the other.

  Three.

  Walter white-knuckles the wheel. Gives the gas a final push. Puts his back into it. The truck lurches forward with a roar. He's hurtling forward, screaming toward what looks like a giant wall of shrubs near the far end, off to the side of the concrete fortress of a domicile.

  Two.

  The truck rips through the branches. He locks the brakes, standing on top of them, neck bent to avoid his head going through the roof. The truck’s tires skid on the concrete floor, fighting to find traction. Walter shuts his eyes, grinds his teeth, hoping he didn't push it too far this time. Seconds seem like hours. He waits for the crash. The crunch of metal.

  It doesn’t come.

  There’s quiet. Peaceful silence. The massive front bumper kisses a wall made of steel, bouncing backward about a foot. Walter opens one eye.

  “One.”

  He chuckles, about to pee his big-boy pants. His truck has landed in a hidden elevator entrance. Walter opens the door, inspects the truck. More catlike scratches down the side from the shrub branches. A little bit of chrome taken off the bumper. The wall took the brunt of it. Walter nods, feeling well, all things considered.

  Walking out from the elevator, Walter punches in an eight-digit code next to the elevator door. The entrance doors shut like a garage in crazy land. A pair of red footprints has been painted on the floor. A specific mark to stand in. Walter takes three steps to the left, placing his feet inside the prints. He silently counts backward from five. The elevator and the truck drop down into the ground with a jolt.

  Walter runs like hell back outside through a hidden side door. His legs pump hard as he races toward the fence line. Curses himself for not installing the automatic gate in the fence, but he read on a carefully curated blog that those get hacked all the time. Analog is the best defense against anal probes is what he always tells the family. Walter closes the main gate, locking his various mechanisms in place. Then, as if shot from a gun, he takes off to one of the steel sheds closest to the house.

  He’s met there by Stella. A quick hug, a peck on the lips, one nod each as they begin loading a buffet of arms and ammunition,
stuffing as much as they can into heavy bags. They fling as much as they can carry over their shoulders. Walter slips a Glock into the front of Stella's jeans since her hands are filled with a Mossberg shotgun. They hoof all their gear back to the house like grunts preparing for war. No words spoken. None needed.

  Walter feels a warm glow spread over him. His Stella, the love of his life, is working the plan to perfection in every detail. The TEOTWAWKI plan is happening. Right here. Right now. He feels the beginning of a hard-on but fights it back. No time for the longings of the flesh.

  They climb a set of rope steps that lead up the side of the house. It’s not easy. They always knew this would be the hard part, but they help one another as they climb up into the second floor of their home. Walter pulls the steps up behind him, leaving no way in or out of the house. Walter and Stella now stand on a small balcony outside their bedroom, looking off toward the town. Their beloved town of Stagstone is framed under the stars and the majestic Tetons.

  "Should I ask what happened?" Stella says, laying her head gently on his broad shoulder while resting the shotgun on her own.

  “Don’t know the specifics, but it’s bad.” Walter lets his words hang in the night air, then, “Bad things, Stella.”

  For a moment longer, they enjoy the outdoors. The fresh, cold air. A peace they know won't last. They've waited for this day even though they weren't sure it would ever come. Not that they'd ever admit that to one another. They've prepared for the end, and it feels damn good.

  Feels right. Feels better to be right.

  They look to one another, nod, then shut the thick balcony doors to their bedroom with a teeth-rattling clang of steel.

  Chapter Ten

  Chief Dibs drives through the sleepy streets of Stagstone.

  His Blazer almost seems like it’s crawling at this speed. Somewhere between cruising and patrolling. He hasn’t seen anything particularly out of the ordinary. Just, with everything so damn weird today, he decided he needs to make sure he’s seen out here on the streets. A presence of order. Let the good people, and the bad, know that he’s here and he isn’t going anywhere. He turns the Zeppelin down low, knowing that even though it isn’t that late some of the older citizens of Stagstone don’t appreciate all that rock ’n’ roll at this hour.

  Letting his brain unspool, he tries to section off all that he’s seen and heard today. There’s a lot to digest. The normalcy of the town moves by his window as his head rips through the facts of the day. The series of oddities. The visit to Rose's farm. The cows. Not just the cows, but the way they were killed. Slaughtered. There was some form of progression to it. A learning of sorts. The final product was the removal of the hides, done in an almost surgical way.

  But even that didn't seem to be what they were looking for. Some cows just went missing. Rose and her husband keep a close eye on their livestock and know every one of those cows. Some were killed, some simply went away.

  Were they stolen to be sold? Were they eaten?

  Both possible. More questions raised than answers. Dibs raises the volume on the Zeppelin. Sorry townsfolk. The chief needs his thinking music.

  Then the Christiansen brothers. There was blood, fingers, and toes, but no bodies. Something tore that trailer apart like a loaf of bread at communion.

  Meth biz gone bad? Dumbasses being dumbasses?

  Again, completely possible.

  Then there’s Daniels at the USAF post. He said he’s seen nothing out of the norm. He gave Dibs nothing, but that’s the business Daniels is in—know everything and tell jack.

  At Big Maria’s, all the town’s talk was about things being off. Something is so bizarre, one elderly woman said as she sipped her tea. Weird things are happening, a younger mechanic said, mowing down some chili fries. Talk of cell phone problems. Wi-Fi gone to hell. People not showing up to appointments. Missing work.

  And what the hell was up with that big, crazy bastard Walter?

  Dibs shakes his head. His thoughts start colliding, begin to pile up, stacking high with one scrambling up on top of another. Hard to cut through all the data, the noise. Difficult to make out where to begin with all this. Tough fight to get his mind around a rational explanation for what in the hell is going on around here.

  He turns his Zeppelin up louder. It’s needed. The neighborhood can deal with the anthems of the gods. If they can't, they can call the damn cops. Dibs snickers. He thinks of Kate. Her smile makes him smile. The tingle of being around her is with him even now. Her laugh. The way she feels about the world. Her brain is a stark contrast to what Dibs carries between his ears. He knows it. He also knows it makes for a delicate balance.

  He shakes it off. No time for Kate right now. Sips his coffee. It is terrific. Perhaps not grow a third nipple good, but a strong, well put together cup of warm bean juice nonetheless. As he turns a corner, he thinks of Kate again. He sighs at his failure to not think of her. Failure feels nice.

  A dark object leaps across the road.

  Dibs locks up the brakes.

  “Shit.” Coffee spills over his crotch. He bounces in the seat as his balls get an unsolicited java bath. He finger-picks and pinches at his soaked pants. Looking up, he sees the object move.

  It stands. It's tall, big, seems to be staring right at him. Studying him. Dibs rubs his eyes. It's not an object. Not an average-looking person either. It stands just out of the full view of the headlights. He can barely make it out ahead in the darkness. Dibs reaches for the door handle, one hand on his gun.

  The dark figure shifts left, then to the right, pacing ever so slightly.

  Dibs moves out into the road a few feet from his Blazer’s open door. He doesn’t want to get too far away from his ride, in case this situation goes south on him.

  “Hello, friend,” he says, his breath creating small clouds in the cold night air.

  The dark figure stops moving. A statue in the dark.

  Dibs squints, trying to figure out who, or what, the hell this is. His breathing stops as he sees a Broncos cap on the ground just to the right of the Blazer's headlight beams, half in view and half in the dark. It's tattered and ripped up like it was with the dog this morning. This thing in front of him ain’t no dog though.

  He thinks of his visit with the Christiansen brothers’ sister. Her telling him about her brother’s affection for his Broncos cap.

  “I’m cool.” He slowly removes his hand from his gun, holding both hands out in front of him. A universal sign of peace. “I’m going to move into my truck’s lights so we can talk. Get a good look at one another. That okay?”

  The dark figure doesn’t move.

  Dibs steps into the lights. Flashes a smile then shrugs. "See, no problem."

  There’s a low, primal sound from the dark figure. Dibs’s stomach drops. His hand drifts back toward his gun.

  “Easy there, tough guy.”

  The wind blows a beer bottle rolling across the road. There’s a flash of red in the darkness. So fast Dibs can’t make it out, but it was around what seemed like its head. The dark figure bolts hard back into the darkness.

  Dibs starts to breathe again. His hand is firmly on his gun now as he pulls his flashlight from his belt with the other. Moving quickly toward where the dark object stood, he scans the area, making sure it isn't still here and/or doesn't have any buddies waiting in the dark for him. Rather not get jumped by whatever the hell that was. At least not without a fight.

  The German Shepherd fires out from the dark. Knocks Dibs on his ass. The dog runs hard, disappearing into the night with the trailing sounds of its cries and whimpers following him. Dibs looks back. A fresh, steaming dog turd lays on the ground.

  “Wow. Something literally scared the shit out of him.”

  Surveying around the ground, he searches for the Broncos hat. It's gone. His light stops. There on the ground next to the turd is a slice in the field. A cut. Looks like what he saw at Rose's. What he saw at the meth trailer.

  Dibs’s phone buzzes
.

  He almost jumps out of his skin. Almost shoots the damn thing. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checks the text. As his eyes scan across the screen, a smile spreads across his face. It's from Kate. As he reads the message, he thinks of his options. He can go to the station and open up what he's sure is a big can of shit. Open up a case file, ask a bunch of questions, probably leading to more shit that leads nowhere. Or he can tend to what Kate is asking. She’s asking for help.

  Dibs climbs into his Blazer. He reads Kate’s message one more time.

  Can the chief of police help me find my cat?

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says with a sly grin, looking to his coffee-soaked package. “Yes, I can.”

  Life is short.

  Chapter Eleven

  As with most small towns, sex is the number one pastime with the teenage population.

  And, as in most tiny towns, there’s a particular local spot known to everyone. A spot where the kids park cars and abuse condoms. The music that hums from the cars offers a mix of soundtracks. Some go with beer-logic country, while others fumble through entry-level heavy petting with an eclectic mix of alternative tortured souls explaining our dark, meaningless existence. Then there are those who go that extra mile and create a playlist, a carefully curated arrangement of tunes that begin slow and build, helping the passengers riding the teenage love train touch all the bases.

  Cars shake.

  Windows fog.

  Occasional screams are normal.

  On this particular night, Mara happens to be rounding first with a bad boy. Or at least what passes for a bad boy in Stagstone. Art Pendergrast dresses the part. Has the hair, but it's a stretch to honestly think this kid is anything other than a rebel made by Mattel. Mara knows this. She also knows that her parents hate Art Pendergrast. So that, plus the hair and the eyes and the abs, has her testing the shocks on this Lexus as if he were public enemy number one.