Flowers in a Dumpster Page 7

  . . . then stopped altogether.

  A silence, so profound it felt like going deaf, replaced the noise. The trio stood perfectly still. Cane, intending to break the silence, was cut off when a new noise arose. This softer sound was somehow more ominous. Scrambling and scratching, like something clawing its way along the ground and pavement. Several somethings, actually. Perhaps dozens. It came from everywhere, surrounding them.

  “I think we should go,” Kinsley said, an unmistakable tremor in her voice.

  Topher, his usual prankster persona discarded like an old sock, nodded mutely.

  “Are you guys insane?” Cane asked. “This is what we came here for. Finally something is happening. Get your equipment ready and let’s investigate.”

  Kinsley gripped his elbow tighter. “This isn’t like the others. This isn’t ghost lights or creaking floorboards. Listen to that . . . something is out there.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to find out what.” Cane raised the camera and scanned the cemetery around him. He didn’t focus on any one area since the sound was everywhere. He stared intensely at the display screen, his surroundings becoming a green and black otherworld. At first he saw nothing, but then an object zipped across the screen, low to the ground like an animal. It moved so quickly any real details were indiscernible.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “Something darted between the grave markers about twenty yards that way.”

  Topher started to speak, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What kind of something?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe an—oh shit! There went another one! And another!”

  “What are they?” Kinsley asked. The tremor of her voice replaced with an edge of hysteria.

  “I can’t say for sure. Topher, are you getting anything on the EMF?”

  When Topher didn’t respond, Cane tore his gaze away from the camera’s display to look at the other man. Topher’s face resembled little Gracie’s statue, pale contrasting against the darkness. The EMF reader hung at his side, forgotten as the chaos escalated. Cane repeated his question louder, making Topher jump into action. “Um, no, there’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Are you sure that thing’s batteries aren’t also dead?”

  “I’m sure. Look, maybe we should get out of here. Whatever this is, it doesn’t sound supernatural.”

  “It’s certainly not natural,” Cane said softly, turning back to the camera. The things seemed to swarm around them, surrounding them. From what he could see on the display they looked similar to scorpions, complete with stinger-tipped tail raised above them. They were far too big to be scorpions, though. About the size of a full-grown bulldog.

  “Let’s just go,” Kinsley said, grabbing Topher’s elbow. “Cane can stay if he wants.”

  “Dude, come with us,” Topher said. “Sounds like whatever it is, is getting closer.”

  Cane heard them but didn’t respond. He slowly turned full circle, watching the night through the camera display. Yes, Topher was right. Those things swarmed around them in a constricting circle that tightened like a noose. Still, he couldn’t force himself to leave.

  Topher took Kinsley by the hand. “Suit yourself. We’re out of here.”

  The two started off, back in the general direction of the main gate, where they’d have to scale the fence to get to the car—parked two blocks away behind an abandoned gas station. They had the flashlights, whereas Cane had the night-vision camera.

  “Fuck, look at that,” Kinsley exclaimed behind him. This grabbed Cane’s attention. He hurried over to the other two to investigate the discovery.

  They stood in front of another Sago Palm. Cane was about to turn away when he noticed what caused Kinsley to shout out. Kinsley trained her light on the spores again, which were ruined, shredded. The woven vines had broken open, lying in tangled heaps.

  “I told you I saw something move in the spores,” Kinsley said. “Whatever it was, I don’t know, hatched out of them.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Cane said with no real conviction. This seemed the most logical explanation under the circumstances.

  Topher said, “This shit is too fucked up for me. I signed on for a ghost hunt, not a creature feature.” He took off toward the main gate, not pausing to see if anyone or anything followed.

  Kaitlin turned to Cane. “Please, don’t be such a mule. Let’s get out of here.”

  Cane studied the ruined spores again and decided she was right. He was about to say so when the palm before shook furiously, as if caught in a high wind. Only there was no wind. They both started to back away, but not fast enough.

  Something leapt out of the fronds and onto Kinsley’s chest, knocking her to the ground. She screamed, crab walked as she tried to shake it off, but before she could free herself from its grip the thing’s tale whipped around and the stinger punctured her left eyeball. She screamed again, this time more of a high-pitched shriek.

  Cane was frozen in place. He knew he should go to Kinsley, try to help her, but the monstrosity before him rendered him incapable of moving. It did indeed resemble a large scorpion, only without the claws and with more than eight legs. Encapsulated in a blue-gray shell, shining like metal in the moonlight, the thing’s multi-jointed legs ended in sharp points that stabbed into Kinsley’s flesh as it crawled up her torso. Her left eye socket was a bloody crater. Somewhere along the line, her screaming stopped, replaced with a wheezing rattle. Her limbs jerked, the flashlight still gripped tightly in one hand. At least, until she brought it down on the ground so hard it shattered. The night was bright enough, however, that Cane could still see her one good eye roll toward him, pleading silently.

  Then the creature leapt onto her face, and from the crunching sounds, Cane assumed it had some kind of mouth on its underbelly. Sharp teeth made quick work of cartilage and bone. Much to his horror, Cane realized he was filming all of this on the digital camera.

  When three more creatures emerged from the shadows, scuttling quickly toward Kinsley’s body, Cane finally overcame his paralysis and took off running in the direction Topher had gone a few moments ago.

  Only a few moments ago, when Kinsley still breathed.

  The sound of the creatures moving through the cemetery overpowered Cane’s senses, filling his ears like apocalyptic thunder. In his mind, however, he could still hear Kinsley’s high-pitched shriek. He had to alter direction more than once when the creatures scrambled into his path. He leapt over one, barely avoiding its whipping tale. Soon, though, he’d become disoriented.

  Then, he saw little Gracie sitting in her wrought-iron cage. A landmark, something to help him get his bearings straight. With renewed vigor, Cane picked up speed. He still carried the camera, evidence of the night’s fatality. When he got out of here—and he would not allow himself to even entertain the idea that he wouldn’t—he would need it as evidence so the authorities wouldn’t think him insane.

  When he heard Topher calling his name, he did not stop. He did slow, eyes darting around for some sign of the man. Then he realized the voice was coming from above, and he glanced up to see Topher straddling a branch about twenty feet up in a live oak.

  “What the hell are you doing up there?” Cane hissed, standing directly beneath him.

  “Hiding from those things. You need to get your ass up here, too.”

  Cane actually made a move toward the lowest hanging branch, but then stopped. He kept visualizing the creatures’ legs, the way they ended in those lethal points. Seemed to him, the damn things wouldn’t have any trouble climbing.

  “Get out of there,” Cane said. “It’s not safe.”

  “It’s a lot safer than being down there with those . . . whatever the hell they are. The cemetery is crawling with them. Where’s Kinsley?”

  Cane tried to answer but his voice was locked away and he could only shake his head.

  “Damn man, that a—”

  He never got to finish his thought, because one of the creatures sudd
enly dropped from a higher branch, landing directly on Topher’s back. He screamed as he flailed. Then another dropped onto his back. Topher leaned too far to one side and toppled off the branch. Cane backed up quickly. Topher hit the ground with an audible crack. A dozen creatures attacked at once, covering him completely.

  Cane turned and ran. He wasn’t used to this much physical exertion and a painful stitch stabbed in his side. Still, he pumped his legs harder. Morbid as it was, he hoped that Topher would keep the creatures occupied long enough for Cane to make his escape.

  As if an answer from Heaven itself, the main gate came into view. He was almost home free. Relief flooded his system, which perhaps made him drop his guard. Cane didn’t see the creature until it was almost upon him. He side-stepped it, stumbled, nearly fell but managed to keep his balance. For a moment, he thought he’d avoided disaster.

  That is, until he felt the pain in his left ankle. Looking down, he saw the stinger retracting. He kicked out, his foot connecting squarely with the creature’s side. It felt like kicking a boulder. He made for the gate once more.

  His left leg tingled, but the tingling gave way to total numbness, and his leg gave out. He collapsed onto the pavement, banging an elbow and skinning his palms. Cane gritted his teeth against the pain and crawled forward. The gate was so close. So close. He could almost touch it.

  The numbness spread throughout his lower torso. Pretty soon everything below the waist was dead weight. Still, he used his fingertips like claws to drag himself forward, inch by excruciating inch. The moon dipped behind a cloud, bringing total darkness over the cemetery. Cane felt the numbness spreading up his body. He knew he wouldn’t be able to move at all, sooner rather than later. Maybe he wouldn’t even be able to breathe.

  Then he heard that sound, the scrambling and scratching as the creatures closed in on him. It sounded like an army of creatures were approaching him from behind. Not rushing. As though they were savoring every agonizing moment Cane spent incapacitated. He glanced back, peering into the shadows. With trembling, numbing, hands, he brought the camera up to his face. Cane aimed it back to the cemetery, staring at the display screen.

  He would have screamed if he had any strength left, but all that came was an asthmatic gasp.

  He’d thought it sounded like an army, and it was. Hundreds by the look of it: glowing green on the display, advancing slowly but steadily.

  He let his head drop to the pavement, closed his eyes against his approaching death. He only prayed he’d lose consciousness fast.

  Cane’s last coherent thought was that someone was going to find the camera, review the footage, and then he would have gotten his wish.

  This would put S.C.A.D.P.I.T. on the map.

  A HELPING HAND

  The baby was crying again.

  Erica heard her through the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand. She pushed aside the James Patterson novel she was reading, got up, and started toward the nursery, down the hall. Halfway there, she heard Brett coming down the stairs.

  “I’ve got it,” Erica called over her shoulder and stepped into baby Patricia’s room. As she lifted the baby into her arms, Erica felt the diaper’s dampness. “Does Pat need to be changed? Yes she does, oh yes she does,” she cooed.

  “I’ll do it,” Brett said, reaching for Patricia.

  “You’re supposed to be working.”

  “I know, but I heard the baby crying.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Erica said, carrying Patricia to the changing table. “The whole purpose of me moving in here was so that I could take care of the baby, allowing you to get back to writing.”

  “I know, I know, but when I hear her crying, I have to come. It’s instinctive. Pavlovian, I guess.”

  Brett gently elbowed Erica aside and started to remove his daughter’s diaper. Patricia giggled and squirmed, repeating “Da-da, Da-da” over and over, obviously delighted to see her father. Erica stood off to the side, feeling useless. “So, have you got much work done on the new novel?”

  “Some,” Brett said evasively, taking the moist wipes from the box and cleaning the baby.

  “You know the deadline for the publisher is just around the corner.”

  “What are you now, my agent?”

  While Brett dusted baby powder onto Patricia’s bottom to prevent diaper rash, he made silly, cartoonish faces at her, causing the baby to laugh even harder as she pumped her fists in the air.

  “I’m just saying, Cassie always told me how important your writing was to you, and you really haven’t done much since . . . well, since Pat was born.”

  Brett said nothing as he diapered Patricia, picked her back up and bounced her as she tried to snatch the glasses off his face. “It’s been a rough adjustment,” he conceded. “Learning to be a single father has taken up a lot of my time.”

  “It’s been a year.” Erica smiled compassionately, placing a hand on Brett’s forearm. “I know losing Cassie in childbirth was painful. She was my daughter, and I miss her, too. I also know raising Pat by yourself took a lot of your time and focus away from your work. But I offered to move in to shoulder the burden. Yet, in the three months that I’ve been here, your writing continues to suffer, because you can’t let me take care of my own granddaughter.”

  Brett placed Patricia into her crib, handing the child her favorite stuffed animal—a yellow rabbit with one ear straight up and the other flopped over. “Hoppy,” Patricia exclaimed.

  “That’s the thing,” Brett said. “You said ‘shoulder the burden,’ but I don’t view Pat as a burden at all.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, I know, but the truth is I want to take care of her, I like it. I don’t feel right pawning her off on you.”

  “I don’t mind, Brett. Grandmothers love to dote on their grandchildren. It’s what we live for.”

  “I know you don’t mind, and I’m glad you’re here to spend time with Pat and help out when I need you, but I don’t intend to leave all the work to you. Like I said, I want to do it.”

  “What about your writing?”

  “What Cassie told you was right, my writing was one of the most important things in my life, but my priorities shifted since Patricia came along. There’s nothing more important to me than Pat. Nothing.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your career?”

  “Not really. Having sold the film rights to my first two novels—for a hell of a lot more money than I got for the books themselves—I don’t need to work for a very long time. I might even take some time off from writing. I can go back to it when Pat’s older.”

  “What about your fans? They’re clamoring for more.”

  Brett looked down into the crib, flicking a finger under Patricia’s chin and making her smile. “What Pat needs is a lot more important to me than what my fans want.”

  Erica looked at her son-in-law with misty eyes. She smiled, wiped her eyes, and said, “Well, it’s almost time for Pat’s feeding so—”

  “I got it. You can relax.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble for me to feed her.”

  “I’m sure,” Brett said, taking Pat back into his arms, kissing her on her soft head with the peach-fuzz of hair growing in. Red, like her mother’s had been. “I think Pat here needs a little Daddy bonding time.”

  “Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da.”

  With one final glance at the family tableau presented by father and daughter, Erica left the nursery. Back in her own room, she looked at the Patterson novel she’d left on the nightstand. With a disgusted flick of her wrist, she knocked the book off the table and into the wastebasket. What a waste of dead trees.

  She went to her closet and opened the door. On the top, small shelf, she had lined up all seven novels Brett had written. Crutches, The Unexamined Life, Washed in the Blood, Fancy Junk, The Last Resort, All the More Reason, and Climbing the Mountain. The last was completed a few short months before Patricia had killed Cassie when she ri
pped her way into the world, leaving Erica’s daughter nothing but an empty shell.

  It was bad enough Patricia had killed her mother, but she’d also killed her father’s writing career. No one wrote like Brett. His novels were full of such rich emotion, such layered themes, such complex characters. They moved Erica, made her laugh and cry and fear and rejoice. No other books satisfied her like these. She wasn’t merely Brett’s mother-in-law; she was his biggest fan. She practically salivated over the prospect of something new, being lucky enough to read most of his novels in manuscript form long before they were available to the general public.

  Only there were no more novels, no more manuscripts, and the way Brett talked there wouldn’t be for quite some time. Erica had thought moving in would free him up to go back to what he did best; she would tend to her murderous grandchild and Brett could produce more extraordinary novels. Obviously, things weren’t going according to plan. It was as though Patricia had cast some spell over her father, keeping him from his important work, which left Erica with no new novels to look forward to.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, Erica reached over, took one of her pillows and hugged it to her, squeezing tight. Tonight, after both father and daughter were asleep . . . tonight she’d employ Plan B.

  Tonight she’d remove the one thing keeping Brett from his work.

  THE POSSESSION

  Okay, let’s get one thing straight. I did not murder Dirk Vandercock. I mean, I know how it looks, but what you see ain’t always what you get. That thing I killed, it may have looked like Dirk and it may have sounded like Dirk, hell his own mama would probably have thought it was him, but it wasn’t him. It was some thing, a hell-beast taking residence in his body, like a squatter.

  I guess, in a way, you could say I did murder Dirk, because what happened to him—the possession and all—was my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen, didn’t even believe in demons and shit like that, but I’m responsible all the same.

  You see, what you got to understand is that I have a reputation in the gay porn industry for being a writer/director with real vision and ambition. My productions ain’t just a bunch of mindless fuck flicks. Shit no. They got plotlines, character development, the whole shebang.