Dire Harvest Book 3 TUGA Chapter 1

Dire Harvest Book 3, Tuga

Copyright © 2024. Robert Ferencz. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.
All character names and places are fictional. Any similarity to real life is purely coincidental.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Rochelle Kelley. Without her love and support,
I could have never finished it.

Quotes

Now your hope and compassion is gone You've sold out your dream to the world Stay dead, stay dead, stay dead
You're dead and out of this world —You’re dead, Norma Tanega (What we do in the shadows theme)

Hand of fate is moving and the finger points to you
He knocks you to your feet and so what are you gonna do? Your tongue has frozen now you've got something to say The piper at the gates of dawn is calling you his way —The Wicker Man, Iron Maiden

You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe and shudder —James 2:19

CHAPTER ONE

1

TODD WILSON’S SCREAM echoed throughout the house. Terror and panic roared out of his fourteen-year-old mouth as if someone had strapped a tornado siren to the front of his face and cranked it up to eleven. The rest of the Wilson family jumped in their seats, hearts pounding, adrenaline pulsing.

“Jesus Christ, Todd!” his father shouted from his easy chair in the living room. Jerry Wilson was a patient man, especially with his family, but his son’s latest fear of everything in the world had worn thin with him.

“What’s gotten into you, young man?” Todd’s mother, Janie, chimed in.

The boy was struggling to catch his breath; the scream was so intense it had taken everything out of him. He frantically pointed at the dining-room window, whimpering.

“What is it, bud?” Jerry said as he got up from his chair and headed toward his son.

Todd continued pointing at the window with wide eyes and a pale face in the beginning stage of shock.

“Alright, Todd, calm down,” Jerry said. “Slow, deep breaths. Remember?”

“The window!” Todd said. “A face!”

They were used to this. It wasn’t the first time Todd had panicked over something he thought he had seen outside, sending the entire house into an uproar. Most of the time his screaming fits erupted in the middle of the night, when everyone in the house was fully embraced in the warm arms of sleep (the night it happened while Jerry and Janie were in the middle of their weekly slap and tickle session was memorable, to say the least).

Everything scared Todd. All it took was one zombie movie when the kid was twelve and suddenly every shadow, tree branch, or creaking door became a monster sent from hell to claim him and everyone he loved. They had tried to snap him out of it without seeking professional help, hoping the boy would grow a pair when he hit puberty. Lately, it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. He was getting worse with age, not better. 

Heather came downstairs, concerned and angry. Her little brother was growing up to be a pain in the ass, especially when he pulled this crap while she had friends from the majorette squad over. “Dad? Seriously?” Heather whined. “How am I supposed to do my homework with cry baby screaming his lungs out down here?”

“Really, Heather? Homework?” Jerry said. “Was I born yesterday? You’re on the phone with that Johnson kid from down the street. If you weren’t, you’d be down here watching this movie with us. You know, the one you begged us to rent?”

Heather attempted a rebuttal, but nothing came to mind. Her father had her dead to rights. Not that it was a big deal; her parents actually liked Keith Johnson (not the official boyfriend yet, but he was calling more often these days). As for the movie, Jerry was right about that, too. His daughter had bailed out of family movie night the moment her teenage hormones saw Kieth’s name pop up on her phone screen.

Jerry looked at his silent daughter for a few seconds, relishing his victory. Heather turned and stormed back upstairs.

“Dad! Honest to God,” Todd said. His voice had returned after the calming breaths did their job. “I saw a face outside, looking in the window. It was horrible!”

Jerry looked at the window at the far end of the dining room, then back at his son. “Todd, I can assure you no one is out there. You have a vivid imagination, that’s all.” He walked to the window without turning on the light and looked out. “Come over here, buddy. I want you to see what you thought was a face.”

Shaking his head, repulsed at the thought, Todd refused to consider his father’s request. Unimaginable horror waited in the shadows of the night, just on the other side of that glass. Things with fangs and claws and fiery red eyes were begging Todd to come and surrender himself to their blood-thirst. 

“Todd… Now,” Jerry gently commanded.

“Don’t scare him, Jerry,” Janie said, standing behind her son with both hands on his shoulders. “He’s going to be up all night. Remember the last time he had a panic attack in the middle of the night?” she winked and gave her husband a flirtatious smile. 

Jerry thought for a second. The memory of the night he and Janie were in the middle of mattress mambo and the kid broke the mood with a scream that would have made Janet Leigh proud came to mind. He questioned his wife with a look that said, “Is tonight…?”

Her playful expression gave Jerry the answer he was looking for. 

“Alright, Todd,” Jerry said. “There’s nothing out there. After the movie is over, we’re all going to bed. Let’s finish it up.”

Jerry and Todd went back into the living room and got comfortable. Janie went into the kitchen to make more popcorn. Heather was upstairs on her phone, complaining to Keith Johnson that her little brother was a giant pain in the ass.

“Listen, Todd,” Jerry said, as they sat in the living room with the movie paused. “I know the world can be a scary place, but you can’t live in fear of everything. Fear is the absence of knowledge. We’re afraid of what’s in the dark because we can’t see it, but when the lights come on, we realize there was never anything to be afraid of. I’m not saying you should walk blindly through life unaware of danger, but fear can’t rule you either. Understand, buddy?”

“Yeah,” Todd said, embarrassed they had to have this conversation again. At least his father was gentle about it. 

“You’re going to be fine, son,” Jerry said. “I have faith—”

A loud crash in the kitchen interrupted Jerry’s father/son talk. It sounded like a metal bowl hitting the tiled floor. 

“Everything ok out there, babe?” Jerry called out. 

The kitchen was silent for several seconds. Finally, Janie said, “Would you come here, Jerry?” Her voice didn’t sound confident.

“Stay here, Todd,” Jerry said, stepping past his son.

Janie was standing in the kitchen corner with her back against the refrigerator. A metal bowl lay on the floor, popcorn scattered across the tile. 

“What happened, babe?” Jerry asked.

Janie was staring at the window across the room. Her eyes were wide and her face was as pale as Todd’s was moments ago. She was also trembling. “Someone is outside,” she whispered, pointing at the window.

“Are you serious?” Jerry said, looking in that direction.

Janie’s nervous demeanor became more intense. She looked as though she might scream and run at any second. “He was hideous,” she whispered. “His face looked like dry-rotted leather!”

“Okay, calm down,” Jerry said. 

“Dad?” Todd’s voice called out from the living room. 

“Everything’s okay, bud,” Jerry said. “Start the movie. We’ll be right there.”

Jerry slowly walked to the kitchen window, his eyes wide and dry. The window looked out on the backyard. It was too dark to see anything except for the shadows of trees and landscaping. “There’s no one out there,” he said with his face close enough to the glass to breathe condensation onto its surface. 

“He was looking in the window, right up close to it,” Janie said. A repulsive shiver ran through her body and she protectively folded her arms.

Moving cautiously, almost as nervous as Janie and Todd, Jerry reached for the light switch next to the kitchen door. He turned on the porch light over the back door and the floodlights that illuminated the backyard. Part of him was afraid of what the lights were about to expose.

After a few seconds of scanning from the window, he relaxed. “I still see nothing, babe,” Jerry said. “Are you sure Todd’s panic attack in the dining room didn’t put an image in your head?”

“Oh, sure; that must have been it,” she chided. The sarcasm in her voice was fierce.

Without turning to look at his wife, Jerry knew he had screwed up. His only course of action that might get him out of the corner he had backed himself into was to take on the role of protector, to save his family from the evil outside that sought to destroy them. If he did that and triumphantly returned, perhaps he could still have the naked wrestling match he was hoping to enjoy with his wife later tonight.

“I’ll go out for a look,” he said.

“Maybe we should call the police instead?” Janie replied.

“Eh! Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” Jerry said.

“Famous last words,” Janie mumbled.

Jerry grabbed a long-handled flashlight out of the kitchen utility drawer (he couldn’t remember the last time they had used the thing, but surprisingly the batteries still worked), then headed out the back door, winking at his wife as he stepped out.

Janie watched her husband through the kitchen window while he checked around the yard. He looked cute, protecting his family. Not that he’d do much damage to the thing she had seen for that brief second at the window; the monster outside was menacing, and Jerry was… well… average. But his heart was there, and that made him bigger than any monster lurking in the darkness. She lost sight of him when he walked around the side of the house, out of range of the backyard flood lights.

With his ear cocked to one side, Todd had listened to his parent’s conversation. He couldn’t hear it all—they had kept their voices low—but what he had comprehended validated that he wasn’t just seeing things out of his own imagination. Mom must have seen it too, and it sounded like dad had gone outside to investigate. 

Todd was even more terrified now. He had seen the face, peering into the dining-room window with its leathery skin and fiendish expression. It was dark outside, as well as in the dining room, but he had still made out enough of the face to see that the thing had malicious intentions. And now dad was out there, alone, bravely confronting the beast. He fostered a new respect for the old man in those few moments.

The house was silent (save for the muffled voice of Heather giggling in her room as she laughed at lame jokes and flirtations with the kid down the street). Janie and Todd listened to the air. Their hearts seemed to beat in anxious unison, adding even more tension to the moment. 

A thud against the side of the house from outside broke the silence. Both mother and son jolted and gasped as adrenaline glands cut loose a dose of prescription into their bloodstreams. Silence returned to the room after the thump, as did the heaviness of fear. Maybe dad had tripped over something and bumped up against the house? It was very possible; the man wasn’t the most graceful ballerina. But that could also mean he had just cracked his head and was now bleeding out as he lay unconscious in the bushes. 

Neither Todd nor his mother said a word; they just listened, too afraid to move or speak. 

The noise came again, this time louder, and not only one thump, but at least a dozen in a row, spanned out by less than a second between each. They were so fierce the entire house shook, and it felt like the outside wall of the dining room might collapse. 

Janie ran into the living room where her phone was sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t hesitate while dialing 911. Her husband’s frail attempt at bravery might just get him killed tonight, and she would not stand by and listen to it happen.

Todd stood next to his mother, pale and shaking with terror. “Mom? What’s happening?”

Janie didn’t answer her son. She couldn’t think of anything to comfort him now.

“9–1–1. What’s your emergency?” the voice asked on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, my name is Janie Wilson at 1414 Speer Street. Please send the police immediately! There is a man outside our house looking into the windows. My husband went out to investigate and now I think he’s been attacked. Please hur—”

The dining-room window shattered when a large object crashed through it from the outside. Todd screamed in horror as he looked into the room and saw what was left of his father, now lying in a twisted lump of clothes and flesh on the dining room table. His head had been bludgeoned in, exposing the open skull of what used to be Jerry Wilson’s face, now oozing with dark blood, chunks of grey matter, and one eye dangling out of the socket.  

Heather charged down the steps in a rage. “I’ve had enough of this, Todd! You need to grow up and quit acting like a baby!” She rounded the corner from the staircase and headed toward her brother, who stood at the archway to the dining room. “I don’t know why you're so afraid of every—” She saw it, the lump of flesh that used to be her father, laying in a pile on the dining room table across from the shattered window. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even breathe. The image registered in her mind, but her mind refused to process it. 

Janie screamed and dropped her phone when she came up behind her children and saw what they were looking at.

“Ma’am? Hello? Mrs. Wilson?” the distant, muffled voice of the 911 operator called out from the phone on the floor. 

The front door suddenly bursted open and fell off its hinges. Splinters of the door jamb flew like tiny missiles, landing everywhere. In the open door frame stood a creature that had the shape of an enormous man, but the face of something ungodly inhuman. Its skin was dark grey and coarse, like ancient leather or perhaps dried jerky. The eyes were enormous with lust and excitement. It smiled an almost comically wide grin. Its teeth streamed lines of blood and saliva that ran from its mouth to its chin, then dripped to the floor. The thing wore a filthy, bloodstained jumpsuit that still clung to some of its original orange color underneath a smattering of crimson and dark brown stains. 

Without hesitation, the creature fell upon the three remaining members of the Wilson family with the speed of a jungle cat attacking the slowest gazelle in a herd. There was no time for the family to snap out of their combined shock and horror. Within seconds, Janie, Heather, and young Todd had suffered the same fate as their dear father just moments before, and were all violently reduced to unrecognizable mounds of flesh, blood, and bone.

On the other end of Janie Wilson’s iPhone, which lay face up only a few feet away from the carnage, Alice Becker, 911 operator, heard the screams of a family being destroyed by an unearthly savage force. Their shrieks of primal anguish will haunt Alice’s dreams for the rest of her days.

2

THE DARK BLUE HELICOPTER loomed overhead in the early morning sun as it made its slow landing approach into the empty prison rec-yard. Its rotor blades kicked up dust and small debris that became more intense as the craft came closer to the ground. Three Pennsylvania State Troopers, two Somerset Correctional guards, and the prison warden (Dale Rupp) waited below for the copter to land. Those wearing hats used a hand to keep them from blowing off. 

The situation had gone federal. Warden Rupp had hoped the state troopers and Somerset local police would have found the escaped inmate before the whole shit house blew up, but no such luck. He had vanished without a trace. But how the hell did he cause so much damage? He had to have had help from an outside source. One man was not capable of bringing down all these men (34 total between the inmates and guards), causing this level of carnage. Three steel doors were torn completely off their hinges. The troopers said only an explosion could have removed those doors like that, but there wasn’t a hint of an explosive device. And the bodies… they were decimated!

It would have looked much better for Warden Rupp, his team, and even the PA State Police if they could have nipped this situation off before the Feds got involved. But here they were in all their governmental glory, descending out of the early morning sky to save the day and once again restore justice and peace to the land. The warden knew how this was about to go and knew it would be best to keep his mouth shut. Just go along with them and let them have their moment.

The protocol for a prison escape was set in stone: first, lock down the facility; second, contact state and local police and advise that an inmate was on the loose; third (the hardest pill of this procedure to swallow), notify the United States Marshal Service. And they didn’t waste a minute getting here from the Harrisburg office, either. Warden Rupp knew this was the way things had to go, but it would have been so much better to handle the whole thing without federal involvement. 

Two men and two women in official looking dark suits climbed out of the helicopter shortly after the machine shut down and the blades nearly slowed to a halt. A tall, athletic looking man, probably in his early-forties, approached the warden and his group of troopers and prison guards. The others from the helicopter followed behind him. “Gentlemen,” the tall man said. “Looks like somebody cut school early, doesn’t it?”

Warden Rupp stepped up to meet the man with his hand extended. “I’m Dale Rupp, warden of this facility.”

The tall man shook his hand. “Cooper Thompson,” he said, then gestured around to the rest of his group. “This is Tori, Zach, and Mandy.” He then pulled out his U.S. Marshal badge and credentials and handed them to the warden.   

“West Virginia?” the warden asked, looking at the marshal’s credentials.

“It doesn’t say that on there,” Marshal Thompson said. “How’d you guess?”

The warden nodded to the marshal’s tie clip. “WVU?”

“Ha! Good eye,” Cooper said. “Yes sir. Born and bred in West—by God—Virginia. Mountaineer till the end!”

“I have a niece going to school down there right now,” the warden said. “My brother-in-law bought her a double-wide trailer to live in and parked it off campus. Hell of a lot cheaper than living in the dorms.”

“Shit,” Cooper said. “That’s high-class livin’ compared to the frat house I lived in while I was there.”

“Your accent gives it away, too,” the warden said. “Not an easy one to hide.”

“Why hide something you’re proud of?”

Warden Rupp handed Marshal Thompson his credentials back and shook hands with the other marshals. “Let me get you all up to speed.” He stepped back a little further into the rec-yard. “It started here in the yard during recreation time. The inmate in question went on a rampage, killing several prisoners in the yard before, well…” He hesitated as he looked across the yard at the steel door that led back into the prison. They had leaned it up against the open metal door jamb and secured it with a couple of two-by-fours.

Marshal Thompson looked in the direction the warden was staring. “Before what, Warden?”

The warden shook his head and let out a short, nervous laugh. “Before ripping off that steel door over there and heading back into the facility.”

“How the hell did he get that sucker off the hinges?” Cooper asked. 

“No one knows,” Warden Rupp said.

Marshal Thompson looked around the rec-yard, mostly at the ground. “And where’d all this blood come from? It is blood, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah,” the warden said. “It’s definitely blood.”

“From?”

The warden cleared his throat, preparing to tell the part of the story he himself hardly believed. “The inmate went on a rampage during recreation time and killed nineteen other inmates in the yard.”

“Christ! What’d he use, a machine gun?” Cooper asked, astonished. 

“Well…” Warden Rupp started to answer, but couldn’t finish. He didn’t have the words because he still couldn’t believe the horror he had seen in the security footage.

“He didn’t use a weapon,” one of the prison guards spoke up.

Cooper looked at the guard, studying the man, who was sternly serious about his statement. He didn’t believe it, of course, no matter how serious the guy looked. No one in real-life could mow down nineteen hardened criminals without a weapon. No one!

“Let’s go inside and we’ll show you the rest of it,” the warden said. 

Marshal Thompson stopped at the steel door after the group had made their way to it. He studied it. The thing was bowed and bent like a bulldozer or high explosives had done the job, but there were no scorch marks anywhere to be found. He motioned to one of his other marshals. “Tori, come look at this.” When she came up next to him, he said, “Ever seen anything like it?”

She looked the door over and ran her fingers along its bent surface. “Not since Afghanistan, Coop. I’ve seen heavy armored vehicles blown up by IEDs that looked like this, but they were scorched to hell and back. Plus, there was a lingering smell from the explosion clinging to the metal. I don’t smell anything here.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought you were going to say,” Marshal Thompson said. He looked at the warden, checking for a reaction from the man. The warden looked uneasy.

“There’s more inside,” Warden Rupp said. “This way.”

Cooper Thompson and his group of marshals followed the warden into the prison. The corridor just inside the demolished steel door looked like a scene from Dexter. Blood splattered the walls, the floors, and even the ceiling in some parts. It was almost as if a human body had exploded from the inside and coated the entire hall.

“Watch where you step,” a man in a State Police Crime Lab jacket said. He was kneeling on the ground with three other forensic techs, putting various blood coated objects into evidence bags.

The group navigated around the investigators and continued down the hall in a single file, being overly cautious of every move they made. The coroner had removed all the bodies before the marshals had arrived, but what remained would still take days to sift through.

“Coop,” one of the other marshals (Zack) spoke up. “Look at this.” He was kneeling beside something on the floor.

“What do you got, Zack?” Cooper asked as he stood over his junior marshal. Almost as soon as he had finished his question, he realized what Zack was looking at. “Jesus!” 

“Don’t touch it!” the man from the state police forensic lab shouted. “You guys are gonna fuck this all up! Now keep moving, and don’t touch anything!”

Cooper didn’t get upset. He understood the machine very well. These guys were doing a specific job in the investigation, and the marshals weren’t involved in this part of the chain. “No problem, buddy,” Cooper said. “We’ll leave you to it.”

The group continued down the hall, following the warden to the next area. 

“You ever seen anything like that, Coop?” Zack whispered in Cooper’s ear as they walked.

“A leg torn off at the thigh?” Cooper said. “Only in zombie movies.”

“I didn’t think you had.”

The warden stopped at the door to the cafeteria and turned to face the group. He looked uneasy. He cleared his throat before speaking. “This room is actually where the worst of it happened.”

“Worse than what we’ve seen already?” Cooper said in disbelief.

Warden Rupp nodded his head. “If you all want to skip this part, we can. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see it.”

Cooper turned and looked at his marshals.

“We’re with you, boss,” Tori said. Zack and Mandy agreed with a look and a nod. 

“Might as well get the full scope of this thing,” Copper said. “Let’s see it.”

Warden Rupp was not lying or being dramatic for the sake of effect; the scene inside of this room was more gruesome than any of them could have imagined in their most horrific nightmares. It took them all a few moments of shock to realize what they were actually seeing. The eyes relayed the information to the brain just fine, but the brain wanted nothing to do with it. Cooper had learned about hell growing up in a small southern town, attending Calvary Baptist Church every Sunday since he was a kid. The descriptions Reverend Whitler had given about the fiery pit and anguish for the damned had given Cooper a pretty good mental picture of the place. But what he saw in this prison cafeteria went far beyond any description of hell he’d ever heard before. This was the true embodiment of hell, right before his eyes. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit if he saw the devil himself standing in the middle of it all, beckoning them to step further inside.

Cooper took two steps in, then decided they had all seen enough. They were just sightseeing at this point. There was a fugitive on the loose out there, a very dangerous one at that. Every second mattered.

“How many guards did you lose here?” Cooper asked the warden.

“Thirteen,” the warden said, solemnly looking at the ground. “The state police are helping to keep the facility secure at the moment.” 

“Okay. Good,” Cooper said. “Get me the file on the fugitive, would you please?”

“Certainly,” Warden Rupp said. “There is something else besides the security footage I’m about to show you.”

“What’s that?”

“An inmate survived the attack in the yard,” the warden said. “A scrawny little shit-hustler named Billy.”

“How did he get so lucky?” Cooper asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Think he knows the fugitive, or may have been involved?” Cooper asked.

The warden shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it’s possible.”

“Can you bring his little ass down here?” Cooper asked. “I’d like a word.”

3

A SMELL PERMEATED the air, the smell of morning heaven, of grace. First, it was the coffee, rich and deeply aromatic, dancing in the breeze with the elegance of a ballerina, bringing him to life with its essence. Next came the bacon that not only carried the scent of glory but also shared the pleasurable, sizzling sound that solely belongs to fat frying in a cast-iron skillet. These subtle indulgences are gifts from above given to humanity to help us make it through to the end of it all. The world can be a horrible place, but as long as we have coffee and bacon, there is hope. We can continue on, fighting the daily struggles, searching for our purpose, and giving life our best, as long as we have these blessings to carry us onward. Sometimes life really is as simple as coffee and bacon.

He woke with a smile. In addition to the indescribable aroma wafting up the stairs from the kitchen below, there was also a gentle, warm spring breeze filtering into the room from an open window, dancing with white curtains like an undiscovered lover. The breeze escorted the sound of morning birds singing to each other, calling out their songs of joy as they existed in a world void of worry or concern.

Was yesterday nothing but a nightmare, an imaginary figment from a mind that was over-stressed and terribly in need of a break from the world? It had to be. He had spent the last few days in a hell he’d never imagined could exist, but now he awoke in a place that belonged to the most delightful daydream. And where exactly was he, for that matter?

Henry Ward looked to his left and saw an antique lamp sitting on a small wooden nightstand. His iPhone was resting next to the lamp. He picked it up and read the screen: 7:36 AM. Several texts and missed calls were listed under the time, but those weren’t important at the moment. There was a more pressing matter at hand now: where was he?

He tried to think, but the smell of bacon and the heavenly breeze at the window kept enticing his mind to relax, to not jump back into the muck pit of life just yet. This was a moment, a blessing, and it wanted to work through him a while longer. It was as if this feeling was here to keep him calm, reminding him not to take these moments for granted. Stop and smell the roses—the bacon.

The ceiling fan above turned on its slowest speed, pulling him into its hypnotic rhythm. He loved this room (wherever it was). It was safe here. He was happy here. Henry Ward belonged here.

He had killed a man yesterday. There it was. The world didn’t just knock at the door and gently bring him back to reality. No, sir—no fucking sir! Here it is, Henry, the muck pool that’s been dangling just outside of this pleasant realm you thought you could enjoy for a few more precious moments. Welcome, son! Welcome back to the shit-storm of life you exist in. We have an assortment of quality sludge for you to wallow around in. For starters, let’s not forget about your dead niece, Sarah. Remember the image of her in her best Sunday dress, lying in that coffin (the one that’s now deep in the cold earth)? This is the image that likes to flash itself behind your eyelids almost every time you blink. Oh, guess what? We have a few new things for you to dwell on as well… How about that guy you plugged full of holes yesterday? You sure tore that fucker a new one, huh? All that academy training came in hot when you let it rip on that sucker, didn’t it? Good shooting, slim! 

“Fuck!” Agent Ward yelled out, slamming his eyes closed and holding them shut until they hurt. His outburst quieted the inner voice, but the images remained. Now he remembered. He was in Cumberland Springs, the place he had felt compelled to return to for reasons he couldn’t explain. He had killed a man who was attempting to abduct a child. Yes, he had saved the kid, and the shooting was justified, but a man had died by his hand. There would be questions today from his superiors, an investigation, administrative leave, piles of paperwork, counseling… A storm was coming, and Agent Henry Ward sat directly in its path. It was bad enough he was in trouble with the higher-ups already. Now add this to the shit-pile. 

As more memories pushed away the morning fog in his mind, he finally remembered where he was. The bed & breakfast next to a red covered bridge. A sweet, historic farm house packed full of so much charm it almost burst through the windows. The constant smell of cinnamon—probably from wax melters or Yankee Candles—was ever present.

He picked up his phone and looked at it again. The world was beckoning him back. Calls, texts, emails… most of them from the FBI Pittsburgh Office, but some he didn’t recognize—state police investigators, most likely. His mother had called as well, then texted, then called again. It would take an hour just to sort through his phone and get back to everyone. Ward tossed it back onto the nightstand, then put his face in his hands. The coffee and bacon were still hooking him by the nose, pulling him out of bed. The world could wait another hour for him to join the fray. Right now, whoever made that amazing breakfast downstairs deserved his attention more than anyone else. 

The go-bag he kept in his car at all times sat in the chair across from the bed. Inside were extra clothes (a pair of jeans, underwear, socks, and a few t-shirts) plus a plastic bag with travel-size toiletries. He had learned that keeping a bag like this in the trunk of his car came in handy for such occasions when he was out of town at a moment’s notice. He smiled at the bag, happy to have fresh clothes for the day. 

After cleaning himself up and throwing on the jeans and a t-shirt, Ward headed downstairs toward the coffee/bacon smell. As he neared the bottom, the smell intensified, clearing his mind of all negativity. If this breakfast wasn’t free, he’d pay whatever the cost to have it. He’d max out his credit card if they wanted him to.

“Good morning, sir,” a woman seated at the dining room table said as Ward entered the room. “I’m Teresa Newberry from Washington, DC. This is my husband, Paul.”

The man reached out his hand, and Ward shook it. “Paul Newberry. Glad to meet you!”

The couple looked to be in their early thirties and probably both in sales or something by the way they carried themselves—big smiles, firm handshakes, eager eyes. Ward hoped their polite conversation wouldn’t end with these two trying to sell him a Timeshare in Florida (he really had to stop doing that. Every time he met someone new, he immediately looked for the worst in them. He needed to fix that pessimistic attitude if he was going to live a happier, more fulfilled life, and he knew it). 

“Henry Ward,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Henry,” the woman said. “We’d love for you to join us.”

Ward pulled out a chair across from the couple and took a seat. There was toast on the table with butter and jelly, but where was that coffee and bacon? These two looked like they had coffee. His eyes were noticeably fixed on the mugs in front of them. 

“Coffee is in the kitchen,” Paul Newberry said. “Mrs. Hamilton will probably bring some out in a minute. Unless you’d like some of mine?”

Ward laughed. “That obvious, huh?”

The three enjoyed a laugh together. 

“Mr. Ward, you’re awake,” the woman said as she entered the room from the kitchen. She was holding a plate of bacon in one hand and a pot of coffee in another. At that moment, Ward could not think of a more beautiful human being on the face of the earth. She was indeed physically attractive, and probably close to his age, but the bacon in her hand had turned her into a supermodel in a string bikini on the cover of Sports Illustrated. His mouth watered and his smile grew wide with excitement. She set the plate on the table close to him, still within everyone’s reach. He felt childhood excitement coursing through his veins. She set the coffeepot even closer to him. “Help yourselves,” she said. “Eggs and hash browns are just about ready.”

It was perfection—absolute perfection. Mrs. Hamilton, proprietor of the Covered Bridge Bed & Breakfast, had somehow taken the most basic ingredients and turned them into a culinary masterpiece fit for the Royal Family. Ward had never eaten a meal that tasted this rich, this full of flavor. His mother had made some pretty amazing dishes in her time (her lunchtime sandwiches were magical), but there was something all together different about what Mrs. Hamilton had created here today. 

“It’s the butter,” Mrs. Hamilton said. 

“Hmm?” Ward replied with a mouthful of food. 

Mrs. Hamilton smiled. “The secret is the butter; it’s homemade from fresh cream. Plus, I gathered the eggs this morning from my own chickens. The bacon comes from Hilligas Farms, just up the road.”

“This goes beyond words, Mrs—” Ward began.

“—Call me Lynn, please,” she said. “Mrs. Hamilton sounds so formal and makes me feel like an old lady.”

“Well, Lynn,” Paul spoke up. “You’ve certainly made an amazing breakfast. We’ll be sure to leave you a great review on B&B Finder.”

The group shared polite conversation during breakfast, exchanging basic pleasantries. It turned out Teresa and Paul Newberry weren’t salespeople after all. They were lobbyists from DC, just passing through on a road trip of B&B’s in the quaintness of the Appalachian Mountains. Mrs. Hamilton (Lynn) was the sole owner of the Covered Bridge Bed & Breakfast. Her husband, Richard, had died in a small engine plane crash two years ago, just outside of Harrisburg. She still keeps his name and the missus part. No one asked why; they just understood. 

“Mr. Ward—” Lynn began.

“—Please, call me Henry.”

She smiled. “Okay, Henry. I hate to pry, but I feel like I need to ask…” She paused, searching for the right words. A slight heaviness fell over the room. 

“You want to know about yesterday,” Ward said. 

Teresa and Paul leaned forward in their chairs, preparing to hear something interesting. 

“Well,” Lynn said. “Yes. I mean, if you’re allowed to talk about it.”

“My goodness,” Teresa said. “What happened?”

Paul chimed in: “We saw a lot of police cars and ambulances while we were at the Mile Long Yard Sale yesterday. It looked like quite a commotion.”

Ward smiled and let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, actually, I’m not at liberty to say right now. There is an ongoing investigation and I haven’t checked in with my superiors yet. So, I’m sorry; that’s all I can tell you right now.”

“Are you a cop?” Paul said. 

“FBI,” Ward answered.

“Oh, wow!” Teresa said. “Like Mulder and Skully in the X-Files! That’s my favorite show of all-time.”

Ward grinned as he looked at Teresa.

“Can you tell us anything, Henry?” Lynn asked. “Again, I’m so sorry to pry, but this is my hometown; I’ve lived here all my life. If something bad happened, I’d really like to know. Not for gossip's sake, I assure you.”

Ward let out a deep sigh. “How about this: there was a threat in Cumberland Springs yesterday and the threat was neutralized. I’m certain this town is just as safe as it has ever been, and you all have nothing to worry about. The state and local police will probably put out a statement sometime today.”

“Were you the one who neutralized the threat?” Paul asked. 

Taking one last gulp of his coffee, Ward stood up and excused himself from the table. “What time is check out, Lynn?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Henry,” she replied. “Take all the time you need.”

4

PAIN THROBBED IN HIS HEAD and neck, the dull kind that picks at you with subtle agony and mockery. It wasn’t quick and sharp like the cut from a knife or prick from a needle. No, it came in waves that roll up onto the beach in thunderous crashes, then gently saunter back out to sea to regroup for another volley of misery.

Father Richardson awoke to this throbbing symphony of torment emanating from his temples and the base of his skull. His right cheek was planted into his computer keyboard—a makeshift pillow he had unknowingly used to rest his head sometime in the night. It stuck to his skin as he lifted his head, causing the keyboard to rise for a second, then fall to the desk when his face released the plastic. The sound of it hitting the desk rang in his ears and added another layer of strength to the pulsing ache behind his eyes. 

He groaned. It seemed to help a little, letting the world know he was hurting. There was no one in the office to listen to his plight, but making it audible eased the suffering ever so slightly. 

The priest looked at his computer screen. The report. That’s right, the report. He had resolved to stay at his desk until his account of what he had witnessed in Cumberland Springs and at the Monastery of Saint Vincent was complete. During the night, he must have fallen asleep with his head on the keyboard. The mystery of his headache and neck pain solved. No further analysis of the problem was necessary. The only thing left to do now was figure out a way to make the infernal throbbing and soreness go away so he could start thinking clearly again. There was no way he could get back to his work with this pounding discomfort at the forefront of his focus. 

There had to be an ibuprofen around here somewhere. He searched the top of the desk, through piles of papers he still needed to sort out from the past month’s work. Nothing. The drawers were a bust as well. Where was that little bottle?

In his quest to find relief, he had discovered something: a small note card with the name of a church in Boston along with the name of a priest (Father Delrosso, Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, Boston, MA). Delrosso? Had Father Richardson heard that name before? It sounded slightly familiar. He stared at the card and smiled. Catholic churches had the most interesting names. Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception was another one for the books. The name was unusual enough that it seemed to burn itself into his mind. There was also something about the way Father McEllen had given the note card to him. He hadn’t said a word, like it was supposed to be a secret between the two of them. Strange… 

The priest put a piece of tape on the note card and taped it to the top of his computer monitor—the safest place for him to put something important he didn’t want to forget. 

There had to be an ibuprofen bottle somewhere in this building. Maybe the main receptionist would have one at the front desk? Of course she would. Rolanda was one of those people who was overly organized and overly prepared for anything. He smiled, knowing relief was just down the hall.

As he stood up from his desk to begin the quest, his cell phone rang. It was buried somewhere under the mass of papers he had just disheveled. He found it after a few rings. The clock on the screen told him it was a few minutes before 8:00 AM—a little early for phone calls. His heart sunk when he read the name of the caller: Reverend Paul Allen. He knew something was wrong. The feeling sent a jolt of adrenaline rushing through his veins. 

“Reverend Allen?” he answered. “Is everything alright, sir?”

There was a pause on the other line. “Good morning, Father. I hope I didn’t wake you, calling this early.”

“No, not at all,” Father Richardson said. “What can I do for you?”

The reverend let out a deep sigh. “We had an incident here in Cumberland Springs yesterday, something truly terrible.”

“My goodness! Are you okay?”

“Yes, Father, [clearing his throat] I’m fine,” the reverend said.

“Pardon me for saying, Reverend, but you don’t sound convincing.”

Reverend Allen gave a slight laugh. “Well, physically I’m fine, but after what I saw yesterday, I don’t know if I’ll ever mentally be fine again.”

“Please continue, Reverend,” the priest said, as if he were in the confessional booth.

“A man attempted to abduct two children here in broad daylight, right out of their own homes. One of them was the eight-year-old daughter of our chief of police!”

“Dear God!” Father Richardson exclaimed. His mouth hung open and his eyes bulged. 

The reverend cleared his throat again. “Father, that’s only part of the story. The rest of it is going to take much more time to tell than I can convey over the phone. But one thing I can say for certain is that evil has come to Cumberland Springs. There is something attacking us, something from beyond this world, something out of the depths of darkness. I can say that with absolute certainty. I’ve witnessed it myself. I fear our community is in grave danger.”

Reverend Allen went silent, as did Father Richardson. Both men retreating deep within their own thoughts. 

“I believe you’re right, Reverend,” Father Richardson finally said. “I know it!”

“When I woke this morning, the only thought in my mind was to reach out to you, Father,” Reverend Allen said. “Something compelled me to call you first.”

It was finally becoming clear to Father Richardson. When he felt the calling to join the priesthood, he knew in his heart that his purpose was obvious: God had called him to serve. But after becoming a priest, he felt distant, bored even. His heart had told him there was so much more he should do, far beyond the mundane administrative work of the diocese. Then it happened; his purpose made clear. He witnessed it with his own eyes: evil, walking the earth, bent on the destruction of God’s most amazing creation. This was his calling. He felt God directing him to deal with this tribulation and pour everything he had into driving it from the earth. His heart leaped, and he lost his breath in excitement for a moment. 

“Is it okay that I’ve called you, Father?” Reverend Allen asked. 

“Reverend, it is more than just okay,” Father Richardson said. “God has directed you to contact me. I can feel Him at work through the both of us. I will be in Cumberland Springs this evening and I’ll be staying until we take care of the problem at hand. Is the invitation to stay at your place still open?”

The reverend smiled widely, and his eyes glossed over with joy. He had help, now. Someone with divine guidance was joining the fight. Victory was inevitable! “My door is always open, Father, and I have plenty of room in this big old house. When shall I expect you?”

“Tonight, Reverend. I’ll call when I leave here. It’ll take about two hours from then to get to Cumberland Springs.”

They said goodbye and hung up. Father Richardson stared into the emptiness of his office, reflecting on what he was about to do. The diocese was going to be pissed, no doubt, but fine, whatever. He’d make his case to Father McEllen, his superior, and if that didn’t work, so be it. He’d take a leave of absence and deal with the consequences later. Father Andre would definitely put up a fight about all of this, but again, so be it. It would probably be best to just leave him out of it all together. 

He left his office and headed toward the main receptionist. At the end of the hall, he saw Rolanda, seated at her desk, looking busy. “Rolanda, you are just the person I need to see,” Father Richardson said. 

The woman looked up from her desk, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here this early?”

Father Richardson laughed. “Didn’t you hear? I live here now. The higher-ups thought it would be best if I work twenty-two hours a day and sleep the other two in my office.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“I’m kidding, Rolanda,” the priest said. 

“Oh,” she said, then let out an obligatory laugh. “What can I help you with, Father?”

“Ah, yes. Two things: first, please tell me you have a bottle of ibuprofen in your purse or desk?”

She reached into the second drawer of her desk and produced a small blue and white bottle. “Keep it,” she said.

Father Richardson’s eyes lit up when she handed it to him. He shook out two pills and swallowed them without water.

“What’s the second thing?” Rolanda asked.

“Is Father McEllen here yet?”

She looked at her computer monitor for a moment. “He is out today and tomorrow. Father Andre is handling his duties for the next two days. Would you like to talk to Father Andre?”

“No!” he said, hastily. His exclamation made the woman jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I need to take a quick leave of absence for a personal reason. I’ll just send Father McEllen an email explaining my need for the time off.”

“What shall I tell Father Andre if he looks for you?” she asked.

“Just tell him I had a personal issue and leave it at that.”

Rolanda gave a disapproving look. “Okay, but you know how he is—”

“—Yes, Rolanda, I’m painfully aware of Father Andre’s disposition. Tell him it’s personal, nothing more.” Father Richardson began walking back toward his office. He held up the little blue bottle and rattled the remaining pills. “Thanks again for the ibuprofen.”

He sat down behind his desk and composed an email to Father McEllen. It was short and to the point with little description beyond, “I have a personal issue and need to take some time off.” He hadn’t finished his report of what had happened in Cumberland Springs and at the Monastery of Saint Vincent, but that was actually fine; the story wasn’t complete. He was about to head back to that little town and get into what might be a standoff between the forces of evil and the faith of man. He had the feeling his first dealings in this venture had only scratched the surface. The real meat of the matter was just about to begin.

Father Richardson emailed a copy of the report to himself so he could work on it from his laptop while in Cumberland Springs. He glanced at his monitor, looking for the card he had taped there before leaving his office to talk to Rolanda, but was surprised to see it was no longer there. It wasn’t on the desk or the floor, either. It was gone. But that was impossible. He was just down the hall for five minutes and didn’t see anyone come through here. How could this be? He looked again, this time crawling under the desk. Nothing. It had simply vanished. He pulled out a notecard from the top desk drawer and recalled from memory. The church in Boston with the long name: Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Who could forget a name like that? And the priest’s name; he had heard it before, but where? He thought for several moments, then it came to him. He had read an article once about a Spanish priest who, in the spirit of Mother Teresa, had given up everything to live and work among the homeless and downtrodden in the worst parts of large cities. Del-something… Delrosso! That was it! He jotted the name under the name of the church and tucked it into his wallet. He’d check into that later, after he’d made it to Cumberland Springs. But what the heck had happened to that note card he had taped to his monitor?

5

THERE IS NO WAY this scrawny little shit helped perpetrate this mess, Cooper Thompson thought as two guards escorted the inmate into the room. Warden Rupp had offered his office as a quiet place where the marshal could conduct his business. The warden sat in his chair behind the large oak desk. Cooper sat halfway on the desk with one foot still on the floor. Warden Rupp didn’t look happy about how comfortable the marshal had made himself.

“Well, well, come on in and have a seat, young man,” Cooper said to the inmate standing between two guards. “No reason to be nervous, son. I won’t bite you.”

The guards escorted the inmate to one of two chairs facing the warden’s desk and forced him to sit. They took positions directly behind, watching him closely. 

Cooper took a deep breath and let it out slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the inmate, who was staring at the ground, trembling. “Looks like your buddy pulled a fast one, didn’t he?”

The inmate looked up and met the marshal’s eyes for the first time. “Buddy? What buddy?”

“Don’t run dumb with me, Billy!” Cooper shouted. “I know it was your friend who did all this, and I also think you know where the son of a bitch is hiding.”

Billy looked shocked.

“Don’t play this game with me, boy; I won’t have it,” Cooper said. “We’re not gonna go through all the prison bullshit about more time in the rec-yard or free candy bars for life or any of that shit, so don’t even start. You helped facilitate an inmate’s escape from this prison, and now you’re screwed. Where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is!” Billy shouted. “But I can tell you who he is… That man is the devil!” Tears rolled down his cheeks and his body shook even harder. “You’d be smart to stay away from him.”

“The devil, huh?” Cooper said. “That’s rich.” He stood up and towered over the quivering inmate, who was easily half the marshal’s size. “Let me tell you how this is gonna go. You’re going to be charged as an accomplice, meaning you’ll be held responsible for every person who died here yesterday, and [pointing at the window] anyone he hurts while he’s running around free out there! That means, unless you have million dollar lawyers—and I know you don’t—you’re getting the death penalty.”

Billy looked up and gravely stared at the marshal. “I’m already dead.” 

There was something in the eyes, something grim. Fear had gripped the inmate the way a predator grasps its prey before finishing the kill; it came out in the eyes. Some people could beat a lie detector test by convincing themselves the lie was the truth, but the eyes always gave them away. They are the window to the soul, and the soul is incapable of untruth.

“The devil?” Cooper asked. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Billy didn’t answer. He stared at the ground, almost in a fugue state now, shaking even harder. His greasy, dark hair still had mats of dried blood in it from yesterday’s carnage.

Cooper felt less confident that this man was involved. He was too far gone about it all. If he was an accomplice, he wouldn’t be in this current state of shock. Had he been a part of the operation but merely missed his opportunity to escape, he’d have an arrogance about him now, an air of knowing something the authorities didn’t. He may even be happy. That wasn’t the case here. The inmate was as terrified as a human being can get before going into heart failure, even in the safety of this room, surrounded by armed guards. He no longer fit the bill as a suspect for the marshal.

“Alright, that’ll do,” Cooper said. “Take him back.”

The guards did as instructed, leading Billy out of the chair and toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped and turned his head, but not his body. “You won’t survive this, Marshal.”

“Is that so?” Cooper asked, grinning as he spoke.

Billy didn’t reply. The guards waited a moment, then took him the rest of the way out, closing the door behind them. 

The room was quiet. Cooper finally broke the silence. “What’s his story?”

“Not much to tell about Billy, really,” the warden said. “Small-time street hustler, in for a list of petty bullshit. He only has a year left on his sentence.” He turned his laptop screen to face Cooper. “Here’s the file on the fugitive.”

“Brian Anderson,” Cooper said as he read through the file. “Whoa, big fucker, ain’t he? Six foot seven, 290. Damn! Think you have it in ya to wrestle this grizzly down, Zack?”

The other male marshal in the room looked at the monitor over Cooper’s shoulder and let out a confident laugh. “He don’t look like much, boss. Bet he gives up faster than France.”

Cooper continued skimming the file. “Looks like he’s killed three people—before yesterday, that is. Our boy doesn’t have much of a conscience.” He turned the computer back to the warden. “Would you email this file to me, please? Mandy and Zack, go coordinate with the state troopers on their efforts. Tori, you’re with me. Can we get a look at that security footage from the yard, Warden?”

Warden Rupp stared at the marshal. There was a wash of apprehension in his eyes. The man had been through what was probably the most unsettling ordeal of his life yesterday, so it stood to reason he might still be on edge. But the mere mention of security footage seemed to sink him into a dark hole of terrible thoughts he was likely trying to repress. He knew what was on those recordings. He understood what the marshal and his team were about to witness, and knew they would never be the same after viewing them. 

“Warden?” Cooper asked. “You okay, there?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” the warden said. “Yes, I’ll take you down to the room where we keep the security servers and monitors.”

Cooper studied the warden for a few seconds. “Sure you’re okay? You look balled up all of a sudden.”

Warden Rupp didn’t answer. He got up from his chair, walked around his desk, and headed for the door. “Come with me.”

6

THEY TRY TO MAKE HOSPITAL ROOMS pleasant, but it’s a futile effort. Pleasant pictures on the walls, soft paint colors, perhaps even a few plants here and there… it’s pointless. The underlying reason for being in a hospital is ever present, lurking under the surface, picking at your well-being, your happiness. Think happy thoughts, stay positive, don’t let the purpose of your visit or stay in this place get you down. These sentiments never work. No one comes here willfully unless they’re getting paid. It is a place where people have suffered greatly in the past and are suffering now at this very moment, leaving behind an energy that flows through these rooms like a toxic mist. It lingers. It dwells. It pulls you deep into its despair. You can’t help but feel the suffering of those who have passed through these halls and rooms and beds. You can sense the sorrow of loved ones who spent night after night seated by the bedside of their fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends, praying for healing, clinging to the hope that they might be allowed more precious time with those they cherish. So many have said their final goodbyes in these rooms, filling the atmosphere with sorrow (sorrow that haunts these places until someday the buildings are bulldozed to the ground to make way for new hospitals where the vicious cycle of grief will begin again). A little paint and a few flowers do little to mask the agony that has seeped its way into the pores of these buildings. 

Glen sat in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed, holding Vickie’s hand as she slept, her body carved up and bandaged—broken. His wife, the center of his world, had died twice in the operating room yesterday, but by the grace of God, she clung to life. She looked so fragile now, like a shattered porcelain doll that was glued back together and placed in the center of a child’s bed. In the blink of an eye, Glen Crawford’s world and everything he loved was nearly ripped from the earth. But why? How?

Thankfully, Sarah received only a mild concussion from yesterday’s incident and was resting in another room on the floor above. Glen’s mother and father were up there, keeping her company and putting her mind at ease. The poor girl had gone through the worst trauma of her life. The concern now was helping her recover from this calamity and getting the whole family back to normal (or as close as they could get to normal after all of this). 

A broad spectrum of emotions—some he didn’t even know he possessed—had passed through Glen since yesterday (fear being the leader out front). When the understanding of how close he came to losing Vickie and Sarah had actually sunk in, his heart filled with a horror he’d never known before. It hurt him as if he’d been blasted in the chest with a shotgun at close range. But the other emotion flowing from his heart just behind fear was both ice cold and blistering hot: anger, pure and strong, and hateful. A man had come into his town and tried to destroy everything Glen loved, leaving him with only a burned-out shell of a life. Thank God his son Brandon was home and armed with the crossbow they had just given him for his birthday. The boy’s courage had stopped that bastard from taking Sarah and leaving Vickie for dead. The thought of his son’s bravery was the only thing keeping Glen’s rage at bay right now. 

Where did that son of a bitch come from? And why here? The answers to those questions were probably as simple as the answer to one plus one? He came from a society of selfish, entitled people who exist only to fulfill their own personal egocentric desires, caring nothing at all for the lives of those around them. His only concern was for himself and his twisted, perverted lechery. Lust was all that mattered in this man’s world. As for why Cumberland Springs? That was probably a simple answer: it was a small rural community, far removed from the rest of the world. Plus, there was an event going on in town where lots of outsiders were visiting. It was easy for this piece of shit to blend in with the crowd, snake around until he found what he wanted, then slip out before anyone knew what he had done. But he hadn’t accounted for a fifteen-year-old boy with a high-powered crossbow.

This would not happen again, not here, not in Glen Crawford’s town, not in his world. He would never rest if he thought there was even the slightest hint of a threat. He’d be the century who stood guard over his community for the rest of his life. They would be protected, safe, shielded from an outside world that wished nothing but pain and misery on them. It was his purpose now, his mission. He had always protected his town, but until recently, the world never really bothered Cumberland Springs. Well, at least until that emaciated body showed up in Mrs. Rolley’s potting shed last November. That seemed to be the catalyst for all of this. Now every slithering parasite the world could spew out seemed to have their their sights on them.

It hurt to feel this way, to have such a lack of faith in humanity. His heart didn’t like it. The little voice inside that guides the moral compass kept telling him to calm down, stop thinking such negative thoughts. He didn’t want to listen. It felt good to allow rage to filter through his system. The anger made him hot, bitter, resentful. These kinds of emotions were supposed to be negative, but Glen found an odd comfort in them. The rage in his heart had made a nice warm bed for him to nestle into and relax. Come on in, Glen Crawford, sit by the fire, enjoy the warmth that hatred and resentment can bring. While you’re here, let’s make some plans for the future. We’re going to get along just fine. 

He tried to shake these terrible feelings, to think of something happy. He thought of Vickie and the day he put his football jacket over her shoulders when they were in high school. That was the day their friendship had turned into full-blown, heart-throbbing, unicorns, rainbows, and Elton John songs, love. That day was at the top of his list of life moments that made his heart dance like a joyful fool. The look on Vickie’s face as she stared up at him, wearing the over-sized jacket. She looked confused—probably just as confused as him. What had just happened? It took them both a few minutes of studying each other, but soon it became clear. It was the moment they had fallen in love. 

The rage he had allowed into his heart didn’t want to hear this. It didn’t want him to have pleasant thoughts. That’s all fine and good Glen, now kindly focus your eyes a few inches to your right. What remains of that beautiful woman you love so much is laying there in a sliced and battered heap of flesh, clinging to every precious breath, because any of them could be her last. And why is that, you might ask? Oh, it’s quite simple: because you failed! You took your eye off the ball and let the outside world come to take what is yours. You practically served Vickie and Sarah up on a platter and said, ‘come and get it!’ Let’s not forget that, shall we?

He looked at his wife in her current state, and the memory of the day they fell in love was violently ripped from his mind. All he saw now was pain and despair. Glen’s eyes swelled with tears. Are you serious right now? You’re crying? Sure, that’ll help. The world is heading this way with its sights set on taking away everything you cherish, and you’re sitting here like a whimpering child who just lost a balloon. How did you ever make it this far?

The rage had won. He couldn’t just sit here lost in a pool of sorrow and grief, a helpless idiot with no direction. The world outside was coming for Cumberland Springs. It wanted to take what he held so dear to his heart and defile it, molest it, destroy it. The world wanted his simple, joyful life to be wiped from the earth and replaced with misery and suffering. No! Fuck that! No way!

Glen pulled out his phone and called Lindsay at the police station (she was working dispatch today). 

“Cumberland Springs Police Department,” Lindsay said. She already knew it was Glen from the caller ID, but protocol dictated the phone at the station was always answered professionally.

“Lindsay,” Glen said. His voice was curt. “Call every officer in right now and tell them to meet me in the lobby at the hospital.”

“Okay, Chief, I’ll do it right away,” she said. “Please tell me Vickie and Sarah are okay.” Her voice cracked.

Glen hung up the phone, not answering her question. He looked at his wife again. This time there were no tears—they had dried from the heat of his bitterness. The man who did this to Vickie and Sarah was dead, so unfortunately Glen couldn’t kill him again. But there were others out there, intending to take what was his. They would fail!

He felt a presence in the room behind him. He spun around in a defensive posture.

“I’m sorry, Glen,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He paused for a second to gain his composure. There wasn’t a vicious predator in the room with him, here to finish off his wife and complete the destruction of Glen’s life. It was Vickie’s parents, Eileen and Tim. They stood in the doorway looking humbled and nervous.

“Eileen,” Glen said after a few seconds. “Please, come in.” He felt relief. But a small part of him had honestly hoped some miscreant had crept into the room. It was the perfect time for him to cut loose this new found aggression.  

Vickie’s mother stepped up to the bed and looked down at her daughter. She put a hand over her mouth and wept. 

Tim, Vickie’s father, stood next to Glen, letting his wife have her moment. He cleared his throat. “How did this happen, Glen?”

Glen didn’t respond. He watched his mother-in-law weeping over Vickie as if they were at her funeral service. He didn’t have a response for Tim. How did this happen? It wasn’t a question with a definitive answer. But he’d certainly have to figure one out soon, not only for the family, but for the whole town.

Tim put his hand on Glen’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to push you on this, son; I just have to know.”

Glen understood. Tim’s daughter was laying there in an unimaginable state of trauma. The man wanted answers, and surely he deserved them. He had trusted Glen to take care of his daughter and protect her when he gave her away at the altar all those years ago, and Glen had failed. The least he could do now was give him an explanation. “As far as we can tell, the guy was a drifter who rolled into town during the big yard sale. He probably saw Sarah playing in our front yard or something and decided to grab her.”

“I heard Brandon shot him with a crossbow?” Tim asked.

Glen let out a soft laugh. “He did. That saved them, actually. No telling how far the guy would have got if Brandon hadn’t slowed him down.”

The two men stood quietly for a moment, watching Eileen sob over her daughter. “Are you sure he was just a drifter, Glen?” Tim asked. “Is it possible he was aiming to hurt you personally? You know, like an enemy you’ve made somewhere along the line who wanted to get back at you for something?”

Glen looked at Tim. He hadn’t thought about that theory. “I highly doubt it, Tim. I don’t really have any enemies. I mean, the worst thing we do around here is hand out speeding tickets. You know this town.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “But I hear there are low-lifes these days, hiding up in the mountains, cooking meth in trailers and RVs. Did you cross one of them or something?”

“You watch too much Breaking Bad, Tim,” Glen said. “But, yes, there have been a few arrests in the area for that recently. The state police handle those problems. My office just focuses on keeping Cumberland Springs safe.” But the theory was warranted. Glen really had to think about it. Did he piss someone off over the years who may have wanted to hurt him by hurting his family? He couldn’t think of anyone at the moment. He didn’t want to talk about it now. “They’re transporting Vickie to Pittsburgh shortly. She needs another surgery, this time by a specialist.”

“Clear to Pittsburgh?” Tim asked. “Dear God!” 

“The doctor says she’s stable and out of the woods now,” Glen said. “But the surgery is a must, and it has to happen immediately. My parents are staying with Sarah; Brandon is coming with me to Pittsburgh. You’re welcome to ride with us.”

“Yes, of course,” Tim said. “Thank you.”

They returned their attention to Vickie. Glen noticed a tear rolling down his father-in-law’s face. The only other time he’d seen this man cry was at the altar when he walked his daughter down the aisle and handed her to Glen. That day seemed so far away now. 

7

EARLY MORNING, just as the sun is announcing that those of us who have survived the night need to get our asses in gear and be productive members of society, was special for Devon Harris. His heart was calm during this time. Even during his service in the Iraq war, when he could be assured the coming day would be full of hell and misery, the morning still comforted him in its soothing grasp. It was hypnotic. It embraced him and forced him to have at least a few moments of peace in an otherwise chaotic world. 

He sat at the breakfast nook in the kitchen of the house he had lived in all his life. After the passing of his parents several years ago, Devon, their only child, inherited the house and everything inside it. He was happy to live here in the only sanctuary he had ever known. During his time in the Marine Corps, he often thought of his little house in his little town in its untouched part of the earth. When he joined the Marines, he was eager to get out and experience the world (an excitement that wore off all together the day he stepped off the transport plane into the Iraqi desert. When the bullets started flying his way, he vowed if he made it back alive, he would never leave Cumberland Springs again). 

Numerous counselors—he’d actually lost count of how many there were by now—had told him it was okay to remember the war, to not forget the friends he had made and the friends he had lost, but it wasn’t good for him to think about the bad stuff, the inhumanity, the carnage, the brutality. When those memories came to mind, he was supposed to snuff them out with happy thoughts. Just close the door on the bad thoughts like you would to a Jehovah's Witness who came by to convert you when you were in the middle of something important. That was easier said than done. The bad thoughts had a way of sticking their foot in the doorjamb just before he could get it closed all the way. 

But he was getting better every day. Linda had helped with that; she was amazing. He often wondered what he did to deserve a wife like her. She seemed to come out of nowhere one day, like an alien ship had dropped her out of the sky, and her mission was to make Devon Harris happy for the rest of his life. She wasn’t an alien, of course; she was a Baptist. That meant every Sunday when he wasn’t on shift at the ambulance service, his ass would be in church next to her, praying, worshiping, and singing “Hallelujah!” And that was just fine; he didn’t mind going to church. Plus, it made his wife happy, which was something he loved to do. 

The coffee pot finished its cycle, filling the kitchen with a rich heavenly aroma. He got up from the breakfast nook table and poured himself a mug full. Just before he could put the mug to his lips, Linda came up from behind him and gently took it from his hand. “Why, thank you darling,” she said, smiling playfully as she began drinking what used to be his coffee right in front of him. 

“Is there anything else I can get you, miss?” Devon asked.

“Not at the moment, dear butler,” she said. “But I’ll let you know if something comes up.” 

Devon smiled at his wife. Her long red hair stood out even brighter against the white fluffy robe she wore. Touched by fire, as they say about the gingers, and she certainly was.

He poured himself another cup from the pot and joined Linda at the small table. They smiled at each other for several moments, sipping from their mugs, not needing to speak. It was an enjoyable time for both of them. 

Suddenly, something in Linda’s eyes changed. The playfulness had faded, leaving her with a look of concern. 

Devon didn’t like this change of expression on his wife’s face; he had been enjoying her flirtatious attitude. He had even thought it was leading to a moment of intimacy that might land them back in bed for the rest of the morning. But that had all disappeared in a flash. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

She paused for a moment, searching for the right words. 

“Hmm?” Devon coaxed, taking another sip from his cup.

“What happened yesterday, babe?” Linda finally said. “You haven’t said a word about it. Are you planning on keeping this from me?”

Devon looked down at his coffee mug, embarrassed. He rarely had a problem telling his wife about the things he had seen during his ambulance calls, save for the vivid descriptions of blood or gore, if there were any. But how could he explain what had happened yesterday when he didn’t understand it himself? “I guess some crazy guy came into town, mixed in with all the yard sale traffic, and tried to abduct a few kids. An FBI agent who just happened to be here actually stopped the guy.” 

“Yeah, I saw that on the news,” Linda said. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. You left here last night and said you had something important to attend to.” She opened her eyes wider and shrugged her shoulders. “Are you just not going to talk about that?”

Devon let out a deep sigh. “I’m really not sure what to say about it right now, babe. Not that I’m trying to keep anything from you. I really don’t know if I understand it myself.”

“Did you just go driving around town?” Linda asked. “Did you go to a bar? Did you go to Ronnie’s house?”

“I went to Reverend Allen’s house,” he said. 

Linda sat quietly, feeling sorry for accusing her husband. He had experienced a traumatic event yesterday and probably needed to talk to someone. She wished he would have gone to her for comfort, but Reverend Allen was fine, too. She couldn’t begrudge him for that. “What did the reverend have to say?”

“Well, there were a few others there, too,” Devon said. “There were a lot of things said. I’m still trying to process most of it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting into another therapy group?” Linda questioned. “You know I support you in everything, Devon. You shouldn’t lock me out.”

“This wasn’t a therapy group,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was, but I can tell you I’m not alone with all these terrible visions I’ve been having. There are others experiencing the same weird things.”

Linda stared into Devon’s eyes. Part of her wanted to be angry that her husband was being secretive, but her rational side wouldn’t allow it. He was going through so much these days. How could she be upset if he was seeking help? “Can I be a part of this with you?”

“I hate to say this, Linda, but I don’t think you can,” Devon said. “It feels like something I have to work through alone with this group.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Yes, he was excluding her from something, but he was doing it with the pastor of their church; it must be a good thing for him. “You’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell me about all of this?”

“I’m sorry, honey. Right now, I just have to ask you to trust me.” Devon touched his wife’s hand. “Is that okay?”

“I guess it has to be,” Linda said, getting up from the table. She walked over to the refrigerator. “Don’t forget: you have an appointment with Dr. Lightner today at 2:00 PM.”

8

“JESUS!” TORI EXCLAIMED. She was standing next to her boss, looking at the security footage of the breakout. Cooper stared at the monitor in silence with a stoic look on his face.

After two minutes of silent viewing, Cooper turned toward the warden. “Is this for real?” he asked. “I mean, looks to me like I’m watching some kind of movie or film school special effects project taught by Tom Savini.” He looked at the monitor again for a moment, then back at the warden. “I’m being serious here. Are you people fucking with me? Is this some kind of deep fake?”

The warden stood next to the monitor but would not look at the screen. The color had wash from his face; the man seemed genuinely scared. “No, Marshal, I am not fucking with you. This is the actual footage from yesterday.”

Cooper stared at the screen again, watching but not believing as the footage showed the inmate identified as Brian Anderson ripping, gouging, gnashing, and tearing through human flesh with the speed and ferocity of a great white shark during a feeding frenzy. There was nothing remotely human about this creature. He was a killing machine, the likes the world had yet to discover. He used his hands, feet, and—most repulsively—his teeth to tear other human beings into shredded piles of flesh. This could not exist in our world. Yes, sharks, bears, lions, and other predators were capable of similar acts of destruction upon their prey, but never with this kind of speed and ferocity. It simply did not exist in nature. 

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Cooper said. “I mean, I just don’t see how this is possible!”

“These recordings were not altered, Marshal; I assure you,” the warden said.  

Shaking his head, both in disbelief and to clear his mind, Marshal Cooper Thompson remained dumbfounded. Simple logic—hell, even scientific logic—dictated that what this man did to the other inmates in the yard yesterday was not physically possible. Sure, the guy was bigger than most, but that still didn’t account for this level of destruction; nothing could. 

At one point in the video, Anderson had actually taken down three inmates at one time, tearing them to pieces with his fingers and mouth. It was ghoulish, to say the least. Then, after he had eradicated every man in the yard, Anderson headed for the giant steel door. With one fluent motion, he ripped the metal behemoth from its hinges and discarded it to the side with indifference, like he hadn’t just accomplished the amazing feat that it was. 

“Alright,” Cooper said. “I can’t even begin to explain what’s going on here, nor do I give a shit anymore. The son of a bitch needs to be brought down, now! We can’t—” 

“—We got a line on him!” a man in a state trooper uniform shouted as he came into the room. “Somebody broke into a house about five miles from here and killed the family inside!”

Cooper and his deputy marshal, Tori, were already heading for the door before the trooper could finish his statement.

* * *

There was just no way this could happen, no way at all. The inside of the house looked every bit as grisly, if not worse, than the prison rec-yard and cafeteria. The carnage was immeasurable. The filthiest slaughterhouse in Texas was still a more welcome sight than what Cooper was viewing inside this little house in the suburbs. What made it worse was that the bodies were still here, unlike back at the prison where they had already carted them off before his arrival. The best he could tell was that these people were a textbook normal family. A father, mother, sister, and brother all reduced to piles of meat, blood, and bone. 

He’d seen enough today. This asshole was on the loose and more dangerous than anything imaginable. It was time to track him, hunt him, and bring him down before he hurt anyone else. Cooper knew once the news—especially the descriptions of destruction and massacre—reached his superiors, his phone would start ringing out of control. They’d want to send more men for starters, which was fine as long as they didn’t all just stand around the command tent in their full tactical gear drinking coffee all day. They might also want to send a few more “experts.” In short, it meant too many chiefs around the campfire, each one of them with their own opinion about how to proceed. That would, of course, slow shit down to a crawl. No, he had to get this prick before the bureaucracy took the field. 

Cooper headed out the front door—which had been torn off the hinges with the same ease as the giant steel door back at the prison—and looked around. Something struck him oddly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was a strangeness in the air. Yes, he was standing in the middle of a scene not unlike Day of the Dead, but something else tugged at him. The world seemed off somehow, like a foreign substance had been introduced to the planet with the purpose of harming it. He couldn’t shake the feeling. He tried to focus on his job, but everything was wrong now. Even the sky looked malevolent. 

“Marshal,” one of the state police investigating officers called out.

The officer’s call broke Cooper out of his thoughts. He walked over to the man who was standing in the front yard holding a plastic bag. The officer handed the bag to Cooper. There it was—full-blown evidence their guy was responsible for this gruesome event. He held the plastic bag up to eye level and examined the contents: a dirty, blood-soaked canvas shoe marked Size 12, stamped with blue text that read, “Somerset Correctional Facility.”

“We found it in the bushes around the side by the broken window,” the officer said. “There’s a lot of blood and half a human skull embedded into the side of the house. Looks like someone’s head was bashed against the outer wall.”

Cooper handed the bag back to the officer and walked away without acknowledging the man’s comment. Somewhere in the distance, not too far off, he heard dogs barking. It comforted him. The hounds were finally here. Now it was time to really start tracking this fucker!

9

JANIE WILSON HAD LOVED her backyard garden. She had put so much heart felt effort into making it the perfect place to grow vegetables and leafy greens for her family, friends, and neighbors to enjoy each season. Jerry had helped her a few years ago with laying brick pathways between the rows and putting up the most adorable white picket fence around the parameter to keep the animals out of her precious plantings. During another season, they had built a small greenhouse at the far end of the garden. Inside was a table and chairs where Janie could escape to work on her starter plants or sit and read in the afternoon, free from a world that was just dying to take up all of her free time. Next to the greenhouse was a large compost bin with a hinged wooden door on top to keep the compost moist and dark. The garden was her sanctuary, her accomplishment, her place of solitude. Sadly, a week or so from now this place of happiness will be overgrown with weeds and dying plants, because Janie Wilson—along with her lovely family—was recently ripped from the world by a savage creature merely because they were all home at that precise moment, enjoying a perfect family evening together. No one will care for her beautiful garden this season; no one will enjoy its bounty.

“I must say,” Tuga said. “Things are progressing rather swimmingly, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bol laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. Should we continue or rest?”

“No need to create another spectacle at the moment,” Tuga replied. “I’m rather enjoying watching these talking meat sacks bungle around in awe and disbelief at the work.”

“It is quite a sight,” Bol said. 

They eased the lid closed on the compost bin and slithered the host body deeper into the dark muck. Brian Anderson was still very much aware of what was happening around him, yet had no control over his actions. The two spirits inhabiting his body had taken over every aspect of him, leaving him completely at their mercy—of which they had none. 

He had expected none of this when he allowed Bol into his life; it seemed like a good idea at the time. A disembodied voice who wants to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of… what could go wrong? At that low moment in Brian Anderson’s already worthless life, Bol had offered him the one thing he had lacked from the very beginning: understanding. The voice that came to him out of nowhere the night he was hiding from the police in an abandoned car, contemplating suicide, understood him. It somehow knew his inner thoughts and desires. It also knew his fears and told him how they could rise above it all together… together. See, that’s where the tricky part comes in. Brian could have everything he’d ever desired if he would just allow this voice to come into his life and join with him willfully. So he figured, “What the fuck? Got nothin’ better going on at the moment.”

But Brian got so much more than he could have ever bargained for out of this twisted merger. Bol made him do things that were so vile and inhumane, it made him sick to his soul, yet he obeyed each time. It owned him like a slave and tortured him every minute of the day for its own personal enjoyment, leaving him as nothing more than a hollowed-out, soulless shell of a human. He had lived in a hell on earth for the past three years, his body a temple of suffering, and now another one of these despicable things had entered him. He had no say in the matter; Bol just welcomed it in and it joyfully accepted the invitation. Now he was utterly powerless, without control over a single muscle in his body. The only thing left was his consciousness. He saw, heard, and felt everything these two unholy things made his body do, but couldn’t lift a finger to stop them. They had reduced him to a mere spectator in his own life. So far, they had used his body to commit atrocities that would have made Genghis Khan feel squeamish. How could it possibly get worse?

This was suffering on a level Brian’s imagination could have never dreamed up. Yes, in his life before Bol he was already a terrible person who had been responsible for the deaths of three people—there was no arguing that—but after Bol joined the party, the degree of debauchery had risen to unimaginable heights. And now, with this other thing that had recently joined the party—helping Bol take its plans even further—the bar had skyrocketed out of the realm of human understanding and into the deepest depths of depravity.  

When they tore through the prison rec-yard, mercilessly destroying everyone in sight, Brian felt every bit of it. Those were his hands they had used to rip into the terrified flesh of their victims; his teeth they had used to gnash at the skin and crunch into bones; his mouth they used to taste the copper flavor of blood as it erupted in his throat like the first bite of a vine ripened peach. Brian was very much alive and present for all of it, though he’d wished that if God had had any mercy at all, He would strike him dead before their rampage could go any further. God did not abide.

Though they had killed and devastated so many men in the prison rec-yard and cafeteria during the escape, nothing compared to what they had done to the poor family who lived in the house attached to this garden. The savagery inflicted on them was a thousand times worse than what they had administered to the inmates and guards. Brian could feel that the two spirits had loathed this family for their innocence. They were so appalled at the love these people had for each other they needed to ravage it, to devastate it, even desecrate it. Love had a negative effect on these beings. They were even strangely afraid of it. But when they cut loose on those poor unsuspecting innocents, it was a rage the likes the world had never known. Brian felt so much pain for them. He experienced the event like he had done it himself, which made the whole thing that much more terrible. He had again asked God to take him from this misery; still no answer.

“Brian!” Bol said. “Enough with your self pity. We can hear your whimpering thoughts clearly and they are suffocating the moment. Don’t make me give you another lesson in civility [laughing].”

“Well spoken,” Tuga said. “I simply cannot suffer self pity.” 

Tuga and Bol laughed together, making the inside of Brian’s body tremble with wicked vibrations. He felt emotionally sick as their laughter grew stronger, sick enough to scream, but he dared not. Bol’s lessons were excruciating bouts of torture; it was the last thing he needed now. 

When their laughter died down, the entities reveled in their accomplishments. They talked about the carnage at the prison and how the inmates instinctually knew they were about to be slaughtered like animals in a stockyard. They discussed how wonderful it felt to absorb the terror in each man as they butchered them. But what seemed to bring about the most joy was recalling what they had done to the family in this quaint little house in the suburbs. They loved it! Their joy beamed inside of Brian’s body like a proud father watching his son hit a home run in his first little league game. It was sickening. 

He hadn’t thought much about it until now, but the idea seemed suddenly important to him. Where did they come from? Were they ghosts? Daemons? Aliens?

Shocking pain filled Brian’s head, replacing all thoughts and emotions. He knew this pain and knew exactly where it had come from. 

“I said that’ll be enough, Brian,” Bol said. “Your opinions are not welcome at this table. Do you understand?”

Brian understood clearly. He was being disciplined. There was no way out of this other than to comply. If he argued or disobeyed, the punishment would grow in severity until he finally broke. There was no compromise with Bol. 

“Did you notice what is happening to this worthless creature?” Tuga asked. “His flesh is taking on an unsightly texture.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bol said. 

“Have you seen this with him in the past?” Tuga asked.

“I have not,” Bol said. “However, we’ve never joined inside one of them before. I believe it’s possible that their physiology isn’t capable of handling the energy we produce together.”

“Indeed,” Tuga replied. “This could present a problem when we find the third.”

“It could,” Bol said. “Perhaps one of us will need to focus on keeping the host together while the other two carry on with the business at hand?”

“Possibly,” Tuga said. “Or we’ll have to work quickly before the host falls to pieces. Whatever the case, it’s worth the endeavor, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Bol agreed.

Brian shuddered at their conversation. He was the host body. He would be the one who fell to pieces. They regarded him as nothing more than a tool they would use until it no longer served their purpose, at which time they would cast him aside and let him die. They were going to use him until there was nothing left and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. The horror of it all set in, sending him deeper into despair. 

“Oh, come now, Brian,” Bol said, laughing as it spoke. “It’s not so bad. Just think of the amazing things you’ll witness while we still have use for you. You’re now a part of something much bigger than anyone in history has ever known. Take solace in that, my good man.”

A noise erupted from outside the compost bin.

* * *

“She’s picked up on something around back,” the State Police K-9 officer shouted. He held the leash tighter as Katie, his German Shepard, pulled toward the backyard. The hair on her back was standing fully erect like a Mohawk, and she whined with every exhale. “Oh yeah, she’s on to something!”

The officer allowed Katie to lead him around the house, but didn’t let her go full throttle. If they had a runner, he’d have no problem turning her loose to hunt him down, but he didn’t have enough information to make that decision yet. She wanted to go toward the backyard garden. 

“Where is he, girl?” the officer asked in an eager voice, riling up the dog. “Let’s get him! Where is he?”

With her nose to the ground and her tail in the air, Katie hastily covered the yard, rushing back and forth, bursting with intensity. She was close to hitting a solid trail. 

“Come on, Katie; let’s get him!”

Suddenly, the dog froze in place. She stared straight ahead and stopped breathing. Her eyes popped open as wide as her sockets would allow. Then all hell broke loose. Katie lost her mind in terror. She tried to run away, back toward the front of the house where the other officers were gathered. Her handler did the best he could to restrain her, but she was unmanageable. The only thing he could do was hang on for dear life and go with her.

“Heal! Katie, heal!”

His pleas fell on def ears. Katie was in a full panic and nothing short of a tranquilizer dart would settle her down. She finally broke loose from the harness and ran past the officers in front of the house. They watched as her handler chased after her down the street, yelling her name, shouting commands. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. Within a few seconds, both of them were out of sight, somewhere in the neighborhood.

Bol laughed. “It would appear every creature in this desolate place understands our supremacy.”

Tuga joined Bol’s laughter. The vibrations erupted in Brian’s body like a wicked tribute to corruption. It made Brian sick. He ached in horror and disbelief. This was his life now—until they decided to cast him aside and let him die. He was sharing a ride through life with pure evil, and the only thing left at the end of the tunnel was the dark pit of hell.

10

THIS CALL WAS ABOUT TO SUCK! He dreaded it like he dreaded a full medical exam, prostrate and all. But he had to make it; there was no way out of it. When the Special Agent in Charge of the Pittsburgh Field Office (Agent Ward’s home office) wants a word, you must obey, no questions asked. Get on that phone and take your punishment.

Ward stared at his phone screen, Special Agent Charles’ contact page open, glaring back at him. There was even a picture of the bald prick attached to the contact info. Why it was there, he had no idea. Perhaps it was another subtle way for the man to assert his dominance—his face looking stern and official like the full weight of the Federal Government glared at you from behind those eyes. How many times had he shot that photo to get just the right look on his face? Probably dozens.

Ward thought about getting his facts straight before the call, but the more he tried, the more he realized how outlandish the facts were. Strange voices on a recording only he could hear; terrible nightmares; a vision of a man who told him to go to Cumberland Springs for no reason; a woman who knew exactly where a criminal who had abducted a child was at the precise moment of the abduction based on a feeling; the eyes of Hanson Parker staring back at him from inside another man. Sure, Special Agent Charles would be fine with all of this, right? Ward laughed. If he gave Charles a full and honest account of what had happened to him over the past few days, they would relieve him of his duties and force him into a psychological evaluation. Then the real problems would begin. He’d probably end up with a transfer to a satellite office, or worse.

So, what was he going to tell the boss? There was no time left for stalling. He simply had to wing it or tell Special Agent Charles he needed more time to formalize his account. It probably wouldn’t sit well with the 800-pound gorilla, but there it was, the statement he’d have to accept for now.

He took a deep breath and looked around the room. The Bed & Breakfast was adorable. Mrs. Hamilton (Lynn) had put a lot of work into making her establishment a cozy place to relax and recharge. The old house had a calming effect. Part of him didn’t want to leave. 

Special Agent Charles must have been sitting on his phone, because the damn thing barely rang once before his bellowing voice answered the call. 

“Agent Henry Ward, sir,” Ward said with little to no confidence in his voice. “I’m returning your call—well, calls.”

“Ward, where the hell are you right now? Why aren’t you standing in front of my desk, speaking to me face to face?” Special Agent Charles asked. 

“Well, sir, I’m still out of town at the moment,” Ward replied. 

“And when will you be back in town?” Charles said. His voice sounded like it was being squeezed through gritted teeth. 

Ward paused and thought for a moment. They’d definitely want him to come in for a debriefing, but something pulled at him to ignore his boss. What had started as a little voice telling him not to leave Cumberland Springs had suddenly become a conviction to stay. He felt emboldened, unafraid of his superior—this man who had struck fear into his heart from the day they first met. There was more to these events than he could ever describe over the phone or at a face-to-face meeting in the office. He needed more time to figure out the things that had happened to him, to talk with the people involved, to research the man he had stopped during the abduction attempt. No, Special Agent Charles was going to have to wait until Ward had the proper time to sort things out. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, sir.”

“I can solve that for you right now, Agent,” Charles said. “You’ll be back here by this evening, standing in my office, ready to report.”

Ward didn’t hesitate. “With all due respect, sir, I will not be back this evening. My statement is not complete at this time. To report to you before I have the facts straight would be a disservice to you, to the FBI, and would go against my professional code of conduct. I will check in with office management once per day to apprise the bureau of my well being and if I need any assistance. When my statement is complete, I will gladly return and read it to you face to face.”

The phone went silent. Special Agent Charles hadn’t hung up—Ward could still hear his angered breathing—but the wind had definitely left the man’s sails, leaving him deflated. Ward couldn’t believe it, nor had he ever even heard of something like this. He had stood up to a man everyone in the office had feared for so long. No one argued or challenged Special Agent Charles. If he survived this moment, it would become legendary around the bureau. 

“You killed a man yesterday, Agent,” Charles finally said. “There is a protocol in place you need to follow after an incident like that. Your weapon needs to be tested, you need to meet with the bureau counselor, and your report needs to be filed ASAFP! That’s the job, and you know this. It’s part of your responsibility to the FBI.”

“Technically, sir, it’s unclear whether my actions led to the perpetrator’s death,” Ward said.

“The State Police told me multiple witnesses attest you fired at least three rounds into the assailant. Are you disputing this?” Charles asked. 

“No sir. I fired my weapon and struck the assailant,” Ward replied. “However, another person became involved after I fired.”

“Someone else fired on the assailant?”

This was going to be the fun part. How the hell was he going to tell his boss that a man with a wood chopping axe came out of nowhere and hacked the fucker to pieces right in front of half a dozen witnesses? There was no way to describe this right now. Special Agent Charles would simply have to give Ward the time he needed to figure things out. “I will include all the events in my report, sir. But again, with all due respect, you are going to have to wait until I return.”

The line was again silent for several moments. “I appreciate your candor, Agent,” Charles finally said. “Believe it or not, it’s refreshing. You need to wrap this up quickly. I’ll give you five days maximum, but I want it done sooner, if at all possible. Actually, make it possible. Get it done and get back here in less than five days. Understood?”

Ward smiled. He had won the battle against Goliath and could hardly believe it. “Yes, sir. I will make it happen. I appreciate—”

The phone line clicked dead. Charles was good at hanging up on you before you finished. A dick move, but one that everyone understood. 

For the first time in a long while, Henry Ward felt refreshed and calm. There was still so much work to do and a giant mess to figure out—both with yesterday’s events and his own personal demons—but he was going into it with a clear head. It felt fantastic! He smiled as he looked at the black screen of his phone, reflecting on his victory. He hoped the exchange with Special Agent Charles wasn’t just another vision or dream his mind had concocted to make him feel better.

* * *

“Mr. Ward,” Lynn Hamilton said as she saw Ward coming down the steps into the foyer. She walked over to the desk where she conducted the business for the B&B. “Are you ready to settle up?”

Ward smiled. This woman was more beautiful now than she was at breakfast just an hour ago, though she hadn’t changed clothes or hair or makeup. There was something about her at this precise moment that took him by surprise. Perhaps it had to do with his clear state of mind. He had noticed her beauty at breakfast, but now he was actually taken by her, momentarily unable to speak. He stood on the last step of the landing, looking at her, smiling. 

“Mr. Ward?” she questioned. 

“Huh? Oh,” Henry laughed nervously.

“Are you ready to check out?” Lynn asked.

He cleared his throat and quickly composed himself. “Actually, Mrs. Hamilton—”

“—Lynn. Please call me Lynn,” she interrupted.

Ward smiled wider. “Yes. Lynn. Actually, Lynn, I was wondering if I could have the room for a few days? If it’s available, of course.”

“You’re staying?” This time it was Lynn Hamilton who couldn’t control her excitement.

Henry picked up on the change in her demeanor the instant her eyes lit up and her cheeks rose with her smile. His mind closed up shop, leaving him bewildered, staring at this woman with a half-goofy look on his face. 

Neither spoke for several seconds. Both of them were stuck in the moment, doing their best to figure out the odd feelings that had fallen over them. 

Finally, Lynn cleared her throat and gained her composure. “I believe the room is free until Friday,” she said, opening her date book on the desk and scanning through it. “Yes, it’s open till Friday. There is a couple checking in at 5:00 PM that day, so if you want to stay that long, you’ll have to check out by 10:00 AM Friday morning. Will you be staying that long?” Again she tried to hide her excitement, failing miserably at the attempt. 

“Actually, that works out great for me,” Henry said. “My boss is giving me four days to wrap up my report and get back to Pittsburgh. Is it okay if I stay that long?”

“Certainly, Mr. Ward—”

“—Please, call me Henry,” Ward interrupted.

Lynn smiled. “Henry, yes. It is perfectly fine if you stay that long. Each day comes with breakfast included.”

Ward thought back to this morning’s breakfast. He couldn’t remember ever being so captivated by a meal. It was almost as if this woman had used magic to create such a delicacy. “If you keep feeding me like you did this morning, I may never leave.”

They laughed together, then became silent together, both still trying to figure out this delightful moment. It lasted much longer than either had realized.

You can purchase Dire Harvest Book 3 TUGA at these fine bookstores: