Mail Order Massacres. Hunter Shea

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      When they emerged from David’s, they heard the caterwauling of sirens. It sounded like every police car and fire engine was racing toward the carnage outside the Kendall.

      Thank God, Patrick thought.

      Despite terrible stitches in their sides, they sprinted to Patrick’s house across the street. His father was home, sitting at the kitchen table eating a ham and cheese sandwich.

      “Dad! Where’s Mom?” Patrick blurted.

      “Out shopping. What’s got you two all riled up? You cause whatever all those sirens are running to?” He smiled and took a bite. A talk show about financial investing played on the palm-sized transistor radio that never left his father’s side.

      Patrick couldn’t stop himself from blurting out everything in one long run-on sentence. David just nodded assent next to him.

      “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Did you just say monsters are eating people outside the Kendall?”

      “Yes!” they said in unison.

      His father shook his head, then took another bite of his sandwich.

      “I may be old to you, but I’m not senile. Nice try.”

      Patrick pulled on his dad’s arm, making him drop the sandwich on the floor. His father’s right eye twitched. That was always a sign he was getting pissed.

      “Thank you for ruining my lunch,” he said, swiping his food off the floor and tossing it into the garbage.

      David said, “We’re not lying and we’re not kidding. That’s why all the cops are headed down there. These…these things are everywhere and they’re attacking everyone.”

      Even Patrick’s father couldn’t deny the constant bleating of emergency responders.

      “What is going on down there?” he said, walking to the front porch. The sirens were even more ear splitting outside. “You guys stay here. I’m going to check it out.”

      Patrick jumped in front of him. “Don’t go! It’s not safe.”

      Now, there was the crackle of gunfire. Or it could have been firecrackers. Ever since the Fourth of July, kids had been setting off anything left behind a little bit each day.

      “You kids stay inside. I’ll be right back.”

      “But Dad, the monsters!”

      His father sighed. “Enough about that! I told you, go in the house and wait for me. You got that?”

      Patrick saw there was no convincing him or stopping him. His father worked as an emergency medical technician in the city. He was drawn to sirens and bad stuff.

      He just had no idea how bad this really was.

      “Can you please take your car?” Patrick said.

      “Fine. Now do what I said.”

      They watched him get in the Buick Century and head down the block. Patrick figured once his dad saw the rampaging monsters, he would turn right back and lock the house down.

      He was wrong.

      They never saw his father again.

      * * * *

      “I don’t hear any more shooting,” David whispered.

      The sirens were still going strong. Most of the parents had gone to see what was happening, leaving the kids behind. They stood on porches and front lawns, staring down the street.

      No one spoke to one another. There was an air of dread that held their tongues.

      Here were all the kids they played ball with, and the little kids they had fun ignoring. It was if they were all strangers to one another.

      David couldn’t stop looking in the other direction, waiting for his parents’ Pacer to come around the corner.

      None of the adults were coming back.

      “What do we do?” Patrick said so softly David could barely hear him.

      “We can’t call the police. Who else is there?”

      “The army?”

      “Doesn’t the president have to call in the army?”

      “I don’t know.”

      David looked around. “This is freaking me out.” He wasn’t alone in that department.

      “Wait, I think I see someone,” Patrick said, pointing.

      Sure enough, they spotted a man running, his arms flailing. It looked like he was having a hard time keeping on his feet. The closer he got, the more the boys were able to make out. His face was awash in blood. His shirt was torn down the middle, revealing a jagged line of flayed flesh.

      “It’s Mr. Gilligan,” Patrick said.

      Mr. Gilligan was their friend Jimmy’s father. He was a bit older than the other fathers, but he was always friendly and never complained about them going in his yard for foul balls or Frisbees.

      Now, he looked insane, desperate to flee the terror of what was happening down at the Kendall.

      “Help! Help!” he cried.

      All of the kids were rooted to their spots. How could a kid help an adult? Especially one that looked to be hurt real bad.

      Only Jimmy ran to him. His father saw him and screamed, “Get back, Jimmy! Back in the house!”

      “Oh shit!” David gasped. One of those creatures ambled into view. It was following the trail of blood left behind by Mr. Gilligan. It loped, kind of like that hunchback from the Frankenstein movies. But it never slowed its pace. Its mouth kept opening and closing, as if it could already taste Mr. Gilligan.

      Jimmy must have seen it too, because he let loose with a high-pitched yelp and turned back toward his house. His father was right behind him.

      “Everyone, get inside and lock your doors!” David shouted to the kids. They didn’t need to be told twice. The sound of doors slamming filled the air.

      He and Patrick were on a high porch. They were the last to heed his own advice.

      “What can we do?” Patrick said.

      David was about to answer I don’t know, when the monster lunged forward, tackling Mr. Gilligan. He then fell into Jimmy. With both of them sprawled on the sidewalk, the onyx monstrosity crawled over them, dipped its head and started tearing at their flesh.

      Father and son begged for mercy, but there was none to be had.

      Patrick clamped his hands over his ears. David knew it was pointless. They’d heard too much already. They would never not hear those screams in their heads.

      He СКАЧАТЬ