Gerald Dean Rice's Blog, page 99

Fleshbags, ep XV

Bill ran his hand around in the mailbox. It was the third time he'd checked the mail today and he still couldn't make anything out in Mr. Davis' house.

Sarah had asked him to check after they'd finished doing it. They had the old man's phone number from the time he'd invited them over for dinner, but the phones weren't working. He didn't complain because he could use this to get a round two in the sack.

There still wasn't any movement from inside. Now Bill was starting to get a little worried. Whether the guy was a little fruity or trying to flirt with his woman he had to be sick or something. Nobody just walked in their house and forgot to shut the door. Maybe he had a heart attack or something.

Bill glanced up at his front door and saw Sarah peeking out through those side window things. He smiled at her and she just looked at him. Hey, if he saved the old man's life, that would probably be good for a round three.

Bill sprinted up to the open door.

He peeked before stepping in. "Hello?" he said. It was really quiet in there. He shoved the door all the way open and did a tuck 'n roll inside, coming up on one knee.

No noise, other than the sound of him breathing. It was kind of creepy, but Bill wasn't scared. Mr. Davis was about five-foot six and all of a hundred thirty. If he wanted to get gangsta, Bill could do gangsta.

He crossed the great room and went into the powder room. There were about four or five elevations in this cookie-cutter subdivision and the east and west walls were the same. Powder room on the east, kitchen on the west. Bill opened the blinds and saw Sarah in their kitchen, eyes as wide as a cat's. He smiled and gave her the thumb's up. She gave a small wave.

All this sleuthery was making him thirsty. The guy was either dead or not. Sixty seconds to take a swig wasn't going to change anything. He walked into the kitchen and before opening the fridge he looked around. This place was so… fastidious.

Yeah, that's right. Bill knew big words. Just 'cause he didn't like thinking didn't mean he couldn't. Everything was just so neat in here. Too neat. There was probably a dead body on a meat hook in the closet. Maybe he kept his mom's head in the fridge.

Bill opened it. Nope, no head. But there was beer. He licked his lips, but decided against it. If he chugged even one it would still be on his breath by the time he got back home and then there would be no rounds for a while. There was OJ, cranberry juice, one-percent milk (blech), some fancy-schmancy bottled water. He grabbed one of those. That was probably the safest bet because it was unopened. He screwed the caap off and took a long pull.

Unless he was one of those weirdos who went around with a needle, injecting stuff into bottles through the caps in the tops. Bill had watched a show on paralytics used throughout history (it was three AM, nothing else was on) and he had probably between thirty seconds and two minutes before he fell over on his face and the gimp came out.

Bill slammed the fridge shut. That's why he hated thinking. He took it too far. When that happened he started thinking about starving children in densely populated countries with dictators who, if deposed, would face extensive trials at Nurembourg for human rights' violations. His head hurt even thinking about thinking about it.

Fleshbags, ep XIV

Okay, this was more than allergies. Capel had to be coming down with a cold. Maybe even the flu. The only thing he wanted to do was lay down, but he was so jittery he doubted he could sleep.

Capel was holding on to a massive fart. He didn't want to let it go in front of Mumford; his partner would tease him mercilessly about it.

This made the fourth person he and Mumford had had to pick up on the street. What didn't these idiots get? He'd made sure to tighten the cuffs as much as possible. Nobody was getting arrested today, so long as he wasn't sticking a knife in somebody or something else stupid.

"Hey, these handcuffs really hurt," Jagoff said.

Capel leaned over to eyeball him in the backseat. That made his neck ache even more. He smiled in the most menacing way he could.

"Really? You want me to loosen 'em for you? How about your tootsies? Want me to massage them too?"

His expression must have translated something to Jagoff because he shut his big mouth. Good. Mumford was looking around, scanning for more of them.

"Looks clear," he said. I'm just going to go to the corner and see what I can see." Capel nodded at his partner. Mumford sauntered away, looking both ways like he was continuously crossing the street.

Mumford was the only person he could trust. Not even other officers. Everyone else could eat a bullet for all he cared. Sure, he could pretend on the job. Smile, write tickets, help little old grammas across the street. But 'Service Through Partnership' was crap. Partnership was really the only thing that mattered. Partnership with Mumford.

If only they were the same.

Capel wondered what that meant. He shook his head.

"Uh, you okay?" His eyes swiveled back to Jagoff, looking up at him.

"What did you say?"

"You look sick… like you're about to pass out. You okay?"

"You little sunnuva…" Capel grabbed him by the bend of the arm and slung him to the ground. Who the hell did this guy think he was? The jagoff only wished he could be like him.

"What the hell, man?" Jagoff had bounced his head off the concrete sidewalk. With a flick of his wrist, Capel had his collapsible baton in his hand and he swung for the man's head as he sat up.

"Pow!" Capel wasn't certain he hadn't said that out loud, but it felt good. Jagoff should have been out, but he was using his face and knees to scrabble to his feet. For the first time in the last two hours or so Capel's mind was on someone else's pain.

As he closed the distance his first thought was to swing for his head again, but he might miss and Capel was in no shape to run. He'd been ripping farts since he'd gone to the restroom at CVS. That had been a twenty-minute disaster resulting in his undies going in the trash. He let go of the one he'd been clinching for the last couple of minutes as he caught Jagoff behind the knee. Down he went and Capel was all over him, smashing down on every part of his body within reach until the man was still.

He stepped back to catch his breath and admire his work.

"Good boy." Capel spat, but it was a lot more liquid than he was expecting and his mouth was already filling up again. He heard shuffling behind him, spun and saw another one of those things trying to sneak up on him. Capel gave a bark of a laugh, pulled his glock and shot it in the head.

"Y'know," he began, looking back and forth between the two still bodies, "there's not that much difference between the two of you." He spat again and began rubbing his eye with his gun hand. They were burning all of a sudden.

Partnership. That made perfect sense. He and Mumford were the only humans left. The rest were either jagoffs or… or slogs. That's what they were. And the slogs were gonna get the jagoffs.

"Capel, what the hell?" Mumford said.

Capel knew he would have to play this right until he could bring his partner around. "Snuck up on us. It's a clean shoot."

"But the guy…" Mumford looked at Jagoff's still body.

"Oh him? He threw a punch at me." He spat another long, trailer of a loogie. Then his nose started running that stuff. And another fart was working its way out. Capel was confused. This was much more than the flu.

Something was wrong with him. Very, very wrong.

Fleshbags, ep XIII

He pressed against the side of the house, hoping they didn't come over that fence, hoping they left.

Loman opened his eyes and saw Leather Man peaking around the corner.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said.

"It's not them." Leather Man turned back. "It's some other guys."

"What do you mean other guys?"

"I don't know. Military?"

"So they're here to rescue—" Loman began to stand.

"Uh-uh." Leather Man held him back with an arm. "They got guns."

"Well, so what?"

"Seriously. How'd they get here so fast. That explosion happened what—two hours ago? Those guys are sweepers."

"What are sweepers?"

"Guys who'll shoot you in the face and ask questions later. Go if you like, but let me get a head start in the other direction."

Loman wanted to see, but he didn't want to risk making noise. How could he really trust Leather Man, though? He hadn't even seen his face.

"Gimme the gun," he said.

"What?" Leather Man was still looking out.

"The gun. Give it to me. I want to put the bullets back in in case we have to shoot our way out of here."

"You got some major furry balls on you." Leather Man held the gun up for him to take. "Those sweepers'll shoot 'em off, you give 'em the chance."

Loman worked the revolver until he got the cylinder out. He didn't want to tell Leather Man he didn't know how to do it.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"You serious?" Leather Man shook his head. "Pat."

That certainly didn't narrow down the mystery. Loman took the opportunity to look this person up and down. Slim, narrow shouldered, a few inches shorter than him. His eyes had migrated down to Leather Man's hip when he turned back.

"Okay, let's move," Leather Man said, hopping up. Loman took a moment to stand, checking him out from behind as he walked away. The leather outfit was either bulky or Leather Man—Pat—was bigger than the average woman. Pick one: a shapely dude or a woman.

"I gotta get to my kid's daycare. I just have to."

"I know that, why are you telling me?"

"I'm scared out of my mind. If I can just get to her, I can hunker down until this passes."

"Hey, I'm in this too. We'll hunker together."

Loman nodded and they opened the gate leading to the front yard. They went in a direction perpendicular to the people Pat had seen. He suspected it wasn't the last they'd seen of those sweepers.

Fleshbags, ep XII

Sure enough, it was Leather Man bringing up the rear. Loman was about to run, but thought better of it when he saw the revolver held loosely in his hand. He stopped.

"Where you headin'?" Leather Man asked.

"Told you." Loman figured honesty was the best policy. If he was about to get shot, he was about to get shot. "I gotta get to my daughter's."

"Cool. Mind if I walk with?" Loman almost flinched at how casually Leather Man gestured ahead of them with the gun.

"No. That's cool. Where are you headed?"

"Nowhere, man. I got nowhere to be."

Loman nodded, not really sure what, if anything, to say. He started walking again as close to the edge of the sidewalk as he could be.

"C'mon, guy, I'm not gonna shoot you."

"I didn't say anything."

"It's written all over you, man. That guy was gonna blow you away."

"Look, I know. I'm on your side."

"I didn't even kill him."

"You just did what you had to. And thank you."

"What, do you want me to toss my gun? That do the trick?"

For a second, Loman wanted to say yes, but that cop's words came back to him. He hadn't been specific, but there were people he needed to be wary of around here. They'd even shot one of them.

But how did he know Leather Man wasn't one of them?

"Tell you what—" Leather Man popped open the cylinder and dumped the bullets into his palm and stuck his hand out to Loman. "Here." He wanted to refuse, but it made sense as a compromise. He took them.

"Thanks," Loman said. He put them in his pocket, not really being comfortable with them there, either. As if on cue, a man rounded the corner ahead of them, his head pointed to the street.

Across the street was a fence to the field of a middle school, next to them was the fence to a yard.

"Let's hop over," Leather Man said, patting Loman on the shoulder. He nodded and reached for the fence, his foot dragging off the side and rattling the wire.

The man on the corner turned and looked at them. Then he started running.

"Whoa!" Leather Man said. "Hurry up, I haven't seen one of them run before." They both climbed over and stood back. The man stopped in front of them and stared. His whole face was wet with something. So was the middle of his shirt. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pale. He looked like he was dying.

He grabbed the fence and started kicking at it like he was trying to mimic what they had done. His shirt opened up just enough for Loman to see a gaping hole beneath his chest.

"What the hell?" he said.

"Ditto. I've seen a couple of these guys before. They lock onto you like pit bulls." Leather Man aimed the revolver and squeezed, hitting the man in the head. He fell over like a rag doll and didn't move.

Loman opened his mouth and closed it.

"Give me the other bullets," Leather Man said. He shook his head. "Quit playing around—I can hear more of them coming."

Loman wanted to say how he doubted Leather Man could hear much of anything outside of that helmet, but then he heard the footfalls. He grabbed Leather Man by the arm and they ran to the side of the house, crouching down as low as they could.

He didn't know how to describe the sounds he heard. But it sounded like there were a lot more of them than the paltry half dozen bullets in his pocket.

Fleshbags, ep XI

Loman was sticking to the side streets, cutting between houses in residential areas. People had abandoned their cars and for a moment he considered taking one of them, but aside from the risk of getting arrested or shot there was no way he could get through the clogged roads.

He concentrated on his moving feet to keep his mind off his throbbing thumb. Loman cradled his hand to his chest and he knew if he paused for any length of time the sharp pinpricks at the base of his thumb would come back in full force.

"Hold it right there!" a man shouted. He might have ignored it if it hadn't been for the racking of a shotgun along with the sentence. Loman turned around, his first thought was the man wasn't serious, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered 'punctuating' his sentence.

But staring at the barrel of a .12 gauge was a helluva argument he might have been wrong. He raised his hands.

"What are you doing in my yard?" the heavyset man asked. He was in a light blue bathrobe and pajamas and looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His short salt-and-pepper hair was tousled and had a few days' worth of stubble. He racked the shotgun again.

"I'm just passing through. Look, I'm just—"

"Shut up!" The man racked the shotgun a third time. How many rounds did that thing hold? Loman should have been less nervous each time an unused shell was pumped out of the shotgun, but it was having the opposite and intended effect. "On your knees."

"Look, man, you give me two seconds and I'll be so gone."

"I said on your knees." The man took a step forward and jabbed the shotgun at him, making Loman flinch. He kept his eyes on the man as he began his slow descent, watching his eyes and his finger on the trigger. He had to figure a way out of this. In the movies, the hero lured the bad guy in, snatched his weapon out of his hands and blew him away with it. He wasn't supposed to be on the verge of pissing his pants.

"Drop the party favor, tubby," a voice said from behind the man. Loman heard the hammer of a revolver click back. "Don't look at me."

"I'll kill him." The man racked the shotgun one last time. "I swear it."

"And then I'll kill you. Go ahead and see."

Loman couldn't see whoever it was behind him so he watched the man's eyes, dancing in his head as he decided what to do next. He figured being quiet was the best thing he could do just then. This new person wasn't trying to save his life. He never said 'don't shoot'. Loman felt like a fly caught on flypaper with a swatter hovering nearby.

"You two are here to rob me," the man said.

"Nope. I was just out for a walk," the other person said. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm just trying to get to my daughter's daycare. The cops made me leave my car."

"See? The guy's just trying to see his kid. Why can't you just make nice?"

"You're not gonna shoot," the man said. "You think you're clever with the words. I bet—" The revolver went off and the man spun, landing on his back. He screamed, clutching his shoulder, the shotgun laying a few inches from his hand. Loman stood up, looking at it.

"Nuh-uh," the other person said. He couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. Whoever he was, he was covered from neck to toe in black leather biker's gear with triple red trim. The helmet matched. The revolver leveled on Loman. "He had the luxury of believing I wouldn't shoot him."

"Hey look, I was serious. I only want to get to my daughter."

"Okay. Skee-daddle."

Loman turned around and began walking away, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head, waiting for the next shot to come. He climbed slowly over the fence into the alley and walked the few houses' distance to the corner before turning onto the sidewalk.

"Hey, wait up!" the voice called.

Loman was afraid to look.

Fleshbags, ep X

She hustled back into the bedroom, past Mrs. Carter and was about to close those blinds when she saw them outside. There were at least thirty in the street and on the sidewalk that she could see, all of them naked. Most of them looked like their stomachs had been ripped out. Kara momentarily forgot about the one who'd been at the patio window until she heard him pushing through the bushes.

"Child, why are you closing my window?" Mrs. Carter asked. "I like the light."

"Um, it's um… naked people… in the street." She turned around and smiled as if that explained everything.

"I have no doubt that young people these days have lost their ever-lovin' minds, but you don't have to lie to me. What are you about to do?"

"What do you mean, Mrs. Carter?"

"There's only one reason to shut a perfectly good window on a nice day like today. You gon' beat me, ain't you?"

"What? No—what? Why would I beat you?"

"Don't you lie to me. I was married fifty-seven years. Every day my husband came home with that look in his eye he beat me. That same look you givin' me now."

Kara was certain she wasn't giving any look other than confusion and Mrs. Carter wasn't apt to have seen it anyway. She couldn't see anything past the tips of her fingers without her glasses which were on the nightstand, next to the pitcher of water.

"Your husband hit you?"

"Don't you change the subject. You said you went in the kitchen for some water and I got a pitcher full of it right here. Charlie was full of piss and vinegar from the time he come home from Dubya-Dubya Two to the day he died."

As creeped out as she was at what was going on outside, Kara didn't like where this conversation even more. Mrs. Carter flowed in and out of lucidity and right now she seemed sharp as a tack. Except Kara had no intention of hitting her. Maybe she could get her mind off her husband.

"Mrs. Carter, who's Diallobé?"

"What?" The old woman pushed back into her pillow. "How do you know about him?"

"You said something about him. In your sleep."

"Don't you mention that name to me, y'hear? If I have to tell you once, I'll tell you fifty-leven times!" Mrs. Carter turned her head away and a moment later Kara could hear her crying. She felt awful.

"Oh, baby," Mrs. Carter said. "Where did you go?"

Fleshbags, ep IX

Kara wanted to go home. Mrs. Carter's nephew was supposed to be here over an hour ago. She didn't have anything else to do, but she preferred to not be at work. More than that, though, was ever since that explosion several people had walked past. They were all naked and it looked like they were carrying bags of garbage.

At least she thought they were carrying garbage. She'd only peeked outside, but no way could it have been what it looked like. Kara would have tuned in to the news, but since that whole changeover thing, Mrs. Carter's television didn't get any channels. She had a little radio, but that thing didn't work, either. If Kara had called her agency, but there was something wrong with their line. If she had known anyone else to call, she would have.

"Diallobé, is that you?" Mrs. Carter called from the bedroom. "Baby, please!"

"Hold on, Mrs. Carter, here I come." Kara jogged back to the bedroom from the kitchen, wiping peanut crumbs from her mouth. She was already thirty pounds overweight and the situation wasn't helping with her diet. Kara ate when she was nervous. "You okay?" she said.

"Ah, no. I want my baby." She approached Mrs. Carter and laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"Your children are all grown up, Mrs. Carter."

Mrs. Carter stopped pitching back and forth long enough to fix Kara with a yellow-eyed stare.

"Not talkin' 'bout my children," she said. "I'm talkin' 'bout my baby."

"Your baby?" Kara was confused. If she didn't mean one of her children—

Mrs. Carter smiled, spread her legs beneath the heavy blankets and began pointing with a gnarled finger down there.

"Oh my Go—" she stopped herself from finishing the sentence. It wasn't company policy for a home health aid to rob a patient of her dignity, even if she were tossing it out the window. "L-l-let me get you something to drink, Mrs. Carter." Kara retreated from the room, fully aware of the pitcher full of water by her bedside.

Who was Diallobé? Kara pressed her back against the refrigerator, barely covering her mouth before the laughs came. She'd never been so skeeved out. Now she really did wish she had somebody to call. In her more lucid moments she'd talked about her husband of fifty-seven years and his name had been Charlie.

Someone was looking at her in the window.

Kara jumped and stepped out of the kitchen. A naked man was pressed against the glass of the patio window, naked from head to foot. She looked down and saw that was no bag of garbage. She slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and thumbed 9-1-1.

It was his stomach, but all stretched out and hanging down to his knees. Worse was it was transparent and filled with his swollen and blackened intestines. He didn't seem to be looking at her, his eyes were pointed somewhere above him. She put the cell to her ear, but got an annoying beeping sound before it disconnected. Kara dropped the cell back into her jacket pocket began creeping to the patio door.

No doubt there was something wrong with him, she could see that with her own eyes. But maybe he was attracted by the noise Mrs. Carter was making. Maybe he was blind. Whatever the case, she'd be a lot more comfortable with the blinds closed.

"Ms. Kara, you better not be in my stuff in there!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Carter," she whispered, dropping to her knees. Now the old woman chooses to come back to her senses. She crawled the rest of the way to the chain and reached up. The man was completely oblivious to her, turning away and heading toward the bedroom window. Kara yanked on the chain until the blinds shut, but not before she saw the smear he'd left, like he'd given the window a nice coating of Vaseline.

Fleshbags, ep VIII

Capel rubbed his neck as the cruiser came to a stop. It had only been an hour or so since this crap started but he was already exhausted. He climbed out and sauntered over to the two officers standing on the sidewalk.

"Had to get hot, huh?" he asked and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He didn't know what the runny nose was about, maybe he was starting to develop allergies. "This your first shoot?"

"Yeah," Devin said, a wild look in his eyes. "Guy wouldn't stop coming. What the hell is he sick with?"

"Don't know." Devin and Pruitt had just come south of Sixteen and were already seeing action. They looked jittery, probably coming off an adrenaline rush. He looked over at Mumford who nodded back at him.

"So what do we do with him?" Pruitt said. "I mean, I'm not putting him in the backseat. I'm not touchin' him."

"Amen to that, brother," Mumford said. "All you have to do is hold tight. Clean-up's on the way. Hey, what about them?" He nodded, gesturing behind the other two officers.

Capel looked. Crap, a daycare. There were kids in the yard and a woman standing at the front door watching the four of them. Had they seen anything?

"Aw man," Pruitt said. "In the excitement, we didn't even see that. I'll tell them to stay inside."

"Good idea," Capel said. He didn't dare say it aloud, but who knew what went into the air after that explosion. He walked up to Devin and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Hey, it was a good shoot, I know it. I've shot four already, Mumford's shot three."

"Are you serious?" Devin said. "What the hell is going on? Why isn't anyone telling us anything?"

"Look, whatever it takes to cover this thing it's going to be handled," Mumford said. "We don't know anything more than you, except to be on the lookout for guys like this."

"Bio-terrorism," Capel said. Mumford shot him a look. He probably shouldn't have said anything, but he hated not knowing anything. It made him more comfortable to call it something. "Or something like that."

Devin blinked for what seemed like the first time and Capel gave his shoulder one last squeeze before letting go. He let his eyes drift to the body on the sidewalk.

Pruitt jogged back over. "Told her to keep everyone inside and not to let anybody in. She's got a ton of questions and honestly, I got no clue how to answer any of them. Do we know how many of them there are?"

Capel could see Mumford from the corner of his eye, shaking his head.

"The thing I really don't understand," Devin began—and Capel knew exactly where he was going—"is why he was naked."

Fleshbags, ep. VII

She came toward him and he backed up.

"Listen, lady, let me call 9-1-1 for you. You need to just sit down, okay?"

She didn't. In fact, she held out her arms, reaching for him. Sent saw a table of tools out of the corner of his eye and reached over and grabbed something. The pouch-like thing in his hand read 'air wedge'. He threw it at her and it flopped harmlessly against her head.

The woman bared her grayish teeth and water-thin drool poured out. Sentinel almost tripped over a bar of some kind. He got his feet under him and scooped up the bar.

"Look, ma'am. Ma'am! I don't wanna do this. Please don't make me do this!" But she didn't stop. He took a swing at her arm and she almost ripped the bar out of his hands. "Ma'am, I'm for real this time. Don't make me do it!"

He realized she was about to call his bluff. Sent half-heartedly swung and clanged the bar off the side of her head. She canted to the side, but turned to him and started coming on again. She was wearing a button up sweater. Probably somebody's mom. This wasn't right.

"Ma'am," Sent said, figuratively and literally backed up against a wall. He squared up like he was waiting on a pitch and when she was in the right spot turned his hips into the swing, the tip of the bar clanging off her jaw. Her head almost spun completely around and she hit the floor.

Sent stood over her a moment, waiting for her to move again, praying she didn't. When he realized she was down for good he let the bar slip from his hands, clanging onto the floor. He made fists to keep his hands from shaking, but realized it was his whole body quivering.

It had been in her eyes. Despite her standing up and coming at him, despite the teeth, despite the cavernous hole where her guts should have been he could tell she hadn't wanted to do what she was doing. She'd been afraid, confused, lost. The word 'horrified' came to mind and just as he realized he'd never seen that particular look on anyone's face before, he was certain that was exactly what the host of emotions in her eyes melded into. And Sentinel had had to put her down.

If he could avoid it, he wouldn't do it again. Maybe she was a lone crazy. He looked at the bar next to her body. Better to not need it. Sent picked it up once his hands had steadied. And spotted someone standing ten feet away out of the corner of his eye.

He jumped and brought the bar up in front of him, looking at a man in navy overalls. His nametag read 'Brad'. That same clear fluid ran down his chin like he had a mouth full of it, but it streamed from his nose and the corners of his eyes. He was tall and sinewy, but looked like he had a beer gut.

He was just standing there with a look on his face like he just woke up. Sent didn't want to do it. But he couldn't risk trying to get outside and another one waiting for him. Sent hefted the bar and caught movement from the corner of his eye.

The old man from behind the counter was getting up. Another guy in blue overalls was standing next to him. His nametag read 'Chad'. The clear fluid poured from his mouth, nose, ears and eyes. Chad was heavy, but he looked like he was eight months pregnant.

Brad was still just looking at him. The old man (who had a little pooch he hadn't had before) looked confused as well. But Chad had that look in his eyes. The same as the woman on the floor had. He started forward.

Sentinel backed away. Maybe he could beat the three of them with this wrench, maybe he couldn't. The fact something had happened in here and then weirdo potbelly people (and one belly-less woman) who oozed out of every hole were suddenly walking around meant there was a lot more going on than he cared to find out about.

He ran for the bay doors.

Chad followed him around a hydraulic lift and Brad followed. Sent leapt over the rising body of another man in blue coveralls and hit a button between the doors. They started to lift, but he could tell it wasn't going to be fast enough. Sentinel kicked the man down who was trying to stand, grabbed a rolling toolbox, and shoved it into Chad. There was a thick popping sound and a second later it was like a faucet turned on in his pants. Chad looked stunned and Sentinel rammed him with the toolbox again, knocking him over.

He thought about doing the same to Brad, but the door was high enough to slip under. He kicked the one on the floor down again and dived for the rising door. Two naked middle-aged were at the front door. They turned his way and raised their arms in unison. Their stomachs were gone, but the woman had a rope of black entrail still hooked up to something inside her and dragging on the ground between her legs.

Sentinel ran the other way.

Fleshbags, ep. VI

Sentinel needed to get out of this town. He'd gotten roped in by his sister to come see their mother and like a dummy he'd let them guilt him into staying. Moms was dying—dead now—and one look from her and he knew he was stuck. She'd lasted seven months, but once he was free it wasn't easy to escape.

He'd had to give up his job in California and was barely able to make ends meet with the piece of job he'd gotten at Walt's Electronics. Sent had quickly grown to hate Walt almost as much as his mother.

He flushed the toilet and went to flush his hands, examining his face in the mirror. His eyes were two lumps of charcoal in a dark bronze face. The slash through his eyebrow was the only distinguishing mark in an otherwise forgettable face. A couple new grays in his goatee, but he could feel the bags under his eyes shrinking by the second. He'd gotten another job in California and as soon as his ride was ready he'd hit the road.

This time he wouldn't be back. Even if all of them were dying.

Sent preferred not to think of the years of abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his mother (and his part-time, heroine-addict father when he decided to hang around) and chose not to now. He supposed as a direct result of his own childhood was why he hadn't elected to have children of his own in his twenty-eight years. California was the cure for what ailed him.

He grabbed a couple paper towels and wiped and patted until his hands were mostly dry. The old guy behind the computer was gone now. Hopefully, he was checking with the mechanics to see how much longer it would take. Sent took a seat in the waiting area in front of one of the computer terminals. Maybe he'd check his email again or something to kill some time.

When Internet Explorer came up blank for the third time he stood and started roaming around. The door leading to where the mechanics were was to his left and he walked over to take a peek through the little window.

"What the—"

He stared at several bodies all across the shop floor. One of them had been pinned beneath a car still on the hydraulic lift and it looked like the woman just a few feet away from the door had been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop. The old man was face down against a big toolbox on the wall.

Sent whipped out his cell and dialed 9-1-1. The phone gave a weird beeping sound and disconnected. He looked at it and in place of signal bars was the red circle with a diagonal slash. He was outtie. Somebody cruised through with a machete or something and he wasn't waiting around to shake his hand.

Before he could get to the front door he heard a loud bump coming from that direction. Sent froze. Could whoever it was be back to mop up? The only two ways out that he'd seen were the front door and the bay doors to the shop. He turned around and quickly headed back.

The door creaked open and he stepped through. It smelled awful in here. Like medicine and… and… he didn't know what. Sent gently closed the door, looking all around for would-be attackers. There was a row of buttons by the bay doors that must have raised and closed them. He tiptoed over, but thought twice before pushing any of them.

What if they were waiting outside?

He needed something to defend himself.

There was a giant wrench propped up on the wall next to the body of the woman who'd been eviscerated. She had a huge gash along the side of her head, but instead of blood there was only clear stuff going down her neck, matting down her hair on the side. Sent stalked over and grabbed it with both hands.

And she grabbed his wrist.

Sent leapt back with a high-pitched girlscream, the wrench plunking to the floor. She opened her eyes and looked at him, putting her hands beneath herself to stand. He realized now would have been the perfect time to have that wrench.