The Revenants Read online

  Shut up, Gollum.

  Yeah, shut up, Gollum. Didn’t you read the sign? No vacancy.

  That goes double for you, Donnie.

  (In case you haven’t figured it out, Becca doesn’t know about me. So there’s no shutting me up. I’m with you to the end. And then some. But more on that later.)

  “What do we do now?” Peyton asked.

  “Let’s look around; there’s gotta be somebody else here somewhere.”

  They searched the rest of the gas station--back area, bathrooms, aisles--and came up with zilch. Peyton had to use the bathroom and made Becca stand outside the open door. After the night she’d had, Becca could hardly blame her.

  As she waited for Peyton to pee Becca leaned against the wall in the hallway. Not sure what else to do she recalled a story she had heard while visiting the Keys in Florida when she was little. Like most young people her age, she had become fascinated with the Bermuda Triangle; the missing bomber planes, the vanishing ships, the mysterious lights, all of it. For some reason, however, she found the story of the infamous, Mary Celeste, the most fascinating of them all. The Celeste was known as the Ghost ship of the Bermuda Triangle. The way the story went is one frigid day in December of 1872 this Sea Captain sees his buddy’s ship adrift in the Atlantic Ocean. After hailing his friend for several hours he goes aboard with a boarding party. Once on board the vessel the Captain described the scene as there not being a soul on board, despite the ship being perfectly seaworthy. No signs of foul play were ever found. It was as though everyone had left in a great hurry leaving behind their oil skinned boots and pipes, which at that time were items that one would never leave behind while abandoning a ship. The Celeste’s Captain (one Captain Briggs), his wife, their two year old daughter, and seven additional seasoned and able-bodied seamen had all vanished without a trace.

  As Becca grew older she had always found it fascinating and fun to separate fact from fiction. She loved digging for the kernels of the truth. And she often wondered why people always felt the need to exaggerate the facts, especially when the true story alone was often plenty interesting. Case in point--the Mary Celeste. Over the years, several fictionalized facts had been added to the story, some of them even added by the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, when he was still a struggling writer, long before penning the excellent Sherlock Holmes. A few of those little embellishments Becca remembered offhand were a bloody sword, steaming mugs of coffee, and a seaman’s clock that was spinning backward. But the more research Becca conducted, mainly the original testimonials recoded by the Admiralty Court Inquiry, the more she found the actual facts. There were no steaming cups of coffee, or bloody swords, only a rusted antique sword found on board, and the clock that was spinning backwards? It actually was. Only the reason wasn’t anything supernatural. It was because the sailor who had taken it apart to clean it had accidentally put it back together, backward.

  The reality was it wasn’t much of a mystery at all. Of course…one has to keep in mind that the entire crew of a ship had vanished. Pirates would have been a good theory, except the valuable cargo (mostly alcohol and alcohol-related products) were all found on board and still intact.

  Still, with the lack of any evidence or a definitive answer, this only deepened the mystery for Becca even more. She had always wondered what it must’ve been like that for the Sea Captain who found the Mary Celeste. What must’ve gone through his mind when he boarded? How did an entire crew just vanish like that? To this day, the fate of the crew of the Mary Celeste had never been solved, only speculated about.

  It was sort of like that now.

  Okay, okay. Let’s keep things real. An empty gas station minus one night clerk is a far cry from the Mary Celeste. We are in the middle of nowhere, it’s after two a.m., I’m pretty sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for…

  Yeah, after the night we’ve had, even I can’t finish that thought.

  “I’m done,” Peyton said in a meek voice emanating from the women’s bathroom. This was followed by a quick flush.

  “Okay, we’d better head back outside, Wally’s probably getting worried about us by now.”

  Chapter 12

  One, Two, Three… Wake up, Denise!

  “Sheesh…What’s taking them so long?”

  Becca seemed competent enough. All they had to do was go inside, call the cops, run back out here, fill up with gas, and go. So what the heck was taking them so long? Most likely they were telling the store clerk about everything that happened tonight. Didn’t they realize Denise didn’t have that kind of time and needed to get to the hospital in Rapid City? Wally was always amazed how victims had to embellish their stories. All it had to be was a couple ravens attacked them, and a fireman went crazy and killed two people, oh, and there’s a bus down the road that looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa filled with corpses. And that’s it. On second thought, that was a lot to take in. Still, they needed to get Denise to the hospital sooner than later.

  He stood up and began making his way to the ambulance’s horn when Denise sat up, the same way vampires do in those old movies when you open their coffins and they say, ‘Good Evening.’ This surprised him, of course, but it was far from the first time a patient in the ambulance had awoken suddenly and tried to sit up. In fact, he still remembered the time local plumber Ned Williams, who also happened to be the town’s martial arts instructor, woke up after a bad fall off a ladder. Ned saw everyone leaning over him in the ambulance and started Kung Fu fighting. (Actually, if you must know, Ned was a black belt in Tang Su Do, or some other variation, but you get the idea) Anyway, he punched both paramedics in the face before realizing who they were. He felt so bad about it he came by the station a few weeks later with a batch of his wife’s fresh-baked cookies.

  “Easy, Denise,” Wally said, putting both hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back down. “You’ve been in a…YURK!”

  (Yep. “Yurk”. That’s the sound you make when someone’s hand shoots out and clenches around your throat.)

  Denise moved fast. Her grip was already tightening around his trachea, literally crushing it. He would’ve been dead already had he not reached up with both hands and grabbed her fingers in his hands, but still she squeezed. Wally tried to pry her fingers off his throat, but she possessed the strength of the insane.

  As she held him there, effortlessly with one hand, while her free hand slowly, methodically tore the bandage from her eyes revealing the empty bloodstained sockets underneath.

  How can she be doing this? Her body had been mutilated by the ravens. And even though she was devoid of sight she turned her head as though she were staring right at him. And was she…was she grinning at him?

  Wally managed to pry back Denise’s thumb back a quarter of an inch off his throat allowing in precious oxygen. “Denise,” he barely managed. “Stop it, it’s me… Wally.”

  In response, her grip tightened. Wally could feel his trachea closing again.

  “Denise…” was the last word he could manage--the last word he would ever manage. He wanted to tell her to stop again, that he didn’t want to hurt her, but it was beginning to occur to him she was only seconds away from snapping his neck in that impossible vice-like grip of hers.

  Purely for emphasis, and still holding him like a teenage serial killer might hold the neck of a kitten, Denise swung her legs over the gurney’s bedside, stood up, and lifted Wally up into the air by one arm. Wally’s boots dangled in the air and his head smashed into the ceiling. Now I know how a certain rebel Captain felt in the opening few minutes of the original Star Wars.

  For the third time in as many hours Wally was only seconds away from death. First the ravens, then Spence’s ax, and now Denise, only this time there was no one around to save his sorry ass. His luck (if you call a night like this lucky in any way, shape, or form,) had finally run out. He heard his own gurgling breath and his arms fell loosely to his sides. As they did so his right hand brushed something on the wall.
/>   Trauma shears. Not the little ones he always carried around on his belt. No, these were the big honking ones that looked like oversized scissors.

  His fingers danced over the handles.

  The bones in his neck began to break. He was too late.

  THOCK!

  With his last ounce of strength, no, last shred of life force left within him, he must have somehow managed to grab the oversized scissors and ram them into the side of Denise’s head. It must’ve been purely instinctual, for he had no memory of actually doing this. She held him a second longer in the air and then… dropped him.

  Wally’s body couldn’t wait to get to the floor of the ambulance. At first he thought it was too little too late, because no oxygen was forthcoming. But then, a second later, sweet precious air began to trickle in, ever so slowly.

  Denise, still standing, stood stock still for a moment. The scissors were rammed so far into her skull they were nearly up to the hilt. Blood began to flow out of her ear. Then like a marionette with its strings cut, she to collapsed to the floor.

  Not taking any chances, and still wheezing for breath, Wally crawled away from her. Too weak to stand, he had to reach up to unlatch the rear payload doors. After doing so, he fell out of the ambulance and painfully onto the pavement now lightly covered with snow. He wanted to move even farther away but all he could manage was to lie still and allow fresh oxygen to do its work.

  As he lay on his back, for the second time today, waiting for air to return to his lungs, he kept his eyes trained on the back of the ambulance payload area. A bloody hand slowly reached out and grabbed the edge of the ambulance’s payload floor. Wally could not see the rest of the body but it was as though the hand was the last part of Denise that was alive. The hand muscles tightened as it pulled the entire body behind it like a broken wagon that had lost its wheels.

  Wally knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that at any second now Denise’s head (minus eyes and trauma scissors sticking out of her ear like that communications device worn by Lt. Uhura on Star Trek) would come over the ledge and leer madly at him. Denise would then open her mouth, blood would ooze out and she, or whatever Denise had become, would devour his soul. Of that, Wally was certain.

  Breathe… just breathe.

  Thankfully, Denise didn’t reappear.

  After a valiant effort her hand finally tuckered out and did not stir. And, as soon as he was able, Wally got to his feet and stared at the dead woman (uh, that would be your co-worker, Denise, with the bad 80s perm that you just murdered).

  Wally had never killed anyone before. Lost patients, sure, but never willfully hurt anyone, let alone jammed trauma shears into the side of their skull.

  He simply stood there, staring at her bloody deceased form, trying to process it. Of course he’d tell the cops everything that had happened, but for now, on pure auto-pilot, he pried her fingers off the edge of the ambulance’s payload floor, bent her arm at the elbow, and tucked it neatly inside, pretty as you please, the way you might push an oversized jacket inside the bedroom closet before closing the door.

  What are you doing? You’re hiding bodies now?

  Still operating on automatic he first closed one payload door but when he went to close the other that’s when…

  “Well the gas station’s abandoned and nobody’s picking up the phone.”

  Aw hell. I’m so busted.

  It was Becca. And the young cheerleader girl, Peyton, right beside her, rubbing her shoulders for warmth. Before Becca could reach the back of the ambulance he eased the door closed but didn’t get a chance to latch it all the way.

  Impossibly, they hadn’t seen the mutilated corpse.

  “How’s Denise holding up?”

  Wally saw the two of them staring at him with questioning glances and stammered when he said, “She, uh… she didn’t make it.”

  Becca nodded but Wally could tell she knew he wasn’t telling them everything. She checked with the cheerleader before responding, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Uh, yeah, thanks,” Wally heard himself answer back.

  They know. They know what I did. It’s almost like I’m watching this on television but one of the actors is me. Right about now is the part where I’d be yelling at the fireman, ‘Hey buddy, ‘fess up.’

  Becca studied him a second longer and said, “We checked the bathrooms inside, and the back rooms. Nobody seems to be home.”

  A loud CLANK caught their attention and both of them turned to see Peyton holding the handle of the fuel pump. “Hey, the pumps aren’t working either.” She tapped the buttons repeatedly.

  “You got to pay first,” Wally heard himself blurt out. Geez, why don’t you just tell them the truth. You never were a good liar, and you hate keeping secrets.

  Peyton flashed him a scornful look that said that she knew perfectly well how to pump gas. “No (‘you idiot’ was implied). There’s no power to the pumps.”

  Becca moved over to the gas pump and studied the panel. “She’s right.” She pressed the buttons Peyton had already pressed, much to the cheerleader’s irritation. Wally didn’t hear any beeping noises.

  Just tell them about Denise. It will only get worse if you tell them later. “Maybe there’s a power switch inside?”

  (There ya go, champ. Way to step up and be a man.)

  Peyton returned the handle to its holster and slapped her hands together to brush off the grime.

  “Peyton, you want to go see if you can find the power switch to the pumps?” Becca asked.

  The cheerleader just looked back at Becca as though she had sprung two heads. “Like hell I will. Uh, I’ve seen this movie. I ain’t going in there by myself.” Peyton pointed toward her uniform. “Hello… cheerleader? We’re always the first to die.”

  Becca nodded, and despite the situation, lowered her head a little and smiled. “Okay, fine, I’ll go with you.” She then turned back toward Wally, a serious look on her face. “Wally, listen, as soon as we fill up I want to get the hell out of here, okay?”

  Wally swallowed the most difficult swallow of his life, nodded back and said, “Yeah, sure, sounds good by me.”

  A gust of wind picked up and strafed them all with old snow, despite everyone being under the canopy. Each of them took shelter in their hats and coats until it passed. Once it did, the cheerleader was the first to speak up. Hiking a thumb back toward the motel she offered, “What about the motel?”

  “What about it?” Becca asked curtly.

  “With this storm building, maybe we should stay there until morning, or maybe we can find some help.”

  “There isn’t anybody home.” Realizing that had come out a little harsher than she intended, she softened her tone and added, “Trust me; there’s nobody at the motel. I was staying there earlier this evening and when I went to look for someone I… I couldn’t find anybody.”

  “Really?” Peyton asked, a hint of defiance in her voice. “The lights are still on and I thought I heard singing coming from inside.”

  “There isn’t anyone there.” Becca’s tone grew venomous once more. Wally noticed she was really adamant about not staying at the motel. “It’s just more of those damn holiday recordings. That’s all you heard.”

  Undeterred, and oblivious to Becca’s growing frustration Peyton asked, “Did you try the lobby?”

  “I banged on the glass of the lobby and there was no one inside.”

  The wind gusted, and after it died down Peyton was close to tears, “Well, what I want to know then is who the hell made you boss?”

  Becca appeared taken aback for a second but then spread her palms toward the cheerleader in what was obviously a peaceful gesture. “Uh, nobody. I mean, you’re welcome to do whatever you want. But after what’s happened to us so far I don’t think we want to be stuck out in the open like this.”

  But Peyton wasn’t giving up without a fight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  If Wally had telepathic powers he would’ve told Becca not to s
ay another word. Peyton was young and had been through the most traumatic incident he had ever even heard of or read about, let alone experienced.

  Becca seemed to be thinking it over before answering, as if deciding how much exactly to actually tell the young girl. Finally she said, “You know what happened to you on the bus?” When Peyton nodded, Becca continued. Wally just kept shaking his head no. “Well, something strange happened to us, too.” Becca looked to him for conformation to continue; he gave her none. “We got attacked by a flock of ravens, (an Unkind of ravens) and then a fireman went all crazy on us.”

  “Wait, what?You guys were also attacked by… by ravens, and a fireman? And you didn’t think to tell me? Why, because I’m a teenager?”

  Wally turned toward Peyton and said, “Sorry, we figured you’d been through enough. We felt it best…” but Peyton didn’t want to hear it and stepped away from him.

  Becca announced, “Look, I sure as hell am not going back to that motel.”

  “Listen, lady, cut the crap.” It was Peyton. And judging by her stance she had reached her limit. “You think you’re the only one who has had a rough night? We all have. You want to head back down the way we came, be my guest and have at it. No one is stopping you. Start walking. Otherwise drop the attitude, and keep your mouth shut.”

  Both he and Becca stared at little Peyton. She was breathing hard and close to tears. Half sobbing she said, “All I’m saying is we go inside and take a quick look around. Okay? A quick look. What could that hurt?” Turning toward him Peyton asked, “What do you think, Mr. Wally?”

  But Wally wasn’t thinking about checking the motel. He was thinking about the woman he had just murdered who was still in the back of the ambulance growing more putrid by the second. Denise. (Her name is Denise. Actually, now that you think about it, her name was Denise.). He still hadn’t told anybody he had rammed a pair of shears in the side of her head.