The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Page 5

  “Ho-ly shit, woman! You’ve really done it now, haven’t you?” He whistles through his teeth. He follows me through to the kitchen, with Phil at his heels, as he continues to talk. “You need to get the hell out of here, I’m not getting sent to prison for hiding a fugitive.”

  I grab the phone off the counter and listen for a dial tone but the line is dead. Not engaged, but dead—completely silent. I slam the phone back onto its base, grab the bottle of scotch off the counter, and take a swig straight from it, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. Slamming the bottle down, I start opening cupboards and drawers in search of weapons.

  Ken comes to stand in front of me, his hands on his hips. “Did you hear me? I need you to leave or I’ll be the one calling the police.”

  I look up to meet his gaze, noticing the sneer on his face. I cast a glance to Phil, who is still puffing away on a cigar and looking uncomfortable. My hand touches on the metal meat tenderizer in the drawer and I grip it and stand up, meeting his hateful gaze with one of my own.

  “I suggest you stay out of my way, Ken, or I will be forced to do something that you will regret. Not me, I won’t regret a damn thing.” The mallet feels heavy in my hand, and I see Ken’s gaze travel to it.

  He backs up a step with a shake of his head. “You really are one crazy bitch, you know that?” He looks over his shoulder at Phil, who is staring at us in horror. “You hear all this, Phil? Because I will be pressing charges against her.” He looks back to me, meeting my stare with ice-cold hatred. “Go on then, do your worst.” He laughs.

  I think back to all the abuse: the fists, the kicks, the bite marks, and the burning hot pan on my hand. The excuses I’ve made for him, the lies I’ve told for him, and the tears I’ve shed for this pitiful man. I realize how much I hate him in this moment, how much I want him dead. Not in a flippant you’re dead to me kind of way, but a real, I want you to be dead and gone from this earth, my life, and out of my way.

  The metal has warmed in my palm, and my hand feels twitchy to swing it and hit him across his head like I did the man in the parking lot.

  Ken sneers at me again, his lip turning up in disgust. “You are pathetic, you know that?” he growls out.

  I see red and swing the mallet as hard as I can.

  Four.

  His mocking laugh reverberates inside my head, and I scream as I lash out with the mallet. He grabs my wrist before I make impact, and snatches the makeshift weapon from my hand. He shoves me hard in the chest, and sending me flailing until I sprawl backwards, and hit my head against the corner of the open drawer. I scream again as pain shoots through my skull, and I slump to the floor, clutching a hand to my head.

  “Hit me, will you, woman?” He kicks me hard in the ribs and I gasp. His foot lands heavily over and over again until I feel something snap—possibly a rib—and I scream out with a sob for him to stop.

  I look up through tear-stained eyes and hold a pleading hand up to him. My vision is blurry and I can’t seem to catch my breath. The air rattling in and out of my chest sounds like lumps of milkshake being sucked through a straw.

  “Stop,” I plead, and cough, spitting out blood and grabbing at my ribs. “Please stop, Ken.”

  He takes a step closer and I brace myself for another kick, but he doesn’t kick me. He stares down at me, his lip curled up in disgust before he spits on me. It hits me in the cheek, his warm saliva trailing down my face.

  “You are pathetic,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment and turns away from me.

  I sob as I wipe off the spit, every movement sending burning pain humming through my body. I manage to drag myself to the far wall and prop myself up against it. With one hand I pull open the freezer compartment and grab a bag of frozen peas, pressing them against my ribs and hissing in pain. I push the door shut and touch the back of my head, examining my fingers and seeing blood on them. The wound feels tender but thankfully not massively serious—from what I can tell from my feeble examination, anyway.

  I can hear Ken and Phil talking somewhere else in the house—possibly the living room, from the distance of their voices. The kitchen lights are bright and are burning my eyes, and all I want to do is get to bed and curl up to sleep; but after everything that has happened tonight I know that’s not an option. Something bigger than what just transpired between Ken and me is happening—something in this town, possibly the country—and I need to find out what.

  I grit my teeth and pull myself up to standing, taking small steps toward the bathroom. I shut the door once inside and open the mirrored cabinet, avoiding looking at my reflection. I grab plenty of painkillers and bandages, swallowing down some Tylenol using water from the faucet to lubricate my mouth, and then I strip out of my blood-and-vomit-covered cotton dress, letting it pool at my feet. I push it over to the hamper with my foot, not wanting to bend down and have to pick it up.

  I look at the purple bruising already forming around my stomach and waist, and try to contain the tears that are threatening to flow down my face again. Taking a shaky breath, I begin to wrap the bandage around my middle as tightly as I can stand it to be. It hurts like hell as I do it, but the pressure and the protection of the bandage actually make it feel better once I fix it all in place with a couple of safety pins. I grip the sink as I breathe through the pain, waiting for the nausea and dizziness to pass.

  I grab my bathrobe from the back of the door and put it on, biting down on my lower lip to hold in a yelp at the movement, and then I crack the door open and pad down the hallway to our bedroom. Clicking the door in place, I grab a chair and shove it under the doorknob to stop Ken or anything else from getting in here. I can hear him and Phil going at it, trying to decide plans on what’s best to do, and I know that I need to hurry and get my things together before he decides to throw me to the wolves.

  I don’t know what is going on out there in the city, but I know that a possible broken rib, a murderous husband out for blood, and no police for backup, I am just about screwed. I open my closet and pull out jeans and a sweater. I sit on the edge of the bed as I step into the jeans, sliding them up my thighs and buttoning them up. I stare at the sweater, knowing that it’s going to hurt to get it over my head. And it does. I barely contain a scream as I stretch up and pull it down over my shoulders.

  A loud thump at the front of the house makes me jump and I freeze in what I’m doing, one hand still reaching for my ankle boots and the other clutching my waist. The thump sounds again and I listen carefully as Phil and Ken begin shouting at one another more heatedly. I grab my shoes and slip my feet into them as quickly as I can, grabbing a black jacket from the closet and wincing as I pull it on.

  I can hear Ken and Phil charging down the hallway toward the bedroom, yelling at me to open the door. My chin trembles in fear when I realize that I left the car keys on the kitchen counter and I’m effectively trapped in this bedroom with a crazed Ken on one side of the door and newfound horrors outside of the window.

  The doorknob jostles in place, but the chair stops Ken from getting in to me. “Open the door, Susan,” he yells from the other side.

  I don’t answer him, but go back into my closet, glancing up to my hatbox on the top shelf, where I know my .38 Smith & Wesson is. The door handle jostles again and I grab the small stepladder, open it, and climb up the three steps until I can reach the box. I climb back down and place the circular box on the floor before quickly opening the lid. I got the gun several months ago—after the burning pan incident; because it was after that event that I realized the day would one day come when he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. When he wouldn’t be able to contain his rage against me and the world and I would be forced to defend my life. I never truly believed I would have to though, not really.

  As the door handle jostles again and Ken’s voice shouts to me, I know that today is that day.

  I gulp and open the box of cartridges, the cold metal objects feeling foreign in my fingers as I slip five of them into the gun and c
lose it. I pick up the box of cartridges and put them in my jacket pocket, and stand back up.

  “Susan! Open the Goddamn door or I will kill your scrawny ass.”

  “Go away, Ken,” I yell back to him. “I don’t want you in here. I don’t want you near me.”

  His foot hits the bottom of the door repeatedly but I somehow manage to contain my scream as I stand with the gun raised, ready and waiting.

  “I’m not kidding, woman, open the door,” he yells again.

  I hear the sound of glass breaking at the front of the house and listen in horror as his kicks get more frantic.

  “Open the door.”

  His voice sounds whiny and frightened instead of furious and scary like it did moments ago, and I bite my lip, giving in to him. I lower the gun and take a step forward, doubting what I’m doing but knowing that I can’t leave him out there like that. I take another step forward and reach for the chair wedged up against the door as he shouts at me again.

  “I will kill you!” he roars in anger, and starts to kick the door over and over again.

  The wood begins to split and I lift the gun and take aim, stepping backwards as splinters of wood fly inwards.

  “Susan! Please, open the door, please,” he sobs loudly, his sob ending on a scream of panic.

  I crouch down, looking through the small crack in the bottom of the door, and see several sets of feet heading toward him. Their movements are slow and shambly, blood trailing on my clean carpet. Their moans are drowned out by Ken’s frantic cries and screams as they reach him and I hear him fighting—fighting for his life. All too soon I hear the sound of choking, and blood pours to the floor moments before Ken’s body finally hits the blood-stained carpet. Whoever or whatever is out there drops to their knees as they crowd around him and begin to feast on his flesh.

  I clasp a hand over my mouth and step away as his blood soaks under the door, saturating the carpet. I don’t feel any shock that my first thought isn’t one of sadness for my husband’s brutal demise, but for the fact that I know my carpet is ruined.

  Ken purposely picked such a light-colored carpet knowing that it would be a total nightmare to keep clean, and for three years I have done it—scrubbing and vacuuming to keep it pristine for him. It’s actually satisfying knowing that he ruined it and not me, and I grin at the thought that he will be turning in his grave at that realization.

  Five.

  I run quietly to the window and look outside. The sound of tearing flesh and growls of hunger coming from the other side of the bedroom door are my soundtrack. I try to be as quiet as possible so as not to draw attention to myself and keep whatever is attacking—eating—Ken unaware of me in here. I shudder at the thought of what could be happening to him right now. The sound alone is enough to drive someone crazy.

  Outside it’s dark, the streetlights flickering on and off before finally succumbing to whatever is draining their power. The house lights go off at the same time and I stifle a scream as I’m engulfed in the blackness. Whatever is on the other side of the door doesn’t seem to mind, and the feasting noises continue regardless.

  Trapped in the blackness, every sound—both inside and outside the house—seems louder: the sirens in the distance, the faint screams, the pop pop pop sound of gunfire, and of course the tearing sound of flesh. I shudder again.

  The streets seem deserted—at least this one does—though shadows move within the houses, flashlights beams skimming across windows and drawing attention to themselves. Either way, I’m still trapped in this bedroom and my car keys are in the kitchen, but at least I have a weapon.

  The sounds in the hallway stop, and I pause in my inner ramblings. A low growl is issued, echoing in to me and chilling me to the core. I raise my gun, aiming it at the door at the sound of movement outside. Something slides along the door, the puddle of blood splashing and squelching underneath whatever it is. I creep forward slowly, around the edge of the bed, and crouch down to look through the small split in the bottom of the door. It’s so dark that I can’t see anything, though’ but something is definitely moving out there, and the hungry slurping noises have stopped.

  Steps recede down the hall away from me, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I tiptoe across the room, my shoes squishing in the blood, and press my ear to the door. The thumping of my heart makes it hard to hear anything and I resort back to holding my breath again. I let several minutes pass by, and when I don’t hear anything but deathly silence as I move the chair as carefully as I can.

  Holding the .38 in my hand, I turn the doorknob slowly, praying that the door doesn’t squeak on its hinges. Silence greets me and I mentally breathe a sigh of relief before I let the door open an inch further and look out. I can’t see anything in the small gap, so I open the door up some more. With the only window at the other end of the hallway, and all the lights out in the house, I’m greeted by near blackness and I gulp comically loud. I can hear shuffling off somewhere else in the house, but nothing is in the hallway any longer, and I’m grateful for that.

  I glance downward, not really wanting to see Ken’s destroyed body but morbid curiosity getting the better of me. And okay, I want to gloat a little that he finally got what he deserved. What can I say? He was a bastard to me for the past three years, and I’m not sorry that he’s dead. Of course I feel bad about the way he met his bitter end—I wouldn’t wish that on anyone—but regardless, I’m happy he’s out of my life now. I suck in a sharp breath when I see lumps of things scattered around the carpet, sopping puddles of blood expanding as it soaks in further; but the most frightening thing of all is that Ken’s body is not there.

  I look up to the end of the hallway, seeing dark shadows of bloody footprints along the floor and smears of darkness across the walls. I swallow loudly and bite down hard on my bottom lip again, tasting the metallic tang of copper on my tongue. What the hell is going on tonight? I can practically feel my mind trying to unravel itself, but I refuse to let it happen, to lose myself to insanity. I’ve survived a loveless marriage, emotional and physical abuse; I am not about to lose myself to the Goddamn apocalypse!

  I gasp at the realization of that single thought.

  This is it: an apocalypse. The end of days. And those things that I’ve tried to not give a name to, I know what they are. They are the things that haunt the worst nightmares, that movies and books are based on. Things that every horror enthusiast embraces with open arms like they’re the damn Easter bunny. But these things are not friendly, this is not funny, and I refuse to be eaten by a zombie.

  With that thought in mind I piece myself back together, knowing that at some point in the future I’ll have to mentally decompress and work through all this; but right now I need to get to the kitchen, get my car keys, and get the hell out of here.

  I clutch the .38, tightening my grip on it, and slowly tiptoe down the hallway. The smell of the roast dinner I cooked tonight is long since gone, and in its place is the smell of something sickening. It smells like meat left out in the sun for too long, a putrid and gag-inducing smell that makes my mouth turn down in distaste and bile rise in my throat. It’s so fresh and pungent that my eyes begin to water, tears streaming down my face as I struggle to control myself.

  I stop at the top of the stairs and look down into the darkness, I can still hear something moving about down there, but can’t pinpoint exactly where in the house it is coming from. By halfway down my confidence has grown, and though I’m still frightened, I can’t help but think maybe I’m making things worse with my vivid imagination. Ken always said that always having my head in a book would get me in trouble, and maybe he was right. My favorite books have always been horror: things that would normally make women cry and cower tended to make me smirk. Ken always said I was sick, that it was evil the joy I got out of horror novels, but he didn’t understand me, or them, or what I got out of them.

  I step down on the last step with that in mind, with Ken’s bellowing voice in my head telling
me what a freak I am. His large double chins wobbling as he told me how useless I was, how fat and pathetic I was, how I needed him, how he could do better than me.

  I sob as his greasy hand hits me in my stomach, making me double over in pain, and I look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are almost bugging out of his head, his teeth bared, and he snarls and reaches for me again. Without a second thought, I raise the gun and fire directly into his face. My aim is accurate and makes contact exactly where I want it to, and his ugly fat head explodes as several bullets enter his skull. I’m instantly splattered with his foul-smelling blood and brain matter. His body slumps to the ground in a heap with a large thud, and I stare in open-mouthed shock before letting out a short, sharp scream. I clutch a hand over my mouth in horror as blood pools around his body, destroying yet more of his precious carpet.

  A laugh builds inside of me, and I feel terrible for it but I can’t control it. I try to swallow the laugh down, to stop it from escaping, but this entire night has been crazy and nothing makes sense anymore—nothing except that my stupid, big, fat, cruel husband is dead. It’s not insanity that’s gripping me as I step over his body, flinching only when I nearly slip in his blood. It’s happiness. For the first time in three years, I feel happy.

  A small smile creeps up my face, building until I’m happier than a pig in shit. I’m free of that bastard. I chuckle again as I walk into the kitchen, seeing my keys on the counter. Everything will be fine now. I smile again. I grab a bag from the kitchen cupboard and start packing some necessities. If Ken would have allowed me, I would have been a prepper—because I knew one day this would come, and we would need to be prepared.

  I work through my mental checklist of things that will be important for life on the road, packing the first aid kit, a lighter, and some of the larger kitchen knives into the bag after I wrap them in some dishtowels so they won’t cut through the bag. Food is important, and I go to the garage, my hand instinctively reaching for the light switch and flipping it, and I grimace when the light doesn’t come on. I open some of the drawers on Ken’s tool bench, finding his flashlight and a great utility tool that might come in handy.