Chapter Four

1

Sheriff Douglas O’Malley couldn’t believe what he was hearing—or seeing, for that matter—when Doris Hamden handed him the Polaroid photo. Doris crossed her arms and shook her head in frustration, remembering what was in the photo. The frock of her white hair was styled in a bun, and its bluish tint caught the sun. 

“They were all dead,” she insisted. Her husband, Bruce Hamden, ambled out of the doorway by the use of his cane. He worked out a pair of spectacles from his overalls and eyed the sheriff, but still let his wife do the talking. “There was six of ’em. They trampled my perennials, and my poodle is gone. I haven’t seen Peanut Butter all morning, and he always comes inside to eat. That dog wouldn’t run way. Peanut Butter loves us.”

The sheriff studied the Polaroid and scratched his chin. He opened and closed his eyes questioning the authenticity of the photo even though the Hamdens were in their eighties and harvested grain for thirty years before retiring. Modern computer technology was beyond them.

“Um, what time did they cross your property?”

“Six in the morning,” Bruce replied finally. “I was looking for Peanut Butter when those, those people skulked out of the woods. Who knows where they were really going? Look of troublemakers, that bunch, up to no good at all.”

Doris jumped back into the conversation. “I shouted at them when they cut right through my garden. Like they didn’t even watch where they were going.” She pointed at the heap of squashed watermelon, cucumbers and tomatoes. “Those bastards walked through the barbed fence without muttering a curse. They were dead. I smelled them, the wretched stinking people. Worse than a porch full of rotten jack-o-lanterns. Look at the picture, I got Bruce to snap it before they hid back into the woods.”

The sheriff refocused on the picture and let it sink in. The picture was in focus. The sun didn’t blur the horizon. It was obvious what Bruce had spotted in the woods. It was the only evidence that kept him from dismissing the Hamden’s as senile. 

Four figures stood in the picture, even though two of them were barely in the photo. They each wore black suits, the clothing dirtied and torn. Their skin was what appalled him. Blackened. Decayed. Earthworms writhed from their cheeks and their mouths, their sockets deflated and caramel colored. 

“You don’t believe what you see, but it’s there all right,” she said, poking her finger at the picture, trying to cement her argument. “Nobody would trust us if Bruce didn’t take that photo. He blasted a couple rounds from the shotgun in the air, and they didn’t react. They didn’t hurry off or duck. Weirdoes just kept walking the way they were going. They shore didn’t care none about us.”

The sheriff’s head ached. It didn’t make sense. “These men…are dead.”

“Thank goodness you agree! You have to find these people. Maybe it’s a prank someone’s pulling. It’s the best I could come up with.”

The shock of the photo wore off, though the sheriff wasn’t accustomed to this stretch of disbelief. The worst crime in Anderson Mills was vandalism at the local baseball stadium or a culprit stealing gas. “I’m taking this picture and calling headquarters. The next time someone crosses your property, don’t take the law into your own hands and bring out your gun. Lock yourself up in your house and call us, okay?”

“It’s not every day you see dead people crossing through your yard.” Doris ignored his suggestion. “Next time they trample through my garden, they’ll be lucky not to be shot for real.”

Jesus Christ, O’Malley thought. Find something better to do with your time.

He had a line of suspects in his mind. The dead didn’t walk or escape the grave, even though the figures in the picture looked to be straight from the cemetery. Someone was pulling a prank, as Doris suggested. 

“Bored hick town,” he muttered under his breath. “Okay, Doris. I’ll have my men on the lookout for these people, but I think you hit the nail on its head by suspecting a bunch of kids did this. I apologize for your flowers. I’ll have the culprits’ parents buy you new ones—better ones, in fact.”

He entered his patrol car and called the report in to dispatch. “I’ve got a group of teenagers parading around town dressed up as dead men—and don’t ask, just report it. Have all patrols on the look out for these idiots.”

 

2

Wayne Brooks unlocked the doors and entered his business. Anderson Mills Deli Meats didn’t have any customers until the summer’s tourist industry was running full-force. He finished hiring four local teenagers to help him operate the place, the same kids on his roster as last summer and the summer before that. He managed the establishment with his wife, Melanie, for two and a half decades—as long as they’d been married. The chairs in the dining area were stacked on top of the tables with tarps draped over them to block out the dust. The salt and pepper shakers, metal napkin dispensers, plastic cups, forks, spoons and condiments were all in storage. 

Four days before the grand opening, Wayne reminded himself. 

The order for turkey, ham, roast beef and fresh vegetables were on their way this Friday. Today, he’d clean the bread oven, the walk-in fridge, and sanitize the bathrooms and the tiles in the dining area. The place wasn’t half as big as Mason’s Market Place, a restaurant that was miles up the road, but he cut the freshest, best-tasting meats in Anderson Mills. He was old enough now, in his mid-fifties, to earn his money during the summer so that he could take the rest of the year off. It wasn’t a dread to return to work, but it was giving up his free time to fish and chug beer at Silver Lake. The prime skin would be showing up soon in bikinis. The idea that those women would cross into his store again motivated him enough to start the day. 

He unloaded cleaning supplies from the back of his Bronco and set about sweeping the dining area when a breeze from the back area brushed across his body. Wayne didn’t recall keeping the back door open, or any windows. 

Someone could be inside, he thought. 

Wayne’s reluctance to check the back room continued even after he hopped over the register counter and walked behind the empty chip racks. 

“Anyone back there?”

It was a stupid question. 

Dirty footprints caked tiles that should’ve been clean. Dust accumulated on the shelves and walls during the off-season, but there wasn’t any reason for footprints. He counted the list of people that could’ve entered the building, and the only one with a key was his wife, and she was out of town for the week visiting her parents in Illinois and coming back on opening day. 

That left only one option.

An intruder. 

Were they still inside, he wondered, clasping a broom and unscrewing the head. He carried it like a club ready to dash across the derelict’s head. 

“I’m calling the police. This is your last chance to run.”

A wet slap.

What in hell was that?

Fear crept into voice. “There’s no money here, not even food. It’s not worth going to prison over, man, so just go. I’ll forget this ever happened.”

A faint odor of sweat and blood drifted thickly. Wayne inspected the counter where sandwiches were made. Nobody. Nothing. The sink and metal shelves reserved for canned items were untouched. That left the meat preparation table at the back of the room. 

The soft skitter of steps and a cough—whuh-whuh-haaaaack!—warned him of another’s presence. The walk-in fridge door opened and shut. He rushed forward and wedged the broom through the notch for the padlock on the fridge door. 

The intruder was trapped inside.

He turned around to discover the harrowing scene. It registered in fragments, so incomprehensible. The uncovered meat slicer, the blade glazed in red spatters and human hair, the smooth layers of purple-red meat stacked in the tray, the bloody footprints that brightened the tiles, the human pieces stored in the plastic bin where he recycled items—one the head of Junior Summers from the slaughterhouse; his expression was furrowed, his tongueless mouth open in an appeal of agony—and the headless body that drip-drained onto the floor upside down tied to the ceiling. The sink was spattered in random gore and hunks of coagulated skin. Wayne peered inside and gasped at the mess of intestines mixed with eyes and bones that were jam-packed into the garbage disposal. 

He lost focus, on the verge of fainting. The blood glowed ultra-red on every surface. He was forced to walk slower on the slick floor. Piles of clothes were stacked at the back door. He peered outside and looked at the parked Ford pick-up truck. It belonged to Eddie Stolburg. The clothes were uniforms from Eddie’s slaughterhouse. 

Wayne dialed the police, wasting no more time. The sheriff would be right there, he was told. 

He didn’t hear the broom snap when the refrigerator’s door was battered open. 

 

3

“I haven’t seen Dad since early last night.” Deputy Mike Stafford listened to Mary-Sue Jennings’ frantic explanation. She’d arrived at his front desk at the Anderson Mills Police Headquarters moments before in a panic. The facility contained four offices, a reception desk, and five iron-barred cells. “I’m really worried. Dad said…” she cleared her throat, “…he was going out for a late night drive. He was driving into town for something, I thought. Nothing special. I haven’t seen his vehicle or anything since then.”

Deputy Stafford had worked in Anderson Mills for five years. The crime in the area was simple, petty theft and vandalisms mostly, but when someone disappeared the small town had a way of overreacting, so he did his best to subdue Mary-Sue’s concerns. “Maybe your father visited a friend out of town. Doesn’t he hunt deer with Jacob Graham sometimes? He’s done that before unannounced. This isn’t the first time you’ve come here about your father. And he’s been dating Mrs. Johnston in Brush Creek. Maybe he’s left messages on your answering machine?”

She firmly shook her head during every word he spoke. “No, he didn’t do any of those things. He was going into town, and he said he’d be right back. And no, my dad hasn’t left any messages on my machine. I would’ve heard them.”

She was tense. The cherry luster to her face promised a potential outburst. The girl was digging her nails into his desk without realizing it. 

“Please do your best to calm down, dear. I know you’re concerned. You’re a good daughter. Jimmy would do well to be pleased with you. But here’s my situation, Mary-Sue. I can’t form a search party and raise alarm if we’re not certain he’s really missing.”

“Damn it,” she cried out, balling up her fists and holding them up against her face. “It’s not what you think. It’s different this time.”

Her eyes darted from left to right in a scramble to make sense of her explanation, as if fact checking herself. 

“If there’s something you’re not telling me, you’d best say it now. Do you have a specific reason to be concerned this time as opposed to the rest of the times Jimmy’s gone out for a fun night and forgot to check in with you?”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. The grumble from her throat was the classic case of the beginning of a breakdown, but she contained it. “No, I guess not. How long will it be until someone does look for him?”

“I’ll tell dispatch to keep an eye out for him, okay?” The deputy scooted out from behind his desk and helped Mary-Sue to the exit. “Don’t worry about a search party, Mary-Sue. He’s not in trouble. If he’s not back by tomorrow, I’ll make the call and things will be set in motion. Promise me you’ll contact the station if he turns up.”

She didn’t utter another word, but instead, hurried to her  truck and drove back into Anderson Mills toward her house. 

The deputy removed a Doral cigarette from his breast pocket. He watched the truck pick up speed down the road until it was gone.