Chapter Four
The comments section of the latest blog post was, to put it mildly, less than gentle. According to TehFantasticMrCocks, “This whole thing is fake and stupid and the author is stupid and needs to shut up and kill himself LOLZ!”
GundamSwing88 (no worse for the wear after his brief hiatus from the internet) agreed with TehFantasticMrCocks as to the veracity of my story, but he was a little nicer about it. “Parts of this actually check out,” he wrote. “I did some research into this guy’s town and found that there were, in fact, a couple of old demolished buildings with underground facilities matching the description of the one Beaux *supposedly* used for his ritual. But there is no way they spent hours underground with active barrel fires without dying from smoke inhalation alone. I’m calling BS on this story unless OP can show pics of the alleged devil hand.”
BadGuyBreg insisted that it was medically impossible for Mel to escape from Beaux on foot with such a grievous chest wound. "After all," he flexed, "I should know. I'm something of an expert on grievous chest wounds." (I didn’t bother asking for elaboration, and thankfully neither did anyone else.)
Bloodypoops420 requested detailed step-by-step instructions on how to open his own portal so he could prove or disprove this most recent incident. He even offered to livestream it. I declined, which GundamSwing88 took as further evidence that my entire existence was made up.
As always, SavageCardigan asked if the portal hand could have been explained by aliens, but nobody really paid any attention to him.
MzHiLyfeSixtyNine offered an interesting explanation—one that managed to tie all the dangling pieces together in a neat little bow. “Here’s what probably happened, although I can’t say for certain without reading the reports, which OP admits were altered ATF. The attacker sounds like a classic mental case. If I had to guess, I’d say NPD compounded by serious drug abuse. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to drop a mild hallucinogenic in those burn barrels, which OP and friend inhaled. Combined with the stress, he manipulated them into seeing what he wanted them to see. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were actually only hanging in there for a few minutes. OP, get yourself a tox screen, stat, and you’ll see whatever he put in you.”
I could have tried harder to set the record straight. I could have explained how I didn’t have any photo evidence because our phones were with Beaux when he got pulled into hell. I could have let BadGuyBreg know that the reason Mel got away so easily was because Beaux was dumb enough to leave his keys in the unlocked truck right outside the murder chamber. I could have probably had someone smarter than me explain how smoke ventilation worked. But at this point, I almost preferred my readers to believe that everything I wrote was fiction. At least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about it disappearing all over again.
The act of rebooting the blog in the first place had been no easy task. After the shapeshifter failed to delete my memories along with everyone else's, I found myself with a mighty need to vent some mental steam. I almost kept it all to myself, but our first day back at work, I ended up spilling all the beans to Jerry.
The look on his face when I told him what happened was the same one I get whenever someone tries to rattle off sports trivia, like he was trying really hard to pay attention but failing. The deeper I got into the story, the worse his ADHD became. It seemed that whatever the shapeshifter did to my friends’ memories included some kind of firewall to prevent them from even thinking about that night.
There was, however, one detail Jerry was able to glom onto. He couldn’t get over the fact that Donald Glover had been there. More specifically, that Donald Glover had been there and I couldn’t figure out a way to tell Jerry and the others that we needed to kill him. (I’m not sure if he ever fully grasped the fact that it wasn’t the real Donald Glover I was trying to kill.)
I didn’t bother attempting to revive Rosa’s memories. And I hadn’t really gotten a chance to try it out with O’Brien, though I suspected she already knew enough.
I still needed to complain, but I was all out of people to complain to. So I went to the one place where people these days can always go to complain: the internet.
I bought a new domain, spent a few hours crafting a design that almost didn’t look amateur, then started retelling my story from scratch. This new website was even better than the original, and it was promptly erased from the internet without explanation.
The next morning, I tried again.
It disappeared again, so I reposted it again.
We went back and forth like this a few more times over the course of the week. Finally, I got frustrated and wrote an email.
Dear whoever’s in charge:
What gives? Why won’t you let me have my blog? Is it really that big of a deal? If you know anything about me, you already know that I have a lot of free time, and I can keep this up as long as you can. Do you really want to play whack-a-mole with my blog forever? Huh? Do you? Or are you willing to come to the table and offer some kind of truce?
Love,
-Jack
I couldn’t decide where to send the letter. I thought about just emailing it to government@government.gov and hoping for the best, but then I realized it didn’t matter where I sent it. They probably already knew what I had written. So, I mailed it to my own email address and waited.
The next day, I received a response:
Dear Jack,
Come on, dude. We have much more important things to worry about than your stupid blog. You’re the one who keeps deleting it. Not us. Quit blaming other people for your own bad memory and erratic behavior, nutcase.
Hugs and kisses,
-You
I had to admit, they got me doubting myself. Could I really be the one undoing everything? Was my mind capable of this level of complex delusion? Regardless of who or what was behind it, I couldn’t keep doing the same thing if I wanted different results.
I spent a few days writing up a lengthy series of blog posts, recapping everything that happened at the gas station, starting before the half-pig incident and leading all the way up to Spencer’s latest attack. This time, though, I altered a few minor details. I changed some names and switched around some dates. I even added a few outright lies, just for good measure. When I was finished, I posted it. For some reason, it worked. The powers-that-be must have been satisfied enough with this “plausible deniability” version of events to let it slide.
Or maybe I was being naive and something else was at play. Maybe the PTB’s saw their chance to get out in front of an unstoppable story so they could spin it however they wanted. After all, a few of my new subscribers were a little too skeptical. Some of the others were a little too hostile. And some of them were a little too quick to offer perfectly reasonable explanations for everything that happened around here. The end result was a strong concentration of new voices discouraging me from continuing. Methoughts the proverbial lady didst protest too much...
But maybe that’s just what the internet is. Who knows?
***
The four AM alarm on my phone went off, letting me know to take my medicine and plug in the hotdog roller so it would have time to warm up before the morning rush. Sausages and nachos make up the bulk of our breakfast sales, and people get righteously angry if their wieners aren’t perfect.
I put the laptop away just in time to hear the doors open. When I saw who it was, I felt relief wash over me.
“Morning, Jack,” he said as the door slowly closed behind him.
“Is it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s close enough. Your coffee fresh?”
“It’s always fresh.”
Tom gave me a smile and crossed over to the coffee machine. He’d put on a little weight since the last time I saw him, but not in a bad way. His white hair now had a sheen of silver to it. Retirement seemed to be treating the old man very well.
He walked up to the counter and pulled out his wallet, but I stopped him. “Deputies drink for free.”
“I’m not a deputy no more.”
“You put in your time. You’ve earned all the coffee you want.”
He thanked me and pocketed his wallet, then asked how things had been going in his absence. Before I knew it, the whole saga was spilling out of me again. As always, Tom didn’t seem surprised by anything I threw at him. He just stood there, nursing his cup of black coffee and giving the occasional “Hmm,” or “Well, I’ll be,” while I brought him up to speed.
I told him all about the new threats. Sagoth, Spencer, Cayergan. I told him how they’d just found what remained of Beaux Couvillion lying in the middle of the street a few miles down the road.
“There wasn’t much left besides a scorched black skeleton,” I said. “The coroner had to identify him by dental records. They wrote it off as another ‘suicide.’ I feel like they aren’t even trying with these coverups anymore.”.
Tom was way more interested in the new faces around the store.
“How is my replacement doing, anyway?” he asked, fixing himself a second cup.
“Amelia’s hanging in there. I think.”
“You think?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. She’s been back for a whole week now, but we haven’t gotten a chance to catch up yet. She’s staying busy. Too busy. Even when we’re alone together in the car, it feels like she’s too worn down to talk.”
“Hm,” Tom grunted. “It takes a special kind of person to work gas station duty. The weirdness don’t sit right with most people. What about the other young lady?”
“You mean Rosa? She’s doing exceptionally well. I’ve tried firing her a few times, but the owners won’t allow it.”
“Tried firing her? You must really like this one.”
“Yeah, she’s cool and all, but I have a bad feeling things aren’t going to end well.” Another thought hit me. I almost didn’t mention it, but if anyone knew what to make of this, it would be Tom. “Although, Jerry and I noticed something.”
“Let me guess. The weird stuff stays away from her, don’t it?”
“Yeah. With one huge exception that she doesn’t even remember, nothing crazy ever happens while she’s around. Why is that?”
“Some people just have that effect. Can’t look for rhyme or reason out here. Best not to try. It sounds to me like things are getting better.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. But… they’re also getting worse.”
“How’s that?”
“During the day, when Rosa and Jerry are around, it’s almost like things are normal. Like what I remember normal being, anyway. But at night, when I’m all alone, things get… well, you know how they get. I don’t always know what’s real and what’s just in my imagination. That’s part of the reason I restarted the blog.”
Tom gave a confused look and set his coffee down on the counter in front of me.
“The what?”
“The blog. It’s like a journal. But it’s online.” His face stayed blank. “You know. The internet?”
“I never really got into that.”
“Well, it’s an online journal. Other people can read and comment on it, which helps me keep track of what’s really happening. Sometimes it’s good to let other people weigh in, but I don’t exactly trust my psychiatrists, and I can’t keep putting that burden on my friends.”
“So,” he said slowly. “Just to be crystal clear… you’re crowdsourcing your sanity?”
I was impressed that the old man actually knew the word “crowdsourcing.” He’d learned a lot in his retirement. “Yeah,” I said. “When you put it that way, I guess I am.”
He sighed loudly. “I wouldn’t be too cavalier about that if I were you. There are plenty of people around these parts that won’t be happy to learn there’s someone keeping records.”
“Judging from the comments section, most people just think I’m crazy.”
With a laugh, he asked, “Now why would they think that?”
That’s when the memories finally caught up to me.
“Oh shit! Tom, aren’t you... aren’t you dead?”
Halloween. The Akyak creature bit out his throat. The official story was that a wild dog got him, but I distinctly remembered...
Tom took his time and stretched his arms and legs before responding, “That’s what they tell me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Was that rude? I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you’re fine.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What’s it like?”
He gave me a sad look and answered, “Being dead is a lot like dreaming. Sometimes it’s good; sometimes it’s bad. But most of the time, you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
The door opened, and I turned to see another familiar face—this one painted up with green and brown stripes. The colors matched his head-to-toe camo clothing. Even the custom stock of the hunting rifle resting in his left arm was camouflaged. He was smiling, the same smile he wore the night he came here to kill me.
I reached under the counter to grab my gun. I hoped I wouldn’t need to use it. There were so many rules: Don’t pull out a gun if you don’t plan on using it. Don’t point a gun at someone unless you plan to shoot them. Don’t shoot someone unless you plan to kill them.
It was all moot anyway. The gun, I remembered, wasn’t there anymore. I looked in Tom’s direction. He wasn’t there anymore either.
“Morning, Jack,” the newcomer said from the other side of the counter.
“Good morning, Travis. You know you’re still banned, right?”
“I know, I know, but I’m just popping in for a quick second to buy something. We was out hunting the bat dog and this is the only place open this late. I see you’re already double fisting it, huh?”
He gestured at the counter in front of me, at the two fresh cups of coffee—mine, and the one Tom put down next to it.
“You can’t just ‘pop in for a quick second’ if you’re banned,” I explained.
He pointed at the wall behind me like my words had absolutely no effect on his sunny disposition. “Can I get a can of Skoal original, please?”
“No, I don’t think you understand. You’re banned, Travis. For life. You tried to kill—”
“Shit, Jack, are you ever going to let that go? You know, you’re really starting to piss me off.”
“I’m… pissing you off?”
“Here I am, out at the asshole of night, doing the community a service. The least you could do is show some appreciation!”
I looked out the doors to see two trucks and four or five more guys dressed like Travis. I couldn’t recognize any of them, but the way they stayed on their side of the entrance left me to assume they were all part of the same group O’Brien warned to stay away for good. Travis was the only one brave/dumb enough to test the waters.
“I can’t sell you anything,” I said. “And what are you even talking about? What ‘bat dog’?”
“Well, it might not be a bat dog. Could be a dog bat. Jury’s still out. Either way, someone saw it again a couple nights ago. Big creature with the wings of a bat and the face of a dog. They say it glows green like a mutant ninja turtle.”
“The ninja turtles didn’t glow.” (I never thought I’d need to explain that.)
“I think it’s got somethin’ to do with government experiments, but Brylock says it’s probably just another one of them aliens. They’re all real pissed ever since it stole one of the goats off of FJ’s farm. Clyde’s offering a bounty of two hundred fifty and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black to anybody who kills it.”
Clyde, I surmised, must have been the Sheriff, Clyde Callie. I found it interesting that he and this vigilante were on a first name basis.
“Okay,” I said, deciding to take the path of least resistance. With a sigh, I picked out his can of chew and rang him up.
“Does this mean you’ve finally forgiven me?” Travis asked with a hopeful smile.
“No.”
“Aw man, fuck you!”
He paid, continued to curse at me while I counted back his change, then apologized one more time and left.
***
That night had one more surprise in store. I’d just finished my morning preparations when a giant of a man snuck up on me. The moment I noticed him, he had a finger gun inches from my face.
“Bang. You’re dead.”
I sighed. “You got me.”
Benjamin—the monster hunter and human/mountain hybrid—had only been in the store once before, back when the dark god was making waves. He left town after blowing up a bunch of stuff, but he was never really gone. He made a point to call me at the gas station periodically, asking for “status reports” like I somehow worked for him now.
“That’s how easy it would have been to kill you. Did you even notice me? Did you even realize you weren’t alone before it was too late?”
“I was kinda focused on getting the coffee ready.”
“I swear, out of all the weird shit I’ve experienced, the biggest what-the-fuck of this universe is how the hell you’re still alive.”
“Thanks.”
His beard had grown a few inches since his last visit. If I wanted to be rude, I could point out how much gray had emerged in the black. The first time I saw him, he was cosplaying as a businessman. Tonight, he wore cargo pants, a black padded coat, and army boots. He was dressed for either a fight or a fishing trip.
He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out a small electronic device resembling a cassette player. He held it over his head and started up and down the aisles. “Status report.”
“Is that an EVP detector? Are you looking for ghosts?”
“Ain’t no such thing as ghosts, Jack.” The device started beeping loudly. Benjamin was big enough to see the top of the six-foot-tall frozen drink machine without any trouble. He reached up and pulled down an object that looked like a piece of black popcorn. The device in his other hand continued to beep loudly as he crushed the black kernel between his thumb and forefinger and let the pieces drop to the floor. The beeping immediately ceased. “I’m just taking care of your bug problem.”
He proceeded through the rest of the store, stopping to pick up small objects and devices from behind signs or atop displays and grinding each one to dust below his boots. When the handheld machine no longer beeped, he came back to the counter and said, “Now, about that status report…”
“Not much to report, really.”
“Are you sure you haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary recently?”
“Well, someone has been gluing googly eyes all over the store. Mostly on the faces of people and animals printed on advertisements. You should check out the breakfast cereals. It’s actually pretty funny. Oh, and there was this demon hellgate thing, but I’m pretty sure Jerry took care of it.”
He growled. “I forget you’ve got mashed potatoes for brains.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“My contact in this town went dark a couple weeks back. I wanted to come and check on him sooner, but I had a thing in Mexico that wasn’t going to kill itself.”
“I thought I was your contact in this town,” I said, pretending to care.
“I’ve got good news for you, then.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I found the poor bastard. They cut off his hands and stuffed him in the trunk of his car to bleed to death.”
“Oh. Oh my God.” I didn’t have to pretend anymore. “How is that ‘good news’?”
“That means you’ve just been promoted. You’re now my sole eyes and ears in this town. Which means I’m gonna need you to pick up the slack, start paying better attention. Next time I call you, I want a real status report.”
He turned to the door.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
The enigmatic monster hunter stopped long enough to say, “Something just woke up off the coast of Haiti that needs my attention more than your little town. Because everyone else is apparently dead, that means you’re in charge until I get back. Keep your eyes open and your hands attached.”
“Wait!”
He turned back to face me, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. “What is it?”
“I’m not qualified to be in charge of... anything, really. Can’t you just stay until whatever’s killing people is dead?”
He sighed. “Jack, like it or not, you’re going to have to grow up one of these days.”
Before I could explain why that wasn’t necessarily true, he had already left the store.