Chapter Eleven

Chuck woke to birdsong outside his window. It was an hour before his alarm was set to go off. He rolled onto his side, and the motion made it feel like sludge water was rolling in his skull. The headache hit him hard and he closed his eyes against the slats of light stabbing through his blinds.

Images of what had happened the day before flooded his brain, only making the pain worse. Dammit. For a moment there, he’d held on to the hope that it was all just a terrible nightmare, a twisted dream brought on by Mick’s dope that never gave a consistent high.

It had happened, all right. None of it made any sense, but there was no denying he had seen what he had seen, had felt the iron grip of the Melon Heads, had heard their awful cries and Dunwoody’s soul-shattering shrieks of agony.

Dredd hadn’t spoken much on the ride back to his cabin. He just kept repeating that they were up shit creek. Rules were in place for a reason and by keeping to those rules, there had been peace for as long as anyone could remember. Mick had fucked it all up. They all had. Dredd wished he’d shot them when they’d showed up at his place.

Chuck had wanted to tell him that they had not put a gun to his head, that he had willfully taken them to the Melon Heads. If there was anyone to blame, it was Dunwoody, and he was beyond caring now.

An even bigger question was bothering him. Why, if the Melon Heads had killed Dredd’s brother, had he willfully been the one to be the caretaker of their rules and secrets? If anything, he should be the one exposing them, getting revenge for what they did to his family.

Now there was Dredd’s threat that the Melon Heads would find them.

Had there ever been stories about the Melon Heads venturing past Dracula Drive? There was no point in going to the library. He highly doubted there would be credible reference books dedicated to the subject. Hell, there wouldn’t even be trashy reads about the Melon Heads. He could ask around, but he doubted he’d get much more than eye rolls, laughter or, if he was lucky, a tall tale or two.

If the rules had been kept (and who the hell created the rules?) there would not have been a reason for the Melon Heads to leave their sanctum. If there were rules, there had to be an origin story, like in comic books. Were any of the legends true, or were they the product of something else? Maybe knowing how they had come to be would help him figure out how to deal with them now.

He tossed the covers aside, still tired and feeling like a dog’s chew toy, yet unable to stop the buzzing in his brain. Not the least of his concerns was what if someone had seen them take Dunwoody from his home? Milbury wasn’t a sprawling metropolis. Most people knew who he was, especially considering his size. He remembered adults calling him Baby Huey, the overgrown duckling from the cartoons, when he’d been younger. The police could come knocking on his door any minute. What would he say to them? The truth? They would just think he was a liar. Who wouldn’t? “Where did you take Harold Dunwoody?” they would ask over and over, trying to break him. Mick would tell them nothing. If anything, a prison cell was a step up from his current living conditions. At least it was a warm place to stay with steady meals and people looking out for him. His distrust of authority would only lead to an improvement in his situation.

If they picked up Marnie, it would all be over. One look at her and they would know something bad had gone down. She’d be taken to the hospital, where she rightly belonged, and the telltale signs of sexual assault would be written large on and inside her body. Chuck and Mick had helped her get revenge on Dunwoody, clear and simple. Heidi and Vent would be called in for questioning, because why stop at three of the five stoners?

Chuck pulled on a Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt, the smiling young girls from their Siamese Dreams album in direct contrast to the darkness in his turbulent soul. The Melon Head bite – more like a nuclear gum pinch – hurt like a mother. Chuck patted the hickey-like wound and winced. He needed a smoke to calm down, but he was tapped. It was too early to go to Vent’s house. It was too early to do just about anything but worry.

No, he could get in his car and visit Dredd. Only he could answer Chuck’s questions. Maybe after a night of sleep, he’d be more forthcoming. He looked just as frightened as they had felt. They all needed some time for their nerves to calm down.

It was no easy feat sneaking down the creaky stairs and out the squeaky front door. Chuck was anything but light on his feet, and the old house had the bones of an octogenarian. He put his car in neutral, rolled down the drive, and turned left into the natural decline of the street. Only when he was two houses away did he fire up the jalopy.

The interior of the car still smelled like all of the bad things that had poured out of Dunwoody. Chuck had to roll the windows down, and pulled to the curb so he could get at the back windows. The ride to Dredd’s was very different this time around. He remembered how to get there, crossing onto Dracula Drive and easily finding the hidden drive, which wasn’t as hidden as it had been a day ago. The brush had been kept aside, allowing easier access. This was not a good sign.

The cabin was dark, the shade pulled down over the lone window facing him.

Chuck stepped out of the car and felt a chill. It was so much colder under the thick canopy. And damp. He was reluctant to step onto the porch. Dredd was slightly, if not entirely, mad. What other way could a man who guarded the Melon Heads possibly be? Shithouse nuts, is what his grandfather would have called him. He had weapons. Odds were at fifty-fifty whether he’d shoot Chuck the second he knocked on his door.

It might be a mercy kill.

The thought made Chuck sick to his stomach. That this might be his last quiet moment before his life turned to shit…or was taken from him.

He stood to the side of the door, heart racing, reached over and knocked three times, waiting for buckshot to come flying through the wood. When there was no answer, he knocked again, only harder. His body was beyond tense. He felt as if his bones had been dipped in adamantium, like Wolverine. His lungs hurt and he realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Hey, Dredd, it’s Chuck,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the door.

Silence.

He couldn’t see through the window. The shade didn’t have so much as a centimeter gap. Dredd could be there right now, inches away, waiting for Chuck to give up and go home.

There was no chance of that.

Chuck walked to the back of the cabin, eyeing the stumps they’d sat on a little over twelve hours ago, hatching their plan to take Dunwoody to the Melon Heads. Chuck never wished harder that he’d had a time machine. If only….

The first thing he noticed was that Dredd’s truck was gone.

And the back door was wide open.

His mouth went dry. He became aware of the utter stillness of the forest. Not so much as a crunchy leaf skittered along the ground.

He peered into the dark interior of the cabin.

“Hello. Dredd, are you in there?”

Of course he wasn’t. He’d gotten in his truck and headed for safer ground, wherever that was. But why had he left the cabin wide open like this?

Reaching inside, he fumbled for a light switch. No, there wouldn’t be one because electrical lines didn’t run out this way. What he did find was a hurricane lamp hanging from a nail beside the doorway. A box of matches was on a small plastic table outside. Chuck had a hard time getting a match to light, the wooden sticks breaking in half in his thick, clumsy fingers, the damp heads reluctant to spark. He almost whooped for joy when one finally lit. He lifted the glass and touched the flame to the wick. The smell of burning kerosene was instantly nauseating.

The floorboards cracked under his foot as he stepped inside.

“Hello?”

He brought the lamp forward. The dim light couldn’t reach the distant corners of the room, but it illuminated enough to send a shock down his spine.

The cabin was in complete shambles. This wasn’t the kind of mess a person makes when they’re in a rush to pack and leave. Everything had been turned over and broken. Stuffing spilled from Dredd’s mattress. It had been thrown off the bed frame, landing upright in the makeshift kitchen, leaning against the leg of a table that had been flipped over as well. Clothes had been ripped to shreds, firewood scattered about, cans of food dented and pried open, their contents drying on the floor. A bag of flour had been used to paint the ceiling white. Shards of glass glittered under the lamplight. Newspapers and magazines were everywhere, like confetti. Chuck saw several torn covers of Judge Dredd comic books, imports from Ireland that sold for twenty-five pence.

That makes sense now, he thought.

What shook Chuck even more, once he got over what he was seeing, was the redolent stench of shit. Piles of excrement were everywhere, some of them watery and peppered with what looked like lumps of berries. He had to back out of the cabin and tuck his nose under his shirt to keep from gagging. His own unwashed body was nothing to write home about, but it was akin to the fresh scent of a summer breeze compared to the compounded waste in Dredd’s cabin.

Had Dredd gotten out before his place was trashed? Yes, his truck was gone, but could the Melon Heads figure out how to drive, if only for a short distance?

He stumbled into the yard. There was Mick’s crushed beer can from yesterday.

“Dredd!”

Nothing answered him back, not even the chirp of a cricket.

He was suddenly very aware of being utterly alone.

Or was he?

Hadn’t Mick said that the silence of the woods was a sure sign that the Melon Heads were near? They had certainly been here. Dredd wouldn’t do this to his own cabin.

He had to get the hell out of here. The feeling that he was being watched bowled him over. Something moved in the bushes behind him. He dropped the hurricane lamp. The flame sputtered out. No matter. He didn’t need it anymore.

Chuck hurried away from the yard, his hand running along the side of the cabin as he headed for his car. He kept taking worried glances behind him, waiting for the Melon Heads to attack as they had by the teepee. Once he saw his car, he started running.

The sound of breaking glass stopped him.

He spun around, his heart inching up his throat.

“Who’s there?”

It was the stupidest thing he could say, but his brain was wrapped in a panicked fog.

He heard crackling, like someone was breaking twigs.

Chuck slowly walked backward to his car. Something told him not to take his eyes off the cabin, not to turn his back on where the Melon Heads’ attack would originate.

A curl of black smoke licked over the roof. More smoke billowed upward.

They’d set the cabin on fire.

His feet grew three sizes and went numb. They crossed over each other and he fell.

I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!

With an agility he rarely displayed, Chuck turned over, got on his hands and knees, jumped up and sprinted the final ten feet to the car. He slammed the door shut and keyed the ignition, pumping the gas pedal. The engine coughed but wouldn’t turn over.

He slammed his elbow on the lock, and then realized all of the windows were open. With one hand cranking the starter, he rolled up the window on his side. It was a very small measure of the illusion of safety, but it was all he had at the moment.

A rock the size of a man’s head dropped from the trees, slamming the hood of his car. It made a big dent, settling into it like a meteorite.

“What the hell?” He cast his eyes onto the fabric-covered roof of the car as what sounded like hail pounded from above. A rock pinged against the back window. A spiderweb of cracks spread out from the epicenter of the impact.

Chuck forced himself to stop hitting the gas. If he flooded the engine, he was as good as dead. A stick came whooshing out of the shadows, spinning end over end until it clanged against the car’s front grille. He thought he heard the crack of plastic. More sticks and stones rained down on his car. He couldn’t see who was throwing them, but his memory of their attack last night filled in the gaps.

Letting out a roar of both fear and agitation, Chuck twisted the key one more time. The engine belched and roared. He shifted into reverse, hit the gas, and barreled down the narrow drive. The rocks followed his exit. One of them sailed through the open passenger window and hit him in the temple. The pain didn’t register. He was only fixated on one thing: getting back to Dracula Drive.

The car bounced as it hit the lip of the decrepit road. Chuck jerked the wheel. The front of the car swung in a hard forty-five-degree turn, the frame rocking on its old shocks. His window shattered. Chuck slammed into drive and pinned the gas pedal to the floor. The back tires kicked up a whirlwind of dust and pebbles. The trees on either side of Dracula Drive whizzed by. Chuck kept his eyes forward, his chest almost touching the wheel, as he raced home.

Rocks and sticks quickly stopped coming his way, but in his head, he could still hear them bashing the steel and glass. Before he turned off Dracula Drive, he cast a quick glance in his rearview mirror.

Were they following him, sticking to the shadows?

How long would it be before they found him and burned down his house?

He had to warn the others.