Hollister - A Short Series, Part 3 of 3

     Julie was on the floor, her entire body shaking.  She was a blathering mess.  “What’s happening?” were the first words I could understand.  “Why are they doing this?” finally followed after several heaving sobs.

     “I don’t know.”

     And then I remembered the bathroom window.  It was the only other way out of the bar, and it led to alley.  

     Maybe we could make it to the police station on foot, I thought, without much hope of success.

     I helped Julie to her feet and led her to the bathroom.  She never asked where we were going, her mind and body were limp, resigned.  But when I pushed open the door, her scream ripped through my eardrums.  Hanging from the bathroom stall was Donald Morse.  His eyes had been gouged out.  His tongue had turned a dark shade of lavender and had slipped out of his mouth.  I tried to put my hand over Julie’s mouth, but she was frantic.  The men in flannel would be listening…

     “I need to get out of here!”  She slapped my forearms until I let go.

     “Julie, you can’t!”

     “Fuck you!”  she hissed.  Julie pulled up the bathroom window and I felt the cruel winter cold again. 

     “Julie, wait!”
     But she was already halfway out, her legs flailing as she went.  

     My mind was spinning.  If they had gotten in the bathroom window, I thought…

     I heard a strange muffling sound followed by a thick whack, like the sound of somebody swatting a laundry bag with the end of a broom handle.  I heard a grunt and saw Julie’s leg muscles seize and then relax.  Her body slumped forward, her legs gave one last agonizing twitch, and then she was still.

     “Julie?”

     No response.

     The wind howled.  I could see dusty snow settling on the back of Julie’s cardigan.

     “Julie?”

     Still, no response.

     I had nearly reached her when she was suddenly thrust back inside.  She fell back against the bathroom stall near Donald Morse’s lifeless feet.  Sticking out of the bottom of her chin was the two sided scythe, the other end of it protruding from her open mouth.  

     A hand grabbed my wrist.  I looked down and saw a leather glove clasped around it.  Through the broken window I saw the man in the green flannel staring at me with his faceless face.  I tried to pull away, but his grip was too great.  He extended his other arm, brandishing a hunting knife.  He slid the blade across my forearm and I let out an uninhibited howl of pain.  I gave a desperate yank and the man’s grip released.  I stumbled out the bathroom door just as the man in green climbed through the bathroom window and into the bar.

     A chill ran up my spine as my impending end was knocking at my door.

     I leapt over the bar just as I heard the bathroom door push open.

     I crouched down and heard the soft click of the man’s boots cross to the other side of the bar.  His breathing was steady and unwavering, which made it all the more terrifying.  He checked the lock on the front door, opened it, then closed it.  For the briefest moment I had the foolish hope that he had left, but then I heard his boots again.

     There was a full bottle of Wild Turkey to my left.  I pulled it from the bottom shelf and clutched the neck in my right hand.

     The boots stopped.

     I waited.

     The scythe rained down, striking me in the right shoulder.  The man in green tugged at it and I felt my muscle tissue twist and tear. 

     I threw myself back and felt the blade dislodge.  Blood poured out of me so fast I felt the glorious urge to pass out, to succumb to the inevitably of death, but I willed myself to my feet, the bottle of bourbon still in my hand.

     The man in green stared at me across the bar, the unconscious man between us.  He was a sleeping child, naïve to the horrors and brutality of the world surrounding him.

My knuckles turned white.  I held the bottle like a baseball bat.

     The man in green turned the blade upward and slashed toward me.  It grazed past my neck, brushing over my beard.  I thrust the bottle as hard as I could and stuck him between the slits.  The heavy aroma of booze filled the air.  Blood seeped through the pillowcase as the man in green stumbled backward.  I reached into my pocket and removed my ex-father-in-law’s Zippo.  I lit the wick and tossed it at him.  The pillowcase ignited immediately.  The man in green slapped helplessly at the flames as they worked down his body and across his flannel.  He ran around the bar, blind and foolish, before collapsing on the floor.

     I jumped over the bar and grabbed the scythe.  It felt clumsy in my hands, almost silly.

The man in green held up his hand for me to stop, begging me, pleading with those terrible slits for eyes.  He was as vulnerable as we all had been.  It felt good watching him struggle, the flames licking him like an insatiable devil.  The pillowcase was red and fiery and consumed by death.  And I loved it...

     I drove the scythe down and struck the man through the temple.  His body seized, convulsed, and then was still.  

     My legs gave out.  I dropped to the floor in a heap.  My body shook.  The man continued to smolder.  I could smell his burning flesh and singed hair.

     Eventually, my breathing slowed and my thoughts turned to earlier.  I thought of Mickey.  I thought of Mike drinking wine.  I thought of Donald grousing about the Twins.  I thought of the terror in Julie’s eyes.  “There were three of them!” she had screamed.  I thought of the man in red, stuck in the grill of Mickey’s truck.  I thought of the smoldering man, the scythe still firmly in his head.  

     There were three of them!

     The words were in my head, but nothing seemed to process.

     There were three of them!

     And then the man Mickey and I had set on the bar top suddenly sat up, moving as if he had just woken from a long hibernation.  He turned his head toward mine, his eyes wide and maniacal.  I noticed what I hadn’t noticed before: the man was dressed in flannel, dark black and grey checkers.

     He smiled at me...

     The man in the black flannel stepped down from the bar and made his way across the bar.  He was casual in his steps (I think that frightened me most).

     I placed a hand over my wound and tried to stand, but my legs had given up for the night…maybe even forever.

     The man in black knelt down, still smiling.  “Hello,” he said in a way that was almost cordial.

     I breathed slowly.

     “Do you know who I am?”

     I shook my head.

     The smile grew wider. 

     I said nothing.

     “The town is dead,” he said.  “Don’t bother going back.”

     “Back?”

     “Yes.  Back.”

     “Are you going to kill me?”

     He shook his head.  “You need to tell the others I’m coming.”

     “Who?”

     His grin doubled.  “Goodbye,” he said abruptly.  The man in black stood and headed for the front door.

     “Where are you going?” I cried helplessly.

     “To the next town,” he said placidly.

     And then the man in black turned on his heels, the way a drill sergeant might move, and disappeared into the cold and dark of Hollister.