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.

Hollister - A Short Series, Part 2 of 3

     We were immediately met by the cold.  A cascade of snow swept up from the sidewalk and buried itself in my beard.  I looked up the street and saw Mickey’s Chevy resting comfortably at the curb.  It was a beat up thing, well over 200,000 miles.  The base of the frame was rusted, matching the truck’s already copper tone.  It was ugly, but sturdier than just about any vehicle on the road. 

     Julie was surprisingly swift.  She pulled open the cab door, climbed in, and held out her arms to receive Mike.  We slid him in.

     “Keep the towel on his neck,” I said.

     She clamped her hands around the towel.  Mike’s lips had gone purple and his breathing grew shallow.

     I rounded the truck and jumped into the passenger seat.  

     Mickey placed the key in the starter and turned.  And, like something out of a bad dream, the engine clicked and whirred, but didn’t start.  He tried again.  Nothing.

     “What’s the problem?”  I asked, hearing my voice crack like a twelve year old.

     “I don’t know.”

     I scanned the streets.  There were no men with masks.  There was no flannel.  There were no sets of bloody tools.  But, still, I was terrified.

     Mickey threw open his door and was gone before I had a chance to call him back.  I saw him lift the hood and then he was gone from my sight.  I could hear him fiddling around and then he called:          “Try it now!”

     I turned the key and the engine coughed to life.  Even over the roar of the engine I could hear Mickey’s laughter, pure elation.

     “C’mon!” I called.

     Mickey lowered the hood and I heard the smallest gasp emit from Julie’s lips.  It was as if her entire body contracted in one instant and she was frozen in horror.  Standing behind Mickey, no more than a foot away, was the man exactly as she had described him.  He was very large, towering over a 6’2” Mickey.  He wore bright red flannel and had a pillowcase with two slits for eyes covering his face.  In his left hand was a knife so large I guessed it must have weighed close to ten pounds.  

     I tried to point, but my muscles refused to cooperate.  

     Julie screamed.

     Mickey didn’t have a chance to turn, and, in a way, I’m thankful.  He escaped the terror of what was to come.  He didn’t have the chance to let his bowels drop or bladder release.  It was as quick as it could have been.  The man with the red flannel jabbed the knife into the side of Mickey’s neck.  I saw the pointed end of the blade break through to the other side and a brilliant display of blood rained down on the truck’s windshield.  

     Mickey staggered to his right, one hand on the hood of his truck.  He grabbed at the knife, confused, before he finally toppled over and was gone from my view.

     The man in red stared at us longingly, cocking his head, as if inviting us to play. 

     I jumped over to the driver’s seat.

     He reached for the latch under the hood.

     I threw the truck into first.

     He lifted the hood and reached inside the engine.

     I stepped on the gas and the truck lurched forward.

     He grabbed the front grate.  The truck took off, but he kept his hand inside the engine.

     I swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding a nearby station wagon.  I shifted into second gear, but the truck lost traction.  We fishtailed to the left.  The wheel spun out of my hands and I thought the truck was ready to tip.

     The man in red tore a cable from the engine and the truck began to sputter.  We were losing speed.  The man in red was hanging on, but I could see his hand start to slip.  I pumped the gas, but the truck was dying.  The truck straightened out, sputtered again, and then it finally died.  The truck veered for a telephone pole.

     “Get down!” I cried.

     I didn’t turn back to see if Julie listened, my eyes were fixed on the man in red.  He turned to look behind him, to see his looming fate, but before he had a chance the truck struck the pole, sandwiching him in between.  His body spasmed, his head rolled to the side, and then slumped forward onto the hood.

     I pushed open the driver’s side door, jumped out, and pulled open the back cab.  

     “Mike’s not breathing!” Julie cried. 

     “We have to move.”

     “Get up, Mike, get up!”

     But Mike was unmoving.  His skin was as white as the falling snow and his body was terribly still.

     “I can’t leave him!” 

     The night was incredibly dark, but from the warmth of the streetlights reflecting off the snow, I saw him.  He came on slow, almost plodding.  He was only an outline, but then he became incredibly clear.  The second man in flannel, this one dressed in green, was approaching us.  He was wielding something that looked like a double sided scythe and had that same pillowcase mask draped over his face.  His slits were narrower, long running lines that ran north to south and were barely visible through the storm.

     “Julie, we have to go!  He’s coming!” 

     She looked out the back window, saw the man in green, and screamed an impossible scream.  

     I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her from the cab. The man in green continued toward us, walking with slow, but deliberate steps. “Hurry!” I told her.  The bar was in sight.  Light streamed out of the front door window, a beacon of hope.

     “We’re almost there!”

     But so was the man in green.  He trudged toward us, phosphorescent light reflecting off his scythe as it cut through the snow.

     I grabbed hold of the handle, threw open the door, and pushed Julie inside.  I felt a brief tug from the other side of the door handle.  I pulled back and threw the latch.  My breath had fogged up the porthole shaped window and I quickly wiped the fog away.  Staring back at me through his two slits was the man in green.  He tilted his head to the side as if inspecting every inch of me.  And then, like a casual window shopper, he turned away from the window and headed off down the street.

Hollister - A Short Series - Part 1 of 3

     Winter had come on fast--as it usually does in northern Minnesota--chasing away autumn in a cruel and careless fashion.  The town of Hollister was cloaked in a dense layer of unforgiving white, the wind chill a nip below zero.  It was only November and already I knew we were in for a gruesome winter.

     The bar windows rattled.  Its patrons—for the most part—had left shortly before 11:00 p.m.  Most had exited with the same mundane excuse (“Gotta get home to the family” or “Gotta let out the dog.”).  Me?  I had no family and no dog.  I did have an ex-wife: a classless woman who left me her father’s vintage Zippo lighter and a pair of ice cube trays in the divorce.  Since then, my nights were empty remembrances of too many whiskeys.

     There are many secrets in a bar.  But there are also many lies...

     I had been occupying the stool farthest from the door for the better part of the day, my only entertainment coming when I’d flick the Zippo and extinguish the flame.  

     Mickey Riley, the owner, was a good enough bloke who never seemed to pay me much bother.  Typically, I was quiet, watching the tube with little interest, happy to drown whatever sorrows my 40% could handle.  I caused very little trouble, never raised my voice, and always paid my tab.

     In the far corner were Julie and Mike Daggert, drinking from the same bottle of red wine and staring at each other with the same love lost expression they undoubtedly shared on their wedding day.

     At the other end of the bar was Donald Morse.  He, too, was quiet, much quieter than me.  He would always nurse the same beer for hours on end and pay wordlessly before going home to the same nothingness I, too, was bound to meet.

     Hollister, itself, is beyond quaint: the population is just shy of 300 (and I would wholeheartedly challenge that census).  There is a post office, a city hall, two bars, a school, and a few offices occupying a dilapidated strip mall on the edge of town.  Mickey’s Bar is on the main drag.  Not much happens in Hollister and most of us like it that way

     “Can you turn the game on?” Donald Morse called to Mickey.

     Mickey switched to the Twins/Angels game.  Twins were down 4-0.  I watched a four-pitch walk then returned my attention to my Scotch.  I twirled the glass in my palm, considered taking a sip, then pushed it to the side.

     “Done?” Mickey asked.

     “No.”

     Mike Daggert walked drunkenly to the bar.  I had lost count, but I believe he and Julie had polished off three bottles of Merlot.  “Colorrrr me upppp,” he said, slapping a wad of bills on the counter.

     “You all right, Mike?” Mickey asked.

     “Right as r-r-rain.” Mike motioned to the wad of bills.  Mickey scooped them up, returned with a few singles (to which Mike waved them off), and returned to his table to claim his wife.  “Well, my dear...”  Mike extended an arm, which Julie took graciously, and he led her toward the exit.  “Mickey, my good man, thank you for a lovely evening.”  Mike gave him a tip of the cap and they disappeared out the door.

     I would see Mike Daggert only once after that.  His skin would be very pallid—almost fragile—and there would be a rich panic in his eyes.  Maybe it would be because of all the blood.  He would surrender to his injuries and die in the back of Mickey’s pickup truck.  

     “Drink, Donald?” I called to the end of the bar.

     He nodded.

     “Couple of whiskeys.”

     Mickey grabbed a bottle of Dewar’s and poured two glasses.

     “Really coming down out there,” Mickey mumbled.

     I glanced out one of the windows and saw a sheet of white snow.

     “Yeah,” I affirmed.  I finished the Dewar’s.

     For anyone who has ever lived in a snowy environment, they know how it sounds when the driver lays on the brakes.  You can hear the struggle of the car rather than the tires.  It lurches through the snow and ice, the engine emitting a sad sort of grunt.  Then there’s the sound snow spewing up from the spinning tires.  And on this particular night, I heard these sounds followed by a deafening crash, a cacophony of broken glass and twisted metal.  Whoever was in that vehicle had been taken by the blind and unjust force of Minnesota Winter.

     We all shared the same worrisome glance before rushing out the door to Main Street.

     I saw a cloud of smoke and a small fire, but the damage to the Ford F-150 hadn’t been as great as the sound implied.  The truck was wrapped around one of the streetlights, but only the tail-bed.  The cabin of the truck was intact with only a few superficial damages. 

     “Call 911!” Mickey shouted to Donald.

     Donald retreated inside.

     “C’mon.”  Mickey was already across the street.

     I followed him wordlessly, feeling the callous winter cold against my ears.  

     The side-window was cracked, the driver’s head slumped against it.

     Mickey tapped on the glass.  “You all right in there?”

     No response.

     “Hey!”

     Silence.

     “Let me.”  I stepped forward and pulled open the door.  The man fell out, dumping himself into my arms, 260-pounds of pure muscle.  An absolute beast.  The top half of him nearly sent me flat on my ass.

     “Let’s get him inside.”  I pulled him from the vehicle and Mickey grabbed hold of his legs.  We trudged back to the bar through the unplowed snow.  I felt the thickness of it soaking through my shoes and regretted leaving my snow boots at home.

     We crashed through the front door.  The man was still limp, lying in our arms like a bale of hay.

     “Put him up here.”  Mickey led the body to the bar and with a couple of giant heaves we managed to set him on the bar top.  The man’s head lolled to the side and the tip of his tongue flopped out of his mouth like a sleeping dog.

     “Is he dead?” I asked.

     “No.”

     “Is he bleeding?”

     Mickey looked him over, shook his head.  “No.”

     “So he’s just knocked out?”

     “Maybe.”  But there was skepticism in his voice.  I could tell the man troubled Mickey, but I don’t think either of us knew why.

     “Ya ever seen this guy before?” Mickey asked.

     “No.  You?”

     “No.”

     We heard an incessant beeping and turned toward the end of the bar.  The rotary’s receiver was off the hook.  

     “Where the hell is Donald?”

     I shrugged.  “Call the police.”

     Mickey rounded the bar and dialed.  “Nobody’s answering,” he said after a while.

     “How is that possible?”

     Mickey shook his head solemnly.  There was graveness to his expression and his skin had suddenly turned a nasty shade of grey.  

     “You all right, Mickey?”

     “Yes,” he said quietly.

     What happened next I’ve run over in my mind several times since, but it’s difficult to decipher much beyond a blur of panic and pulsing adrenaline.  It would be several minutes before clarity would return, but it would be clarity achieved in a world that had suddenly gone mad.  I believe I heard the screaming first.  It was a woman’s scream, high-pitched and brittle.  But that’s about all I remember of the scream.  

     I glanced up at the front door, the screams growing more amplified.  The door burst open and I saw Julie and Mike Daggert.  They were scared, their last bits of drunkenness gone.   

     “Help!” Julie screamed.  “Help us!”

     Julie had an arm under Mike’s armpit, but was struggling under his weight.  Mike’s skin was ghastly white.  His entire right side was bathed in a thick layer of red.  His hand was clasped around his throat, blood seeping between clutched fingers.

     Mickey and I grabbed hold of him.  We laid him on the floor and he let out a soft groan; a small spurt of blood shot out from between his index and middle fingers catching me in the chest.

     “Do something!” Julie screamed.

     My legs wobbled and my tongue went dry.  I squashed the urge to vomit, but only just.  I pulled Mike’s hand away from his neck and saw a large gash running from his jaw-line to his clavicle.  It was fantastically deep.

     “Towels!”

     Mickey reached over the bar and threw me a handful of tea towels.  I clasped them against Mike’s neck.  It helped, but only barely.

     “Call the police!” Julie screamed.

     “There was no answer,” said Mickey.

     “That can’t be.”

     “We’ve tried twice.”

     “There out there!” Julie cried, on the verge of hysterics.

     I looked up and saw the horror lining her eyes.  “Who’s out there?”

     “We were walking to the car...and then they came out of nowhere.”

     “Who?”

     “These people...they were...wearing masks.”

     “What kind of masks?”

     “I don’t know...like pillowcases.  They had them wrapped around their heads.  And they...were all wearing flannel.  There were three of them...”  Her voice trailed away.  She started to cry.  “They had these tools...like modified knives or something.  And they...stabbed Mike.  They just stabbed him...”  Her sobs were heaving; these little obnoxious grunts, and I felt silly for being annoyed.

     “And then what?”

     “One of the men told me to run,” she said.  “And then he laughed...they all laughed.  I got Mike to his feet...I could hear them following us.  Oh, Jesus!  Oh, Christ!”

     “Mickey, check outside.”

     Mickey ran to the windows.  He cocked his head from side to side, peering through the thick snowfall.  “I don’t see anything.”

     “Are you sure?”

     He gazed around again.  “There’s nobody out there.”

     “We need to get him to the hospital.”

     “We can’t go out there!” Julie insisted. 

     “It’s going to be all right,” I told her, though I did a terrible job at being convincing. 

     “They’re gonna kill us.”

     “My truck is out front,” said Mickey.  “No more than twenty steps.  We can throw him in the back and be at the hospital in five.”

     Julie nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks in long rivers of salt.

     “Help me get him up.”

     Mickey grabbed Mike’s ankles.  “What about him?” he asked.

     Julie looked at the man on the bar top, noticing him for the first time, but she asked no questions, and I was thankful for that.

     “We’ll send an ambulance once we get to the hospital,” I said.  “Julie, when we get outside, open the back of the cab and help us get him in; Mickey and I will sit up front.”

     She nodded, but her eyes never left the floor.

     We unlatched the front door and pushed outside…