The Delivery

Based on a true event

November, 2012

Curtis Young pointed the mail truck down the hill and swore under his breath as the first snowflakes spattered against the windshield. This day could officially not get worse.

He’d suffered through a morning of heavy mail and an afternoon of oversized packages, to return to the post office only to be sent out again. The regular driver on the office’s second rural route had called out sick that morning, and the fresh-faced kid they dragged in from the next town over to cover for him was completely out of his depth. In his load for the day, the kid had an express package that needed to be delivered by six pm, but rural route two was defeating him. It was getting late and the kid was only halfway through his deliveries. Someone needed to get that express package to the customer within the hour. The supervisor on duty decided Curtis fit the bill.

If his daughter wasn’t already staying late at school for drama club, Curtis would have protested more vehemently. But in all honesty, he could use the hours. Christmas was coming soon.

So he lit out for the remoteness of route two, in the woody hills at the edge of town, to track down the kid and recover the package. That took Curtis nearly forty-five minutes; twenty minutes of driving just to get to the start of the route. By then the kid was nowhere near where the supervisor said he’d be. When Curtis finally found him, despite the novelty of another postal truck appearing on the route, the kid just drove past him. Even waving got Curtis nothing.

At last, Curtis had the express package and he could head straight to the delivery. This being late November, it was already well past dark, with cloudy skies overhead and the snow that had been threatening all day finally decided to fall. The heater whined and the defroster roared at the windshield, but the old postal truck could barely keep the windows clear let alone heat the cab adequately.

Curtis, inured to the cold and covered in several layers, just wanted to be done and headed home. So down the hill the postal truck trundled, the wipers swept aside the remnants of snowflakes, and he hummed quietly to himself. At the bottom of the hill he took a left onto North Road and followed that through the darkness to another left, this time on to Whitmore. No streetlights here, and the houses stood far apart, with thick woods lining both sides of the street. Tall firs and evergreens for the most part, their bark gray in the splash of the headlights. The asphalt was too warm still to allow the snow to accumulate, and the branches kept most of it off the ground, but the branches themselves were beginning to turn white.

Half a mile down Whitmore Curtis took a right turn, putting him finally on the street where he needed to be, Whipple Road. That name always put him in mind of a sundae for some reason, but he was likely the name of some old white dude who settled here ages ago, planted his little house in the woods and grew fat on the land.

Whipple had even fewer homes than Whitmore, and the trees grew more thickly together. Curtis knew from previous excursions like this that even on a bright summer day, this part of route two could be dark and oppressive. On a cold November night with big fat snowflakes whirling through the air, it looked bleak and uninviting. Curtis could not wait to be done.

But of course, as these things always managed to work out, the package was destined for the last house on Whipple Road. He saw virtually no traffic as he drove down the uneven road. The street just ended, becoming a dirt packed driveway that led a hundred yards through trees and bushes up to the porch of 113 Whipple. He nosed the postal truck up the gradual incline to the house.

It looked more rustic cabin than house, a tall wooden structure with peaked roof and wraparound porch. The drive led up to the house but there was ample space to turn the truck around. Curtis saw a beat-up old Subaru wagon parked beside a shed, both already accumulating blankets of snow.

Curtis yanked the parking brake and grabbed the package. His scanner said 5:31 as he aimed it at the little cardboard box. The scanner chirped angrily and Curtis swore under his breath. Of course the damn thing needed a signature. He couldn’t just leave it on the porch and skedaddle, he had to ring the doorbell and hand the damn thing off.

A blast of cold wind struck him as he left the truck. He slammed the sliding door shut but didn’t lock it, as he wouldn’t be here long enough for that to matter. He trudged up the steps to the porch. Automatic lights triggered as soon as he exited the vehicle, illuminating the porch and the surrounds. He saw the humped shape of a grill off to one side of the porch, and beyond the porch what Curtis initially took to be a clearing but quickly realized was some kind of pond. Rushes and cat tails drooped at the waters edge, weighed down by accreting snow.

Curtis pressed the button for the bell, silently grateful that there was a bell at all. He felt mild surprise it wasn’t one of the new smart ones. He waited patiently in the cold while lights inside flickered to life. Heavy locks disengaged, three of them, which made Curtis arch an eyebrow, and then the door swung open and Curtis found himself staring into the muzzle of an automatic pistol.

“Post office,” he said shakily, raising both hands. The last time he was in a similar situation he at least had body armor and a rifle in hand himself, but Afghanistan was literally a world and half a lifetime away.

“Get in here,” said a man’s voice from the other side of the gun.

Curtis thought about making a run for it, but it was five steps on slippery snow-covered wooden slats to the stairs, then another ten to the truck. He wished he’d left the door open, but then again he’d be dead long before he reached the vehicle. Slowly, package in one hand and scanner in the other, both hands at shoulder height, Curtis stepped forward.

His eyes swept past the muzzle of the gun. He saw a thin, wrinkled face and a dusting of silver hair. The porch lights made the lenses of the man’s glasses opaque, his eyes impossible to read. The man and the gun receded gradually, allowing Curtis to step inside the house.

“Close the door. Lock it.”

Curtis thought briefly of hucking the scanner at the man and then tackling him, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get a bullet for his trouble. “This scanner has GPS,” he said. “They know where I am.”

“Close the door,” the man said again. “Lock it.”

Curtis suppressed a sigh. He set both the package and scanner down on a low wooden table beside the door and turned his back, though doing so made his skin crawl. He shut the door and turned the first lock. He expected to be shot through his head but instead the man said, “All of them. And the chain.”

What the fuck is happening, Curtis thought, the first coherent one he’d had since seeing the gun. Everything else had been instinct, reaction. With trembling fingers he turned the other two locks on the door and slotted the chain. Slowly he turned back to his kidnapper.

They stood in a small open kitchen, clean and neat, with a spice rack and a coffee machine on the counter, checked towels hanging from the stove. In the low light leaking out from under the kitchen cabinets, Curtis saw the man in full for the first time. He looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, neatly coifed silver hair, wire rim glasses, clean shaven face with thin lips and watery blue eyes. He wore some kind of Mr. Rogers sweater over a flannel shirt and khakis, his feet wedged into slippers and the braces for silver forearm crutches encircling both wrists.

“The fuck?” Curtis said. The man set the gun on the counter beside him and smiled ruefully at Curtis.

“I am very sorry for that,” he said. “But it was the quickest way to get you into the house where its safe. That package is very, very late.”

“It’s not six yet,” Curtis said instinctively. He looked from the old man to the gun and back again.

“Yes, I understand. When it didn’t arrive by noon, I drove to the post office directly. They informed me it was on the road and that I could expect delivery by six. But I very much needed it sooner. We’re pressed for time, now.” He sighed. “This is all so poorly planned.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The man did not respond immediately. He shuffled backward from the counter and the gun, as if trying to reassure his guest. “My name is Axel Carpenter. You’ve caught me at a very difficult period, I’m afraid, Mr. Postman. But if you care to look out the kitchen window there, you’ll see why I was so anxious to get you into the house.”

Curtis eyed him again. He could still feel a shot in the back very clearly. As if reading his mind, Carpenter nodded at the pistol on the counter. “Take the gun if it will help. But please, look out the window before you try to open the door.”

Warily, expecting some kind of trick, Curtis took a half step towards the counter and reached out a long arm to scoop up the gun. It settled into his palm with a familiar weight, though a quick glance did not supply him with the make. It wasn’t American at least, maybe European, and it had some kind of stylized draconic image etched into the barrel. The safety was on, but Curtis flipped it off and aimed at Carpenter. The old man just nodded, nonplussed. “The window,” he said insistently. “Please.”

Curtis thought about those three locks and the chain, and whether the old man could or would do anything if he made a break for it. But the safety had been on the entire time. Curtis backed slowly to the kitchen sink and the thick paned window there that looked out over the pond outside. Still pointing the gun at the old man, but with his forefinger along the barrel, Curtis risked a glance over his shoulder through the window.

He saw shapes outside, standing around the far edge of the pond. They weren’t there when he arrived. He would have seen them, and even now they stood at the far edge of the outdoor lights’ reach, just close enough to catch the light. They were tall and thin, four in number, clearly people, but they looked to be wrapped in hooded robes. They arrayed themselves around the pond.

“What kind of freaky ass shit is this?”

“They’re a cult,” Carpenter said evenly. “A very dangerous one that worships something old and best forgotten. They would not have let you leave here alive, I’m afraid.” He paused and wet his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “You can’t see them for all the cloud cover, but tonight the stars are right for this cult to do something very horrible. What I need to ensure they don’t is in that package.” He gestured at the low table, his forearm crutch clanking as he did so.

“But I’m also just one old man. My ploy to draw you inside wasn’t merely altruistic, young man. I need your help.”

Curtis made a half turn to look out the window more fully. Four people standing eerily by the side of a pond in the middle of a November snowstorm, with cold wind swirling around them. “They want inside, because they want to stop me,” Carpenter said. “If I’d had the necessary components earlier, this could have been avoided, but here we are.”

Curtis looked back at him. “You one crazy old man.”

“Yes, well, I wish I were. That would make things much easier. Just put me in a home for my own safety and the safety of others. Unfortunately, the cult is not dementia. They’re real. They’re out there. And I still need your help.”

Curtis clucked in disbelief. But the safety had been on. And Carpenter had just handed him the gun.

“Is it alright if I take my package?” Carpenter said, as though he were the hostage.

Still pointing the gun, Curtis said, “You have to sign for it first.”

Carpenter chuckled. “Indeed. I think you may be the first bit of luck I’ve had in some time, young man. You certainly know how to hold a gun.”

“82^nd Airborne,” Curtis said.

“Ah. Afghanistan, by any chance?” At Curtis’ answering nod, Carpenter added, “My nephew did a tour over there, though I don’t suppose you saw him. He was with the Marines.”

Curtis didn’t care about any of the old man’s stories, nor whether anything he said was true, but there were definitely four strangers outside in robes, who could be armed. But now Curtis had a pistol himself, he felt confident he could make a run for it. Despite it all, he hoped Carpenter wouldn’t force Curtis to shoot him when he went for the door. Precious seconds would be wasted unlocking it, then there would be a mad dash to the truck. He was glad now that he’d left the door unlocked and the key in the ignition, against regulations.

“Go ahead,” Curtis said, gesturing at the table with the muzzle of the pistol. Carpenter shuffled across the room, using the crutches only briefly to steady himself, and picked up the scanner. He made a mark on it in imitation of a signature, then scooped up the package and retreated back to the counter. His hands must have been stronger than they looked, because he ripped through the cardboard and packing tape easily to get at the prize inside.

Curtis edged his way towards the door, keeping the gun between himself and Carpenter. Then they both started as a sharp crack echoed outside, glass tinkled, and Curtis both felt and heard the almost forgotten buzz of a bullet through the air just inches from his head. The missile lodged into the wooden wall on the other side of the room halfway between the two men. A small round hole showed in the pane of the kitchen window, out of which a spiral of cracks formed.

Curtis swung the pistol in the direction of the window and dropped to one knee. “What the fuck!”

Carpenter gave him a look that said “I told you so” and toddled into the next room. He held in his hands what looked to be a roll of yellowed paper, like something out of a museum.

Another shot tinkled through the kitchen window. On hands and knees Curtis followed the old man, suddenly not so sure he could make a quick escape. Or that Carpenter was completely full of shit.

Curtis found himself in the living room, an expansive open space with wooden floors and a big stone fireplace. Low bookcases against one wall, a big picture window dominating another, and the furniture pushed to the edges of the room: two wooden chairs, a ratty old couch, and a leather recliner patched with strips of duct tape. On the floor in the middle of the room was spread a bright green blanket and a plethora of occult looking devices. Curtis saw a bronze bowl, two weirdly curved knives, a book of matches, a whetstone, vials of oil or wine, and an array of powders and chemicals arranged across a wooden cutting board.

But what really drew his attention was the arsenal draped across the ratty couch: an automatic shotgun with rotating barrels, a light machine gun, an automatic rifle, another pistol, a fireman’s axe with a spike knuckled handle, and plenty of ammunition for every gun.

“They’re going to try to get in, as I said.” Carpenter shucked his crutches and very shakily settled into a cross-legged seat upon the floor. He groaned the whole way down. “Would you be willing to keep them out? You can do whatever you want with me when this is done, but for the sake of humanity I must be able to finish this ritual.”

Curtis had stumbled into the third act of the dumbest ass horror movie ever. And what happened to Black guys in horror movies? “You are out of your goddam mind, Axel Carpenter,” Curtis said.

Another shot plinked through the kitchen and a moment later, someone rattled the door. Instinctively Curtis leaned back and put three bullets through the door. They punched right through the wood and into whomever was on the other side.

Running was no longer an option. Yet if he stayed here, he was going to die. Curtis scrambled over to the couch and began sifting through the old man’s armory. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back and hefted the rifle. Once more it did not look familiar, but he recognized the general design, resembling an old Soviet Dragunov sniper rifle, complete with scope. It had a five round clip, 7.62 mm by the look.

Carefully Curtis edged towards the big window and shouldered the rifle. He sighted the figures arranged around the pond. All of them stood still and rigid, as if waiting for something. Curtis wondered if they were living at all. The strange stillness suggested artificiality. He didn’t see any guns, either, so clearly they weren’t the ones shooting through the kitchen window. Arbitrarily choosing the second figure from the left, Curtis examined it through the rifle’s scope.

The figure leapt at him through the intervening space, illuminated in the eerie green light of the scope. Curtis saw a rough, hooded cloak made of wool wrapped around the figure, their arms crossed, the edges of the cloak fluttering in the wind. Snow swirled around them and subtle movements suggested shivering. Curtis panned upward and focused on the face beneath the hood.

He saw eyes of a sort, but black and pupilless, and the rest of the face looked bland and poorly formed, like a mask of wet clay. It showed a tiny nose, a slash of a mouth, and high cheekbones. As Curtis watched, trying to get a fix on the thing, trying to resolve it into something he could understand, he saw something move beneath the flesh. A ripple across the cheek as if there was something alive and moving inside the face.

Without conscious thought Curtis pulled the trigger. The head of the figure disappeared in a burst of wet crimson, splattering like a watermelon thrown against the ground. The body staggered, lurching backward half a step and then sliding forward two more. But it stayed upright. Worse, with a lurching gait, it began to advance towards the pond.

“What the fuck is this?!” Curtis shouted at Carpenter, even as he aimed center mass and put three more rounds into the thing. It went down finally, twitching like a ragdoll and spreading streams of liquid in the snow.

Slowly the other three figures began to move, limbs moving stiffly and spasmodically but carrying them towards the house.

Curtis lowered the rifle and looked back at Carpenter. The yellowed scroll lay spooled out before him and he read through it, agitated and focused. Some kind of brown, spidery writing decorated each page, in shapes that looked more like hieroglyphics than words. At Curtis’ repeated shout, Carpenter finally focused on him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I need to find this spell, and we haven’t much time. The Pnakotic Fragments are a wealth of information and I’m sure what I need is in here somewhere, but my Aklo is a little rusty.”

“English, old man!” Curtis shouted. He shouldered the rifle again and aimed out the now shattered pane of the window he fired through previously. Through the scope he searched for a lower limb, a knee or a foot or an exposed thigh. He put a 7.62 mm slug cleanly through one of the things and it dropped like a stone. As soon as it hit the ground it began to crawl, the leg incapacitated but the wound barely slowing the thing.

Suddenly at the back of the room, stepping out of a hallway almost hidden in the darkness, appeared a man in a bright orange hunting vest and John Deere hat. His unshaven face grinned wickedly and a weird light gleamed in his eyes. He raised a hunting rifle to his shoulder and aimed at Carpenter.

Shooting from the hip with his own rifle, Curtis caught the intruder in the throat. The man collapsed with a wet gurgle, his weapon clattering and his John Deere hat fluttering to the floor. Carpenter barely looked up.

Curtis ejected the spent clip and rammed a new one home before setting the rifle carefully on the ground. He scooped up the shotgun and raced to the back of the room, just as two more men dressed like hunters appeared with guns at the ready. One got off a wild shot before Curtis plugged him, the impact of the shotgun blast throwing him backwards into his companion. The shotgun barrel rotated and Curtis fired again, killing another man.

He rushed to the back of the room and leaned cautiously around the corner, leading with the muzzle of the shotgun. Down a darkened hall yawned the open back door, broken locks hanging limply. The hunters must have made plenty of noise forcing the door, but Curtis didn’t hear any of it, focused on the things at the pond.

Which still inched closer every moment.

Curtis pulled the pistol out and pointed both guns at the open back door and the yard beyond, illuminated by the outdoor lights. Snow and cold air swirled into the house. He should be picking up Shawna at school right now, asking her how play rehearsal went, whether she’d studied for the history test she had tomorrow.

“Carpenter, we are surrounded and half these fuckers aren’t even human. I can’t defend this place by myself.”

“Ah! I found it!” Carpenter said. Curtis heard the scroll rustle. “But I don’t have dates or wheat.” He looked up. “There’s corn meal in the pantry and grapes in the fridge.” This last he said almost to himself. He grabbed his crutches and lurched to his feet with another painful groan. “You’ll have to hold out a little longer, young man. I’m almost done.”

“Sit your ass down,” Curtis snapped. Crouched, he hurried to Carpenter’s side and pressed the pistol into the old man’s hand. He moved economically towards the kitchen, sweeping the corners with the shotgun. Reaching the refrigerator first, he whipped the door open and yanking the bag of grapes off the top shelf, in one smooth movement he hurled it over the counter into the living room.

Outside thunder boomed. Something slammed into the side of the house. The whole frame shook. The front door rattled and locks snapped. Windows shattered. The fridge toppled forward, even as cabinets dispensed their contents onto the floor. Curtis leapt out of the way, just escaping being crushed.

The door burst open and one of those cloaked figures stood in the open space. The cloak fluttered in the wind, revealing a spindly body wrapped in strips of cloth, yellowed in places with strange fluids. Patches of skin showed through the gaps, revealing scars and scabs and oozing patches of pus. The lipless mouth bulged and something pink and wet and coiled oozed from the orifice.

Curtis shot the thing twice, both times in the chest. It fell backwards onto the porch, ichor and bile spraying from its wounds. The booms of the shotgun sounded weak in comparison to that peal of thunder.

Wedged into the porch, as if thrown into the side of the house, Curtis saw the corner of the postal truck; the red, white, and blue frame crumpled like tin foil. How did these things throw a mail truck like a bowling ball?

Curtis scooched backwards on his ass and heels and struck the edge of the counter with his shoulder. He looked left, seeing the dark alcove of the pantry. A box of Cheerios lay burst open on the floor, surrounded by jars of pickles and condiments. Curtis’s eyes swept across the detritus, found the bag of cornmeal with laser focus, and he grabbed it.

He dropped the bag in Carpenter’s lap before heading to the couch. He set the shotgun down, jammed the spare pistol through his belt, and picked up the light machine gun. The big bay window lay open to the night, splinters of glass scattered across the floor and crunching underfoot.

Two of the cloaked things began to climb into the house through the open window. Curtis raked them with the machine gun, aiming to cripple limbs and slow them down. He was not sure he could stop them, even with the arsenal at his disposal. “Whatever you’re gonna do, old man, you better be fucking doing it!” he shouted. He could barely hear his own voice, though his throat ached with the effort.

Bullets ripped through the cloaked things and they flopped about, dripping yellow viscous fluids on the floor. But they advanced, dragging themselves forward inch by inch, foot by foot.

Curtis risked a glance over his shoulder. Carpenter poured half the bag of corn meal into the pot. He crushed a handful of grapes in his hands, still attached in a bunch, and dumped that on the meal. Carpenter lifted one of the bottles and poured some kind of oily liquid over the whole mess, then lit a match and dropped it on top. Flames erupted six inches above the edge of the pot. Next, the older man pricked a fingertip with one of the blades and sprinkled blood into the blazing mess, which now began to send black smoke up into the room. He started to chant something in a sing song-y voice, strange words that half made sense, half sounded like utter gibberish.

Curtis turned back to the more immediate problem. One of the cloaked things levered itself to its feet, using the arm of the couch as a crutch. The hood fell away, revealing that face of wet clay with the empty eyes. Curtis shuddered despite himself. Rednecks in hunting gear, armed to the teeth, he could deal with, as terrifying as they were. This thing before him, dripping pus and bile from dozens of perforations and yet still moving, turned his bowels to water.

Curtis pointed the muzzle of the machine gun at the thing and emptied the rest of the magazine into it, or tried to. The gun jammed. Howling in frustration, Curtis switched his grip and swung the metal stock at the thing’s head. He felt the heat of the gun barrel even through his fingerless gloves, then the shock of hitting the target. The stock shattered like glass into metal fragments and the machine gun flew out of Curtis’ grip. 

Curtis backed away and pulled the pistol from his belt. Snow swirled into the house through the open windows. Something big and misshapen moved outside, just at the edge of the exterior lights. A humped shadow, barely discernable, loomed out there. It looked big enough to throw a truck, and Curtis knew instinctively that none of Axel Carpenter’s weapons would be of use against it.

That didn’t mean Curtis Young was going down without a fight. He aimed the pistol at the cloaked thing’s face and put two bullets in it. He grimaced as the head split like a melon and yellow fluid streamed down the body. Something pink and muscled writhed within the exposed skull and the thing rocked back on its heels. But it remained standing.

Curtis took careful steps backward, firing center mass. His heel struck something and he looked down to see the axe, still leaning against the leg of the couch. Curtis scooped it up with his left hand and brandished it chest high.

Carpenter, still chanting, waved his hands in the air in complex patterns. Blood streamed down his hand and turned his sleeve red. The black smoke no longer billowed, but instead flowed out of the pot and began to swirl around the floor.

The other cloaked thing, the one Curtis had largely ignored to this point, had meanwhile crawled its way towards Carpenter. It lurched to its knees, hands outstretched like claws. Without thinking, Curtis dropped the pistol and stepped toward the thing, swinging the axe two-handed. His aim held true and with a sickening crunch, the head sheared clear off. It flew towards the kitchen.

The neck looked hollow, a tunnel of skin and bone coated in a film of yellow scum. In the darkness something coiled, and it exploded outward, a cylinder of grayish pink flesh with a four-sided jaw filled with dozens of razor sharp teeth, slavering with yellow fluid. Curtis yelped and swung the axe, neatly slicing through the trunk. The snapping jaws fell to the ground and the body lurched backward, finally falling and lying still.

“The fucking fuck!” Curtis let out, his voice high pitched and verging on a scream. He pointed the axe at the remaining cloaked thing in the room, the one with the bullet smashed head. “You’re next!”

Smoke swirled around his feet, flowing over the headless body nearby, rising up past Curtis’ ankles. It filled the chamber rapidly, expanding into the kitchen and down the back hall, rolling over the bodies there as well. It climbed up the sides of the wall to curl over the edge of the shattered bay window out into the night. The smoke poured across the kitchen floor through the open door onto the porch, toward Curtis’ wrecked truck.

It began to climb up Curtis’ legs, and even through the sturdy hiking boots and two layers of pants he wore, he could feel the smoke coiling around him. He stamped his feet awkwardly and lurched around Carpenter’s kneeling form, beating ineffectually at the smoke with one hand.

The cloaked thing limped towards Curtis, arms out stretched, and then the smoke rose up and pulled it down. It went without a sound, disappearing into the growing gloom. But now light began to appear, flickers and flashes here and there, like lightning in a storm cloud. Curtis could still hear Carpenter chanting, though the smoke billowed up and over the old man and must have been pouring into his mouth, down his throat, into his lungs.

Everything exploded in a flash of black light that blinded Curtis and sent him sprawling backwards onto his butt. His tailbone cracked and the back of his head bumped against the wooden floor. The shock of the impact knocked the axe out of his hand, finally, and he felt the smoke curling over him, consuming him. The fall had knocked the air from his lungs and he knew he shouldn’t, but he had to, and so he opened his mouth to suck in a deep breath of tainted, smoky air. But it tasted sweet.

He closed his eyes and waited for the end to come.

After ten breaths, when he was still alive, still untouched, Curtis sat up and looked around. He saw destruction. Shattered bay window, bullet holes in the walls, splatters of yellow bile and pus everywhere. But no bodies, no smoke. And no huge shape just outside, looming and ready to destroy. Cold wind blew snow into the room, but he couldn’t hear anything moving around.

Curtis reached out and curled his singed fingers around the grip of the axe. He turned to Carpenter and found the man crumpled on the floor as well, his glasses askew. Carpenter clutched his chest with a bloody hand and grimaced painfully. Curtis got his feet under him and hurried to the old man’s side.

“Heart attack,” Carpenter said, his voice a rasp. “Did too much. So very sorry, Mr. Postman. You’ve done the world a great service.”

Curtis had his cell phone out and had dialed nine and one before he realized what the emergency responders would find when they got here. How would he avoid jail. Or worse?

As if sensing the dilemma, Carpenter reached out to stay Curtis’ hand. “Phone number. Fridge. Dragon magnet. Call them. They will help you.”

And he died.

Curtis sat there with the dead man for long moments, still not comprehending any of what he had witnessed, anything he had done. The shock and the adrenaline were wearing off. Soon they would be gone and he would be numb.

Curtis shook himself. Someone had to pick up Shawna from drama club. He rose and went into the kitchen, looking for a dragon shaped magnet.