Stumpy (3) “Rod?” Jake repeated. Any traces of anger in his voice had disappeared, but what had replaced it was worse-- Fear. “What are you looking at, buddy? Tell me. I have to keep an eye on—“ Rod cut him off, his words soft and mellow as if he were speaking in a dream. “No, Jake…” he replied. “You have to look for yourself on this one, bud. I can’t describe it.” Taking his eyes off Peters, Jake shot a glance upward, and caught his breath. Rod had been right. How could what was happening above be described without a person thinking you had gone stark raving mad? But what was happening was there all the same, and it was beginning to happen all around them. By now the top of the vault was a mouthful of white bars, each “tooth” filed down to a dagger point of gleaming ivory. Stagnant water was dripping down; running in green rills around each tooth, a macabre waterfall of stinking filth pooling down around the feet of both Jake and Rod. “Meet “Stumpy,” gentlemen,” Peterson called from outside the vault. “And as I said, the ladies and I have work to attend, so you all play nice and one of us will be back later to check in on you, okay? Good day, gentlemen.” Jake didn’t respond --couldn’t respond-- even when he heard the final moan of the vault doors being closed by Peterson. Silence followed: the ticking of the grandfather clock in its corner of musty cobwebs, the shriek of the gale force winds outside tearing through the deserted streets of Deeroak Vale, but more importantly, that priggish whiney voice of Peterson finally sealed off with all the others. Nothing in Jake’s ears, nothing but the gentle flow of water from above. Water that was brackish at best, an old fish smell of both salt and decay. Another sound erupted, that low rumbling sound Jake had heard just a moment ago. An ancient, soulless sound, brought up from the murky depths by some nameless entity; its voice vibrating the steel walls of the vault like brittle winter leaves in a gust of wind. A sudden movement to Jake’s right caught the corner of his eye. At first sight, Jake thought a large snake had dropped out of nowhere, a rubber snake a person could buy at almost any novelty shop. But it was too large and thick, twisting and convulsing over and around itself. It was then that Jake realized exactly what it was--if it were even possible. It was a tentacle, its size and proportions straight from a demon’s nightmare: mottled greenish-black rubbery skin, thick as the base of an oak tree, and covered with pink sucker-cups that were opening and closing in a soft, squelching noise. To Jake it sounded like a man walking through thick bog mud, pulling his feet out one after another in an effort to escape its greedy clutches. Hello, Stumpy, Jake thought, staring at the thrashing monstrosity. Nice to meet you. A part of him refused, absolutely refused, to believe what his eyes were telling him in no uncertain terms. It wasn’t happening, none of it. He was at home, and maybe Rod had come over because his power had gone out due to the storm, and they’d watch the Cowboy’s game together and have a few beers. Maybe afterwards they’d cook some wieners in the fireplace and tell dirty jokes they’d both told a hundred times before. It was reasonable and made sense to think that none of this was happening in the here and now. Right? A creature by the name of “Stumpy” being housed as a security measure at some broken-down bank? Get the hell out of here, junior! But another part of Jake, a cold and calculating part that had dreamed up the idea of robbing Oldfield National Trust in the first place, had a different story. And that story had just dropped down from the ceiling and was even now inching its way toward his leg. Reacting by instinct, his senses on Red Alert, Jake turned --taking careful aim-- and fired the Magnum nearly point-blank into the creeping, twisting “arm” of Stumpy. The bullet hit home with a soft splush! striking the center of one pink sucker pad. The tentacle trembled for a second, its fibrous tip cringing away as if in pain, but immediately recovered, resuming its treacherous journey toward Jake. A scream of terror and pain erupted from behind him. Spinning around, the Magnum held out in front of him, Jake wasn’t prepared for the ghastly scene being played out. It was a nightmare come to life; shadows cast from the vault’s single bulb splaying out across the steel walls in silhouettes of death and madness. Rod, his normally slack face, inflating itself --the coil of Stumpy’s arm wrapped around his mid-section, squeezing in untold pounds of pressure-- until his head had the appearance of party balloon ready to pop! His tongue was protruding from his mouth, swollen and erect like a bull’s penis; both eyes bulging from their sockets--nothing but a couple of rotten grapes on the verge of bursting forth in a rain of fetid grape juice. Jake had a clear vision of this second arm. It was connected up and inside the ceiling, attached to Stumpy who had been vomiting filthy water all over them and shaking the vault walls. And if Stumpy had two arms, Jake thought crazily, he’s bound to have more! And as if answer to his thought, Jake watched another arm snake down, this one sliding over the outside of the security cage. Gripping it with multiple suckers, Stumpy tore the cage from its housing and sent it flying over Jake’s head where it crashed against the back wall. This action was effortless, as the third arm slapped back down to the floor --SPLAT!-- and starting heading directly toward Jake. Jake turned, watching as Rod was suddenly turned upside-down like a child’s pinwheel. His buddy had lost his right eye, a translucent green foamy substance dribbling from its corner, as if Rod were still alive and crying sea-green tears at the fate that awaited him. Jake fired at the arm holding Rod. The sound of the .357 was deafening against the vault walls, and was met in response by another grumble of disapproval from Stumpy which nearly knocked Jake off his feet. Staggering backward, not daring to take his eyes off the three arms, Jake stopped, leaning against the cabinets which currently should have been housing his and Rod’s “Golden Future,” but had ultimately only led to their certain doom. Feeding time, Jake thought, his eyes wandering over to Rod who was being hoisted up to the ceiling. He was going in feet first, and Jake knew that in a moment his friend would just simply disappear inside that gaping black maw full of teeth. And then what? Would that satisfy Stumpy’s appetite? Jake didn’t think so, and hoped the bastard joked on Rod like a chicken bone caught in your throat. With Rod now dangling above, Jake took a step forward and assumed a shooter’s stance. The other two arms were almost upon him, creeping and slithering in like thick bands of poisonous ivy, their hungry sucker-cups smacking the air in vile harmony. “PETERS!” Jake screamed. “YOU BASTARD! YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! YOU HAVEN’T HEARD THE LAST OF ME! YOU HEARING ME? OH NO, YOU HAVEN’T HEARD THE LAST OF ME YOU COCK-SUCKER!” About then Jake felt the weight of something wrapping around his left leg. He looked down, not at all surprised by what he saw, and fired three more shots into the gripping tentacle of Stumpy. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Stumpy never slowed; its prey located and ensnared like a fly in a sticky web, Stumpy begin to pull. Screaming with what little voice he had left, Jake fired the Magnum’s final round, never noticing Stumpy’s other arm before it was too late. The tentacle whipped up at his side, darting inside Jake’s open mouth, its multiple sucker-cups finding purchase on the insides of his cheek and tongue, burrowing its way down to the soft warm innards of his stomach. For Jake, darkness embraced him, and he welcomed it, with absolutely no chance to scream. * It was straight up noon, and Peterson was busy finishing up a loan application he’d been putting off for the last week and a half. The storm outside was tempering down to a mild squall, but he still didn’t expect more than a handful of customers for the rest of the day. People in Deeroak Vale were funny like that. Not like city folk, who thought they had to be anywhere and everywhere on any given second of the day. Nope. People in Deeroak knew when it was time to stay home, and when it was time to be about town conducting business, and today was definitely one of those days to be staying home with the loved ones cuddled around the fire sipping hot chocolate. Peterson took a drink of his coffee, then grimaced. Shirley, he thought sourly. Young, not much to look at, and couldn’t brew coffee worth a shit. But the bank needed her and she did her job well, and Peterson had hired her himself, but still, there wasn’t anything wrong in having a little fun at her own expense, was there? Setting the coffee cup down, Peterson called out from behind his desk, “Shirley, come here a moment!” A minute later, and Shirley Turner was standing in front of him. Peterson thought of her as a mousey woman, unsure of herself and others, who knew her job as a teller well enough, but didn’t have the backbone to break a fart in church. “Yes, sir?” she asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her narrow nose. Peterson smiled, casually lacing his fingers together. “Shirley, I’m going to need you to go inside the vault. Right away, please.” When Shirley gave him a questioning look, Peterson continued, “It’ll need to be cleaned up a little. You know…after this morning’s events? Just a little light mopping, wipe the cabinets down, pick up anything that doesn’t belong in there, stuff like that. Can you do that for me?” Shirley cleared her throat. She’d never set foot in the vault, let alone be asked by Mr. Peterson to go inside and clean it. She knew all she wanted to know about “Stumpy” and the purpose that disgusting creature served, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. She also knew, at that moment, she should have called in sick this morning. “Yes, sir,” she answered, “but what about Mr. Dailey, the janitor? Doesn’t he usually come in and take care of duties like that?” Peterson nodded, still grinning ear-to-ear. He picked up his coffee, realized what he had done, and set it back down. If she can’t make a decent cup of coffee, he thought, then let’s see if she can clean up after Stumpy. “You are correct, Shirley,” he replied. “But I doubt Mr. Dailey is going to be coming in anytime soon today given the weather --you know how old he is, dear-- and I need the vault cleaned immediately, if not sooner.” Shirley nodded, but Peterson could tell her heart wasn’t fully into it. “What about Dora?” she asked nervously, looking over at her counter-part. “Dora’s done it before. I’ll take over at the cage for her. I mean, I don’t know—“ Peterson suddenly stood up, his hands splayed out on the top of his desk. “Do you enjoy your job here at Oldfield National Trust, Ms. Turner?” he snapped. “Because if you don’t, I’m sure there’s plenty of other single mothers out there who would be more than happy to take your position. Am I making myself clear, Ms. Turner? Do you need clarification?” Shirley shook her head slowly, biting on her lower lip. “Good,” Peterson said, “then see to it immediately. You’ll find a mop and bucket in the corner of the vault itself, along with some rags in the far right cabinet.” Peterson took his seat, watching Shirley as she turned around as if a ghost might be behind her, then start toward the doors of the vault. In the mean time, he needed to get back to the loan application he’d been working on for the better part of an hour. It was a loan for the Fieldings’, a family of five with an out of work father who was on disability and two months behind on their rent, and a mother who’d gotten pregnant right out of high school and (according to Jim Fielding) refused to work due to anxiety attacks. Damned high risk loans! Peterson fumed, rolling a ball-point pen between his index finger and thumb. If I had a nickel for every penny-ante down-and-out family asking me for—“ The sudden high-pitched squeal of Shirley calling his name brought Peterson out of his reverie: “Mr. Peterson! Mr. Peterson!” came Shirley’s squeals from around the corner. “Oh my God! Mr. Peterson, come here! Quick!” Peterson sighed, struggling not to smash his pen down on the wooden surface of his desk. He’d just polished it and it would mar the finish. He had the makings of the perfect headache brewing like a storm in the back of his neck, and simply did not have the time for this henhouse bull-shit. “I swear to Christ, Shirley,” he muttered to himself standing up. “If it’s anything less than an IRS agent here for a surprise audit, your bony little ass is grass.” Rounding the edge of his desk, Peterson literally marched toward the vault at the half step. The vault was just around the corner, as was his squealing teller. “Ms. Turner,” he said aloud, “would you care to remind me why I hired you?” Peterson turned the corner. “Why is it that you can’t seem to complete a sim…” Peterson’s voice died off, his black eyes first on Shirley, who was dancing from foot-to-foot, and then to the vault. Water the color of a backed-up septic tank was seeping beneath its doors; a rumbling behind them, like kettle drums pounding in the darkest parts of Africa. The doors themselves were breathing. Peterson rubbed his eyes --pools of putrid water already forming around his neat little feet-- certain his eyes were betraying him. In, out, in, out; the respiration of a sleeping giant that had awoken from a bad dream. “What is it, Mr. Peterson?” Shirley cried. And although Peterson could have answered his teller’s question, he didn’t, because the answer was just too terrible. And to be honest, he didn’t want to ruin the last minutes of Shirley’s young, but uneventful life. Hello, Stumpy, he thought, as the vault doors finally gave way in a wave of slimy greenish-brown water. The doors sailed past both him and Shirley, who had been knocked to her back, spitting and gagging out gobs of sticky filth. But Peterson stood his ground, his hands folded comfortably in front of him, like a man gazing over the still waters of some placid lake where the fishing was plentiful, and smiled, if not a bit sadly. Peterson watched, that same serene smile resting on his thin lips, as Stumpy emerged from the bank’s vault with tentacles flying, its endless black maw open in a tooth filled yawn into eternity. I should have called Mr. Daily in to clean this mess up, Peterson thought. I really should have. * Oldfield National Trust was closed for repairs after that, and then subsequently demolished after all repair attempts had proven unfruitful, if not to mention, unprofitable. Stumpy was never found. Stumpy was on the loose. THE END
Copyright © 2009 Matthew Lett |