Deep and Dark December Page 3

  Her amused self-admonishment was cut short when a sudden, sharp whip-crack sounded from the surrounding woodlands.

  Her head spun towards the noise, and she had a split second to catch a dark shadow slip between the line of trees. Deputy Anderson waited for a moment to see if the thing revealed itself.

  Just shadows and darkness filled her vision.

  She hit a switch and the spotlight attached to her door burst to life, as a bright beam of white light cut through the dark.

  A small lever had been fitted onto the door panel, a manual way of positioning the spotlight from the inside, and the Deputy used it to place the beam of light in the direction of the noise.

  Nothing there.

  A moment of silence passed, and then-

  The rear windshield exploded behind her.

  A terrible bleating followed as something with real mass scraped heavily along the side of the crown vic.

  The Deputy let out a short scream, shoulders hunching instinctively against this unexpected event. Her hand slipped from the lever, and the beam of light shot upwards, out of her control, to pin a circle of white onto the fat underbelly of the clouds above.

  More of that terrible bleating came – this time, from all sides. Something darker than the gloom found outside filled her peripheral vision. Liquid shadows flooded in all about her.

  The vehicle was rocked by another hit. One of the brake lights shattered on impact and the bulb inside flickered and died.

  Something massive passed in front of the Cruiser, its bulk filling in the entire length of the windscreen.

  A towering elk stood before her – its huge antlers cast out like a majestic crown, two twisting branches of bone, spanning beyond the width of the Cruiser. Eyes dark and menacing pinned Deputy Anderson to her seat.

  Regaining her composure, Anderson pressed lightly on the gas. The engine revved in response. The bull elk took a step back.

  Anderson pressed harder, and the V8 engine offered a roar of approval. The elk took another pace away from the Cruiser.

  Against the deputy’s expectations, the elk lowered its head and charged towards her.

  The collision was bone-jarring. The vehicle tipped upwards, momentarily, before slamming heavily into the blacktop.

  Anderson felt her teeth click painfully together. She looked out, over the hood, to see the elk was locked in combat with the front grill. The Cruiser bucked and swayed as bone ripped into metal. There was a ghastly sound of tearing as antlers tore through steel with ease.

  The deputy gripped onto the steering wheel, fighting to gain control. She managed to steady it, and pushed the Cruiser into gear. The vehicle juddered forwards by only a few feet – the elk holding it there, its rear limbs digging into the ground, and its antlers punched deeper into the mangled grill.

  Another explosion of glass came, this time at her side, as the passenger window was replaced by the head of a second elk. Large eyes bore down on the deputy, as the female kicked and stomped to gain entry.

  Instinctively, Anderson popped her door, her immediate reaction to escape from the danger, and she found herself suddenly tumbling to the ground.

  She was up in a heartbeat.

  The female elk had one hooved foot inside the crown vic and was using it to pull itself deeper. The hoof tore at the passenger seat. White foam burst out like fat from a flesh wound as the hoof cut through material.

  Anderson reached in – her wish to grab her utility belt, but the elk snapped at her fingers with bared teeth. She jumped back, away from the danger.

  Something else filled the doorway instantly as another elk head-butted its way inside.

  Panicking, Deputy Anderson back-peddled away from the stricken vehicle. She chanced a look around her to find the area clear.

  With no other option she hit the road, running as fast as she could, not daring to look back, in fear that she would see those terrible antlers rushing towards her.

  Chapter Six

  The rich aroma of fried food was almost overwhelming, and the sizzle of fat filled the air in a high-pitch chatter of bubble and squeak excitement. A burly cook had his back to the patrons – only two, who were sat individually, one nursing the hot contents of a cup, the other reading the short menu with single-minded determination.

  Jake Rivers had The Frying Pan’s menu in hand. He was trying to find something on it that would not guarantee a future heart attack yet was struggling. The entire menu read like a short horror story for anyone even remotely interested in staying healthy.

  Fried burgers.

  Fried sausages.

  Fried bacon.

  Even Fried fries were on offer. Eggs, tomatoes, pancakes – all fried, too.

  Rivers silently laughed to himself. Outside, a large pan had been nailed above the entrance, with the words – The Frying Pan stencilled in circular fashion around the pan’s inner border. Now, he realised it was not some fancy notation or arty flamboyance, no sir, it was a simple statement of intent.

  You dine here – it’s coming out of that frying pan, or one identical.

  It had been Rivers’ intention to simply fill the tank with gas, and move on to the next town, Hope Springs. There, it was his wish that help could be found for his wounded friend, Meadows, who was currently hidden underneath a blanket in the rear of the Maverick.

  Said plan had been compromised on immediate arrival, as the cook had also claimed to be, the gas attendant, cleaning maid, overnight watchman, handyman, receptionist, the whole kit and caboodle!

  Just as Rivers was about to restart the menu from the top, a teenager approached with pad and pen in hand.

  “Sir,” she addressed.

  Rivers nodded in greeting, eyes, and more importantly, his face, at an angle to the girl.

  “Ready to order?” she asked.

  Understanding he needed more time to think, Rivers simply asked, “You do coffee?”

  No response was offered. A few awkward moments of silence ticked by.

  “Coffee?” Rivers asked again.

  Nope. Nothing.

  Rivers tipped his eyes towards the teenager. She was looking at her pad, pen at the ready.

  He turned his head towards her, and she looked up from the pad and offered him a curt smile.

  “You do coffee?” Rivers repeated.

  The teenager nodded, “Coffee – yes. Black or white?” Her pronunciation of some of the words were somewhat strained, as if she were chewing the words, rather than simply speaking them.

  With his attention back on the menu, Rivers replied, “Black – please.”

  The pen remained stationary – Rivers’ periphery telling him so.

  He turned to the waitress and repeated his request. The teenager scribbled on her pad, gave him another curt smile, a suggestion of a curtsy even, before backing away to process his request.

  Rivers heard a bout of laughter, a genuine sound of amusement.

  “She’s fucking with you,” the cook said, drawing Rivers’ attention.

  Jake Rivers looked across the diner to see the cook openly wanting to engage in conversation.

  “Sorry?” asked Rivers.

  “Maggie, she’s messing with you,” he said.

  Rivers frowned, not fully understanding.

  “She’s deaf – not stupid,” the cook stated. “She reads lips. You need to be facing her.”

  Rivers felt a flush of embarrassment. “Oh – right,” he replied, glancing toward the teenager. She had her back to him. “I’m sorry,” he called out, then instantly chided himself for being so stupid. Of course, she could not hear him.

  The cook laughed again, seemingly enjoying Rivers’ discomfort.

  Rivers rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly.

  “Long day,” he said.

  The cook nodded. “Ain’t they all.”

  Maggie returned with a large mug, steam bellowing from its crest. She dropped the mug unceremoniously onto the table, where the dark liquid sloshed out, leaving a small po
ol on the laminated surface.

  “Thanks,” Rivers said, face forward, lips clear.

  “Welcome,” was Maggie’s response, the word all drawn-out and twisted.

  The cook laughed again, heartedly. “Yep – you’ve made yourself a real friend there, son.”

  Raising his mug slightly, Rivers tipped the cook a brief toast of acknowledgement.

  Maggie moved away from the table. She stopped at the entrance, and flipped a sign over. The Frying Pan was officially CLOSED to any new business.

  Rivers looked outside. Nothing new. No sudden rush of traffic, last minute customers all eagerly piling into the diner, in need of their cholesterol fix. Seemed the bus carrying the soon-to-be type-2 diabetes club had missed its turn.

  As if expecting exactly that, Maggie lingered at the door, looking out into the night. Once satisfied that no stragglers were about to arrive, she pulled a screen down to block out the darkness, and returned to the counter.

  The cook took centre stage as he carried two plates – both balanced perfectly on one outstretched hand each, as the first was delivered to the customer sat opposite. Then, much to Rivers’ surprise, the cook arrived at his table to drop the remaining plate before him.

  “Thought that’d keep you busy ‘til you decide on what it is you do want,” the cook said.

  Rivers looked down to see scrambled eggs on two slices of dry, unbuttered toast. Something that had not been on the menu. And not the calorific nightmare that was pictured on there.

  “Thanks,” Rivers said, nodding favourably.

  “No worries, son,” the cook said. “Give me a few moments and I’ll get those pumps switched on – yes siree.”

  Rivers laughed despite himself.

  The cook tipped him a wink, and returned to the counter, removing his apron as he did so.

  For a moment, Rivers believed the cook was about to replace his apron with an attendant’s cap, or something similar – greasy rag, oily overalls, allowing the guy to actively switch between personas. However, that did not happen, and instead the cook simply walked over to a panel in the wall and flipped a switch.

  A distinctive double ring chimed from outside as both gas pumps came to life.

  Rivers looked back at the guy incredulously. Would it not have been that simple for him to do so on his immediate arrival?

  The guy just laughed at his customer’s open astonishment.

  Rivers stood, to hell with eggs and coffee and deaf girls, when the door suddenly opened and a cop appeared, out of breath and seemingly in a state of real alarm.

  Chapter Seven

  Deputy Anderson’s lungs burnt with effort. The second she entered the heat of the diner, she felt sweat pop out on her forehead. She closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against it.

  “Don’t go out there,” she said, once her breath had returned.

  “Miss – you okay?” the burly guy behind the counter asked.

  “Yeah – I’m fine,” she said.

  Anderson spun half circle before pulling the blank screen away from the door. Took a long moment to study the darkness beyond. She dropped the screen back into place, and took a faltering step backwards and almost tripped over her own feet.

  A pair of strong hands caught her. She found her feet and stepped back.

  A handsome black man stood before her, his face a mixture of concern and apprehension.

  “Thanks,” Anderson said, taking a breath and gathering her wits.

  “No problem,” the guy responded. He backed away to take a seat at one of the tables.

  Deputy Anderson found herself facing a small, silent audience. She cleared her throat.

  “There’s something out there,” she said.

  “Out where?” the guy behind the counter asked.

  Deputy Anderson flicked her thumb over her shoulder. “Out there,” she directed.

  A few heads turned towards the windows of the diner.

  Nothing but darkness to be found there.

  “You okay – miss?” the guy asked.

  “Fine,” Anderson responded. “And it’s Deputy Anderson.”

  The large guy’s hands rose in submission.

  “You got a phone line?” she asked.

  The hands turned slightly, as index fingers pointed upwards. “And electricity.”

  The black guy snorted in a reaction of passing amusement.

  “Something funny?” asked Anderson.

  “No – Mam,” he replied, turning his attention quickly to the plate before him.

  Anderson drew up next to the counter. “May I use your phone, sir?”

  “It’s in the back,” the big guy said.

  Deputy Anderson nodded in short appreciation, made her way around the counter, before disappearing into the rear of the diner.

  The cook looked from the teenager, Maggie, and then to his two customers.

  “What the hell was that about?” he asked.

  Maggie offered a shrug of her shoulders. The guy sitting opposite Rivers sat mute, leaving him to respond.

  “Seemed genuinely spooked,” Rivers replied.

  She had too. The first thing he a had felt when she’d appeared was terror. The cops had already found him. He had realised she was clearly running from something, not to it. A crazy thought filled his head, was she late for an appointment?

  Months earlier he had been the onlooker to a work colleague’s leaving party. The retiree had put forty years of service into the company and was now ready to leave the glorious business of stationary supply behind him for good.

  His friends, Rivers not included as he’d only been there for a few weeks, had surprised the guy with a leaving present that he would never forget.

  Tandy.

  Tandy, a tall, leggy blonde, dressed in cop’s uniform, with handcuffs at her hips, and shiny badge pinned to her ample chest, had arrived with an arrest warrant to serve.

  What had followed had been a display of such cringeworthily acts, that Rivers would have died of embarrassment, had the focus of interest been aimed at him.

  This fragment of memory had been dispelled the second the deputy had spoken. Her warning to stay inside had carried real weight behind it.

  Don’t go out there . . .

  Rivers had witnessed more than his fair share of fear and terror, and he had recognised these traits within her the second she had looked upon him.

  The eyes don’t lie.

  Not to Rivers they didn’t.

  Her green eyes had contained real fear within them, and her face, likely somewhat attractive under normal circumstances, had looked drawn and harsh with this most recent of stresses.

  What the hell was out there for her to be so spooked?

  Before Rivers could ponder on such facts, the pretty deputy returned to the main area of the diner.

  “The phone’s out,” she said.

  This information brought a quizzical look to the cook’s face.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Positive,” she replied. “Line’s dead.”

  Deputy Anderson looked from one face to the next. All looked somewhat perplexed by her sudden arrival and puzzling actions.

  Feeling that she owed them some sort of clarity, she said, “Something attacked my squad car. Just off the highway. Made a mess. Peculiar as hell.”

  “What?” asked the burly guy.

  Anderson paused for a moment. What could she offer them that made any sense? Wild animals gone feral?

  “Not sure. Deer maybe?”

  “Deer?” echoed the guy behind the counter.

  “Yeah,” Anderson responded, knowing this sounded crazy at best.

  “We don’t get deer up this far north,” the guy said.

  “Wasn’t my imagination,” Anderson countered.

  “Elk.”

  Someone else had spoken.

  Deputy Anderson turned towards the speaker – the handsome black man sat alone at the window.

  “Sorry – what?” she asked.
>
  “Not deer exactly. Elk. Roosevelt Elk to be precise.”

  Anderson navigated her way around the counter, bringing herself to the speaker’s table. The black guy had a plate of uneaten food before him, and a half-emptied mug of coffee. He was dressed in dark clothing, jacket buttoned up tight to his chin, and dark green in colour.

  His clothing reminded the deputy of simple combat fatigues. He was in his early –to mid-thirties, handsome, and of lean physique. Afro hair had been left to grow out, almost retro in style, but not so long as to look as if he was unwilling to say goodbye to the disco era of the 70s.

  “You were saying?” she prompted.

  “Roosevelt Elk. Big. The migrating type. Maybe you got in their way. Pissed them off?”

  Anderson nodded slightly. Maybe she had?

  “These elk – are they known for attacking humans?”

  The guy seated pursed his lips out, his response running the gauntlet of consideration.

  “Not to my knowledge – no.”

  Anderson nodded. No, she did not think it had been normal behaviour displayed. Something had agitated the elk into attacking her squad car. Fact.

  Deputy Anderson turned to the guy behind the counter.

  “You got a rifle?”

  Then she returned her attention back to the handsome black man.

  “You willing to help a lady in distress?”

  Chapter Eight

  Chivalry gone mad, Jake Rivers realised as he heard himself reply, “Yeah – I guess so.”

  What the hell was he thinking?

  No, absolutely not, should have been his response. Yet, the good and willing part of him had overruled his current predicament without even the slightest of thoughts.

  Not a coward, Rivers could not leave this woman in distress. However, he could not hide the fact that a modest amount of self-preservation was motivating him too.

  What did she know about the robbery gone wrong, way up north? Had news travelled this far?

  And, if she were right about this elk attack, then Rivers did not want that complication adding to his already desperate situation. A smashed-up escape vehicle was the last thing he needed.