Breathe Deep Fear Vol. 1 Read online

  “The cows were nervous Mike.” He glanced back at the kitchen window. “What do you think’s out there?”

  “Don’t know. Wolves maybe, but I’ve never seen livestock act like this before, even with a predator out and about. It doesn’t help that Gretchen is at her wit’s end. She keeps telling me there are a bunch of shadows circling the house and watching her go from room to room. I personally think she just put too much Irish in her coffee, if you catch my drift.”

  Cale chuckled lightly, but it died as soon as another chill ran up his back. It was like he was a kid again thinking the boogieman was out to get him.

  “It could be the fog messing with us, but I don’t have a good feeling either.”

  “Well if you want, we can go scout around tomorrow morning. Maybe find some tracks.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A sigh could be heard on the other end.

  “Eh, we’re probably getting all worked up … for … nothin- what the hell?”

  Cale heard Mike set the phone down and walk away. His heart rate steadily increased as the seconds ticked by. The gun cabinet appeared in the corner of his vision. It might be warranted to open it up. Better to feel foolish than be unprepared. Besides, a little paranoia was excusable at this point. Mike was old school, the type who side stepped a charging bull without even interrupting a joke. If he was nervous ….

  “Cale.” Mike had started speaking before the phone was all the way back up. “Get your things and get to town.”

  The older man’s voice was raspy and breathless – terrified.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Gretchen ain’t losing it. They ain’t natural.”

  Cale fought back against the slight tremble in his voice.

  “Mike, you’re rambling. Who isn’t natural?”

  “People, but they’re not people. They’re watching us and close enough now I can see them clearly even through the fog. We need to get to town.”

  Cale gave a sharp whistle at Sam whose head snapped up in attention.

  “Get Dean.”

  The dog gave a soft woof and disappeared into the other room. Sucking in a calming breath, he turned his face back to the receiver.

  “Mike, I’m coming up to your place. We’ll all go to town together.”

  “I don’t want you getting caught by those things.”

  “I’ll be better off than you, old man.”

  Cale quickly hung up the phone, his soup forgotten and adrenaline bleeding into his system. He reached for the hidden key on top of the cabinet and unlocked the case. Grabbing his 16 gauge shotgun and a case of shells, a sense of fleeting security seized him. The smooth wooden grip, worn from three generations of use, helped calm him as his hand tightened around it. It may not down everything, but it definitely worked as an effective deterrent. Stuffing as many shells as he could into his jean pockets, he strapped his nine inch Bowie hunting knife to his back.

  Sam came back in, carrying a drowsy kitten by the scruff on its neck. The grey tiger gave a cute yawn as the dog gently set him on the ground and Cale retrieved his jacket, stuffing more shells into its pockets. This was overkill, definitely overkill, there wasn’t anything out there Mike and he couldn’t handle. They’d downed bears and dealt with angry bikers. This would be no different.

  Grabbing a carrying crate out of the closet, he scooped up Dean, pushed him in, and gave a whistle for Sam to follow. In a juggling act of boots, cat case, and gun, he managed to get out the door without tripping. Hurrying to his pickup, Sam went straight for the back door and waited anxiously for Cale to catch up. The dog barely gave the door a chance to open before jumping up in. Dean was set in next to him and tied into the seat. Cale shut the door and then piled into the driver’s side, resting his gun in the passenger’s seat.

  The lights flickered on as the truck sputtered to life, the fog barely giving way for the twin beams. He cursed. It would take at least ten minutes to make it to Mike’s in this. There was little doubt the man could handle himself, but then again, he’d never sounded shook up.

  Chapter

  3

  Cale blinked a few times, trying to alleviate the strain on his eyes. The fog had gotten even thicker, if that were possible. His maximum speed had topped off at just over five. The one time he’d tried to go any faster, they had almost been launched off of the road. Sam’s angry yips had encouraged him to keep it slow. Begrudgingly, it would be better for them to get to the Clarks later and in one piece, rather than getting stuck in a ditch with whatever was outside.

  He clicked the radio on to take his mind off of the isolated feeling the fog produced. Tuning into the local channel, the hope for information or an emergency broadcast was cut short. The channel was only static. He messed with the buttons a little more, silently begging for the same obnoxious fifties music that played on loop.

  He got more static.

  His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the wheel, mouth rapidly drying. Static, there was only static. The town’s radio station was nothing more than static. It was never static, not during holidays or bad storms. The station always played the same outdated songs every night for as long as he could remember. The only thing that ever changed was the host, Bob’s, two A.M. drunken tirade on whatever had gotten him hopping that day.

  He started to sweat despite the cold. What the hell was going on?

  A faint glimmer of light cut through the fog. It was the Clarks’ front porch light. He sighed in relief. Now, they just had to get to the town. The town was fine. The static was just due to technical problems. He just had to calm down and everything would be okay. There was nothing wrong, nothing they couldn’t deal with. His eyes glanced down at his shotgun. Whatever Mike saw wouldn’t be able to stand up to that. Everything was going to be okay.

  Why did it feel like he was in denial?

  Pulling up the Clarks’ gravel driveway, he parked up close and left the engine running. If they had to get out quick, worrying about starting the car would only be a problem. Of course, if it turned out to be a couple of violent jackasses in masks, they would possibly try to take the car. Sam would handle them then.

  Scanning the house, unease pressed down on his lungs. Why was the house dark? Had they already left? Should he give a light honk? No, it would only attract whatever it was that Mike saw. Maybe, they had turned off the lights to hide? Combating the urge to remain in the truck, he grabbed the gun and a flashlight from the glove compartment then stepped out into the damp frigid air, the fog swirling around him.

  “You guys stay here.”

  Sam whimpered quietly while Dean’s eyes flickered from within the case. Turning the flashlight on and off to check the batteries, he shut the door quietly. Silently, Cale rushed up the porch steps and tried the door. The knob jostled back and forth uselessly as the lock held firm. He knocked softly on the door. Not a sound came from inside, leaving only the constant rumbling of the truck and his breath. Anxiety fueling impatience, he tried again – nothing.

  Biting back a curse, he crept around the corner to his right, his boots making soft clunks on the wooden deck with each step. His blood froze. The window just in front of him was broken and bloody. Something had flung itself inside. He inched over to the window, his finger resting on the trigger.

  Sticking his head in the window, a rotten scent assaulted his nose, urging bile up the back of his throat. He held it down and looked around the desolate living room. Fighting every natural instinct to run back to the truck, his gun knocked away the remaining glass fragments letting him climb in.

  He desperately wanted to leave, but if the Clarks were still alive, he couldn’t live with himself if they were abandoned.

  Boots crunching the shard covered carpet and the air tainted with something rancid, a trembling finger pressed down on the flashlight button. God, that was a mistake.

  The home had been trashed. Tables, furniture, and decorations were torn, smashed, or peppered with bullet holes. The house was deathly
quiet, and so still. It was like the last stand in a Western and then the ghost town fifty years later, or as if a tornado had ripped through and then frozen time. And every few feet, a bright splash of red marred some random surface. He struggled to stop his flashlight from shaking. Calling out would only alert whatever had done this, but going in deeper without knowing someone was alive was something he didn’t know he could do.

  Until his eyes caught something in the kitchen.

  Lying out on the floor was a hand, the island counter masking the body it was attached to. The hand was pale and well calloused. It was a hand similar to his, a farmer’s hand … Mike’s hand. He took a hesitant step into the kitchen as a bear-like roar shook the walls from outside. The flashlight clattered to the floor as he jumped and nearly misfired. It was less than five hundred feet away and sounded angry.

  He needed to go, now. If Mike was dead, then the penguin waddling Gretchen sure as hell didn’t get away.

  Heart pounding against his ribs, he bent down to grab the flashlight. The pale beam spotlighting where Mike’s hand had just been. Cale shot up to his feet. Mike was alive! With silent thanks, he rounded the counter, hoping Mike didn’t mistake him for whatever had done all of this.

  Only a bloody outline remained from where the body had been.

  His brow scrunched up in confusion, a muffled noise drew his attention to the room adjacent to the kitchen. Curiosity overrode apprehension, and he slowly stepped into the room. The noise became clearer … crunchier. Poking his head inside, the nausea returned full force.

  What little he could see of Mike and Gretchen lay sprawled out on the floor. The noise was emanating from the five people chewing over the top of them. He was grateful the group hid most of the scene. Unfortunately, his imagination filled in any blanks. The person farthest left turned to him, her blank eyes studying him curiously.

  He took an involuntary step back, and she snarled like a predator claiming ownership of its kill.

  He bolted out of the room, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Footsteps following him, his trembling fingers struggled with the front door’s lock as he tried to keep the gun and flashlight secure in the crooks of his elbows. Yanking the door open, a snort barely a foot away stopped him in his tracks.

  Three rotting corpses stared at him.

  He had eight shots, good enough odds. Shoving the flashlight into his coat pocket and taking aim, Cale squeezed the trigger at the first one that moved forward, red mist erupting from the things torso. Yet, it remained standing. The creatures snarled in unison and he ran outside.

  It seemed like it took him hours to make it the seventeen feet to his truck. Sam barked furiously as the bodies followed him out, the missing two from the group arriving from either side of the house in what seemed like a failed pincer movement. Not giving himself the chance to think about it, he pulled the truck door open, dived in, and slammed the pickup into reverse.

  Absently, Cale noted how some shuffled where others moved perfectly normal. It didn’t matter to him. They could be moving backward and they would still be coming too fast. Stomping down on the gas, he swerved out of the driveway, the tires screeching as he shifted into drive and took off down the road.

  It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see through the fog; he just wanted to get away from those things and get around other people. Crap like that belonged in movies, not real life. Part of him believed it was some horrible nightmare. He had fallen asleep in his uncle’s living room with the TV on, with Dean curled up on his belly.

  But he knew better. The smell of that house and the adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream were too vivid, too awful for his mind to produce on its own. The fear he tasted couldn’t be emulated.

  Rubbing the sweat on his brow onto his jacket, he lifted his foot off the accelerator and pulled his seatbelt on. Once he got to the town, things would be okay. There was safety in numbers. Breathe; if he just breathed then he could drive safely. He was okay. His pets were okay. It was just another fifteen minutes and then he would be in town, safe and surrounded by people.

  A giant brownish-gray blur hurtled out of the woods and smashed into the side of the truck in an array of shattering glass and groaning metal. The truck flipped side over side and through the guardrail, down the steep, fifty foot bank. Cale went to yell, but his head rammed into the crumpled door, and the truck tumbled down into the woods below.

  Chapter

  4

  The soft sound of droplets hitting cloth brought Cale back from unconsciousness.

  It may as well have been a hammer smashing into an anvil.

  A pained yelp escaped his lips as skull-cracking pain raced up and down the front of his head. Instinctively going to grab it, his fingers only aggravated the open wound and caused another cry to be released. Hands trembling and hovering in front of his head, he clenched them into fists and sucked in a harsh breath in an attempt to gain control over himself. Warm sticky liquid covered his eyes, blinding him.

  What happened?

  Gingerly resting his head back against the seat, broken glass crunched under his jeans.

  Where was he?

  They had been runnin- driving from some nightmare. Had he fallen asleep at the wheel and had a nightmare? Chores had taken longer than usual, but that didn’t mean-

  The events of the night poured back into his mind, his heart rate skyrocketing, and sending tremors racing through his form. Had to move; he had to move. Wrestling with the seat belt, his actions became more panicked as he struggled to get free. The black was closing in around him, smothering him as those things crept in closer.

  A sharp whine cut through his panic.

  “Sam?” He steadied his voice stopped moving. “You okay buddy?”

  His lips twitched upward as a slightly happier woof answered.

  “Dean, what about you?”

  The kitten gave an annoyed yowl.

  Forcing himself to move calmly, he carefully wiped the blood from his eyes on the leather sleeve of his coat and pressed the smooth metallic button, the seat belt snapping away. With a groan, he leaned forward and cracked an eye open. Piles of glass from two shattered side windows coated him and most of the front as fog seeped in through the web of cracks that made up the windshield.

  And he had just finished paying this thing off last week.

  Carefully shifting around, he looked into the back seat. Sam sat twisted up in the old thick comforter Cale always kept in back for the canine to lay on. The fact that the dog only looked disheveled instead of hurt was probably due to being tied up in that thing. Thank God he had forgotten to wash it yesterday.

  Sam’s tail gave a weak wag as Cale reached back and scratched behind his golden ears. They’d been lucky. Slowly untangling the blanket, the farmer let out a short laugh as he glanced inside the carrier. Dean was sprawled out so that all fours were dug firmly into the sides of the small case. It was like one of the old cartoons where the cat would latch onto the ceiling.

  The kitten did not share his amusement.

  Rolling back, he looked down at his reddened jacket as more of the crimson liquid dripped over his eyes. How many times was he going to have to run his clothes through the wash to get the stains out? Stupid, there were more important things to worry about right now. He wiped his eyes clean again. The injury would have to be bandaged if they were going to make it anywhere.

  Ignoring the crumpled driver’s side door, he crawled over the passenger seat and out the passenger door. His green eyes peered out into the dark fog laden woods. They were going to have to go out into that. Would those things follow them, could they smell the blood he was marinated in?

  Sam hopped out as he opened the door, nose already in the air and sniffing for any potential threats. Cale reached in, grabbed the still rigid kitten, and a roll of duct tape from under the seat. He wasn’t going to spend all night fumbling between his flashlight and gun. Grabbing the two items, he set the flashlight on top of the barrel and wrapped the tape ar
ound several times before giving a firm shake to make sure it was secure.

  Resting the gun on the roof of the battered truck, he tore off another piece and slapped it on to his forehead with a sharp hiss. Hopefully, it would slow the bleeding enough for him to get something a better. Gun back in hand, he confronted the uninviting forest.

  Judging by where he was run off the road, if he went straight in about a mile or so he would reach the barn. It would be a lot warmer and probably safer. He could settle in for the night and wait for morning. After the fog died, he could then make his way to town. Checking up on the cows was also a plus.

  “Get Dean.”

  The dog trotted to the crate and grabbed the padded handle in his jaws. Cale was glad the kitten was with them. It would keep Sam from chasing after something. The canine was well behaved; but in the end, he was still a dog and his instincts kicked in faster than Cale could get a hold of his collar. The crate would keep his mind on more protective behavior.

  He started in through the tree line, the dried leaves and brittle twigs snapping with each step. What he would give for those things to be deaf or something other than heavy work boots. There was no telling how much his hearing had been damaged by the accident, and his sight was poor at best. If those things could track- no, now wasn’t the time to think of something like that.

  He still had smell, and Sam’s far superior senses.

  Whether it would matter if they came across whatever had run them off the road was another question entirely.

  He’d only caught a glimpse of it, but it was enough to know the blur was the size of his truck. Granted, it was a small pickup, but being equal meant it was still too big. Worse, it blindsided him when he was going almost forty and had the strength to send the truck ten feet off the road.

  What was that thing?

  His eyes darted around as he tried to see through the miasmic gray mist and pounding headache. Everything was so still, aside from their steps and the swirling vapor that devoured the light’s thin beam. Were those things capable of moving silently? Were they watching … hunting?