Dead: Snapshot 01: Portland, Oregon Page 2

  Ken’s cop instincts kicked in, and he cataloged every detail. The man was Gerald Glendon, Gina’s husband. He was in his mid-thirties and worked as a car salesman on the Portland strip known as Auto Row (which is basically a three mile stretch on McLoughlin Boulevard in Southeast Portland). The man was an okay guy from what Ken recalled of their limited conversations usually around spring when they would both be out mowing their lawns on the weekends.

  Gerald had a blood-soaked bandage around his left forearm. Ken cocked his head as he looked first at Gerald, and then at the portly dog owner that was closing in behind Gina Glendon with awkward and jerky steps.

  “The eyes,” he breathed so softly that he barely heard his own revelation.

  Both of these men had eyes that were filmed in a pus-white. But it was the black traces that stood out against the white that was really noticeable as something very wrong. Having seen his own bloodshot visage on many occasions, Ken knew that he was seeing something identifiable and potentially important.

  He was still spellbound by the scene until Gerald fell on his wife who had tumbled awkwardly down the few steps that led to the porch and was now sprawled on the grass. It was like being splashed with cold water. If there was one thing that Ken had learned to despise from his days on the force, it was drunk drivers and woman beaters.

  Ken took a step forward and stopped dead in his tracks. He actually wiped at his eyes to be sure that he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. Gerald lunged forward with his head and latched on to his wife’s arm that had flown up in reflexive defense. His teeth snapped shut on the flesh of that forearm, and with a few yanks, meat was torn away.

  Ken felt his gorge rise as he watched Gerald make a few grinding chews before swallowing the raw meat and leaning forward for another bite. By that time, the dog owner had reached the couple and fell in to assist in the attack on the flailing woman.

  Later, Ken would feel a sense of shame and embarrassment as he stood rooted to one spot while the attack escalated and grew into something so surreal that he simply could not accept as actually happening. He would witness much worse in the days to come, but this first encounter would be the one that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

  “Help!” Gina shrieked, her head twisting back and forth with such violent ferocity that it should have caused her neck to snap. “For the love of God, please!”

  Gerald bit down on her face just as she finished that plea. His teeth clamped on her nose and Ken swore that he heard a crunch. When the man jerked back, blood shot from this new wound and sprayed the man who was busy chewing with no emotion whatsoever registering on his face as he brutalized the woman who would have been the mother of his child.

  And then the dog owner got his first piece of Gina Glendon. The portly man dug his face into the crook of where her neck met shoulder as if nuzzling her.

  The next scream from Gina was unlike anything that Ken had ever heard in all his years. It almost caused him physical pain in his gut to even hear. It was that scream that at last sent him rushing into action.

  He reached the tangle of bodies and once again was halted in his tracks. What he was seeing could absolutely not be happening. The two men had torn away the woman’s blouse, and her bulging stomach was being ripped open!

  Ken kicked the dog owner in the side of the head as hard as he could and then spun on Gerald. The man had pulled something jelly-like and purple from the gash in Gina’s abdomen. He was already shoving it into his mouth as it ripped away from whatever had once held it in place.

  Ken made himself look away from the wound. His eyes had caught sight of something else, and if he focused on that single tiny thing, he might very well lose not only his nerve, but also his mind. Rearing back, he kicked Gerald square in the face. The man’s head snapped back and the body went sprawling.

  Ken was about to lean in and see if there was anything at all he could do for Gina who had thankfully lost consciousness at some point; probably due to the pain. Only, before he could do anything, both the dog owner and Gerald were struggling back to their feet—or, more accurately, their knees. They were focused on that terrible wound, and their hands were opening and closing almost in greedy anticipation.

  “Screw this,” Ken muttered and ran back to his house where his gun case was still sitting open and waiting. He passed the Golden Retriever that was now crouched on his porch. He considered shooing it away, but decided the dog probably had been through enough already.

  He reached down and grabbed one of his Glock 17s, along with a loaded magazine that he slid into place. Giving the slide a tug, he ratcheted the first round into the chamber and walked back outside.

  His eyes did another scan of the street. He noticed a few curtains had been drawn shut since this ordeal had begun.

  “Bunch of damned cowards,” he spat.

  The two men were hunched over Gina’s body and the sounds coming from them were a mix of slurps, moans, and smacks. He brought up his weapon and advanced.

  “I am only going to give you this one warning. Stop what you are doing and step away from the woman,” Ken said in a level voice brought on by years on the force. He already had a pretty firm idea of how this would play out, but in case there might be any witnesses, he felt the need to at least give some sort of verbal warning.

  The two men made no indication that they even heard him. That was enough for Ken Simpson. He sighted on the center of the back of the dog owner and fired. He saw the bullet strike, and the body even rocked forward a bit. However, the man seemed absolutely unfazed by the newest wound. Despite it not really comparing to the injuries that the man had already sustained, there should have been something; at least that is what Ken was thinking in the part of his mind that still did not want to believe what was happening.

  Then, the two men both stopped what they were doing and stood up. Ken took a deep breath and took just a second to realize that nobody seemed to be responding to this situation from any of the houses up and down the street.

  He fired three shots that hit Gerald square in the chest. The only response was that the man staggered back just a little from the impact. He could see the three entry holes around the area of the heart. And whether his bullets struck the heart or not, the man should be down. With a roar of frustration, he fired once more. This time, his aim was the middle of Gerald’s forehead.

  The body dropped instantly and moved no more. Ken stepped back and winced as he fired one more experimental shot into the chest of the dog owner. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when the man kept coming for him, arms outstretched and mouth open wide to show blood-stained teeth. Ken adjusted his aim and put another round in the man’s face. The head snapped back and the body crumpled.

  He took a sigh of relief and then felt his body almost seize as Gina Glendon sat up. Her head craned his direction and Ken gasped. Her face had a nasty hole in the center where Gerald had torn off her nose and blood was everywhere. However, it was the obscene rip in her belly that he could not help but look at.

  The hole was wide and the skin had been peeled down. Her entrails were protruding from that horrific gash…along with the remnants of a sac with part of something fleshy that he knew he could not unsee if he focused on it for even a second. He looked up at Gina and was momentarily confused by how she appeared to blur and almost shimmer. Then he realized that his eyes were filling with tears.

  Taking one more deep breath, he brought his weapon up just as the woman rose awkwardly to her feet, her insides spilling out in a cascade of gore until just that single grotesque cord and remnants of a sac dangled. Ken Simpson fired, his bullet catching Gina Glendon just above the gaping hole where her slightly upturned nose had once been. The woman collapsed to the ground.

  Ken let out a heavy sigh and crumpled to his knees just a few feet away from the woman’s corpse. He heard a soft whine behind him and turned to see the Golden Retriever still on his porch. It had risen to its feet and taken one cautious step forwar
d.

  “Lot of help you were,” Ken muttered.

  The dog bared its teeth and stepped back up to the top landing. Ken raised an eyebrow. The hand holding his pistol started to rise, but then he realized that the dog was not looking at him. Rather, its eyes were focused on something just behind him and to the side. His head whipped around, fully expecting to see Gina sitting back up. What he saw was far worse.

  The sac had come to rest just a foot away from the body. The small, fleshy shape that writhed and wriggled in the sac’s tattered remains would hold a special place in his nightmares. Standing quickly, Ken moved away. It was not that he feared this thing could come after him. It was simply the fact that he could not bear to be anywhere near it. Something in his brain yelled for him to dispatch it, but he could not bring himself to do so.

  He backed up and made his way up the stairs. He could not look away from the carnage splayed all over his front yard until he was actually inside his house. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he shut the door, grabbed his cell phone, and thumbed it for 9-1-1.

  It rang twice before there was an answer.

  “You have reached the City of Portland Emergency Dispatch Center…all lines are currently busy. We are sorry, but due to a high volume of calls, all operators are currently assisting other callers. Please do not hang up. You will be answered in the order that you were received.”

  There was a click, and then the strains of some pop tune set to an orchestra began to pipe in. Grabbing his Bluetooth and stuffing it into his right ear, Ken put his phone in his pocket.

  He turned to the kitchen when he realized that the dog had followed (or more likely, led the way) back inside the house. He considered the animal for a moment.

  “I don’t have any food for you,” Ken sighed.

  He reflected on the situation for a few seconds and then shrugged. “I think I remember which house was yours. I will stop there on our way out of here, but after that, I don’t know if I will be able to help you.”

  Ken went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. Unfortunately, they were mostly bare. He had no shortage of beer, but that was not going to do him any good. He looked back at the dog that was sitting in the entrance to the kitchen.

  “I guess we are gonna have to go shopping.”

  ***

  The recording droned in his ear the entire way to the store. When he spied the large, red sign, he disconnected. The drive had taken almost thirty minutes and had been so surreal that he was becoming numb by the time he turned into the entrance.

  Ken pulled his pickup into the parking lot of the Fred Meyer’s grocery store. What he saw was absolute chaos. He’d seen riots in other cities. Hell, even Seattle had been shaken up a few times. However, the people of Portland were more into marches and the like. They loved to come out and take up the banner for whatever cause was in the news at the moment, but they were just too laid back for much more. Riots were very rare, and if they did happen, there was not much steam behind them.

  The scene at Fred Meyer’s was pandemonium. Cars were parked every which way. People were running from the store pushing carts laden with all sorts of goods. There were more than a few sporting large screen televisions.

  “Like that is gonna help,” he muttered as he put the truck in park. He glanced over at the dog. “Now, you stay put. If you run off, then you’re on your own, and I wish you luck.”

  Ken climbed out of the truck. He shut the door and activated the locks and alarm with his key fob. He doubted that another blaring car alarm would be noticed any more than the five or six he currently heard, but it was an old habit.

  Reaching around and patting the small of his back, he ensured that his Glock was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He had not walked ten feet when he almost tripped over the first dead body. This one did not display the ripped and torn appearance that he had seen on Gerald, the dog owner, Gina, and at least a dozen people that he had passed on his drive over to the store. This person, he could not tell if it was male or female, had been bludgeoned. A pool of blood, looking black as it spread across the asphalt under the lights of the parking lot that were just now coming on, was spreading. Ken looked around for any signs of whoever had done this, but he never slowed as he closed in on the entrance to the huge store.

  If the parking lot was bad, the inside was a nightmarish madhouse. He could not believe that people had spiraled out of control so quickly. He glanced left and noticed that only a few of the registers were still manned, although he did not see why considering how many people were just skirting past and out into the parking lot.

  Grabbing a cart, Ken took a deep breath and waded into the insanity. He’d never been a fan of shopping. Milly saw it almost as a sport. She called Black Friday her championship game. She usually hooked up with a few of her friends and they would leave the house around three in the morning. When she returned later that afternoon, she would make him wait in the garage until she had all her bags inside and stuffed into the closet. He’d gone with her one time. As a police officer, he’d wanted to arrest about a hundred people that day, but he doubted that rudeness would hold up in court as a legitimate charge.

  This made that day seem like a walk in the park.

  The first thing he did was head for the canned goods aisle. He’d been on enough hunting expeditions in his life to understand the way food kept. After what he’d seen so far, Ken had decided that he was going to be ready if he needed to get out of town for a while. He knew some really great places away from the city. If it got much worse, he would head for the woods.

  A cart slammed into his own, snapping his attention back to the situation. A young man no older than his early twenties sneered and gave the cart he was pushing another little shove, scooting Ken’s cart just a bit sideways.

  “Get outta the way, old man!” the younger fella snarled.

  Ken couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. The kid was probably about a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He had enough metal jutting from his face that one punch would shred that very same face into a bloody mess. And apparently he did not take kindly to be laughed at by a pot-bellied old man.

  “You need to mind your shit, gramps!”

  The young man whipped out a butterfly knife and whirled it in what he likely considered to be an impressive display of steel. In Ken’s experience, a person who made a big deal out of showing a weapon usually did not have the balls to use it, and if he did, it was likely with poor results.

  “Put the toy away, sonny.” Ken groaned inwardly at his retort. Had he just called this guy “sonny”?

  “You don’t know who you’re messin’ with, old man.”

  Just then, another two young men showed up. At least Ken thought that they were male at first. With all the dark eyeliner and crap, he could not be a hundred percent certain.

  “Jinks, what is keeping you?” one of the new arrivals asked.

  Ken winced. This one had a crew-cut and was decked out in clothing that hid any trace of this young lady’s femininity. Her face had a hardness that looked wrong on somebody so young. He now knew what he was dealing with. He’d had more than a few run-ins with street kids. They often built street “families” that were not much more than smaller, less organized gangs.

  “This old man disrespected me!” Jinks snarled, waving his knife in Ken’s direction.

  In a flash, Ken reached out and caught the wrist of the hand holding the blade. In another instant, he smacked the blade away and applied a very painful wristlock with just the slightest increase in pressure; and just that quick, the young man known as Jinks was on his knees.

  “Now, you kids go on about your business and leave me to mine.” Ken looked around at the others with his steel-blue eyes and made it a point of locking gazes briefly with each of them. “I am going to let your friend loose in a second. I suggest that you ditch all these video games and crap. Get some food, water, and perhaps some warm clothing.”

  With a gentle shove, he pushed Jink
s back into his friends. They caught him and, almost predictably, went for their own weapons. Each had a small blade of some sort.

  “Yeah, and you might want to get something a little more sturdy. I think you will be having to actually use your weapons sooner than you think.” Pulling his Glock and leveling it at the center of the chest of Jinks, and then letting it drift across the rest of them for just a second, Ken shook his head. “But trust me when I tell you that you do not want to fool around with me any longer. There will be worse things ahead.”

  Ken tucked his Glock back into his waistband and pushed past the group, turning down the canned food aisle. He was actually relieved that they seemed content to leave things be. He was also more than a little surprised at the lack of reaction from any people who happened to be in the area as this mini-drama played out. Even with all of the crazy behavior happening in the store, his having drawn a pistol received no more reaction than for people to just widen their berth and continue on their way.

  He was not surprised to find most of the shelves nearing empty. On the plus side, a lot of the lower-shelf generic items were still mostly available. Even more important, there were a lot of cans of various beans: black, kidney, navy. He grabbed all that he saw and then hurried over to the head of the next aisle. He could not believe his luck. While most of the instant varieties of boxed rice were gone, the large ten pound bags were basically untouched.

  He grabbed a hundred pounds of rice, deciding that that should be more than enough. He was pushing down the next aisle where the soaps and other hygiene products were, once more, largely untouched. That is when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out but did not recognize the number. He was a little surprised that the phone had rung at all. He was noticing people repeatedly holding their phones with a look of confusion and betrayal. As was usually the case whenever there was some sort of disaster, the lines were overloaded.