They Feed

  Sinister Grin Press

  MMXVIII

  Austin, Texas

  Sinister Grin Press

  Austin, TX

  www.sinistergrinpress.com

  April 2018

  “They Feed” © 2018 Jason Parent

  This is a work of Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Cover Art by Zach McCain

  Book Design by Travis Tarpley

  Table of Contents

  THEY FEED Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The night uncovers all we wish not to see.

  A troubled man enters a dusky park before sunset. A young woman follows, hidden in shadow. Both have returned to the park to take back something the past has stolen from them, to make right six long years of suffering, and to find justice or perhaps redemption—or maybe they’ll settle for some old-fashioned revenge.

  But something evil is alive and awake in those woods, creatures that care nothing for human motivations. They’re driven by their own insatiable need: a ravenous, bottomless hunger.

  The campgrounds are full tonight, and the creatures are starving. Before the night is over, they will feed.

  An unrelenting tale of terror from Jason Parent, acclaimed author of People of the Sun and What Hides Within.

  Acknowledgments:

  The author would like to thank Kimberly Yerina, Evans Light, Sebastian McCalister, Erin Al-Mehairi, Sarah Carleton, Professor Patricia Kearney, Zach McCain, and all the great folks at Sinister Grin who contributed to the making of this book.

  A special thanks goes out to Jeremy Barclay, Special Assistant and Communications Director for the Kansas Department of Corrections, without whom I would have thought halfway houses existed in every state. Another special thanks goes out to Susan, Kimberly, Connie, and the wonderful folks at the Kansas Department of Wildlife, Parks and Tourism, who led me through the rich landscape of the Ozark plateau and the flora and fauna of the foothills, showing me that Kansas has so much more to offer than the tall grass and flat prairies that many outsiders picture when they think of the state.

  For Joey and Calypso, a man’s best friend and man’s best friend, gone but never forgotten.

  Chapter 1

  He let out a breath. It rose like smoke from a burgeoning fire, obscuring his view through the scope for only a moment—an opportunity for escape that his target squandered.

  Aim. Breathe. Shoot. The words were his mantra, spoken in the voice of the man he had once called “Father,” though he had never earned the title. No, his father had left him half a lifetime ago.

  His mark remained somewhere in the woods, toiling where his father’s grim teachings haunted. Those teachings included how to use a Remington Model 798: how to clean it, how to carry it, and most of all, how to shoot it. With his father, missing had never been an option.

  Aim. Breathe. Shoot. He would not miss.

  The rifle’s barrel rested along a waist-high boulder. Tyler crouched behind it, hidden in tall grass and the shade of suffering, brown-leafed hickory trees. Behind him, a large lake sat silent and still, black as death. Even the orange glow of the early morning sun shrank away from its glossy, opaque surface. Giant reeds jutted from its shallows, stabbing like spears at the sky.

  In his youth, he had found the sweet-sappy smell of the trees inviting. The pines still stood tall, but those near the lake no longer thrived.

  Wildlife usually set up base camps around the many watering holes of Kansas, but not this lake. The animals seemed to sense that its waters weren’t for drinking. The lake was stagnant and putrid, a festering pit of water as black as oil and home only to snaking weeds and buzzing parasites. An almost toxic odor, like that of fish rotting under hot sun, rose from it, so pungent that the trees could not filter it. Instead, thirsty roots drank the poison greedily, and the water consumed them back, rotting them from the inside out like decaying teeth. Their leaves looked starved and shriveled, and their trunks were splitting and cracking, revealing sick and crumbling hearts.

  Tyler peered through the scope. The rifle’s cold metal shaft foretold the bullet’s trajectory. He scanned the head of the trail. It opened like a river into a delta of dirt and grass.

  He held his breath. The sound of bodies in motion—swishing through branches and bounding through brush—reached Tyler’s ears. The sound grew louder.

  Movement flashed across his peripheral vision. Tyler would not break his position. You take the shot you’re given, not the one you think you can get. Good ol’ Dad had taught him that, too, before abandoning him to the whims of the world. He’d taught Tyler plenty else, like pain and punishment, hatred and fear. Yeah, good ol’ Dad was a real ol’ asshole.

  But he was gone. So why was Tyler so afraid?

  Aim. Breathe. Shoot. His father’s voice, always cold, echoed through his head. He flexed a finger across the trigger. Glimpses of life, barely more than shadows, zigzagged in and out of his line of fire. A blurred mass of pale-brown fur, speckled white, hopped toward the trail, the tall grass a barricade that was soon to be breached.

  The deer leapt into sight. Tyler hesitated for half a second, let out his breath, and took the shot. The bullet roared from its chamber, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

  Screaming. Too much screaming. A creature writhed in agony. It was not the deer.

  Horror set in. Tyler’s lips quivered. His mouth hung open. He didn’t believe—couldn’t believe—what he’d done.

  “Please,” a young man cried. “Help… me.”

  The words slapped Tyler out of shock. He raced toward his victim, who lay near the mouth of the trail not more than twenty yards from Tyler’s hiding spot. Blood trailed behind the young man, his momentum causing it to spatter wildly across the grass—more blood than Tyler had ever seen.

  Tyler recognized the young man from school. He’d been a senior when Tyler was a freshman. His name was Stevie, and he had to be about twenty years old. His hair was darkened by sweat and matted as if he’d been wearing a cap. His skin was a pale, ghastly white, and his eyes were glazing over. Tyler couldn’t meet them.

  From a hole in Stevie’s jacket, white stuffing turned red as it absorbed his blood like a cotton ball in dye. It saturated quickly then hung like wet hair around the wound. Tyler had seen bullet holes before, and this one looked bad. It passed through the top of Stevie’s chest, just under the shoulder. Tyler’s knowledge of anatomy was questionable at best, but he guessed that he had missed all vital organs. Stevie might yet live, if only Tyler could find him help.

  Except Stevie had other wounds. Grotesque mutilations marred his frame. Thick strips of flesh were separated from his limbs and back along with pieces of his clothing, baring his ligaments and bones. Compared to these wounds, the bullet hole was an afterthought.

  “Oh God, please help me,” Stevi
e begged. He reached toward Tyler. The young man’s thumb and forefinger were missing, nothing left of them but dirt-encrusted stumps. His eyes rolled back then returned with renewed vigor. The boy wanted to live.

  “We have to get out of here!” he shouted as he tried to stand, his mangled hand grasping for assistance.

  Tyler wondered why Stevie didn’t let go and die. Whatever horrors had been enacted on him, he wouldn’t survive them. Maybe it was that attack itself—the unfairness, the brutality—that made him fight to live. Despair ate its way through Tyler’s core like a grave worm. He couldn’t help. Still, guilt urged him to try. It was partly his fault that Stevie was dying.

  He held Stevie down. “We need to put pressure on that wound. You’re losing too much blood.”

  Tyler pressed his palms over the entry wound, not knowing if he was helping or hurting. He cursed himself for not having a cell phone, never having needed to call anyone before. Stevie winced, his eyes rolling back again, eyelids fluttering. Blood ran through Tyler’s fingers. He glanced around him as if emergency medical supplies might magically sprout from the earth. He found nothing to avail him. The situation was worsened by the fact that they were at least a mile into the park. The ranger station at the entrance was their nearest and best chance to find help.

  Stevie was going to die. Tyler wondered if he should aid his passing. The thought sickened him. He had done enough already to speed along Stevie’s death.

  Tyler looked down at Stevie. The young man’s eyes stared back at him. A moment of clarity shone through them.

  “You don’t understand,” Stevie said between coughs. He pawed at Tyler’s shirt, his fingers catching in a breast pocket and pulling him closer. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He was trembling. The front of his pants dampened. “We have to run. We have to escape…”

  The words trailed off as Stevie’s eyelids began to close. Again, they shot open, Stevie fighting to remain conscious. His gaze darted about the treetops, looking past Tyler as if the person who’d shot him was of no concern.

  Stevie’s battle was nearly over, Tyler realized. His blood stained Tyler’s hands and caked his jeans. Stevie had lost too much of it.

  Then, with a scream, Stevie bolted upright as if possessed by a demonic spirit. He knocked Tyler aside, pushed himself to his feet, and ran. But he didn’t get far. After only a few steps, he fell face-first into the dirt. He didn’t get back up.

  Crying, Tyler knew there was nothing left to do. Stevie wasn’t moving, not even the slight rise and fall of a diaphragm. He was gone.

  Tyler stumbled back to civilization, not remembering how he got there. At the park entrance, he found a family of four unloading camping supplies from their minivan, not noticing the bloodstained boy until he had gotten within shouting distance and one of the children screamed. Tyler asked the father if he could borrow his phone. The man leaned back into the van, keeping his distance, but he pulled a cellphone from his back pocket and tossed it to Tyler while the mother ushered their two children away.

  Tyler dialed 9-1-1. A woman’s voice, soft and soothing, answered. She asked him to state the nature of his emergency.

  “I just shot someone,” was all Tyler could mutter. He was still sobbing when the police came and escorted him away.

  Chapter 2

  Six years.

  Six fucking years. Gone, just like that.

  Tyler had called Wichita State Penitentiary home long enough to miss the outside but not long enough to forget it. Not that there was anything left out there for him.

  He was leaving prison just as he had entered it: alone. His mother had been his only real connection in the eight years preceding his sentence. He had told his classmates his father had gone to Florida where he was making it rich, the reality being far less glorious. In fact, the truth was a bitter pill. His dad was gone. As Tyler grew a little older, he had come to prefer to leave it at that.

  Time without his father had proven to be a better, safer scenario until he had found himself in prison. But Tyler could never really escape the man’s influence. Sure, his father had taught Tyler how to hunt, camp, and fish. He’d even bought Tyler his first bicycle. When it was stolen from the local convenience store because Tyler forgot to chain it up, his father gave him his first whipping. They came more regularly after that. Sometimes, good ol’ Dad removed his belt for other reasons.

  Tyler had hated the man—still did. For all the times his father had beaten his mother, Tyler couldn’t understand why she didn’t hate him, too.

  He loved his mother, but she was weak. She had always been a heavy drinker, but after Dad vanished, fish could have taken a lesson or two from her on how to guzzle down liquid. When her only child went to prison, she hit the bottle harder than a rock star. With Tyler no longer around to look after her—to carry her to bed when she did a face-plant on the kitchen floor, to hold her hair back when she vomited their spaghetti dinners, and to make sure she even ate at all or brushed her teeth or took a bath—she drank herself to death less than two years into Tyler’s sentence. Her funeral earned him his only time out.

  And now the powers that be told him it was time to go home. He was out on parole for “good behavior.” What behavior was that—not causing a stink every time a fellow inmate brutalized him? You’re welcome, Kansas.

  And what home? As far as he knew, his mom’s trailer had been repossessed. He didn’t want to live there anyway, not with all the bad memories that crowded it. He’d never had any real friends, and the few delinquents who had passed through his life before the shooting—those who’d hung around Mom’s trailer and taught him how to lie, cheat, and steal to survive—were long gone by sentencing.

  He had nothing except the clothes the prison had provided him: an ugly plaid, button-down shirt two sizes too small, with his six-foot frame threatening to bust through the seams, and some black Levi’s that hung off his hips. Tyler was glad he didn’t have to wear his old clothes. He hoped they had been burned. Every time he thought of his old T-shirt and jeans, he could still see Stevie’s blood on them. Sometimes, he still saw it on his hands.

  Prison had hardened him physically, and his body was thin but toned, chiseled from a combination of boredom and necessity. He wondered if it had strengthened him inside. He had spent every day afraid, so much so that fear had become routine. Now, as he stood at the gate, waiting for the guards to buzz him through, Tyler was afraid to leave.

  You’ll never amount to anything, his father’s voice chided in his mind. You’re nothing but a loser. Another, softer voice chimed in, and Tyler knew it to be the voice of reason. There’s nothing out there for you.

  Except, perhaps, closure.

  For six long years, Tyler had done whatever was necessary to survive, even while questioning whether he deserved to live. Six continuous years of absolute hell: ass-fucking, shank-making, grub-guarding, yard-beating, pillow-biting hell. Prison had not been easy for a fair, slender boy of sixteen, easy prey thrown into a den full of predators. Yeah, the things he had seen, the things he’d done, might have made him tougher. They’d definitely turned the chip on his shoulder into a whole bag of Doritos.

  And as hard as his fellow inmates had been on him, Tyler’s hours alone in prison had been even worse. His thoughts would always return to the act that had put him into the slammer. Six years of dwelling on that day had dug a hole inside him.

  He was walking out of Wichita State a man, all grown up but empty inside. Broken.

  Maybe he had always been like that. He’d been a screwed-up kid when he had pulled the trigger and shot the bullet that the law deemed responsible for ending Stevie Coogan’s life. Before that, he’d tried every drug he could get his hands on, and he could steal a car before he could legally drive one. Before shooting Stevie, Tyler’s blatant disregard for authority and civility had thrust him into his fair share of scuffles and more than a handful of run-ins with the law, but never anything serious, never anything that stuck.

  Nothing
like murder.

  That was what the good Christian state of Kansas had called it. The case against Tyler had rested entirely upon the bullet. There was no question that Tyler had shot Stevie, but the cause of death had been about as certain as a weather forecast made by a groundhog. The prosecutor had submitted various medical reports to muddle the issue. So-called experts had claimed that the bullet wound was a contributing factor to Stevie’s death or an intervening cause or some other horseshit.

  As flimsy as the testimony had been, the physical evidence hadn’t lied. The pictures of the corpse had shocked the court. Someone leaked them to the local news. Stevie looked as though he had been butchered alive. His bones had stayed intact, mostly, but lengths of flesh and fist-sized chunks of muscle had gone missing. No known animal could have caused that kind of mutilation, at least not anything indigenous to Kansas. With one dead and three missing, the whole damn county had wanted answers—or at least someone to blame.

  Cherokee County had never found its answers. It had never found the three missing twentysomethings, either. For weeks, search teams had scoured every inch of Galveston State Park, delving far to the east into the Ozark Plateau and the foothills, and west, well beyond the lake. They never found more than their own footprints.

  But the county had found its scapegoat. By the time of Tyler’s plea hearing, local news and upstart politicians had called for his head. The victim’s family and those of the missing had led the crusade. They had needed a villain, a target for their hatred, sadness, and confusion. They needed to assign blame where there was none.

  No one had believed Tyler’s story—that he had been hunting deer when a blur, nothing more, passed in front of his gun just as he fired it. Tyler hadn’t expected them to. The only one who could have spoken the truth lay in pieces upon a cold metal slab in the county morgue.