Rockabilly Hell Read online

  “Where are Tom and Frank?” Cole asked the sheriff.

  “They won’t be coming along. We’ve had some trouble in the county, and they have to work the field.”

  “Trouble?” Hank asked, moving closer.

  “Oh, nothing serious. Just a sudden rash of domestic violence more than anything. Those inclined to it have picked today to start beating up on each other. Probably going to be a full moon tonight. People do strange things when the moon is full.”

  Everybody looked up at the sound of heavy metal music hammering the late afternoon. They could clearly hear the music before the vehicle came into sight. It was a carload of teenagers, the car radio turned up as high as the speakers would permit. They began circling the motel complex, tossing empty beer cans out the lowered windows.

  On their next pass, Al yelled, “Pull that car over!”

  The driver gave him the middle finger, accompanied by a sneer. The others in the car laughed.

  Al’s mouth dropped open in shock at the brazen contempt just shown him. “That’s Sidney Brown’s boy,” he finally found his voice.

  Sidney Brown’s boy put the pedal to the metal and left a smoking trail of rubber behind him, as the car fishtailed out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

  “It’s started,” Hank said, when the loud music and squalling tires faded away.

  Before anyone could reply, Al’s walkie-talkie squawked. “Yeah, what?” Al keyed the mike.

  “The chief of police just killed his wife, and then stuck the shotgun in his mouth and blew the back of his head out,” dispatch told him. “And the second shift didn’t show up for work.”

  Al was too stunned to reply for a few seconds. “Jesus Christ!” he blurted. “Ah, okay. That’s ten-four. Who’s working the murder/suicide?”

  “Frank.”

  “Call in everybody. Put half the reserves assisting the PD, and keep the others on standby.”

  “Ten-four, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll be out in the country, keeping an eye on these nutty reporters.”

  “Ten-four, Sheriff.”

  Al slipped the handy-talkie back into the padded case on his belt.

  “Had the chief of police been ill?” Bob asked.

  “No. Not that I was aware of.” He shook his head. “Frank will be a seasoned veteran after working that murder/suicide. A shotgun is real messy.”

  “I’ll tag along, if you want to go over to assist Frank,” Cole told him.

  “No. He can handle it. It seems straightforward to me. Tom will help him, if he needs it. Let’s head out, folks. It’ll be dark by the time we get there. Jesus! What else is going to happen tonight?”

  At the mansion, Victoria took a long hot shower. As she soaped and rubbed, she made a mental note to call Nick over to do something with the body of the young woman she’d left dead in a basement cell. She stepped out and toweled off, thinking: Kids nowadays just couldn’t take a good whipping like they used to. Not much fight in them either.

  Win Bryan was restless, pacing the floor of his den. He needed some action. He plopped his cowboy hat on his head and went off in search of some of his buddies. See if they couldn’t scare up something to do.

  Albert Pickens got in his pickup truck and headed into town. He was feeling . . . well, sort of weird.

  Arlene’s husband was out of town on a business trip, and Arlene was bored. Really bored. What she needed was some long-dicked ol’ boy to roll around with for a time. That always took the edge off. She took a quick shower and headed into town.

  Federal judges Warren Hayden and Jefferson Parks were meeting with state judges Silas Parnell and Roscoe Evans, Senator Charles Bergman, and state senator Conrad Wright and state representative Maxwell Noble. They knew they were all under some sort of investigation and had to plan some strategy. They were meeting at a plush hunting camp that belonged to a large corporation, located just a few miles from the site of the old roadhouse. They’d cook up some steaks and have some bourbon and talk this thing out. Men from a private security company out of Little Rock had been hired and were stationed all around the camp, insuring they would not be disturbed.

  An electronics expert had swept the camp and found no bugs. He had then disconnected the television, since technology is now so precise that satellites can be programmed to monitor conversations through a home TV (Big Brother really is everywhere). He disconnected the phones (just because your phone doesn’t ring does not mean someone is not listening). The expert set up a digital phone system (which, to date, cannot be monitored, something that Big-Brother’s-watching-you-and-snooping-in-your-life federal enforcement agencies are really pissed about).

  “Hell, we’re secure,” federal judge Warren Hayden said. “Might as well have a party, while we’re here.”

  “I thought of that,” Senator Bergman said. “Some high-class whores from Memphis will be here in about an hour. Let’s get the talking out of the way, and then we can party. Nice thing is, I figured out a way to have the taxpayers foot the bill for the fucking.”

  “Don’t the taxpayers always get fucked by us?” Maxwell asked with a laugh.

  “Sure,” Bergman said. “They’re just too goddamn stupid to realize it.”

  Groups of teenagers were gathering in various locations in town. They were all feeling a little bit . . . well, weird. Restless. Dangerous. Something was happening they didn’t understand. The strange feelings in them had started about noon, and had been slowly building all day.

  And it wasn’t just the kids who were being affected. All over the county the behavior of many of the citizens was turning decidedly bizarre. Husbands were beating the shit out of wives, wives were beating the shit out of husbands. Siblings were squaring off against each other. Every since about noon, liquor sales had been setting new records all over the county. People who had never consumed alcohol before, were swilling it down. By seven o’clock, every bar and roadhouse in the county was jam-packed with people.

  Out at the old roadhouse site, the steaks were just being put on the grills.

  The sun was blood red and going down.

  Eleven

  The group left behind them a town filled with many people who had grown sullen and dangerous. The mood had not affected those who were truly sincere in their worship of God and did their best in day-to-day living—true believers aren’t perfect, just forgiven—but there aren’t many of those types of people around. Lots of people profess to be good Christians, Jews, Hindus, Moslems, Buddhists, and what have you ... few really are. And the devil loves a hypocrite. Satan knows that eventually all hypocrites will be his anyway, so why not have some fun while their hearts are beating, pumping blood, and their flesh is unrotted?

  Of the cops who didn’t show up for the second shift, one had decided (although the decision was not entirely his own) to play Russian roulette with his 9 mm. He lost. Another had taken his deer rifle and climbed up the back stairs to the second floor of a downtown department store. He had a knapsack filled with ammunition and a wicked glint in his eyes. He was going to have some fun. Another cop stood in the blood-splattered kitchen of his home, over the body of his wife. Or what was left of her after he’d used a meat cleaver on her until he became arm-weary.

  “Bitch!” he said to the unrecognizable mess scattered all over the floor—arm here, hand there, foot over in the corner. He tossed the cleaver on the butcher’s block and went to get his guns. He didn’t like his next-door neighbor either, so by god, this was a good time to settle that score, too. He didn’t think to change his clothing, covered with his wife’s blood.

  Another cop who had not reported for work sat on his front porch and rocked and hummed softly. He had a .357 mag in his lap, and was really getting tired of his wife’s bitching.

  “You lazy bastard!” she screamed at him. “I come home from work and rush around ironing your goddamn cop shirt so’s you’ll look halfway decent, and then you don’t even go to work! What the hell’s wrong with you, you worthless dickhea
d?”

  The cop stopped humming.

  “Are you listening to me, you asshole!”

  The cop stopped rocking.

  “Are you gonna be docked for this? You stupid bastard, we can’t afford it, not since you went out and bought that damn bass boat without talking to me about it. And I hate bass. You hear me, I hate bass!”

  The cop lifted his pistol—cocking it as he lifted—and shot his wife in the center of the forehead. She slid down the door jamb and came to rest on her butt, her mouth open and her eyes staring at nothing, a large hole in her head.

  “I like bass,” the cop said. “Always have. Good eatin’ fish.”

  Just down the street, a father was tearing at the clothes of his teenage daughter. To stop her screaming, he finally slugged her, knocking her to the floor. “You give that pussy to all the boys in town, Marie. Now by god, you can give me some!”

  He stripped her naked and fell on her.

  His wife might have had some objections to that, but she was sitting in the den, staring at the TV. At least her head was. It was sitting on the coffee table where her husband had placed it after neatly decapitating her with a machete he’d brought back from Vietnam. He’d spent several hours that hot afternoon putting a real good edge on it.

  “Come on, baby,” the father urged. “Move your ass. You’re just like your mother, when it comes to screwin’. Lay there like a damn log.”

  The daughter silently wept while her father drove in and out of her, grunting and sweating.

  Downtown, a gang of young people had decided it would be fun to smash some windows. Somebody else thought it would be fun to loot some stuff after the windows were smashed. And the first place they picked was a sporting goods store.

  Filled to overflowing with rifles and pistols and sharp knives and camp axes and machetes.

  They were really going to have some fun tonight. Fun being relative to one’s state of mind, of course.

  * * *

  “Hey, Laura!” one of the reporters called to her from across the road. “You and Cindy come on over and join the party.”

  Laura and Cindy waved at the crowd and stayed on their side of the road.

  “Bring on the ghosts!” a reporter yelled, waving a can of beer.

  “Let’s hear the ghost music!” another reporter shouted.

  Nightfall had brought no relief from the heat and humidity, and had done nothing to dispel the odor of burning sulphur that hung heavy in the air.

  Jim walked up to Cole. “Radio says it’s raining all around us. Temperatures have cooled off twenty or so degrees.”

  “But not here,” Cole replied.

  “No. Not here.”

  Laura was standing beside Katti, pointing out the reporters across the road. “That’s Doris McCoy out of Nashville. Chris Arkin and Robert Fassert with her, also out of Nashville. That’s Arthur Strother out of Little Rock. Anna Freeman out of St. Louis. Susan Marcotte and Don Potter out of our affiliate in Memphis. Paul Ackerman from Atlanta. Eddie Whitfield from Little Rock. Ray Blackwell and Eddie Frazier are network. And the one acting like a fool is Kenny Gant.”

  “Kenny is a conceited turd,” Cindy added.

  “Get out of here, Sis!” the voice came to the group. “You must leave.”

  “What the hell is that?” Laura questioned, looking all around her.

  “My brother,” Katti said.

  Those party animals across the road apparently had not heard the warning from the other side of life.

  “Tommy?” Katti called.

  “Right here, Sis,” the voice was stronger.

  Cindy began murmuring a prayer.

  “Why is it people never think to talk to God except in moments of great stress?” Hank questioned.

  Laura rubbed her arms. They were covered with goose bumps, even though beads of sweat were clinging to her forehead.

  “It’s opening tonight, Sis,” Tommy said, his voice almost normal. “The door. It’s going to open. I might be able to get through. But you and your friends have got to leave here. It’s too dangerous.”

  Both Cindy and Laura had enough presence of mind to click on small but very powerful cassette recorders in their purses.

  “The radio in my car just quit working,” Gary said. “The entire electrical system is down.”

  “Then it’s too late for you,” Tommy said. “Don’t go across the road. Whatever happens over there, stay where you are. Don’t cross that blacktop!”

  “Tommy!” Katti called.

  “You remember that ID bracelet you gave me when I graduated from college, Sis?”

  “Yes.” Tears were flowing from Katti’s eyes.

  “Remember it. That will be the sign I’ve made it out.”

  “How, Tommy, how?”

  “Remember it. I love you, Sis. Good luck.”

  Katti called and called, but Tommy spoke no more.

  Al first tried his walkie-talkie, then the radio in his car. Nothing worked.

  The vehicles would not start.

  “Shit!” Hank said.

  “Are you really a priest?” Laura asked him, her voice shaky.

  “Bet your butt, I am. Why?”

  “You just seem a bit . . . unusual for a priest, that’s all.”

  “Ummm,” Hank replied.

  “Was that really your brother?” Cindy asked Katti, her voice as shaky as Laura’s.

  “Yes. Come on, Tommy,” she urged. “You can do it. Come on, come on.”

  The sounds of a steel guitar drifted softly out of the night, the sounds coming from across the blacktop. It was the old Santo and Johnny hit, “Sleepwalk.”

  “Oh, my god!” Laura muttered.

  The reporters across the road had stopped their laughing and joking. They stood quietly, looking all around them, trying to locate the source of the music. The beer and barbecue was forgotten.

  “Look!” Cindy cried, pointing.

  The old roadhouse was slowly materializing in a mist. The red neon sign above the door began blinking on and off.

  “What the hell is going on?” Paul Ackerman shouted, his voice reaching those across the blacktop.

  “It’s a damn trick!” Ray Blackwell said.

  “You wish,” Cole muttered. “Get out of there!” Cole shouted. “Get out of there! Cross the road. Come on, people. You’re in danger!”

  The soft notes of the steel guitar faded, and a rockabilly band and singer started hammering out “The Twist.”

  The reporters started laughing and attempting to dance to the old tune. Most of them had been small children when Hank Ballard wrote the tune and Chubby Checker recorded the monster hit back in the early sixties.

  Old cars and pickups began taking shape in the parking lot, the grass and weeds disappearing and hard-packed gravel taking their place.

  Some of the dancers stopped to look at the old vehicles.

  “Stay out of those vehicles!” Al shouted. “Don’t get into them.”

  Kenny Gant opened the door to a ’57 Ford Crown Vic. “How are they doing this?” he asked. “What is this, some sort of mind control? This is really weird. Fun, but weird.”

  “Don’t get in the car!” Hank yelled. “For God’s sake, man. Listen to me.”

  The music softened and the voice of Chuck Willis filled the night: “What Am I Living For.”

  Al Pickens straightened up and strained his ears. He thought he had detected the sounds of gunfire. Very faint, but it was definitely gunfire.

  Kenny Gant sat down in the front seat of the car.

  “Get out of there, you fool!” Cole shouted.

  Kenny lifted his hand and gave Cole the finger.

  “Well, screw you, too,” Cole said.

  The door slammed shut.

  The club had fully materialized.

  “Hey!” Kenny shouted, hitting the door, trying to open it. “Somebody get me out of here.”

  Other reporters gathered on each side of the car, struggling to open the doors. They would not
open. Kenny was shouting and cussing. “Break the glass!” he yelled. “Somebody get a brick or something and smash the goddamn glass.”

  Paul Ackerman grabbed up a heavy ice chest and smashed it against the window glass. No effect. He smashed it again and again. The glass would not break.

  “It’s getting hot in here!” Kenny shouted. “I mean, really hot. Get me out.”

  The inside of the car began to glow.

  Kenny started screaming. “The goddamn car’s on fire. Get me out, get me out!”

  Flames began licking up from the floorboards.

  Kenny’s shrieking was louder than the music.

  Hank Milan began softly praying for Kenny’s soul.

  “Do something!” Susan Marcotte screamed at the group across the blacktop.

  “There is nothing we can do,” Cole called to her. “You were all warned.”

  Kenny’s hair was on fire. His howling was painful to the ears.

  Wild laughter sprang from inside the old roadhouse.

  Kenny’s face began bubbling as the flames touched his flesh and cooked it.

  The walls of the roadhouse seemed to swell, and a loud belch emanated from the open windows and doors.

  The fire in the car went out. The doors popped open. Kenny was ejected from the front seat, landing hard on the gravel.

  Smoke drifted from his clothing, but he was unscathed, not a burn mark on him. His flesh was untouched, his hair still perfectly combed. He sat up and looked all around him. His eyes were wild. Then he started screaming and babbling, at first incoherently, then about demons and monsters and the fires of hell and seeing Satan.

  “Let’s party, people!” a voice ripped the night, overriding Kenny’s wild and confusing babblings. The band started playing “Let The Good Times Roll.”

  “Boogie, boogie, boogie!” the voice yelled.

  Anna Freeman’s shorts were torn from her, and her blouse ripped to shreds by invisible hands. She was spun around and around in the gravel by the force. She stood still for few seconds, in bra and panties, too shocked to move.

  “Would you look at the garbanzos on that bitch!” the voice shouted. “What a set of jugs!”