THE CHOSEN Part Four: A GUIDED TOUR OF THE ABYSS, DISCOUNT PRICED Chapter 4

A tired and broken old man marched between two uniformed police officers, his orange coveralls too big for his thin frame, his wrists confined in handcuffs and shackles clamped around his ankles. The two younger men ushered him into the back of a patrol car, which sat idling in front of a squat building. Red-and-blue roof lights began to flash in silence as the police car pulled away from the curb and out onto the highway.

A block away, a black SUV with tinted windows rolled from its parking place in front of an almost identical structure and began to follow.

Dave watched the world speeding past through the windows of the police car. He took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. A tear trickled down his left cheek and he swatted at it as he would a fly. He tried to clear his head, achieve the calm that comes from separation of mind and body, but too many thoughts kept him anchored to the flesh. Thoughts of lost friends. Lost hope.

“Bet they’ll gas him for sure,” one of the officers said, plenty loud enough for Dave to hear.

“Shit,” replied the other. “They’ll just send him back to the funny farm. You can get away with anything if you claim to be crazy.”

“You ought’a try an’ escape, grandpa,” the passenger said, grinning back at Dave. “Let me put a bullet in your sorry ass and save the taxpayers some money.”

“He won’t live long, anyhow,” his partner said. “Looks like he’s on his last leg as is.”

“Healthy enough to fix you up. Like he did to that poor Injun. An’ a priest, no less. Killin’ a priest! That ought’a get you sent right to the front of the line in Hell.”

“First one into the fire.”

They had left the town behind by now; the desert swallowed them. Heat shimmered along the highway ahead, over the sun-bleached earth. Nothing living in sight, no signs of civilization except the paved road and the power lines strung from their creosote crosses on either side of the strip of blacktop.

The solitary vehicle behind them trailed at a considerable distance.

“Hey, old man,” the first speaker said. “That kid who was runnin’ with you, you kill him too?”

“He wouldn’t a’ killed him,” the other said. “That was his little boyfriend.”

“Yeah? You fuckin’ the kid, old man? That what it was?”

“Likes ’em young.”

Dave raised his eyes, glaring; his pupils were twin pinpricks of black. His voice came steady and strong.

“You’re fools. Both of you, you’re fools. You haven’t the slightest idea what we’ve all lost, what it means. That kid was our last chance.”

The driver stomped the brake with a curse, rubber screaming against asphalt as the car skidded to a stop. Standing in the road, unmoving, was what looked at first to be a large man.

“Stupid son of a bitch!”

“Look at that shit!” the other said. “What is that, some kind of statue?”

“Looks like it’s made out of mud or somethin’. Go see if you can knock it over.”

The officer in the passenger’s seat exited the car.

“Uh, we got ourselves a 10-53 here,” the driver said into the radio mouthpiece.

Dave watched through the glass and the wire screen between the front and back seats. The other guard walked up to the statue, which indeed seemed fashioned of dried mud or clay. He kicked one of the thick legs. And the statue came to life.

By TheCheezman

WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS, specializing in theatrical performances and haunted attractions. He has written, produced, and directed (and occasionally acted in) over two dozen plays, most of them in the Horror and True Crime genres. He obtained a doctorate in Occult Studies from Miskatonic University and is an active paranormal investigator. Is frequently told he resembles Anton Lavey. And Ming the Merciless. Denn die totden reiten schnell!

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