The Arm–Part Three

Dillon stared in horror as the dead cat continued to walk toward him. His brain keep screaming for him to run, but his feet were frozen to the road. Each of his legs felt like they weighed 100 pounds each. Why wasn't he running? Somehow he knew that if the cat got to him that it would bite him. And then what? He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it.

The cat let out another yowl, its head twisting to the side with a grimace of pain. Blood flew from its nose and splattered on the pavement. Three more steps and it would be sinking its dead fangs into his leg. He began to shiver uncontrollably. And yet, his legs would still not move.

That cat was dead! he thought. How could it be moving? How could that arm from the river be moving? What in the world was going on?

Just then, a red pickup truck came blaring around the curve. It was speeding toward him but slowed to a halt just beside him. The window rolled down exposing a young man in his early 20's. A cloud of smoke poured out and the man peered out, bleary eyed and obviously drunk. Loud rock music was blasting from the speakers. Wasn't that AC/DC? Dillon could make out the sounds of Hell's Bells. His eyes never left the cat though. But it had stopped in its tracks.

"Wass wrong wif dat cat?" the man slurred, leaning out the window. The strong smell of beer and cigarettes floated out of his mouth like a toxic cloud. But Dillon didn't care. He had found his legs after all. He ran around to the back of the truck and hopped in. He had no idea who this guy was but he just wanted to get up off of the ground.

"Isss dat cat sick? Is it mad?" the man grunted. Dillon looked down, expecting the cat to be ready to pounce up on him. Instead, he saw something very strange.

The cat wasn't walking anymore. It was quivering all over like someone had stuck an electric wire to its head. In fact, its head was shaking more than the rest of its body.

"Raaaaawwwwwr!" the cat squalled, dropping to the road with violent convulsions.

"There's something wrong wif dat cat," the man said, "Is it yours?"

"No," Dillon said softly, his voice betraying him like his legs had earlier.

And then with a meaty, wet pop, the cat's head exploded. Brains and blood flew all over the pavement, painting it with red globs. It was a horrific landscape. And then it was over. The cat lay still. It appeared that it was dead again.

What does that even mean? Dillon thought. Dead is dead....isn't it?

The man, who had been staring at the whole thing in a daze of alcohol, seemed to sober up all of a sudden at the sight of the cat's exploding head.

"Hey man," he said, "That was some freaky stuff. What did you do to that cat?"

Dillon felt numb. He just wanted to get home. To get to someplace safe. He jumped out of the truck and ran down the road....away from the truck and the dead cat. The dead cat that had just been walking around and trying to bite him.

He heard the guy yelling at him to come back, but he didn't listen. He only had one thought. He had to get home. The guy stopped yelling. He heard the truck pull off with squealing tires. He didn't care. He just wanted to get home.

His lungs were burning in the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Screaming for air and for rest, they were the only part of him that felt like it was truly alive. The rest of him felt as dead and cold as the arm and the cat that he had just seen. But at least his legs were working now. He was almost home. It was just up ahead. In just a moment, he would be in his own house with his mom and his dad. At least, his dad should be home from work by now. It was getting late. And then everything would be okay. He wouldn't have to think about what had happened. He wouldn't have to talk about it. He could just pretend that it had never happened.

Sprinting the last few steps to his front door, he tried to turn the knob only to find it locked! For a moment, his heart skipped a beat and panic drove its icy talons into his brain. Then he remembered. His dad was going to take his mom to visit her brother, his Uncle Jeff, in the hospital. His parents had told him about it this morning.

"You are 13 now and old enough to take care of yourself for an hour or two," his mom had said at breakfast, "Just make yourself a sandwich and watch some tv or play that video game that you spend so much time on anymore."

"And don't make a mess," his dad had said with a smile as he had walked out the door to work, "And for God's sake, don't burn the place down."

Out in the open, Dillon felt alone.....exposed. He quickly bent down and pulled up the rug, exposing the key that his mom had left for him. Unlocking the door, he quickly ran inside, slamming it behind him. He locked it back and then took a deep, quivering breath. He was home. He was safe.

Just then, he heard it. Something was skittering across the roof. Something was on the roof! He could hear it on the metal. It sounded like something was dragging itself across. Dillon's heart stopped. It sounded like fingernails scratching across the roof. And that could only mean one thing!

Until next week....class dismissed!

The Arm–Part Two

Dillon stared in horror at the arm that he had just pulled from the river. At first, he had thought that it was a fish. Then, he had assumed that it was a turtle since there was none of the usual thrashing that a fish would do. But instead, an arm....a human arm....had broken the surface of the water.

The first thing that Dillon thought was, “Where is the rest of the body?”

Then he thought, “Oh my God! There must be a dead body down there in the river somewhere.”

He had seen movies and shows on television about people being murdered, their dead bodies being dumped in out of the way places. But he had never thought that anything like that could happen in Breathitt County. He tried to think if anyone had gone missing lately. He couldn’t recall. But his mind was in overdrive at the moment. He had to get out of here and get help.

And then, the unthinkable began to happen. The arm began to twitch and move! Dillon let out a yelp of horror and leaped back. What in the world? Was he seeing things?

But no, there was no mistaking it. The arm was starting to move....starting to crawl. It slowly was turning toward him. Its fingers were digging into the soft sand of the creek bank as it clutched its way toward his feet. Dillon could hear the fingernails scraping in the dirt....brushing against rocks.

Without thinking anything except a sense of revulsion, Dillon started to run away. Then, he thought better. Turning, he took two steps toward the crawling dead flesh and gave it a mighty kick. The hand tried to snatch at his foot, but he was too quick for it. He connected solidly with the arm and sent it flying into the air. With a loud splash, it landed back in the water.

His heart was beating so loudly that his head was throbbing. He grabbed up his stuff except for his fishing pole. He didn’t want to ever touch that fishing pole again. Making his way into the undergrowth, he was once again enveloped in a rich, green world full of pollen. He ran. He was full of mad energy that charged his legs with one simple command....run! Faster and faster, he ran up the hill toward the road. He just wanted to get away from the horror that lay behind him.

With a loud cry, he burst from the weeds and almost ran into the path of an oncoming coal truck. With a yelp, he sprang back as the truck rumbled past with a loud honking of its horn. Even the threat of near death didn’t register immediately with Dillon. He kept replaying the scene over and over in his head. The arm....the dead human arm....it had been moving....crawling. He kept seeing it. He kept hearing it. It was coming toward him.

Had he only been seeing things? He didn’t want to stick around to find out. He began to run. His backpack was slapping wildly into his back as he ran. He could hear the rest of his Mountain Dew sloshing around in the bottle, but he didn’t care. His breath came in sharp rasps, but he kept up the mad pace...fueled by fear.

He ran back that way he had come when suddenly he stopped in the road. Something was moving in the weeds beside the road! For a second, he thought that it might be the arm....coming after him again. But he knew that it couldn’t be. He had kicked the thing into the river. It moved to slowly to get this far up the road ahead of him. It couldn’t be the arm. But he found that his feet wouldn’t move any closer to the rustling weeds. Something was tickling the back of his mind. He didn’t want to see what was there....but he had no choice.

Just at that moment, something broke free of the weeds and wandered shakily out into the road. As Dillon’s eyes grew wide, the creature let out a pitiful screech that once might have been a meow. It was the cat. The dead cat! But how could that be? One of its eyes was rolled back in its head and blood continued to trickle out of its nostrils. It moved slowly and with irregular jerks since its back was obviously broken. Of course, since it was dead, it shouldn’t be moving at all.

Dillon found that he couldn’t scream...couldn’t move. With another yowl that sounded like a demon screaming from the very depths of hell itself, the cat began to move toward him.

Until next week.....class dismissed!

The Arm–Part One

Walking along the edge of the highway in the hot July heat, Dillon could see something laying in the road just up ahead. At first, he thought it was a dead fox or raccoon. However, as he drew closer, he saw that it was a dead cat. He couldn't help but stare at the dead creature.

The cat lay in a curled up position like it was asleep. Except for a thin trickle of blood coming out of one of its nostrils, you might never know that it was dead. Of course, what kind of cat would take a nap on a highway?

Dillon reached down and picked up a stick that was laying beside the road. Poking the cat gently, he nudged it off of the road and into the weeds. There was no use leaving it where some car could splatter its guts all over the place. He didn't want to take the time to bury it. It wasn't HIS cat after all. But he felt sorry for the little creature. It was black with white paws. It sort of reminded him of a cat that he used to have when he was a little boy. Hadn't he called it Boots? He couldn't remember.

Finishing the dreadful job, he continued on his way. He knew that the buzzards would take care of the unfortunate dead creature soon. They were all too efficient here in good old Breathitt County. He had often seen them circling overhead, on the lookout for their next meal. He shuddered. He didn't want to think about it.

And now he didn't have to. He had come to the bend in the road and there was the path that led down to the creek. It was just a little path and most people would have missed it if they didn't know what they were looking for. Hoisting his fishing pole and supplies up on his shoulder, he made his way down the steep bank and into the shadow of the trees.

Going down to the creek bank was like entering another world. The air was thicker....heavier. Bugs flew toward his face, threatening to choke him before he could make it to the bottom. His nose started to run as the pollen in the air settled into his nasal passages and tickled his throat. This was the worst part of going fishing. But then, up ahead, he could see the flowing stream. Troublesome Creek was sparkling in the sun like a jewel.

Breaking free of the heavy, thick air from under the trees, Dillon took two deep breaths of fresh, sweet air that was cooled by the moving waters. It was delicious to breath after being in the underbrush, even if he had only been in there for a few minutes. He always felt like he was going to suffocate in there. Would the buzzards come looking for him? But then, whenever he broke into the bright sunshine beside his fishing hole, it was like a rebirth. Every part of him rejoiced.

Opening his backpack, he took out a bottle of Mountain Dew. It wasn't ice cold like it had been earlier, but it was still cool. He opened it and took a long drink. It burned his throat but he liked the way that it burned. After his long walk, nothing tasted better. Belching loudly, he got his fishing gear ready for a long afternoon of relaxing and doing nothing.

Half an hour later, he was almost dozing in the afternoon sun. His fishing line was a lazy drifter in the slowly moving waters. All around him the world was buzzing and chirping. It was a sweet summer lullaby that was edging him closer and closer to sleep. In fact, he would have probably fallen asleep right then and there if his line hadn't suddenly moved.

"Fish!" he yelped excitedly, grabbing his fishing pole with a sturdier grip. With one swift tug upward, he felt his hook catch hold. This was the part that was always exciting for him on these fishing trips. He loved reeling in the struggling fish and then catching it for dinner. He hoped it was a big one!

Slowly at first and then quicker and quicker, he reeled in the fish. It must be a big one indeed. It was so heavy! In fact, he realized, it was too heavy to be a fish. It was probably a turtle from the feel of it. It wasn't even thrashing.

And then, it broke the surface of the water and Dillon froze.

It wasn't a fish. It wasn't a turtle.

Dillon was staring at a human arm.

Until next week.....class dismissed!