Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Never go to the Salton Sea at Night

Episode Date: July 18, 2022

🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3zCFjQc 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep �� Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to aboard Via Rai. Embarked and profited. Embarked and relaxes. Cirotay. Bookiné. Oh, that also. And profite. Via Rai, the voice that we love.

Talk to nicely. I'm starting to get used to that smell. But not the feeling of being watched. I don't think I could ever get used to that. Luckily, I won't have to get used to it. If I can just find my car. The desert dirt crunches under my shoes as the foul wind whips past me. My girlfriend's words from hours earlier

rattle around my brain like the occasional empty beer can blown past me by the wind. One of these days, you're going to run into serious trouble, she said as I was leaving the apartment. You get lost. They won't be found until it's too late. I don't know how much more of this I can take, Charlie. It's like I'm dating a cop or a soldier.

And it's too much damn stress. I'm not a cop. I'm not a soldier. In fact, I'm a screenwriter who has never sold a script, working part-time at a gym and part-time taking freelance photographs for sites like deposit photos. Ever since I got lost in the San Bernardino National Forest on a photography excursion, Beth has been stressing. When we had the argument, I thought she was being silly. I'm not so sure. I look over my shoulder, seeing dark splotches of night move in the distance, unsure if it's my imagination or not. I had been hoping for a clear night.

The weather report I read before setting out said that it was supposed to be cloudless, but as I stand among the ruins of a once thriving community, I can't see a single star above me. Of course, there's no moon. I knew that. It was one of the reasons I came out to the salt and seated. day. I wanted to use my new camera to take some photographs of the stars, and I knew that without the light from the moon, I'd be able to get clearer shots of the stars, maybe even some time-lapse photography.

But of course, the clouds rolled in as the sun abandoned this side of the world, busting my plans to hell. Still, being the stubborn man I am, I decided to stay around for a while, waiting to see if the clouds would clear on the desert wind. In the meantime, I wandered into the nearby ghost town to take low-exposure pictures of the abandoned homes and trailers and the graffiti-strewn urban art all around the place. I don't think the place was all that big, but now, I'm turned around. I seem to be walking in circles, and I swear someone is following me, stalking me from out in the darkness, among the ramshackle structures that seem swollen with the ghosts of their previous occupants. You've probably heard of the Salton Sea. Maybe you've read the news stories about it,

or maybe you're only vaguely aware of the California Lake and the abandoned towns around it. It's called a sea because it doesn't drain. There's no outlet. which is one reason it's now a massive ecological disaster. The Salton Sink, which now holds the Salton Sea, has been filling with water and drying up again for thousands of years. Of course, this happens on a large timeline, making the average human lifespan seem like a 10-second YouTube commercial. The last time it filled up was when the trouble started.

Back in the early 20th century, the Colorado River was accidentally diverted, and the water had to go somewhere. For two years, it poured into the salt and sink, creating what's now called the Salton Sea. For a while, things were good. Nearby farms let agricultural runoff flow into the lake, keeping it filled and preventing it from drying up. People flocked to the sea from the 1930s to the 60s.

Fishermen and vacation goers alike headed to the beaches. Real estate developers started building. People moved here to seek work on the farms or to cater to the vacationers. But the waterkeeping the salt and sea filled contained pesticides, heavy metals, and other toxins. In the 1980s, fish started to die off in droves. Their carcasses washing up on shore and emitting the stench of rotting fish. It was just the beginning. Now that farmers use their water more strategically, the lake is drying up.

And since it has no outlet, its salt levels are rising, not to mention the selenium and heavy metals that have collected in the lake. As the lake shrinks, it exposes the lake bed. The desert wind kicks up the contaminated dirt, causing everything from asthma to increased cancer rates in those who live in the area. But most people left the shores of the lake in the last three decades, leaving ghost towns in their wake. Those that remain have to put up with the sulfur smell of rotten eggs thanks to the high levels of hydrogen sulfide in the water. But the relatively harmless smell of rotten eggs is nothing compared to the toxic dust they breathe every day.

All this to tell you that the place is creepy enough in the daytime. At night, it's something else. I'm not using the flashlight on my phone because I don't want it messing with my night vision. I have my camera on a strap around my neck, holding it with my left hand so it doesn't sway as I walk. In my right hand, I clutch my pocket knife. I want to think I'm overreacting, but every minute I don't find my car is another minute that increases this terrible feeling in my stomach. Most of the surrounding houses are single story.

None of them are occupied. None of them have windows and most of them are missing doors. I walk in the middle of the road between the homes. The asphalt only shows in batches. Most of it has been covered in dirt brought in by the desert wind. Dirt that's sprinkled with toxins from the nearby lake. I come to the end of the houses, the edge of the road, and look off into the desert.

It's too dark to see very far. But I make out a couple of shrubs, and what I think is a larger desert bush. They're not much more than shapes outlined in the darkness. I look left and right. I parked my car near the main entrance to the little neighborhood. So if I'm on one side of the neighborhood, I only have three more to check,

or so I tell myself. Looking back out into the desert, the hair on my neck bristles. The big bush seems to have moved. I take a step forward, squinting at the plant, I swear it moved. A distant scream floats in the wind. It sounds like a man, screaming in pain, and look back into the abandoned neighborhood, seeing a glow from one of the houses I've already passed.

A house that was dark when I passed it. Some kind of primitive alarm goes off in my head, urging me to turn around. I spin on my heels, looking out at the desert landscape. The bush is still there. But has it moved again? Or am I? Losing it. Letting my camera hang, I pull out my phone and shake it to turn on the flashlight. I shine the light around, seeing nothing but khaki dirt, pale green shrubs, small piles of trash, and a large desert bush. Just a regular bush. The light makes me feel better. I swipe my thumb up my phone and look for bars. No signal. But then, I already knew that. It was why Beth and I had gotten into an argument before I left LA. I told her I wouldn't have a signal out here. She didn't

like that. Now I really don't like it. I leave the light on as I turn around and walk back the way I came. There's still a glow coming from the house up ahead, but I don't think I want to check it out. Not when there are people screaming around here. I need to find my damn car. I take a left onto a street I haven't been down yet. My car is on one side of this neighborhood, and I know I'll recognize the area once I get close. As I'm hurrying down the street, I start to feel exposed with my light on. I can't see shit out near the houses flanking me, and if anyone's stalking me, I've just made things really easy for them. So I stop and turn off my phone's flashlight, plunging myself back into darkness. I stay stopped, straining my eyes as I look

around into the dark, willing them to adjust. A house just ahead of me and to the right suddenly emits a glow from inside. Like someone has just lit a candle or a lantern. I swallow hard, my throat thick. Something tells me not to go past that house. But I don't have a choice. I have to find my car. There's no way I'm staying out here all night. No fucking way. Walking again, I strayed to the side of the street opposite the house, keeping it in my sights. The two windows in the door in front seemed to stare, taunting me. I see no movement from within the house, just a glow coming from a hidden source. A scuffling sound from the darkness to my left seizes my attention.

I turn, as if in slow motion, already knowing someone's there. I lift the knife in my right hand, just as a dark figure bears down on it. Something cracks me in the head. My feet become immediately heavy, refusing to work with me. I stumble and fall to the toxic dirt-covered street. My last thought before everything goes black is incongruous. I worry I've damaged my expensive camera in the fall. Lazzang sur-joled,

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The conditions apply. Is only 50 feet deep at the most. The average depth of the sea is 29 feet. You'd be surprised to hear that the Navy lost at least one nuclear bomb here during World War II. Never recovered. It's a man's voice. He has a professional tone tin.

with the mad, scratchy voice of a conspiracy theorist radio personality. Someone sobs nearby, and I open my eyes. I see a dirt ceiling with beams at irregular intervals across it, like a mind shaft. I'm clearly lying down, and it feels like I'm on hard-packed dirt. Pain shoots through my head and neck as I look around. The first thing I notice is a woman in the corner to my left, arms hugging her bare knees to her chest. She's sobbing softly.

Her short pink hair must up and her face smudged with dirt. I look to my right and see on near a wall of bars. It's some kind of cell. There are two electric camping lanterns hanging on the opposite side of the bars, providing the room with elimination. The walls of the rectangular room are dirt, with wooden beams placed around, corresponding with the beams across the ceiling.

On the other side of the bars sits a wiry man with a bushy black beard. His skin is tanned and leathery, starting to go loose over the kind of sinewy muscles you get from a lifetime of labor. He wears dark, dirty clothes, and black tennis shoes.

He's the one talking. Used depleted uranium as ballast to make the dust bombs heavy. He's looking directly at the woman, but his wide blue-gray eyes swivel over to me when he sees I'm awake. Welcome to the underground.

He says, then cackles loudly. He's sitting on a crate, and his right leg bounces up and down, as if powered by a perpetual motion machine. I look over at the woman as I sit up. There's no fear, only confusion. Her eyes meet mine for a moment. Then they flick over behind me, to the only wall I haven't seen. I wince as I twist my head around to see there's a man in the cell with us. He's positioned in front of a three-foot diameter hole in the dirt wall, his back to the circle of darkness.

His wrists are in shackles up above and to either side of the hole. The shackles are fixed to metal anchors set in circles of concrete in the hard dirt wall. The hole is near the ground, and the man sits on his legs. He's clearly unconscious, but his shackled arms keep him upright. I notice smears on the wall around the hole. They're dark like mud. Fuck is this, as I say. The fear coming on strong now.

This is a California party, because a California party don't stop. The bearded man says in a sing-song voice, his side of the dirt room is littered with items. Most of them look like useless garbage. But there are a few things that look as though they still have some value. Like my car keys, a machete, and a battered first aid kit. too bad they're all out of reach I don't have to check to know that my phone is gone

and I can see my new camera sitting on a wooden crate next to my car keys the camera looks dirty but not broken I also note a narrow doorway on that side of the room the way out I stand up and face the man let us out of here I say trying and failing to sound authoritative

instead I just sound like a whiny kid you're free to go through the hole, the man says, still half singing. You're free to go through the hole. You're free to go through the hole. He cackles loudly again. I grip the bars, shaking them. They don't budge.

They're set into the ceiling and the floor. I look at the cell door, seeing that there's a big padlock on the other side. I rattle the door, banging it against the locked hasp. Look out! The woman shouts. I look up in time to see the machete come. coming down at my right hand. I yank the appendage back, but I'm not fast enough. The blade slices through my index and middle fingers. I pull my hand up, staring in shock at the nubs

just beyond the top knuckles. It takes a moment for the blood to come, a moment in which I can see bone and muscle, my insides. Then the blood is there, pouring out. I grow lightheaded and stumble back, hitting the wall and sliding down to sit on the ground as I grip my two fingers with my other hand. The woman moves next to me, looking at the wounds with hazel eyes, set in a petite and pretty face. She grips the hem of my t-shirt and tugs on it, trying to tear it. It's okay, she whispers, you're okay. I look blankly back at the bearded man. He has the tips of my fingers in one hand. He stares down at them, as if they hold all the secrets of the universe. Then he throws them underhand against a wall. When they come to rest, he shouts.

Sevens, I win. What the fuck is this? I say in a drowsy voice, as the pink-haired woman rips a strip of my shirt away. I don't know. My boyfriend and I were staying here in our camper van. Perry went out to take a leak, and when he came back, that guy was holding the machete to his neck.

He told me if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd kill Perry. Then he blindfolded us and let us down here. So you don't know where we are? No, she says. But I think we went into it. a structure, maybe a house, and then down some wooden stairs. She wraps my fingers with a t-shirt as I look away and grit my teeth against the pain. She says her name's Delia. I tell her my name's Charlie. The man continues his ramblings as Delia finishes up the makeshift bandage. Then she moves over to

her boyfriend and sits next to him, stroking his cheeks and asking him to wake up. He has close-cut black hair and tattoos on his pasty arms. He's wearing a black punk rock band t-shirt, black jeans, and Chuck Taylor's. I lean my head back and think, although it wouldn't be all that difficult to squeeze past her boyfriend, Perry. It's clear the bearded man wants us to go through the hole. Maybe he has some friends down there. Or there are traps or snakes. Whatever is through the hole, it won't be good. I realize that the man has stopped his incessant chatter. Opening my eyes, I see him standing near the bars, looking through it, Perry. He's smiling,

looking like a child on Christmas Eve. A sound like heavy breathing comes from the hole, getting louder and louder. Delia hears it, and she stops what she's doing, turning to look into the darkness behind her boyfriend. The bearded man moves over and turns off the lantern and hanging from the ceiling nearest the hole, cutting the illumination in half, and making it even harder to see into the hole behind a parry. Get away from the hole, I say, getting to my feet. She doesn't move. Before I can say it again, four arms shoot out of the darkness and grab Perry's torso, each with three long pale claws like that of a sloth. The skin on the stubby, tri-fingered hands is bumpy and black with shades of dark blue. Another two arms emerge and grab

Delia by her right arm and shoulder. She screams as the claws sink into her skin. Perry regains consciousness, screaming in pain as he's pulled back against the hole. But his hands are still shackled, and his arms are being pulled and stressed. I can hear his joints separating even over the screaming and the urgent, high-pitched growling sounds now coming from the hole. I move over and grab Delia's other arm, trying to yank her back with both hands, ignoring the pain in my fingers. As Perry's legs and lower torso were pulled into the hole, the two claws grabbing Delia let go, leaving behind deep gashes in her flesh. I stumble back, pulling her with me by her left arm.

Perry is still screaming, pleading with his eyes for us to do something, anything, but there's nothing we can do. His right thumb dislocates, and his hand slips through the shackle. But the left shackle seems to be tighter. The unseen creatures continue pulling. His left shoulder pops out of its sock. with a loud crunch. Then a hand shoots out from the darkness, the claws scraping along the shoulder joint, cutting through the stretched skin and muscle as blood sprays out. After a few moments of this,

they yank his body down into the hole, leaving behind his severed arm, swinging from the shackle and streaming blood onto the ground. I look over at the bearded man, a wave of hate and revulsion hitting me as I see the look on his face and the bulge in his pants. He absently reaches down to his crotch with one hand, then he looks over at me, shame-faced. He scurries out the doorway, one hand still held to his crotch, no doubt headed to indulge himself. I look at Delia, who stares at the hole in the wall. At least she didn't see what I just saw.

It's a small mercy. There's nothing I can say to her that would make what she just saw okay, so I don't even try. Instead, I move over to the bars and look for a pair of keys. The only keys I see are mine. Those won't help us get out of this cell. My keys, along with my camera and the machete, are on a small wooden crate some five feet from the bars. While none of the items will help us unlock the cell,

they're better than nothing. The rest of the stuff on the ground is less than useless. It's mostly trash. I sit down and quickly pull both my shoes off. I then tie the shoelaces together at one end. I lift the chained shoes together. confident that I can reach the wooden crate with them. What are you doing?

Delia says. Just watch the hole. Tell me if they come back. The images of Perry getting pulled down into the hole play on repeat in my head. I try to make them stop, but it's no good. I try to quell the fear on feeling, but that's no good either. My hand shakes as I put it through the bars, holding onto my shoes with a shoelace. I swing them gently back and forth toward the crate.

Then I reach out as far as I can, letting the bottom shoe drop. It hits the back end of the crate, shaking it, and making my car keys fall off the edge. I curse under my breath. I crouch and then pull gently, using the shoe as a hook to tilt the crate up slightly. Once I know it will work, I yank on the shoe hard enough to knock the crate toward me. But not so hard, I'll knock the camera and machete off to the sides. It works. Both the camera and the machete tumbled toward me as the crate.

tilts over. I then use the shoes to drag first the machete over to me and then the camera. I pull the items through the bars and turn around to show them to Delia. But I forget all about them when I see the state of her. She's gripping the gashes on her arm as best she can, but they're still bleeding profusely. She looks sickly and pale. What the fuck was I thinking? I knew she'd been cut. I should have helped her right away, like she helped me. But then I wouldn't have had the opportunity to get the machete and camera. Maybe. After determining that the first aid kid is too far to reach with my shoes, I kneel beside her and drip my shirt more. Then I reach out to put the strip of cloth around one of the gashes. She pushes me away with her hand. No, she says. Don't.

Let me be. You mean let you die? I say. She nods. Fuck that, I say, pushing her hand away and bandaging her cuts as best I can. She mutters, while I do it, but doesn't put up a fight. As I'm finishing up, I hear movements behind me. I turn and snatch the machete from the floor, then stand up and look into the bearded man's insane eyes. He's grimacing at me. His eyes flicking between my face and the machete grasped in my left fist. I half expect him to pull out a gun and shoot me, but when he doesn't, it emboldens me. Come on, motherfucker! I shout, come get your machete. The man's eyes are hard for a long moment, his grimace, showing a mouth full of rotting teeth, but then he smiles, showing me even

more of his disgusting mouth. You're free to go, through the hole, he shouts, you're free to go through the hole, he dances an insane jig, then spouts facts about the Salton Sea again, laughing occasionally. I glance at the hole in the wall, then down at Delia. I crouch, swipe my camera up, and check to make sure it still works. It does. still plenty of battery life. I ensure the settings are all where I want them.

Then press the shutter release button to take a picture with the flash. Light erupts in the room, illuminating the area for one brilliant moment. The bearded man suddenly stops talking. I peer at him, trying to read his face. He glares at the camera, the crooked wheels turning in his head. He seems to realize I'm trying to read him, and he goes back to spouting facts again, sitting in his spot in the corner of the room.

I look up at the lantern he turned off just before the attack, then back at him. He pretends like he's not studying me, but he is. It's my turn to smile. The lanterns are too big to fit through the bars, so I'll just have to make do with a flash on my camera. Delia looks at me through half-lidded eyes as I crouch next to her. Let's go, I say. We need to move. Where?

Through the hole. Delia shakes her pink-haired head. We'll die. Those things are down there. We don't have any other choice, I say. Those things don't like light. With my camera flash in this machete, maybe we can make it. Delia shakes her head.

I don't know how much blood she's lost, but it's no small amount. She looks pale. I don't think I can, she says. Her chin shaking as tears fill her eyes. I don't think I can. I study her for several long moments before speaking again. Okay, keep this. I say, offering the machete.

If he tries anything, Delia's eyes go wide and hard, despite the tears still spilling out of them. No, you get out. Come back and get me if you can. I smile. He's still got my car keys, I say. I've got to come back. Delia lets out a short laugh.

We look at each other for a moment. Then I nod and move over to the hole. You're free to go through the hole, the man shouts. Oh, shut the fuck up. up, I say. I hold the machete in my non-dominant hand thanks to the injuries on my right hand. The camera hangs on its strap around my neck, and I position my right thumb over the shuttle release button. I inhale deeply and then press the button, lighting up the inside of the hole with the flash. Nothing but a dirt tunnel. I get on my knees and crawl in a few feet,

then hit the flash again, dirt tunnel. As I repeat this process, moving down the shallowly tilted tunnel. The smell of putrefaction wafts up to me. The cloying stench of death increases as I move. As does a faint sound, I can't place first. But as I approach the origin of the sound, I recognize it as the rending of flesh, much like the sound Perry's arm made as it was ripped from his body. I pressed the shutter release button again, fighting up the tunnel. Something dark flashes past, not five yards ahead of me. I flinch back and hold up the machete. I can't see anything ahead of me now, but when the flash was on, I saw that the tunnel I'm in opens up. Listening hard, I try not to breathe.

Something moves ahead of me, and I slashed down with a machete, hitting nothing but air. I take another picture, the flash illuminating no monsters, only the five yards of tunnel before it opens up, either into a larger tunnel or a cavern. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my fingers, I move forward on my knees, machetees still up, and thumb resting on the shutter release button. Stopping every few feet to listen, I note that the ripping sounds I heard moments ago are now gone. The stench of dead meat is very much still with me. When I think I've gone about four yards, I hit the button again. What I see in the quick flash of light paralyzes me with absolute terror. I see no creatures in the shallow cavern.

I only see the remnants of at least four people besides Perry, whose body has been ripped apart, pieces dragged to all sides of the vaguely square area. I also see other holes in the walls, presumably other tunnels. Pressing the button, I view the scene again, seeing the same things. But this time, paying more attention to my immediate vicinity. Maneuvering out of the tunnel to stand in the dark, I take picture after picture, each time seeing a flash of movement

just on the edge of the illumination in the other tunnels. I step over Perry's shredded leg, making my way to my left, toward a tunnel that looks like it's angled upwards. It takes my cameras flash two seconds to recharge. and I press the shutter release button every two seconds, shifting the camera around to keep the monsters at bay. I can sense them out there, creeping in as soon as the light is gone.

As long as I can keep pressing the button, I might just make it out of here. Flashing into the tunnel, I see that it does, in fact, go up. For all I know, it goes back down again after a few yards, but it's worth a try. Turning around, I flash again, this time seeing a couple of them skitter back into tunnels. Fear thickens my throat and makes my breathing shallow.

It looks like they each have four arms and two legs. They remind me of jumping spiders, the way they move and how they look. But they're the size of small humans, and there's something wrong with their faces. I can't really tell what they look like since I've only caught glimpses of them. But they strike me as wrong. Somehow, in defiance of nature. I crawl into the tunnel and flash ahead of me. All clear.

Then I flash behind. There's movement across the mouth of the tunnel. just a couple of feet behind me. Losing patience, I start to hurry. I flash ahead and behind again, seeing nothing ahead and dark figures just beyond the light behind. Confident that there aren't any of them ahead of me,

I flash behind twice. It's hard to tell, but I think the tunnel is full of them. They're smart, staying just out of the light. As I turn forward again, something smashes into me, knocking me against the tunnel wall. My right hand comes away from the camera as claws sink into my right arm and shoulder.

I scream and slash it. out with a machete, slicing into something in the dark and causing whatever it is to let out a shriek and scurry off. Claw stab into both my legs from behind, slicing deep into my calves. I scream in pain and twist around, hitting the flash and seeing the tunnel crowded with long arms and terrible, dark, deformed faces and colorless eyes that reflect the light back at me. I hit the button again as soon as I'm able and see only my injured legs and a collection of black figures just beyond the light. As I whip around forward, I hit the button again, glimpsing roots in the tunnel ceiling just ahead of me.

Moving forward, I shove the machete up into the roots. I work the blade around while flashing ahead and behind me every two seconds. Dirt falls down into the tunnel after I work at it for a minute. And as I widen the hole, I feel wind and smell the rotten egg stench of the Salton Sea. I've never smelled anything so good. I keep up my flashing while widening the hole. My legs and right arm throb, and with each movement I can feel the wounds gape, but I keep working. Soon, the hole is just big enough to fit me.

I position myself under it, taking my time and keeping the creatures at bay with my camera. Then I flash behind me again and jump up as fast as I can, squirming through the hole without dropping the machete. I scramble away from the hole but refrain from using the flash. The clouds have thinned, and there's enough starlight that I can see the vague hole in the desert floor I've just emerged from. I wait a minute or more, but none of the creatures venture out. So I wait another two minutes to be sure.

I can see the abandoned houses in the little neighborhood. They're not far. I limp over to them, trying to figure out where that underground room would be based on how I got out. I don't have the best sense of direction, but I determined that it's likely in the basement of one of the houses at the nearest edge of the neighborhood, so I decide to check them one by one.

The first one has no basement. Neither does the second one. The third one doesn't either. I don't know how much more I can do. I feel weak. But as I work my way around the outside, I see a shed in the backyard. I open the double doors quietly, looking into the dark shed. There's a rectangle of soft light in the floor in the middle of the 12 by 16 shed,

but it doesn't immediately register with me what's causing it. Then something obstructs one side of the rectangle, and it all clicks in my head. I backpedal as fast as I can with my injured legs. The shovel arcs down out of the darkness, the blade missing my face by an inch or two. Almost on reflex, I press the shutter release button on the camera, eliminating the bearded man as the shovel he's swinging finishes its arc. His eyes wrenched shut against the bright light. I lunge forward, swinging the machete, his machete, down at his head.

It's my non-dominant hand, and I'm feeling woozy from blood loss, so it's a weak swing, slicing down and taking off his right ear and a chunk of his cheek. He screams in pain and drops the shovel, putting both hands up to the side of his head. I grit my teeth and swing the machete again, diagonally from my right shoulder this time. The blade sinks into the left side of his neck, where it curves up from the shoulder. He grabs the blade with both hands, trying instinctively to keep it in, to keep his blood from pouring out. But I yank on the machete, pulling it out of his neck and slicing his hands open. Blood rushes out of the gash as he stands there, looking at me through the gloom.

You're free to go, I say in a growl. Through to fucking hell. He stumbles past me and out of the shed before collapsing. I wait a moment to make sure he's dead. Then search his pants for the keys, which I find in his front left pocket. The dirt room under the shed was probably started as a bomb shelter but never finished. Or maybe the bearded man built it himself. It doesn't really matter.

I opened the door in the floor of the shed and go down a set of wooden stairs. Delia is still alive. She's surprised to see me. I grabbed the first aid kit and use the keys to unlock the cell. I bandage her up. Then she does the same for me. I grab my car keys on the way out. She gazes down at the dead man outside the shed as we move past. Just as we move beyond him, she turns her head and spits on his dead body. We help each other down the street, toward where I'm now sure my car is parked. The starlight makes all the difference.

Where are we going? She says, dazed. I'm taking you to a hospital. I say, What about you? If I don't die of blood loss first, I'm going to come back here with a couple of cans of gasoline and a match, I say, and I mean it.