Protected by F.A.T.



He was certain the garage was safe. There were no security guards, no cameras on any of the levels, and the guy stationed in the booth at the exit left at ten at night. After that the place was all his. Over the past three years, he had taken out six cars– one of them a Lexus– and never had a hitch.

Still he never took things for granted. He always made sure to shave and to comb his hair and he wore dark blue clothes that looked like a uniform. If anyone saw him in the garage he would appear to be some sort of attendant. He doubted he would run across anyone, not at two in the morning, but it was best not to take a chance.

Once inside the structure, he moved quickly to the staircase, which he took down to the underground levels. He emerged on the orange level, the lowest level. That was where he had always found the best cars, as though people believed their expensive vehicles were safer the further underground they parked them. People were stupid; if they really wanted to protect their cars, they would cough up some extra money each month to park them in a garage with some security. It was another instance of you get what you pay for, and the customer often comes out on the short end of that deal. Somebody would tonight– that was for sure.

He walked down the aisles. Even with the lighting dimmed for the night, the pickings looked good. He immediately spotted a late model Cadillac and a Volvo, both of which looked interesting. It really didn’t matter what he snatched tonight. It was open game. Benny, the guy who swapped the hot cars for an envelope full of green, had told him he would take anything– just so long as it was good. Most of the time Benny had special orders, which were a bummer; you’d sometimes have to go to three, four places looking for a certain make and model.

His footfalls echoed against the gray concrete walls. No matter how hard he tried to step lightly, he couldn’t be quieter. That didn’t bother him, though, because he was sure nobody was around to hear him. What troubled him more, really, was the sound of water dripping and echoing. It had not rained in days, he was certain the structure had no plumbing, and there were no puddles anywhere on the ground. So what was it with the dripping? It was one of those inconsistencies his mind tended to latch onto, distracting him from the business at hand.

His mind cleared, though, when he spotted a target too good to be true. It was a Lexus, newly waxed, gleaming even under the reduced lights. It looked identical to the car he’d snagged last year, and he grew giddy with the thought that maybe it was the same owner, probably some guy who had started out life as a spoiled brat whose parents had fawned over him and bought him whatever he’d wanted– so unlike his own parents, a drunken mother and an absent father who hadn’t had two nickels to rub together three days after they’d got their paychecks.

He approached the car, as though stalking it, expecting one of those annoying talking proximity alarms to start spouting that he was getting too near the vehicle. There was no warning from an electronic voice, though, and he walked round the car coolly appraising it. He ran his hand over the shiny rear bumper, trying to recall how much Benny had coughed up for a Lexus last year. Was it three thousand or thirty-five hundred? Whatever the case, tonight would be a big payday.

When he saw the license plates–IB ONE– he couldn’t helping laughing out loud; it was the same owner, the same stupid owner who lost a car last year because he was too cheap to pay a few extra bucks a month to park in a more secure garage. Some people never learned. He was sure he’d find the owner had the same cheap alarm system; last year, it had taken he all of five seconds to disable the alarm.

As he started toward the driver door, ready to do business, a black and white sticker in the corner of the rear window caught his eye. At first he thought it might be sticker from some organization– the VFW, the AMA, or the Shriners– but when he got a close enough look at the sticker to read it, he let out short loud laugh, loud enough to echo through the level. The sticker read:






(Feral anti-theft troll)







He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the electronic pick. It looked like a little gun. Out of its front extended three wires that you inserted into the lock. He pulled the trigger, the wires raked the tumblers, and in a few seconds he heard the lock snap open. It never failed– no matter what the manufacturers said about their locks being pickproof.

Before he swung opened the door, he readied himself. The alarm– no matter how cheap– would sound, and sound loudly in the hush of the garage. He would find the right wire under the dashboard, and snip it as quickly as possible. The siren might sound for only a few seconds, and anyone nearby– if there were anyone– would think it was somebody taking too long to disarm their alarm.

He yanked the door open, and jumped inside. It took him a full second to realize no alarm was sounding. He straightened up behind the steering wheel. Confused yet cautious, he shut himself in the car. No alarm at all? That was almost unbelievable. He discovered there was no GPS to worry about, either; the car couldn’t even be remotely tracked. Finally he spotted the ignition key: still in the ignition. He began to giggle at his good luck. He settled back in the seat, adjusted it to his height, and relaxed, breathing in the aroma of leather seats and eying the real wood– cherry wood, wasn’t it?– dashboard. But then he began to wonder. Can somebody be this stupid?– especially after losing a car just last year. It didn’t seem possible. It was all too easy, but then, after all the tough breaks he’d had in life, maybe he deserved easy now and then.

He found the nylon CD wallet on the passenger seat. When he checked the CDs, he learned that the owner listened to some hopelessly corny stuff: Percy Faith, The Highwaymen, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The only good CD in the wallet was Ozzy Osbourne– obviously a Christmas present the guy hadn’t had the heart to return.

He slipped Ozzy into the player to check out the stereo, which was expensive and excellent. He paused to relish the moment; he could take his time now, just drive out as if he actually owned the car, and an easy deal like this wouldn’t fall into his lap for a long time– maybe never again.

After listening to Ozzy sing awhile, just as he began to feel truly blissful, he thought he heard a noise, a faint click or clack, coming from outside the car. His body instantly stiffened, sensing someone might be near. He lowered the volume on the stereo. He peered warily out the side window, and eyed the rows of varying vehicles to see whether maybe somebody had come to retrieve their car. He spotted no one and relaxed back into the seat. Maybe it was just that crazy, inexplicable dripping sound, he thought, but still listened sharply.

When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw that the trunk had popped open.

“What the hell,” he said. He scanned the dashboard. There was a trunk release somewhere, he was sure, but he was pretty certain he hadn’t triggered it.

He climbed out and went to the back of the car. The trunk yawned at him. It was empty– no lug wrench, no jumper cables– nothing. A vaguely musty odor mingled with the new-car smell. He shut the trunk, and it snapped securely locked. He lingered a moment to see whether the truck would pop open again. Maybe there was some kind of short circuit. That was the last thing he needed; if while driving down to Benny’s, the trunk should pop open while passing a cop… Well, that was just the kind of weird thing that landed even smart people in prison.

Just as he was about go back into the car, he heard something. It was a faint shuffling sound. It sounded nearby but he couldn’t be certain. He walked to the back of the car, again, and round to the passenger side. He didn’t see anything, and figured it must have been some kind of animal. Maybe a cat or a sewer rat, which could grow quite large.

When he walked back round to the driver side, he stopped dead in his tracks. The door was now shut. He was positive he’d left the door open. Or had he? No, he must have shut it– he was the only one around.

He got back into the car, now determined to leave. The joy of the moment was gone, placed by a vague uneasiness.

When he reached forward to turn the ignition key, he felt a sudden searing pain in his shoulder. He cried out in surprise as much as agony. He shoved open the door and tumbled out on the cold concrete. He got to his feet, clutching at his shoulder, and stumbled a couple spaces over, where he fell to the ground between two other vehicles. His puzzled mind raced. What the hell was that? His hand came off his shoulder bloody. The material of his shirt was ripped, and he could see the three deep gouges in his flesh. White foam was bubbling out of the wound, as though it had been doused with acid. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and tried to wipe away the foam, which only made the wound burn more.

The car stereo suddenly stopped, Ozzie cut off while singing “I’m Going home.” All he could hear now was the enigmatic dripping and the racing of his heart. This couldn’t possibly be happening, but it was, and the entire world seemed to be taking on an otherworldly slant. All he knew for sure was that he had to get out of here, and get out fast. He dug into his pants pocket, and pulled out a switchblade. He knew better than to carry such a thing while working, but now, as he snapped the knife open, it lent him some degree of security, of certainty– the familiar metallic clack as the blade flicked out and the way even the dim lights above glared off the its mirror-like surface.

He crawled behind the two cars that sheltered him, and peeked round back toward the Lexus. Whatever had hurt him was not in sight. He started to figure it had to be a dog– sure, a dog that had been sleeping in the back seat. But then another part of his brain pointed out that dogs can’t shut doors and turn off car stereos.

Half stooping, half-walking, he headed toward the exit. He hadn’t taken a few steps before he again heard that curious shuffling sound; it didn’t sound like a dog moving, either, unless that dog was obese and dragging its hind legs. The sound stopped, then, and all he could hear was water dripping. He turned slowly around, taking in the entire level, but saw nothing. Just as he was about to continue toward the exit, something rushed past him. He blinked his eyes. It had moved by so fast it looked like a brown and green blur that dodged between two cars in front of him.

It’s trying to block me off, he thought, not sure what he had seen but holding the switchblade a little higher at his side. If the thing– whatever it was–got in his way, he would kill it– that was for sure.

But the thing didn’t give him a chance. Brown and green flashed by him again, this time very close, and pain bloomed in his hand. When he looked down he saw that two of his index and middle fingers were gone and blood was gushing from the two stumps. The fingers lay on the ground next to the shattered switchblade. His screams echoed through the level as he dropped to his knees, holding his ruined hand before him. He wrapped the handkerchief around his hand, and it took only a couple seconds for red to start showing through the white cloth. He reached down and picked up his two severed fingers and slipped them into his shirt pocket. They could sew them back on, sure, when he got to the emergency room– if he got there.

He stood slowly and took in the level again. Nobody was around. He started to run toward the stairs, as well as he could run hugging his hand to his chest. Whatever was after him was fast, very fast, but as he neared the exit he was sure he would make it out. Then, over the heavy clomping on his shoes on the floor, he heard a whisper of movement come up from behind him, and he screamed and fell hard to the floor as something took a chunk of flesh from his leg. He sat there looking at the large hole in his pants, just above the side of his knee. The wound was down to the bone and quickly filled with white foam. The pain was so intense, his eyes began to blear and he thought he was about to pass out. Sounds were coming from his mouth, now, squeaky, whimpering sounds. Then, in the agony of his pain and confusion, a thought occurred to him, a thought that made him so giddy he started to chuckle, and then laugh hysterically. It’s just like Benny would do with a car– chop it down until it was all gone.

When he looked up, he saw a tiny figure wearing a brown hat and a green suit. Its face was vaguely human, but looked deformed; the brown eyes were too large and had a single line of coarse dark hair over them, the nose was a bulb of flesh, and the teeth that were showing were black and pointed and made a hideous grin.

The creature moved so fast it appeared to vanish. It felt as though bumped up against him, and the next thing it knew blood was gushing from his neck. He gagged as hot liquid ran down into his throat. When he grabbed at his neck, he felt that part of it was missing. All his strength drained from him, then, and he fell back flat against the floor. The florescent light on the ceiling grew steadily dimmer, and the last things that he heard were the dripping of water and the sound of a trunk being slammed shut somewhere far away.





One Response to “Protected by F.A.T.”

  1. Jaym Gates Says:

    This is a great read! The horror is subtle, the scene-building is excellent.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: