PUPPIES AND ICE CREAM CONES--CONCLUDED

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Matthew Yoosip drove safely yet speedily through the backroads of Thornton, Wyoming. Though he had done this bait-and-snatch six times in six different states for his Master, his anxiety levels and his nerves were always dialed way up during the getaway. He trusted in the Dark Lord, sure, but he could not help feeling his still-human emotions. He was well-aware that calls to the local officials had been placed and that they would be looking for--they'd have an APB out on--a pale blue ice cream truck with the tune of "Camptown Races" blaring through the megaphone positioned just over the windshield. And that sort of vehicle doesn't exactly blend into the woodwork.

From the back of the truck, there were no more cries and no more wails. The children had been silent for the last five minutes and, for that, Yoosip was grateful. He saw the children as no more than feeding fish, truth be told, but, still, when they'd had their caterwauling cranked up to a fever pitch, some of the Matthew Richard Yoosip that was still left in the carrying case felt some pain, some shame.

He passed out of the city limits and merged onto the freeway. It would be just a quick jaunt down I-187 and he would be at his destination. Eleven units...he grimaced. Just eleven units. The Master might have a cross thing or two to say to him. Yoosip was prepared for that yet he was still a bit trepidatious. Master was known for his evil temper, don'tcha know.

***

Yoosip pulled gently to the wrought iron gate and shifted into "Park." He glanced uneasily up the ascending curving driveway and shuddered slightly as he unrolled his window to key in the code to the gate. No matter how many times he returned to the roost, he still couldn't do it lightheartedly. Some places have an almost palpable aura of evil and, no matter where the Master had resided, his homes had taken on such an aura. And rather quickly, too.

The numbers keyed, the gates creaked slowly open and Yoosip drove up the driveway.

***

"Matthew." A statement.

Yoosip shuddered, arms in goosebumps, as he entered the dark room. In the corner, seated in the overstuffed armchair, backlit by a solitary black candle, he could barely make out the shadowy form of his Dark Lord, Cassius. Black billowy clothes and obscenely-long white fingers. A drawn-out skull, hairless. And, of course, the deeply-pitted glowing red eyes. "Yes, Master. I brought you children, Master."

"I know that, Matthew. I can sthmell them. They sthmell delithcious."

Yoosip swallowed and forced himself to add, "I only got eleven, Master." He shifted uneasily on his feet and waited for the storm of vitriol. He was surprised when none was forthcoming.

"Bring one to me."

***

In the garage, next to the impeccable 1964 black Mercedes sedan, Yoosip unbolted the back doors of the ice cream truck and swung them open. Eleven pairs of wide white eyes greeted him. He was not supernatural like his Master--yet--but he believed that even he could smell the fear baking from the bodies of the "stolen" children. He began to feel a wave of pity, but he quashed it efficiently.

He'd learned how to distance himself, over the years. He'd simply begun to think of the countless children as being less-than and he'd focused on his ultimate prize--eternal life granted to him via the blood of his Master.

He reached in and grabbed, at random, the closest one to him. It was Tommy, the nose-jabber. Tommy yelped and latched on to Yoosips forearm with his sharp little baby-teeth. Yoosip grimaced and backhanded the boy, momentarily stunning him. This act of overt violence brought cries and screams to the other ten children's lips and Yoosip, Tommy slung easily under his right arm, slammed and bolted the doors.

Tommy regained his senses as Yoosip slowly climbed the circular staircase to the second floor. "Mommy," he breathed.

"Shh-shh," said Yoosip with absolutely no emotion. "You'll see your Mommy in just a little bit, son. Your Mommy would want you to be strong, wouldn't she? Doesn't she want you to be a strong little boy?"

Tommy nodded slightly, from his position under the man's arm. Snot dribbled from his nose and he wiped it absently away. "Yeah. Mommy. Want...Mommy."

"Shh-shh."

At the top of the stairs, Yoosip paused and drew a deep breath. He had seen this--or heard this--scenario many times, but it had never gotten any easier. A part of him, though buried deep, was still human and had human emotions. Above all, he felt the emotion of pity. And there was also shame. But overriding any sensible emotion was the feeling of arrogance and the overwhelming addiction to power. The boy had just chosen the wrong day to accept ice cream, he reasoned, rather bizarrely. The little brat hadn't even paid for it. Damn-near stole it. He would thus get what he had coming. Yoosip, guilt assuaged, strode forward and pushed through the heavy door.

***

"Nithe," murmured Cassius. "Very, very nithe. Bring him to me, Matthew."

Yoosip obeyed readily and left the little boy at the feet of his Master. Tommy stood, wide-eyed, before the seated beast. His chest hitched once, twice, and he began to wail.

"Husth, child," spoke Cassius. He rose from the chair and stood at his full height of six-and-a-half feet, his arms dangling nearly to his knees. With his long dextrous fingers, he made a 1878 silver dollar dance. Tommy's tears waned and then stopped and he popped a thumb into his mouth as he stared, transfixed, at the floating coin.

In the direction of Yoosip, Cassius said, "Leave uth."

He walked from the room and closed the heavy door behind him. From within the room, he could hear the Dark Lord say, "Come to me, child." And, though he plugged his ears, he could hear still the wet pop of a carotid artery and the deep sucking sounds.

And then nothing. And then nothing. He slowly pulled his fingers from his ears. Direct to his being, in the center of his mind, Cassius spoke. Bring me more, thimple man. Bring me more. Bring me thix, bring me theven. Bring me them all. Your Mathter ith hungry to-night.

***

And so then there were two. Ricky Kludowski and Melinda Barret. Shoved to the back of the truck, up against the doors, was the puppy that had been promised: a thread-bare stuffed beagle. It had been dead and stuffed, it seemed, for decades. Its mottled fur smelled of dust and its blank black glass eyes stared permanently at the heavens.

Ricky shook uncontrollably. Melinda had sunk into a semi-catatonic state. Though children, they knew now that their days--hours--were numbered. Nine children, from two to six-and-a-half, had been taken and nine children had not returned. The remaining two knew, assuredly, that the others had not been spirited off to Chucky Cheese's for pizza and soda pop and video games. As much as their young brains could reason, they knew that the others had been killed and, like mice in a snake's cage, they too were doomed.

Outside the truck, the sound of shuffling footsteps arose. Ricky's trembling worsened as the footsteps grew near. And then, suddenly, he was as calm as a lake on a windless day. Within his five-year-old body, his heart swelled and the will to live burst through his mouth in the form of a scream.

Something thumped against the outside of the door. Ricky drew a breath to whoop even louder and was stunned to silence when a foreign voice hissed, "Quiet, kid. Just...quiet. Okay?"

Ricky scrambled on his hands and knees to the dark doors. He queasily slid the beagle aside, shuddering involuntarily at the wooden feel of its long-dead body. Through the small slit between the doors, he could see the shape of a man in the dim light of the garage. "Help us," he said.

"How many of you in there?" the man whispered.

"Just two. Me and Melinda. But Melinda's kinda tired. The rest of them--" he hitched a tear "--the rest of them got took."

"Shit," said the man. "I mean, shoot. Shoot. I knew these two guys wasn't right. Damn it. Took where?"

"Are you a policeman?" asked Ricky, daring to hope.

"Naw," said the man. "I'm just a guy who's been livin' off the land for awhile. I seen that ice cream truck come back today and then I seen that scraggly-lookin' dude walkin' back and forth all night, carryin' shi--stuff. I never really seen the other guy, but I heard him yellin' a couple times. Guy talks like a faggot. Sorry, kid. I shouldn'ta said that."

Ricky had no idea what the man was talking about, but he sensed that the time was growing short. "Mister? Can you get us out of here?"

"Yeah. Hold on," the man said, and Ricky breathed Hope.

Ricky heard fumbling at the doors and the man said, "It's locked, kid. Got a big-ass Yale paddie on here."

The small boy smacked his forehead in frustration, a move he had picked up by watching old black-and-white shows like the "Three Stooges" and that one with the fat man and the skinny man. He was dealing with an idiot; his savior was a maroon. "I know, Mister," he said. "Isn't there something out there that can, like, break the lock?" He doubled-crossed his fingers and tried valiantly to cross his toes.

"Hold on," the man said. "Lemme look around."

"Hurry," whispered Ricky. At his back, Melinda groaned softly. "Hurry!"

The footsteps moved away--the Doplee Affeck--and he faintly heard the man rummaging around at the far reaches of the garage.

Oh, hurry, thought Ricky.

"I got sumpin' here, kid," said the man. "Big ole crowbar. This should wor--" The man's voice was cut off abruptly and Ricky heard a wet thump just before the doors, followed by a heavier slide-thump.

"Mister?" whispered Ricky. "Mister? Are you al--"

"My sthweet child. My stho sthweet child," came a hiss from the other side of the doors. Through the slit, he could make out an impossibly-large shape, nebulous black and cod-belly white.

Ricky's stomach flip-flopped and he was dimly aware of wetness on the front of his Toughskins. Behind him, Melinda was wide awake and shrieking.

Ricky heard himself telling the girl to just be quiet, shut up, they're gonna hear, and then the doors opened and the light spilled in and Ricky was dimly aware that he, too, was screaming as the bogeyman reached in with shovel-sized hands and spatula-like fingernails. The last thing that Ricky thought was His nails are black; stuff's movin' underneath them and then, mercifully, he knew no more.

***

At dawn, the modified 1964 black Mercedes sedan crept slowly, like a snake, out of the driveway of the house on the hill and headed for the Interstate. Cassius slumbered, satiated, in the blackness of the polarized back seat and Matthew Richard Yoosip drove within the rules of the road, heading West, always heading West. A butterfly flitted, through the black diesel exhaust of the Mercedes, and dropped to the ground, motionless.

--PUPPIES, ICE CREAM CONES, BUTTERFLIES. AND SMILES?--