THE JITTERS
By
J.T. Cummins
Smashwords Edition
Published by PopPix Press
Los Angeles, California
COPYRIGHT & LICENSE NOTICE
The Jitters. Copyright © 2009 James Thomas Cummins. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contact J.T. at: jt@jtcummins.com, or visit him online at: jtcummins.com
DEDICATION
For Father. For Mother.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.T. Cummins is a suspense, horror and fantasy author and screenwriter. He writes efiction exclusively for the digital market. His etales include Cobblestones, Softly: The Uninvited, Minus Four, Winstrom, and Weaker Sex (co-written with Douglas Nabors a producer of the Emmy winning TV series Monk). Baptized in the Hollywood trenches, J.T. is also the screenwriter-director of the horror movie classic The Boneyard. A former motion picture special make-up effects artist, J.T.’s work appears in The Thing, House, Strange Invaders, Enemy Mine, and many others.
As a writer, J.T.’s diverse creative background manifests itself in an aggressive narrative style that merges the immediacy of the screenplay and the intimacy of the novel. Utilizing an active voice and minimal exposition, J.T. creates lean, mean, mind’s eye movies geared to a busy, modern audience that enjoys reading smart, fast paced, exciting fiction — all in about the time it takes to watch a feature length motion picture.
ONE
Under a blood-red, twilight sky, a mountainous forest wilderness stretches in all directions. The range is remote, ancient — almost primordial.
From deep inside a large heap of deadfall that nestles the nook of a hollow, Culpepper emerges. Bent, five-foot tall erect, he resembles nothing if not a wingless vampire bat/ape hybrid. With a hearty yawn, the nocturnal, feral beast stretches mightily and sheds the last vestiges of sleep.
Behind Culpepper, Dewlap appears in the den’s mouth. In the half-light, she looks similar, but sports longer scraggly hair, soulful blue eyes, and a face like a bulldog. Sweetly, she sidles up to her mate and nuzzles his thick muscular neck.
Ticklish, Culpepper chortles happily.
Snick!
A twig snaps in the wood and Culpepper stiffens.
Fearful, Dewlap drops back into the shadows of the den, and like a wraith, vanishes
Alert, Culpepper sniffs the air, recognizes a familiar scent, and smiles. Silent as a shiver, he slips into the forest and a dozen yards in, slows to a slink.
Crunch!
Culpepper drops into a crouch and freezes.
Fifty-feet away, a muscular timber wolf paws furiously at a tree stump.
Within the stump’s cavity, a single field mouse quakes uncontrollably as its home disintegrates around its ears.
Indifferent to either’s concerns, Culpepper focuses his considerable attention on the wolf and quietly begins to inch closer to his prey.
Similarly caught-up in the task at hand, the wolf is oblivious to all but the morsel inside the stump. But then, with the shift of the wind, an unfamiliar scent flares the wolf’s nostrils. Caught off guard, he looks up, but he is far too late.
Like a humanoid-leopard, Culpepper pounces from the brush and sets upon the wolf.
The pair collide hard, roll across the earth, and their limbs flail wildly against the other.
Culpepper’s teeth tear, and his sharp talons flash.
The wolf parries, but he is no match for his inhuman aggressor.
“Yelp,” cries the wolf, and he breaks free and scrambles pell-mell into the forest — as does the very lucky mouse.
Amidst a cloud of dust and leaves, Culpepper rises, apparently bereft of victory. But then, with a grunt, he lands a torn wolf haunch onto his shoulder and turns for home. Abruptly however, his ears prick and give him pause. For a moment he listens to some nearly inaudible sound, and then drawn, moves to the lip of a verdant meadow. Quietly, Culpepper perches atop a boulder and surveys an ocean of tall grass below. All appears as it should — tranquil and bucolic. Then, and without apparent cause, a tiny patch of tall grass shifts and rustles. Instantly on guard, Culpepper drops into a crouch and his eyes narrow.
Incongruously, thirteen-year old, freckly, Haydee Wilk surfaces from the grass. She’s alone, very afraid, and lost in the wilderness.
Aware of a good thing when he sees one, Culpepper looks at his meager haunch, and then the meatier girl and his imagination kicks into overdrive. In his mind’s eye, Culpepper slips into the grass and rushes headlong for the defenseless girl. With a terrible roar he surfaces mere feet from his prey, mouth agape, razor-sharp claws at the ready. Unexpectedly however, the girl wheels, her eyes bulge, her mouth distends, canine’s sprout, talons erupt, and she shreds Culpepper into bloody ribbons.
Uncomfortable with the notion, Culpepper shrugs off the thought and harrumphs at its implausibility. But, still...
Suddenly, a distant, inhuman wail of pain echoes throughout the wood.
Stricken with dread, Culpepper bolts in the direction of the cry.
Oppositely, Haydee ducks beneath a mossy log, draws herself into a fetal ball, and cowers from the wilderness and the fast approach of night.
TWO
With the wolf haunch still in hand, Culpepper appears in the den’s threshold and hangs there for a moment to listen. From deep inside the den, soft whimpers reverberate. Quietly, the creature descends into the main chamber and kneels beside a large nest of earth and twigs.
In the nest’s center lies Dewlap; her pregnant belly taut, her muscles tense. Near exhaustion, she forcefully grunts several times and then relaxes.
Full of trepidation, Culpepper peers between Dewlap’s bloody legs.
Amidst the placental gore rests baby Melon. However, in comparison to his parents, the newborn is an abomination. Pitifully, the ugly creature mews weakly, twitches once, twice, and then is still.
Dutifully, Culpepper prods the baby with a claw, but Melon doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.
Another wave of contractions hit, and poor Dewlap grimaces in pain. After a moment of bellows and grunts, she collapses back, spent.
With a vacant expression, Culpepper stares at poor baby Eva. More atrocious than even her brother, she is mercifully dead.
Regardless, Dewlap lifts the infant corpses and instinctively attempts to breast feed Melon. Horribly, his jelly head just lolls.
Sick from the sight, Culpepper extends his hands for the twin corpses, but Dewlap purposely ignores him and turns away.
Not one to ignore a challenge to his authority, Culpepper forcibly attempts to grab the babies, but Dewlap snarls and retreats to a corner.
Deep in denial, Dewlap coos and proudly holds up Eva’s limp cadaver. Eerily, the baby’s shadow plays across the deadfall’s timbers, and its proportions appear uncomfortably human.
Coincidentally, the shadow jogs Culpepper’s memory.
In the creature's mind's eye he sees Haydee rise dream-like from the tall grass.
Struck by the sudden spark of an idea, Culpepper’s worm-like lips form a diabolical smile.
THREE
In the verdant meadow, beneath the fallen tree, Haydee sleeps fitfully and dreams...
~~~~
Behind the bucking helm controls of a Twin Star prop, handsome, forty-six-year old, Pilot Wyatt Wilk struggles to keep control In the seat beside him is his chunky Executive Aid, Carter Dubb, and in the backseat; nervous Haydee.
“Hydraulic pressure’s dropping.” Wyatt informs his passengers. “There’s gotta’ be a bleed.”
Haydee signs: “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t worry, Haydee. Everything’s going to be fine. Just hold tight.”
Carter leans back over his seat, and tightens Haydee’s safety harness. “That’s right, girl,” Carter soothes with conviction. “If anyone’s more stubborn than this flying piece of crap, it’s your Pop.”
“I’ll take that as a vote of confidence, Carter.”
“Get us down in one piece, Governor, and I’ll stuff next terms ballot box.”
“My biggest supporter to the end.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
Haydee signs...
“No, Haydee, we won’t be ‘joining mommy in heaven.’” He sets his jaw. “Not today.”
A hose bursts and black smoke pours from the engine.
“Hold on you two. It’s gonna’ get rough.” Wyatt looks at Haydee in a rearview mirror. “I love you, baby.”
She signs: “I love you too.”
Tree tops appear outside the plane’s windows, and beyond them, a vast forest wilderness.
Pilot and passengers alike, tense and brace for impact.
~~~~
In the deep of the forest night that surrounds Haydee's trembling, sleeping body, insects chirp and night birds call. Then, for no discernable reason they quiet.
Subconsciously aware of the abrupt silence, Haydee stirs and glances about. A second later, an odd hiss travels overhead and the girl looks skyward.
High above the forest canopy, a flare explodes in the heavens. Bright, radiant, hopeful — a lifeline.
Ecstatic, Haydee leaps to her feet, and begins to gurgle incoherently. Mute since birth, it’s the best she can do.
Unfortunately, Haydee is so preoccupied by the white hot glow of the magnesium flare, she doesn’t notice Culpepper. Like a spider, he descends quietly from the foliage above Haydee’s head, slowly extracts his claws, and prepares to snag his prey.
FOUR
A man’s bloody finger squeezes a trigger, and a second flare streaks into the night sky.
Pawp!
Lit by the twin flare’s radiance, Wyatt leans back against the split fuselage of his Twin Star. “Follow the light,” Wyatt says to absent Haydee. “Just follow the light.”
Nearby, his back against the trunk of a tall oak, Carter fiddles with his cell phone. On his bloody leg he wears a makeshift splint made of cut branches and held in place with “Vote Governor Wilk” bumper stickers.
“What’s the matter, sir, having second thoughts about that forest interstate you vetoed?”
“We have enough asphalt,” Wyatt grumbles. “But every day, we have fewer and fewer natural resources. If our children are going to have a future, those resources have to be protected.”
“‘Green Grass Wilk’ to the end, eh, boss?”
The two men watch the twin flares die-out, and the forest darken around them.
“Well,” Carter sighs. “Your puddle jumper may be trashed, but at least your ethics are intact.”
“Alert the media,” Wyatt snorts. “Way out here, what good are ethics.”
“Or cell phones,” Carter says in defeat and tosses his useless gadget into the forest. Inadvertently, the phone hits something in the brush and it grunts.
“Haydee,” Wyatt asks the darkness.
A twig snaps behind the men, and then a shuffle resounds from their right. Their left. Above?
Brusquely, a pair of claws piston from the leaves above Carter and snare his face and head. In a single jerk, he disappears into the tree’s foliage.
“Carter,” Wyatt cries and runs to the tree where his aid sat a mere moment before. At the base of the oak, Wyatt looks up through the chaos of foliage, and in the tree-top sees several dark shapes descend on Carter and tear at his body. The aid screams bloody murder, but only until he’s torn asunder.
Blood suddenly spots Wyatt’s face and clothes, and in abject horror, he recoils.
Without fanfare, a brutish figure drops from a tree and lands in the shadows at Wyatt’s feet. Its powerful arm lashes out, crashes into Wyatt’s chest, and catapults him backward through the Twin Star’s open cockpit doorway. Wyatt lands hard across the seats, and immediately begins to gasp for the air so brutally driven from his lungs.
Dispassionate, the shadowy figure outside charges the plane.
With a glance, Wyatt ascertains his attacker’s eventual destination, so he hooks his foot in the door’s handle and yanks it shut.
Bam! The brute slams against the exterior of the plane and the aluminum door buckles inward.
Nearly apoplectic, Wyatt heaves himself upright and locks the door.
An instant later, several unseen visitors land on the plan’s skin and their weight buffets the craft. Then, in rapid succession, blows from outside begin to pock mark the cabin’s interior walls. Frantic, Wyatt rips open a dashboard compartment, yanks out a handgun, and drives a clip home.
Creee-akkk! The passenger door tears away and grubby hands snare Wyatt’s ankles. Unceremoniously, they yank him feet first from the cockpit.
In the dark of the night, several gunshots retort, and then silence falls over the deep wood.
FIVE
Culpepper lays limp, unconscious Haydee in Dewlap’s nest and then takes a step back.
Warily, Dewlap approaches the unfamiliar creature, leans over her and sniffs. Overly curious by nature, Dewlap sets down her spawn and lifts Haydee’s shirt. Happy with what she sees, Dewlap purrs and begins to inspect Haydee’s body and apparel. Drawn by a bulge in a pants pocket, Dewlap fishes out several pennies, a stick of gum, and a sheer scarf. Reverently, she sets them aside, and then continues her scavenger hunt.
With his mate’s attention elsewhere, crafty Culpepper retreats with the dead infants to a dark corner of the den that shelters several small graves. Solemnly, with his bare hands, he begins to dig two more.
Meanwhile, ever curious Dewlap brushes Haydee’s hair off her shoulder and uncovers obsidian Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses slung around her neck with a rubber strap. With an intelligence that belies her grotesque countenance, Dewlap gently slips the cord over Haydee’s head and peers through one of the Ray-Ban’s polarized lenses. Indifferent to their effect, she grumbles and sets the glasses next to her other prizes.
“Uh,” Haydee groans softly, and then begins to stir. Tentatively, her eyelids flutter open, but flare wide at the sight of the female monster that hovers over her. She opens her mouth and screams, but only a comical squeak escapes.
Drawn by the strange sound, Culpepper joins his mate.
Upset by the sight of yet another hideous creature, Haydee squeaks again.
Unable to stifle their amusement, Culpepper and Dewlap chortle.
SIX
An Augusta A-109S Search Air Rescue helicopter pierces low clouds, and banks toward a high mountain vista.
At the chopper’s helm is sixty-three-year old Captain Grace McCaffrey. She’s professional, no-nonsense, and proud. “Anything” She asks her rough-and-tumble Co-Pilot Briggs McCoy. “Anything at all?”
“Through this jungle?” Briggs asks rhetorically, and lowers his binoculars to rub his tired eyes. “Not even a white assed deer.”
“Well, keep sharp, the governor’s transponder cut out near these coordinates, so we’ve gotta be within ballpark.”
Briggs takes a deep breath and mentally regroups. “Okay, so we know we’re searchin’ for a Twin Star prop piloted by Governor Wyatt Wilk. He has two passengers — his daughter and a member of his staff. They left Athegany yesterday for a fund raiser in Crescent City, but never showed. Worse, there’s been no Mayday, which suggests that either the Twin Star ditched due to mechanical failure, or...”
“Or?”
“Like most of our elected officials, Wilk doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground — especially when it comes to flyin’.”
“Quite an editorial from someone who snubs the democratic process every four years.”
“Hey, it’s a survivor’s world down there, Grace. I don’t need some politico holding my hand. Let’s just hope for his passenger’s sake, the Governor’s better at cuttin’ mustard in the field than piloting.”
“‘Knock, knock,’” Dr. Madeline Elkin says cheerily from the cockpit doorway. Thirty-four-years old, the attractive woman carries herself with a quiet dignity that marks a strength she’s not even aware of. In the hold behind her, Paramedic Cohen Bryce reorganizes a med-kit with the neurotic intensity of someone who takes themselves far too seriously. “Coffee,” Madeline asks the pilot and co-pilot.”
“I’ll pass,” Briggs says, and feigns the shakes. “Caffeine-o-rama.”
“How about you, Cap —” Wind buffets the craft and Madeline slips, but catches herself.
“Just hook me up an I.V. drip, Doc. No way are my hands leavin’ this stick. Briggs, what’ve we got left?”
“Coverage is approximately twenty-five percent. To maximize efforts, I suggest we tack the remaining grid. As the sun climbs, reflections from the site are our best bet visually.”
A downdraft momentarily shakes the craft.
“Oh, God,” Madeline blurts, and shoots Cohen a dirty-look. “‘Volunteer for Medivac/EMS,’ you said. ‘It’ll be fun, just like old times at med school.’ Ugh, what the hell am I doing here, Cohen? I’m a general practitioner, not some Fly Girl. I’m trained to rely on brain, not brawn.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Cohen replies supportively. “Under adverse conditions, give me intellect over instinct any time.”
“Oh yeah,” Briggs snorts. “Brain power, that’ll propel your ass through the wilderness. Gray matter sure came in handy during your survival training hike, eh, Doc?”
Touchy about the subject, Madeline looks away.
“Tell Cohen just how many power bars you had left in your rations after ‘intellect’ convinced you you’d never make it through that weekend alive. C’mon, girl, fess up.”
“Step off, Briggs,” Cohen warns. “Maddy made it to the finish line didn’t she.”
“I’ll give her that, but even our ol’ Cap’n here bettered the Doc’s time by three hours. Hell, the field guide was so worried she’d gotten lost, he almost sent a search party out to track her power bar wrappers.”
“That’s not true, Briggs. You made that up.” Madeline looks to Grace for support. “He made that up, right?”
Briggs laughs at Madeline’s insecurity.
“Don’t let the big ape club your buttons,” Grace consoles. “You did fine.”
Childishly, Maddy sticks her tongue out at Briggs.
“However,” Grace adds. “If you were perhaps ten pounds lighter...”
Madeline’s brow creases into a frown.
“Zip,” Briggs laughs. “Natural selection cuts another from the herd.”
Madeline punches Briggs in the shoulder.
“Ow! You little —”
Suddenly, spots of light dances about the cockpit.
“Heads up,” Grace orders. “We’ve got ourselves a debris field.”
Briggs snatches up his binoculars and glasses the terrain below. “Five o’clock. Heading: southeast.”
Anxious with dread, but simultaneously eager to get on with their task, Madeline rushes to a window and looks out.
Far below, through a canopy of trees, the Twin Star’s broken hull appears. Windblown and devoid of life, the craggy crash site is creepy as hell.
“No sign of survivors,” Briggs relays to the crew.” “But, there is a clearing.”
“I see it.” Grace says, and picks up a dashboard radio mic. “Search Air Rescue Eight to Dispatch, acknowledge.”
“We read you loud and clear, Eight. Please advise.”
“Twin Star wreckage sighted on the southern bluff of a wooded plateau. Coordinates as follows...” Grace discretely slips bifocals from her pocket and puts them on. However, even with their aid, she has to strain to read a gauge. “God damn, useless...” Grace secretly pockets her bifocals, and presses “send” on the radio mic. “Er, experiencing temporary malfunction. Activating automatic radio transponder.”
“Roger, Eight.”
Grace flips a switch on the instrument panel. “Beacon set. E.T.A. in three minutes. Will relay pertinent information as it becomes available.”
“Be aware, Eight, coordinates show no habitation. Nearest emergency services are outside a ninety-five mile radius. You’re on your own out there. Proceed with extreme caution.”
“Understood, Dispatch. Please advise as necessary.” Grace cuts rotational speed, and prepares to land. “Look sharp, everyone. We’re goin’ in.”
As the chopper descends, turbulence from the rotors buffets a sheet of loose aluminum from the crash site. It tears free of the wreckage, skips skyward and lodges against a motor vent. Cut off from circulation, the engine begins to stall.
“God damn it,” Grace curses as she fights the stick and anti-torque pedals.
The Augusta yaws, straightens, and just barely clears the tree tops.
“Losing center line and E.T.L. There’s no holding her!”
“Air Rescue Eight to Dispatch,” Briggs shouts over the din. “Mayday, mayday!”
The crew braces for impact.
In a last ditch effort, Grace attempts rapid deceleration and flares the chopper. While the nose does pitch-up, the maneuver comes too late.
Screeeaaackkk! A skid hits, collapses, and the Augusta’s belly gouges the earth. Sparks fly, and the hulk slides fifty-yards through the middle of nowhere and crashes against a rocky abutment. Her engine cut, the rotors wind down feebly and then stop altogether.
Ominously, wind howls about the motionless craft and scatters black engine smoke into a slate gray sky.
SEVEN