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Tags: fiction, horror
This originally ran in the pre-crisis publication, Evolved.
The Kegs of Anvier - Part I
The old man stunk of wine and sweat, staining the air of the bar an hour before it opened. His face was scarred and dirty, hair thickened by grime, and he wore a thick flannel shirt with jeans far too big for his scrawny frame. Ten years later his outfit would be trendy, but in 1985 he was no more than a smelly bum.
“It’s early,” called out the bartender.
“I just want a bottle of wine, and then I’ll leave.”
“There’s liquor stores for that. Cheaper too.”
The old man shuffled back and forth on his feet, “I wasn’t always like this, no sir. Just want a bottle of wine, then I’ll be on my way. You won’t see me no more.”
The bartender stopped wiping the bar and, after staring at his reflection, looked up. Joe, the bartender, looked at the old man. The life in the old man’s eyes looked burnt out, dead from too much drinking. “I didn’t think I’d end up behind a bar, neither. God, nature, what have you.”
“Not God or Nature, sir,” the old man shook his head.
“Our license regulates when we are permitted to sell alcohol. You’d have to be the mayor or something to get a drink here before we open.”
“May I sit down for a spell then? I feel like I’m falling to pieces…Oh, I’ll be gone before the regular folks arrive, no trouble there.”
Joe looked him over. The old man’s smell bordered on offensive. In spite of his job, Joe had little patience with alcoholics. His father had a taste for beer that had nearly sunk the bar. It took Joe years to build it back up; creditors still called once in awhile. Still, the weather was supposed to drop another ten degrees, and a corner table could be deodorized after the bum left. “Over there in the corner,” Joe nodded. “The nuts in the bowl should still be edible.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m not hungry nohow.” The old man turned and made his way to the corner table. He pulled out a chair and sat under a poster of Jimmy Durante. Tired eyes made their way to the television above the bar. Joe went back to straightening the bottles, discreetly spraying Lysol.
“Its funny, you know,” called out the old man.
“What is?”
“What you said about me having to be some official to get a drink here…I used to be a deputy down in Hillswater. Deputy Nick Summers, H. S. O.”
“Joseph Trock, B.S. in Anthropology.”
“What’s a college man doing tending bar?”
“What’s a deputy doing hustling drinks?” Joe said too quickly.
“Touch?!” Nick cried before Joe could take back his comment.
Joe wiped dust off a bottle of Smirnoff and walked over to Nick. “Things happen,” Joe offered lamely. An impulse made his stretch out his hand, but the awkwardness of the action was apparent. Nick shook his head, “My hands are dirty, but if you got some time, I’d appreciate the company.”
Joe sat down opposite the man. “This was my Dad’s bar. He kept us clothed and fed and helped put me through college. He always drank, but it got worse after Mom died. When his liver started going he asked me to help out. I agreed. He’s been dead six years and I’m still here.”
“Tragic,” Nick sympathized.
“What’s your story?”
“My story, sir, is unbelievable. But if you are willing to listen,” Nick paused, waiting for Joe to nod. Joe nodded his head.
The Old Man’s Story
I’m a bum, but I’m tolerated. People see me and feel bad, like maybe it’s their fault - not giving enough at church or something. They give me money, knowing what I’ll spend it on - whatever. The point I’m trying to make is, it wasn’t like that twenty, thirty years ago. Before I was transferred to Hillswater, I was up in Denning near the big city. Land of wineries, they call it. Barkeeps like yourself would make deals, bring me six kegs, 12 cases of wine, something like that. They’d drop it off in the morning and pick up the empty kegs, like the milkman.
Anyway, I was young blood, looking to get a promotion and maybe sock some of it away to get married. I was walking the Kingston beat at that time. Six blocks of derelicts and other hoodlums. Mostly rousting them, writing up reports if one of them robbed or stabbed. I did my job, hating it, but you have to start somewhere. I treated them fairly, didn’t beat on them like some of the other cops, so they sort of trusted me.
It was spring, I remember. If it was fall or winter, it wouldn’t have been so weird. I was noticing less homeless than usual and grabbed a regular. His name was Stan or Lenny, and I said, “Where are all of your buddies?” He doesn’t know nothing ’til I start rattling around change in my pocket and then he tells me the second strangest goddam story I ever heard.
He looks at me with his bloodshot eyes and whispers, “They’re takin’ ‘em.”
“Who is, Lenny?” I ask, and he tells me they’re being taken to one of the wineries.
“Forced labor?” I ask, trying to find out which way he’s shitting me. “No, man. Their bodies.” Then he grabs me and says he has proof. Touching a cop is grounds for an ass-kicking, but there’s this look in his eyes…
It’s damn near dawn and I should be waking bums up and sending them on their way. Instead I’m making my way through back alleys with this guy and he takes me to the backside of the Broken Record. There’s two kegs standing there waiting for the pick-up and Lenny starts pointing at one of them, trembling, afraid to get near it. As soon as I approach it, he takes off running. I get to the keg, pry off the lid and see that it’s still half full of wine. Leaning farther over it, I see this body. Naked, but I could tell it was a bum, unshaven, dirty, and I stumble away and puke.
The way I see it now is I can either report in and some Homicide detective can steal my thunder or I can do some more investigating and bust this thing up on my own. I resealed the keg and opened the other one. Empty. A noise behind me catches me off guard and I draw down on Lenny. “It’s like I said.”
“Now Lenny, I need your help. I’m going to get into this funhouse ride and see where it takes me. If you don’t see me tomorrow, go down to the station and give the desk seargeant this,” I handed over my badge. “Good, Lenny, now I’m climbing down inside this keg, and I need you to bang real hard on the cover.” I crawl inside and hear him whimper and begin banging on the lid. I hope like hell I don’t suffocate although I can shoot air holes if it needs to. I can see so I run my hand along the inside of the barrel. Feeling the groove of the wood, various scratches, all the while inhaling wine fumes. I fought down panic for who knows how long before I hear a truck outside. The worst part was when I realize the scratches along the inside are from fingernails.
The Kegs of Anvier - Part II
So then a few minutes pass and I hear these guys, probably shooting the shit. The barrel next to me scrapes away. Forget butterflies, I feel like I’ve got spiders in my stomach. I can feel them climbing up inside me like thousands of little legs, making me want to cry out. Then a jostle and BAM! Up into the truck. I have my gun out now, ready, sweating even though I’m as cold as hell.
I’m thinking then, trying to remain calm, about how to handle this. Burst out of the barrel and draw down on the first person I see? Naahh, I’ve only got six bits of lead and I’m not that fast on the hammer. Wait till they open mine and surprise ‘em? Who knows how long that’ll be. I press my ear against the barrel, hard. I can feel the claw marks with my ear; you know how deep they must have been so I could feel them with my ear? I’m listening and I’m hearing the engine and not much else. My legs are starting to cramp so I give them a good rubdown and feel the handle of my flick knife. Not much, mostly used for gutting fish and opening mail, but enough to pry the lid up. I see I’m in the back of a truck with about ten barrels. Two rows of five. There’s no window, so I can’t see the driver, but I figure two, maybe three guys, probably beefy but unarmed. I crawl over the barrels, next to the door. It’s a roll-down number with a latch. My blade snaps off working the latch up but I manage. I can even work the door up a little and, pressing my head to the bed, I can peer out the crack and see dawn rising over Denning. We’re above the city, winding our way to the wineries. I get my bearings and figure its Chateau Anvier we’re headed for. Damn good thing too.
There’s a hairpin turn. Drivers have to slow down, otherwise (if it were a straight shot) during winter they’d lose control. I figure a truck has to take it even slower. I jam the handle of the broken knife under the door and wedge it up enough so I can roll out when we slow down. It wasn’t as graceful as it would have been on TV; but I ducked into the vineyards and watched the truck wind its way up. I figured if they saw me they would have stopped.
Chateau Anvier was acres of vineyards around a turn-of-the-century winery: a smalltime operation with a fake French name that fooled the tourists. The original Chateau, I forget the name, was too stupid to turn to grape juice during prohibition and went belly up. Daniel Vunsworth, the wine maker, came up with enough money at the right time. He seemed to run a low-budget but profitable operation. Even had a nice picnic area, although he discontinued the tours. You saved enough money buying their wine that you could tell yourself it tasted better than it actually did. Crawling through rows after rows of grapes, I kept wondering where the bums come in.
The fields of vines surround the Chateau, wood and tin construction. A front building for business, covered walkways lead out behind it to three larger buildings. Two of them are joined, probably the processing plant and the vats. The other one, I figure, is probably where they keep the casks and have the bottling facility. It’s still early but I see workers around, tiny Guats or Mexis out picking grapes, some machinery but mostly done by hand. The damnedest thing though is the white van just sitting in the parking lot. I can see barrels are being moved from one of the trucks into the van. I was right in thinking that the guys were beefy. I get closer, got down by the parking lot. Could make out their faces above their overalls, but the wind pushes their words away. Things are going fine until they get to my barrel and I can see them yelling bloody murder. I smile and get real low to the ground. Then I hear something behind me and feel something explode against the back of my head.
Joe leaned in close, the old man’s smell no longer an issue. Nick smiled, showing gray teeth what few there were. “I’m a bit thirsty from all this talking,” he said.
Joe went to the bar, poured a glass of wine and hurried back. Nick, enjoying the dramatic pause, sipped the wine, sighed with satisfaction and took a big gulp. “Now where was I?”
“You know right where you were.”
Actually, I didn’t know right where I was. At first all I knew was that I was naked and my back was cold, couldn’t move nothing, and my head hurt like hell. Then I realized where I was. On a damn metal table, like a doctor’s. I felt the straps holding me down and then a man with a surgical mask came into my view. This godawful voice says, “You’re going to tell me what you know and then I’ll decide what to do with you.” Except it isn’t the guy speaking, it’s some voice behind my head, just out of view. My tongue is feeling thick but I told him I was a cop and he could screw himself.
Like lightning the doctor presses this scalpel against my stomach.
“The wonders of modern science. Back in the old days, to truly understand the workings of the body’s organs they had to rely on vivisection. They would hold animals down and open their abdominal cavities to observe. Opening the thoracic cavity tended to end the experiment too soon. I wonder if you would be so bold after watching the good doctor remove your appendix. You can live without it, you know,” he leans in next to my ear, “But you wouldn’t want to.”
“I don’t know anything,” I tell him and then the scalpel cuts in. This warmth spread down my pants and I thought I pissed myself. The doctor’s hand reaches in and I can feel his fingers moving around inside me. It’s so cold and so warm and all I can do is listen to myself scream.
I don’t know what I said. I woke up later, hours, days? in the field by the Chateau Anvier. The windows were boarded up, trucks gone. I’m bandaged around my torso and feel like I went ten rounds with Clay. I stagger up to the entrance and there’s a scrap of paper and dammit if it ain’t there for me.
How troublesome to have come so far only to be interrupted by a common constable. Enjoy your alterations, on the reverse side you’ll find a $50 bill. The first few drinks will be on us.
~Vunsworth
Joseph looked across the table at the old man and then over at the clock. “This is bullshit. Thanks for killing an hour though.”
“Is this bullshit!” The old man’s hands crawled down the front of his shirt like spiders. The buttons opened, or tore with his fingers’ frenetic energy, but the bartender’s attention was fixed, not on the emerging network of stiches, but on gaping sores that covered his torso. Joe forced himself not to look closely, but from the raw, bloody mouths, vines seemed to be sprouting.
“Jesus,” the bartender mouthed. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m not alive,” cried the old man, “I’m preserved.”
-Terry