Rites of Extinction

  Praise for the works of Matt Serafini

  “Matt Serafini’s deep knowledge and appreciation of the genre shines in Under the Blade—a novel with echoes of horror’s paperback glory days, but spills new blood with a modern protagonist and style. I loved it!”

  – Brian Keene

  “A great book.”

  – Shock Waves Podcast

  on Under the Blade

  “Matt Serafini is a literary writer with a heart full of slasher films. His stylish blood-soaked prose is a treat for all horror fans, intimidating to his cohorts, and a vehicle that brings the glorious violence and tension of 1980s horror screaming into the present.”

  – Gabino Iglesias, author of

  Zero Saints and Coyote Songs

  “Serafini makes bold decisions . . . horror fans and authors of this genre will surely applaud!”

  –Final Guys

  “. . . takes you on one hell of a ride!”

  — Scream Magazine

  “Serafini displays a sure hand . . . a savage and blood-drenched read.”

  – Horror After Dark

  “Serafini is energetic and entertaining, constantly keeping readers on their toes.”

  – Wicked Horror

  Rites of Extinction copyright © 2019 by Matt Serafini. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press

  PO BOX 521

  Dayton, Ohio 45401

  Grindhouse Press logo and all related artwork copyright © 2019 by Brandon Duncan. All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Scott Cole © 2019. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press #050

  ISBN-10: 1-941918-46-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941918-46-3

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

  Also by Matt Serafini

  Novels

  Ocean Grave

  Island Red

  Under the Blade

  Devil’s Row

  Feral

  Collections

  All-Night Terror (with Adam Cesare)

  1

  REBECCA DANIELS IS SLUMPED INSIDE a rest stop booth. A plate of undercooked curly fries cools before her. Two paper cups, mustard and ketchup, sit in unmolested domes of yellow and red.

  Everything’s untouched.

  The entering family has her full attention. The father, just a few years behind Rebecca, is fifty pounds overweight inside a loose Hawaiian shirt he thinks hides his gut. He carries a baby in a pink hat in one arm while using the other to hold his son’s hand. The boy’s eyes are like Christmas once he spots the golden arches. The way he begs for a Happy Meal is Pavlovian.

  Mom strides in behind them, a pretty little trophy thing who looks like she’s crawled on hands and knees from the pages of an Old Navy catalogue. The cell phone in the palm of her hand shows a GPS image and she points to the restrooms nestled in the far corner.

  “We’re making good time,” she says. “So five minutes for the little boys’ room and then we meet back here, okay?” She takes the baby girl in her arms and hurries off.

  Dad watches her go and ruffles the top of his son’s hair. Once mom’s out of earshot he leans down and says, “Chicken nuggets?” The little boy takes his hand, starts dragging dad like a stubborn horse. “Let’s go, Daddy. Let’s go get chicken nuggets!” Dad laughs as they head toward the kiosk. They’re about to pull one over on mom.

  The ghost of a smile haunts Rebecca’s otherwise sullen face. She remembers what these road trips used to be like. Touch and go, mostly. Chaotic in the moment, because it’s all screaming kids, spilt milk, lost toys, and the exasperated discussions that happen around these crises. Last thing these vacations are is relaxing.

  But memories have a way of crystalizing the happiness the further you get away from them.

  Rebecca watches the dad lift his son up as they scrutinize the menu, openly strategizing the order. She can tell dad’s got the stuff. That special ingredient that makes you one of the good ones. Anyone can become a parent. The physical act of doing so is nothing but biology. But that means jack without the rest.

  You’ve got to want to do it.

  Because nobody’s impressed with your ability to have a kid. Most people on this earth have the tools necessary to plant a baby, watch it grow. It’s more impressive to get a driver’s license, gun permit, or college degree. You need to work for those things.

  But a baby?

  Nah.

  Dad and son have landed on food. The dad steps back so the little boy can step to the counter and mumble his order. Rebecca doesn’t hear the particulars from her vantage, only the atonal child’s drone as he asks for “golden ketchup” and then explains it’s for “my chicken nuggets.” Everyone has a real cute laugh over this.

  And, again, Rebecca knows she’s right about daddy. One of those invested types. They’re easy to spot because they go out in public without looking like they’re dragging a human curse around with them.

  Good parents are hard to find. An admittedly bleak worldview that stems from Rebecca’s line of work, but she’s got more than enough anecdotal evidence in her microcosm to justify it.

  And hell, parenting is not easy. Whole years will pass before you know where you fall on the scale. But this dad . . . he’s doing it right. Blood and tears.

  Dad glances over, happens to lock eyes with Rebecca. She’s jolted from her daydream and, now that she’s been found out, reaches for a fry and throws an awkward wave with her free fingers.

  He’s quick to look away, searching out another spot for his eyes to nest before he turns back to the food. Rebecca nods to herself, thinking, yep, one of the good ones. Not only is he Father of the Year but mom’s got his gaze on lockdown.

  Mom reappears carrying the baby whose spring outfit doesn’t look an inch out of place. Her footsteps echo on the permanently streaky rest stop tile.

  “Steve,” she says, “we’re going to eat at my sister’s.”

  Rebecca doesn’t like her as much. Doesn’t like this type at all. It’s not as easy to tell where she falls on the scale. Stay-at-home mom, she guesses, which probably means she had to bury her own career in order to commit. Rebecca should be more sympathetic. Every parent makes sacrifices, some of them more severe than others.

  As mom and baby rejoin the boys, mom laughs and smiles at the conversation, giving her husband a playful nudge of affection that may or may not be for Rebecca’s benefit.

  This family’s got time. As much as any of them do. But it goes quick and the end is even harder on the good ones. It’ll be brutal for them once the little ones are grown. Nobody warns you about Empty Nest Syndrome when you sign the parental contract, but it’s a hell of a thing.

  The family over there ain’t thinking about it. But one day, Little Johnny and Little Julie are going to pack up the old ass Supra and drive off to four years of freedom, an academic layover before moving to some dirty-ass city because they think “all that culture” can cure the settling malaise inside of them.

  When that happens, it’ll be the parents who really suffer.

  The cell phone on the table vibrates. The Formica surface grumbles, as if objecting to the message before she can read it. Rebecca doesn’t have to read it to know the gist but flips it over and sighs.

  Don’t run, Becks.

  The dad stares at Rebecca again. This is too much attention. She doesn’t want to be remembered. But of course that’s wh
at’s going to happen to a woman who can’t keep her eyes to herself inside a rest stop.

  Rebecca feels the need to go to them and foist her hackneyed advice. Words they would never hear, for they’d be too busy thinking about what a lunatic she is. So she stays where she is, thankful for the modicum of self-awareness she’s still got.

  But it’s all true, goddammit, and they should know. Somebody should tell them. It’s the parents who give their bodies and souls, only to be rewarded with feelings of worth and purpose. For a time.

  Until they’re left sitting in quiet living rooms like hollowed-out husks. And it’s their fault because they’ve spent eighteen years as willing but indentured servants to their offspring and, really, the only kind of cold turkey anyone likes is Thanksgiving leftovers . . .

  Another buzzing text:

  Come home so we can sort everything out. Please.

  This one barely registers. Rebecca’s too busy watching the Family Of The Year. Not all parents are created equal. That’s just the luck of the draw. Ask the deadbeat dad living under some bullshit assumed name in an Albuquerque walk-up if he’s sad about never again seeing one of his daughter’s dance recitals. Or the junkie mom who’s thirty-two going on seventeen and leaves her eleven-month-old home alone in his crib six nights a week because he sleeps through the night and mom just needs, really needs, that chemical high in order to feel alive.

  This family gets their greasy fast food bags and it’s mom’s turn to hold everything while dad takes the boy to “potty.” They glide into earshot and Rebecca watches dad give mom a sly pat on the ass. “This way,” he says, “he’s guaranteed to eat and we’ll enjoy Julie’s company without having to worry every five seconds if he likes poached salmon or whatever the heck she’s going to torture us with.”

  The boys of the family hurry off, leaving the mom to consider what a thoughtful man she’s got. Probably already knows. She passes by without giving Rebecca a second look, but the infant throws a toothless grin over mommy’s shoulder. A sight so sweet Rebecca can’t help but mist at the sight of it.

  All Rebecca has are memories from another life.

  She was near the end. Empty Nest close enough to dread. She was finished with all the schedules and coordinating of softball practices, games, sleepovers, weekend excursions to the mall, and even college scouting.

  What they don’t tell you is that you know you’ve done it right if you think back on things and know in your heart it was worth it. That the part you played in creating life, in raising another human being under your own tutelage, was the most fulfilling thing you’ll ever do. Because after you’re gone and everyone forgets you even lived, only your children will know you existed at all.

  It’s the only way to live forever.

  And if you’re that deadbeat in Albuquerque or the junkie perma-teen, you’ll never know that feeling. Yeah, you’re a parent. But you’re not a parent. And no one’s gonna miss you when you’re in the dirt.

  Empty Nest is just another way of spelling circle of life. You’re never really whole again, but you can sometimes fill that void with enough relics from your old life. Just enough to recover the scent. Just enough to remember the way you used to be.

  Sometimes, though, Empty Nest happens before it should. Unnaturally. And that’s a lot tougher to reconcile. When your child is taken from you, even those little fragments of your old life are out of reach. When your child is murdered, found in the heart of public conservation land, with a face slashed to ribbons and a heart stuck through, the grief swallows you whole.

  There is no recovery.

  The phone shakes again but Rebecca stuffs it into her pocket. The dad and son return from the restroom, the boy cheerfully mumbling something about how his hands aren’t fully dry from that blowy thing, and Rebecca wipes another tear as she remembers how everything’s a marvel at that age.

  Life so full of wonder.

  She wishes there was something left to surprise her.

  The family regroups and leaves, the dad stealing one last glance at Rebecca. He smiles without eye contact and it’s unclear what he means. Then they’re gone, and Rebecca is alone with her fries. Doesn’t remember why she ordered them in the first place. She hasn’t eaten fried food in twenty years.

  She tosses it in the nearest barrel and uses the bathroom, stopping just inside the doorway with hands curled around either side of the jamb. The row of mirrors cannot see her reflection from this vantage, and she steals a few quick breaths before she rushes past.

  Whatever you do, don’t look.

  She reaches the anonymity of the far stall and locks the door, curious about the latest text. It says, At least tell me where you’re going.

  Beyond the stall, she hears the tapping. One finger tinking on glass.

  Not now, she thinks. She’s gotta find this place. Some ’burg she’s never heard of. A town called Bright Fork.

  Truth of it is, she doesn’t even know how she knows that’s where she needs to go.

  It takes a few minutes to build up the courage needed to sprint past the glass again. No time to stop and wash her hands. She’ll use the package of baby wipes she’s got sitting on the passenger seat of her car.

  Then she flings the stall door wide and sprints. The playful tinks hasten as her reflection blurs by, and then she’s free of them. Rebecca hurries to the parking lot where frosted air irritates her lungs. She’s underdressed because this spring is colder than most. A thin coat of frost entombs her car’s dented body.

  That’s okay, though, because her insides are always on fire lately. Always too warm. A fever she can’t seem to shake.

  Every day on the road is like this now. All of yesterday, a dream. All of today, a nightmare.

  2

  REBECCA PULLS THE CAR OVER to the side of the road as soon as the headache hits. A trail of scorched rubber follows her taillights off the asphalt and into the dirty turnaround. The sign there reads: WELCOME TO BRIGHT FORK.

  Normally, she’d soldier through this. Migraines are a hereditary ailment for Clan Daniels and she’s never been a stranger to them. Got bottles of Advil in every room back home and two here in the car.

  But this is more than just some migraine. It feels like spikes sliding behind her eyes. Pressure on her skull sends tears down her cheeks. She fumbles for the glove box as invisible hands squeeze her temples.

  Her eyes feel ready to burst.

  It’s bad and getting worse.

  The closer to Bright Fork she gets, everything’s so much worse.

  The liquid-filled capsules rattle around as she fishes the bottle out from beneath a pistol and a mess of crumpled owner’s papers. She swallows four without water, a real pro at this, then sits for a moment massaging her skull while the worst of it passes.

  Rebecca happens to glance out through the trees. Down into the valley cradling the town of Bright Fork in between a sweeping mountain range. A snow globe village, at this distance. She’s much closer than she realized. To see it brings shivers. The sky above is etched in gray, making Bright Fork a raw and unwelcoming place.

  The invisible vice begins to loosen around her head as the Advil kicks in. Rebecca manages to get upright, closes her hands around the steering wheel.

  Let’s get this over with, she thinks and starts on.

  3

  FIRST PLACE SHE STOPS IS the diner. Hubs of information when you’re hunting the drifter class. Not everyone’s got the scratch for a motel room, but almost anyone can scrounge a few quarters for coffee and pie.

  Rebecca sits on the stool nearest the register, feeling like an old man on the beach with a metal detector. She thinks of these places as grain sifters. Every so often you shake your pan around until the sand falls through and only that lost Rolex remains.

  Her Rolex is a man.

  A killer.

  She orders a vanilla Coke and a cheeseburger and the asshole working the grill makes a comment about how nice it is to see a good-looking girl with an appetite. She twists
her mouth into a lopsided smirk that disappears before it has a chance to register as encouragement.

  Just her way of ensuring he fucks off.

  Cooks are never any help. Their workdays are sweat and sizzle and, in dives like this, sucking down Marlboro Reds out behind the dumpster whenever there’s a lull. No. Thanks. It’s waitresses who’ve got the answers. They know all the faces. And the stories that go with them.

  That’s what she needs today.

  Rebecca needs one particular face.

  She puts the photograph face up on the table as the woman brings her soda. Rebecca asks if she’s seen him. The waitress picks up the photo and waves it between her fingers as she thinks it through.

  The young man in the picture wears an Ivy League haircut, pomaded hair pushed away from the part.

  Nope. The waitress ain’t seen him, suggests maybe trying the Harvest Hill Motor Inn down the road.

  Rebecca smiles warmly, slides the photo back into her pocket and presses the plastic straw to her lips, spelunking for syrup. “Thanks,” she says, beginning to ascend on an afternoon sugar high. Sugar’s poison, but she thinks she could get used to this.

  The sweetness on her tongue riles old Thursday night memories. Dinner at the truck stop on Route 117, because Jaime thought their burgers were the best in the state. The only time she’d stop pouring vanilla soda down her throat was to take a big bite of one.

  Rebecca never found the food there to be anything special, certain their salads came from a bag, and Jaime waved the accusation away. “Who orders salad at a truck stop, Mom?”

  Rebecca’s stomach turns as the waitress slides the burger in front of her. The smell of grease is enough to make her feel ill and, like the fries at this morning’s rest stop, she wonders just what in the hell she’s thinking.