The Scoop
Billy Ramone
Billy Ramone is a pulp fiction writer living and working in Columbus, Ohio. He writes horror, crime, and speculative fiction. He has published dozens of stories over the last 25 years. He is currently the creator/editor of Pulp Asylum.
The thing looked about half human, give or take.
McGinnis’s hands trembled as the enormity of the story slapped him upside the head. He didn’t, however, let the tremor stop him. He pressed the business end of the Nikon into the crack between frame and door and fired blind, zipping off half a roll stat, auto-winder whirring manically. The flash chugged, strobing the hell out of the creature’s six by six room. It went nuclear, the low moans that had guided McGinnis to it giving way to full-throated bellows. The sound reminded him of the stuff he used to hear when he worked the pro wraslin circuit for Ringside. He pulled the camera back just in time, a split second before the door shuddered as the thing’s weight flew into it.
The door’s chain snapped taunt, but it held. Gray fingers with black nails--short, but nastily pointed--grasped the edge of the door, gouging angry furrows along its edge. The beast yelped in pain as McGinnis slammed his own weight against the door and forced it closed, catching the fingers as they withdrew.
He leaned there, his back pressed against the door, and began to laugh, imagining the look on Fox’s face when he saw the shots. The little weasel would shit himself. Then there would be no more pissing on Pete McGinnis around the offices of The Messenger. No way. No more society page blurbs on empty-headed debs, no more human interest crappola about little old ladies salvaging cats from the local shelter, no more trite-ups of ice cream socials for the religion page. McGinnis had always known he was good--now it was time for old man Fox to wake up to the fact that he had a world class reporter on his staff.
McGinnis stepped away from the door. The bellowing still rose from within, and the panels shook as the creature slammed itself against them. World class. The best damn job of any reporter in town, and on a story Fox hadn’t wanted to give him in the first place. Hell, if Morrisey hadn’t been down with the flu he would’ve never gotten a crack at it. Even at that, Fox had run through the rest of his over-worked staff before condescending to let him touch it.
Like any solid pro, McGinnis already knew his next moves: get the heck out of there, have the film printed, and hit Wilkins with the snaps in the morning. He had a feeling that one look at them and the old geezer would dump the story so fast he’d need a bucket to catch it all. Sure, the paper would have to quash the B&E for him, but it was the least they could do. He smiled. He didn’t really need Wilkins to fill in the blanks for him. It was already pretty clear: take a little unauthorized research, add a freak and a nosy colleague, and wham: murder.
He congratulated himself on the hunch that had pointed him at Wilkins, and on his decision to tail him. The strange feeling the scientist’s manner had created during their afternoon interview had grown during evening, when he watched Wilkins sneak back to the lab to remove a crate and bring it home. So he’d rolled the dice and broke in when Wilkins left the house. Intuition had paid off big time when his ears led him to the freakazoid in the little room in the basement.
The only question remaining, really, was whether Wilkins had bashed Dr. Yontz himself, or had monster-boy do it. Judging from the claw-marks on the door, it was the former: Yontz’s head had be bludgeoned to a nice watermelon pulp, but he hadn’t been torn up. In any case, the creature hadn’t driven Yontz’s body to the bowling alley parking lot and slung it behind the dumpster.
McGinnis started for the stairway, sliding the camera back into its case. When he hit the bottom step, his next move went up in smoke: Wilkins stood at the top, a tired look in his eyes and a Louisville Slugger in his hands. McGinnis began to revise his plans as the scientist moved toward him: pictures or no, he’d have to wing the interview then, there.
“What about the thing in the closet, Dr. Wilkins? Any comment on that?”
The old man’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. McGinnis backed away from the stairway. From over his shoulder, he could still hear the roars of the thing behind the door.
“Is that thing the result of your genetic research, doctor? Some kind of accident? Come on, doc, what about it?”
Wilkins reached the bottom of the stairs and leveled the bat at McGinnis’s head. His moist blue eyes sparkled. “Nosy bastards,” he muttered, and then louder: “Always nosing around where they’re not wanted. With little cameras and little tape recorders. Little papers. Always wanting to publicize. Wanting to drag everything out into the light of day.” He clucked his tongue and shook his shaggy, gray head. “What the hell are you doing in my home?”
“I’m asking the questions,” McGinnis fired back, fumbling to retrieve the camera from its case while maneuvering carefully to stay out of range of the bat. “And I’m still waiting for answers.”
“Here.” The old man cleared his throat and spit at him. A glob caught the front of McGinnis’s jacket and clung, oozing slowly downward. He began to think he’d under-estimated Wilkins. Once the Nikon was clear, he snapped a couple shots of the man. They’d look great on the front page. Wilkins lunged at the camera with the bat, but McGinnis pulled it clear.
“Strike one, doc. Tell me about Yontz, then. Why’d you do it?”
The old man cursed and charged, the bat rising and then falling forward as he swung it, club-like, at McGinnis. Wilkins was agile for his age, but McGinnis was younger, faster. The bat crashed into the wall as he spun away. The beast snarled and barked with renewed vigor at the sound.
“That’s strike two. C’mon, Wilkins, give it up. Let’s talk. What about Yontz?”
“Nosy bastard, just like you,” grunted Wilkins as he turned and zeroed in again, flicking sweat from his eyes with a quick hand. Too late, McGinnis saw his mistake. He’d spun the wrong way; he was cornered. He pressed his back against the door--the same door he’d leaned against, laughing, just a moment before. The chances of strike three were somewhere between fat and slim. As the man stepped in, he let the camera slide gently to the floor and braced himself for the blow.
It seemed to come in slow motion. The long, graceful arc of the bat as it spun toward him was mesmerizing. McGinnis had time to study the grain of the wood, the cold stare in Wilkins’s eyes, the pressure his upper teeth placed on his lower lip as he focused all his strength into the head of the bat. He ducked and threw up his left arm to absorb the blow. He felt the crunch as bone splintered, but the move worked. The head of the bat slammed into the door inches above his head. The creature inside wailed wildly.
McGinnis was wailing, too, his shattered arm blazing with the heat of a thousand fires. But he managed, though the red haze of pain that clouded his vision, to shove Wilkins’s stumbling form away and find the chain and release it. He started to turn the knob but he didn’t have to because the thing was coming. He stepped aside and let the door fly open and slam him against the wall behind it.
Wilkins began to scream.
McGinnis didn’t want to look, but he had to. He peered around the edge of the door. Wilkins was on his back, his legs splayed awkwardly in the air, the Slugger rolling uselessly away. The thing’s fingers were tearing at the front of his shirt, leaving long red-rimmed rips in their wake. That was nothing, though, compared to the thick gouts of blood that were spurting from the area just below Wilkins’s belt buckle, where the creature was busily snapping and chewing. Wilkins was swatting his attacker about the ears, but it didn’t seem to notice. Only half the man’s size, the creature was twice as strong.
McGinnis tried to move, to rescue the man from the beast, but he could only gape and study the thing before him. Looking at the way it had caught Wilkins in the underbelly, he figured it must move on all fours, despite its humanoid appearance. A glance at the build of the legs seemed to confirm this--the powerful back haunches and narrow shoulders up front said quadruped. The creature’s pimply, gray skin looked thick and leathery, and it was completely hairless. McGinnis found himself wondering why he’d thought it was partly human at first. Looking at it from behind as it lashed into Wilkins, it bore more resemblance to an overgrown Chihuahua in a shark-skin suit. The grunts and growls that came from it, punctuating Wilkins’s cries, were certainly not human.
The bat rolled to a stop against the door, and McGinnis tore his eyes away from the scene before him and began to reach for it. The sound of movement didn’t go unnoticed. The creature paused and looked over its shoulder at McGinnis, and it was only then that he saw again the human element he’d noticed at first. It was the face. Despite the gray-green skin and the long, muzzle-like jaw full of cruel teeth, it was the face of a man. The smoky blue eyes locked onto his for a moment, almost conveying a thought, before the creature turned its attention back to its keeper.
Wilkins’s shirt was a bloody collection of tatters, and McGinnis could see that the claws were doing more than superficial damage to the flesh underneath. The monster resumed its attack, thrusting its muzzle into the red hole in man’s belly again. Wilkins screamed once more, but it was scream that quickly turned into a groan and then trailed off into nothing. The scientist’s limbs flailed spastically for a moment, then fell limply to the concrete floor. In the silence, the sound of the creature’s slurping and smacking filled the room, along with the stench of open bowel. The beast didn’t seem to mind as it burrowed more deeply into Wilkins’s gut.
McGinnis clutched the bat, drawing it to him as he slipped from behind the door. His effort at stealth did no good: the creature heard him and swiveled about. The sting of stomach acid filled his throat when he saw the length of intestine dangling from between the thing’s crimson teeth. He barely had time to swing as the monster lunged toward him.
It wasn’t a hall of fame swing, but it was pretty good for a guy with a busted arm. And it worked: the head of the bat came around and met the creature’s temple as streaked toward him. The blow landed with enough force to send it skittering to the side, yelping in agony as it rolled into the corner. The contact was also solid enough to send a surge of pain grinding up McGinnis’s arm. A black curtain started to descend over his vision, but he shook it off somehow and advanced quickly on the fallen beast.
It was conscious, but the blue eyes were glassy. Looking into those eyes--the eyes of a man dazed and injured--McGinnis paused. He considered dragging the thing back to its hovel and locking it in. But then he thought about what it had done to Wilkins and about having to touch that deathly gray skin. He thought too long. The creature shook its head and its eyes cleared and it bared its fangs in a vile grimace. Before it could spring, McGinnis swung.
As he climbed the stairs, he ran over it in his mind. He’d have to get it all straight before the cops arrived. It wasn’t hard to come up with the angles: suspicious, he’d confronted Wilkins about Yontz. The old man had him out to the house for an interview. Confession, explanation, and the monster followed--along with the excited thing’s unfortunate attack on Wilkins, which he’d been unable to prevent. McGinnis smiled to himself as he dropped into a chair in Wilkins’s living room and reached for the phone. His arm was throbbing like a bitch and a half, but it didn’t matter: he was going to be famous. He’d done a world class job.
McGinnis’s hands trembled as the enormity of the story slapped him upside the head. He didn’t, however, let the tremor stop him. He pressed the business end of the Nikon into the crack between frame and door and fired blind, zipping off half a roll stat, auto-winder whirring manically. The flash chugged, strobing the hell out of the creature’s six by six room. It went nuclear, the low moans that had guided McGinnis to it giving way to full-throated bellows. The sound reminded him of the stuff he used to hear when he worked the pro wraslin circuit for Ringside. He pulled the camera back just in time, a split second before the door shuddered as the thing’s weight flew into it.
The door’s chain snapped taunt, but it held. Gray fingers with black nails--short, but nastily pointed--grasped the edge of the door, gouging angry furrows along its edge. The beast yelped in pain as McGinnis slammed his own weight against the door and forced it closed, catching the fingers as they withdrew.
He leaned there, his back pressed against the door, and began to laugh, imagining the look on Fox’s face when he saw the shots. The little weasel would shit himself. Then there would be no more pissing on Pete McGinnis around the offices of The Messenger. No way. No more society page blurbs on empty-headed debs, no more human interest crappola about little old ladies salvaging cats from the local shelter, no more trite-ups of ice cream socials for the religion page. McGinnis had always known he was good--now it was time for old man Fox to wake up to the fact that he had a world class reporter on his staff.
McGinnis stepped away from the door. The bellowing still rose from within, and the panels shook as the creature slammed itself against them. World class. The best damn job of any reporter in town, and on a story Fox hadn’t wanted to give him in the first place. Hell, if Morrisey hadn’t been down with the flu he would’ve never gotten a crack at it. Even at that, Fox had run through the rest of his over-worked staff before condescending to let him touch it.
Like any solid pro, McGinnis already knew his next moves: get the heck out of there, have the film printed, and hit Wilkins with the snaps in the morning. He had a feeling that one look at them and the old geezer would dump the story so fast he’d need a bucket to catch it all. Sure, the paper would have to quash the B&E for him, but it was the least they could do. He smiled. He didn’t really need Wilkins to fill in the blanks for him. It was already pretty clear: take a little unauthorized research, add a freak and a nosy colleague, and wham: murder.
He congratulated himself on the hunch that had pointed him at Wilkins, and on his decision to tail him. The strange feeling the scientist’s manner had created during their afternoon interview had grown during evening, when he watched Wilkins sneak back to the lab to remove a crate and bring it home. So he’d rolled the dice and broke in when Wilkins left the house. Intuition had paid off big time when his ears led him to the freakazoid in the little room in the basement.
The only question remaining, really, was whether Wilkins had bashed Dr. Yontz himself, or had monster-boy do it. Judging from the claw-marks on the door, it was the former: Yontz’s head had be bludgeoned to a nice watermelon pulp, but he hadn’t been torn up. In any case, the creature hadn’t driven Yontz’s body to the bowling alley parking lot and slung it behind the dumpster.
McGinnis started for the stairway, sliding the camera back into its case. When he hit the bottom step, his next move went up in smoke: Wilkins stood at the top, a tired look in his eyes and a Louisville Slugger in his hands. McGinnis began to revise his plans as the scientist moved toward him: pictures or no, he’d have to wing the interview then, there.
“What about the thing in the closet, Dr. Wilkins? Any comment on that?”
The old man’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. McGinnis backed away from the stairway. From over his shoulder, he could still hear the roars of the thing behind the door.
“Is that thing the result of your genetic research, doctor? Some kind of accident? Come on, doc, what about it?”
Wilkins reached the bottom of the stairs and leveled the bat at McGinnis’s head. His moist blue eyes sparkled. “Nosy bastards,” he muttered, and then louder: “Always nosing around where they’re not wanted. With little cameras and little tape recorders. Little papers. Always wanting to publicize. Wanting to drag everything out into the light of day.” He clucked his tongue and shook his shaggy, gray head. “What the hell are you doing in my home?”
“I’m asking the questions,” McGinnis fired back, fumbling to retrieve the camera from its case while maneuvering carefully to stay out of range of the bat. “And I’m still waiting for answers.”
“Here.” The old man cleared his throat and spit at him. A glob caught the front of McGinnis’s jacket and clung, oozing slowly downward. He began to think he’d under-estimated Wilkins. Once the Nikon was clear, he snapped a couple shots of the man. They’d look great on the front page. Wilkins lunged at the camera with the bat, but McGinnis pulled it clear.
“Strike one, doc. Tell me about Yontz, then. Why’d you do it?”
The old man cursed and charged, the bat rising and then falling forward as he swung it, club-like, at McGinnis. Wilkins was agile for his age, but McGinnis was younger, faster. The bat crashed into the wall as he spun away. The beast snarled and barked with renewed vigor at the sound.
“That’s strike two. C’mon, Wilkins, give it up. Let’s talk. What about Yontz?”
“Nosy bastard, just like you,” grunted Wilkins as he turned and zeroed in again, flicking sweat from his eyes with a quick hand. Too late, McGinnis saw his mistake. He’d spun the wrong way; he was cornered. He pressed his back against the door--the same door he’d leaned against, laughing, just a moment before. The chances of strike three were somewhere between fat and slim. As the man stepped in, he let the camera slide gently to the floor and braced himself for the blow.
It seemed to come in slow motion. The long, graceful arc of the bat as it spun toward him was mesmerizing. McGinnis had time to study the grain of the wood, the cold stare in Wilkins’s eyes, the pressure his upper teeth placed on his lower lip as he focused all his strength into the head of the bat. He ducked and threw up his left arm to absorb the blow. He felt the crunch as bone splintered, but the move worked. The head of the bat slammed into the door inches above his head. The creature inside wailed wildly.
McGinnis was wailing, too, his shattered arm blazing with the heat of a thousand fires. But he managed, though the red haze of pain that clouded his vision, to shove Wilkins’s stumbling form away and find the chain and release it. He started to turn the knob but he didn’t have to because the thing was coming. He stepped aside and let the door fly open and slam him against the wall behind it.
Wilkins began to scream.
McGinnis didn’t want to look, but he had to. He peered around the edge of the door. Wilkins was on his back, his legs splayed awkwardly in the air, the Slugger rolling uselessly away. The thing’s fingers were tearing at the front of his shirt, leaving long red-rimmed rips in their wake. That was nothing, though, compared to the thick gouts of blood that were spurting from the area just below Wilkins’s belt buckle, where the creature was busily snapping and chewing. Wilkins was swatting his attacker about the ears, but it didn’t seem to notice. Only half the man’s size, the creature was twice as strong.
McGinnis tried to move, to rescue the man from the beast, but he could only gape and study the thing before him. Looking at the way it had caught Wilkins in the underbelly, he figured it must move on all fours, despite its humanoid appearance. A glance at the build of the legs seemed to confirm this--the powerful back haunches and narrow shoulders up front said quadruped. The creature’s pimply, gray skin looked thick and leathery, and it was completely hairless. McGinnis found himself wondering why he’d thought it was partly human at first. Looking at it from behind as it lashed into Wilkins, it bore more resemblance to an overgrown Chihuahua in a shark-skin suit. The grunts and growls that came from it, punctuating Wilkins’s cries, were certainly not human.
The bat rolled to a stop against the door, and McGinnis tore his eyes away from the scene before him and began to reach for it. The sound of movement didn’t go unnoticed. The creature paused and looked over its shoulder at McGinnis, and it was only then that he saw again the human element he’d noticed at first. It was the face. Despite the gray-green skin and the long, muzzle-like jaw full of cruel teeth, it was the face of a man. The smoky blue eyes locked onto his for a moment, almost conveying a thought, before the creature turned its attention back to its keeper.
Wilkins’s shirt was a bloody collection of tatters, and McGinnis could see that the claws were doing more than superficial damage to the flesh underneath. The monster resumed its attack, thrusting its muzzle into the red hole in man’s belly again. Wilkins screamed once more, but it was scream that quickly turned into a groan and then trailed off into nothing. The scientist’s limbs flailed spastically for a moment, then fell limply to the concrete floor. In the silence, the sound of the creature’s slurping and smacking filled the room, along with the stench of open bowel. The beast didn’t seem to mind as it burrowed more deeply into Wilkins’s gut.
McGinnis clutched the bat, drawing it to him as he slipped from behind the door. His effort at stealth did no good: the creature heard him and swiveled about. The sting of stomach acid filled his throat when he saw the length of intestine dangling from between the thing’s crimson teeth. He barely had time to swing as the monster lunged toward him.
It wasn’t a hall of fame swing, but it was pretty good for a guy with a busted arm. And it worked: the head of the bat came around and met the creature’s temple as streaked toward him. The blow landed with enough force to send it skittering to the side, yelping in agony as it rolled into the corner. The contact was also solid enough to send a surge of pain grinding up McGinnis’s arm. A black curtain started to descend over his vision, but he shook it off somehow and advanced quickly on the fallen beast.
It was conscious, but the blue eyes were glassy. Looking into those eyes--the eyes of a man dazed and injured--McGinnis paused. He considered dragging the thing back to its hovel and locking it in. But then he thought about what it had done to Wilkins and about having to touch that deathly gray skin. He thought too long. The creature shook its head and its eyes cleared and it bared its fangs in a vile grimace. Before it could spring, McGinnis swung.
As he climbed the stairs, he ran over it in his mind. He’d have to get it all straight before the cops arrived. It wasn’t hard to come up with the angles: suspicious, he’d confronted Wilkins about Yontz. The old man had him out to the house for an interview. Confession, explanation, and the monster followed--along with the excited thing’s unfortunate attack on Wilkins, which he’d been unable to prevent. McGinnis smiled to himself as he dropped into a chair in Wilkins’s living room and reached for the phone. His arm was throbbing like a bitch and a half, but it didn’t matter: he was going to be famous. He’d done a world class job.