It was only a matter of time.
52
Doug and Mike andTegarden sat silently on the lone bench in front of Bayless. From this vantage point, they could see most of the town's business section, and for the past hour they had watched as the mailman had driven up and down the street, desperately trying to find a place to deliver mail. All of the businesses had disposed of their mailboxes or blocked off their mail slots, and most of them had put up signs, some elaborately hand-painted onposterboard by wives and children, some banner-printed by home computer, some crudely scrawled on cardboard:
NO MAIL ON BOARD
ONE LETTER CAN RUIN YOUR WHOLE DAY
I WON'T TOUCH A LETTER UNLESS
YOU PRY IT INTO MY COLD DEAD FINGERS
MAIL IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN
AND OTHER LIVING THINGS
MAIL SUCKS
The mailman's behavior had become increasingly frantic as he darted from shop to shop, gas station to office, his driving increasingly crazy as he sped for the fourth, fifth, and sixth times over the same section of street. Observed from this vantage point, he seemed like a trapped and doomed bug trying to escape from the lethal confines of a killing jar.
Doug was nervous and excited, and he knew the other two men were too, but all three of them had for some reason assumed masks of laconic disinterest, as though they were three old-timers whiling away their hours on a park bench and casually commenting on the sights that passed before their eyes.
"Looks like he's going back to the donut hut,"Tegarden drawled.
"Yep," Mike said.
A part of Doug felt sorry for the mailman. He did not like to see anything hurt or wounded. But he had only to think of Trish and Billy, ofHobie and Stockleyand everyone else, for that sympathy to disappear and be replaced by a grim feeling of satisfaction.
The mailman was getting what he deserved.
"He's trying to shove mail under the door of the catalog store," Mike observed.
"Won't work,"Tegarden said.
The mailman ran wildly back to his car and drove back up the street for the eighth time.
53
The water came on sometime during the ninth morning, the electricity that afternoon.
By the end of the next day, both gas and telephone service had also been restored.
54
The mailman had not been seen for over two days, and when Doug called the police station, Mike told him that the mailman's car had not moved from the front of the post office for fifty-two hours. "I think it's time for us to go in there and check," he said. "Let's see what's going on."
They drove together, in four cars, and Doug couldn't help thinking about Jack and Tim. When this was over, they would have to have a memorial service for them. For all the victims of the mail.
Flies were buzzing on the dried heads of the dead dogs. The air was thick with the putrid odor of the decapitated carcasses. The eight men strode across the parking lot. Directly in front of the door, behind an overturned bench, Doug saw something he hadn't before.
An infant's head.
Speared on a fallen mailbox post.
He looked at Mike, but neither of them said a word. The child's head, like those of the dogs, was dried and old and swarming with flies. The small eyes were clear deflated sacs.
Mike motioned toTegarden , the biggest, strongest man on the force. "Kick it in," he said, gesturing toward the glass door.
Tegardenobliged happily and shattering shards exploded inward.
They stepped through the open door frame.
The interior of the post office was dark, windows completely boarded up, lights off. Brown packaging paper covered the walls and floor and ceiling. The men stepped hesitantly inside, Doug first. The sounds of their movement were loud in the stillness. "Where the hell are you?" Doug called.
There was no answer, and they moved carefully forward as one. The room was a shambles. The tall metal table that had stood against one wall was overturned, and the floor was littered with paper and boxes and pieces of broken furniture.
The body of a rat lay on the front counter, its head gone, chewed off. Next to it, large bones, probably from a dog, had been arranged in precise geometric patterns. The entire countertop was covered with dried blood.
Doug stepped slowly around the counter. The post office seemed empty, felt dead, but he was nervous nonetheless. He tiptoed toward the open door that led to the back room.
From inside the room came a long low sigh.
And a frightened whimper.
Doug stopped in his tracks, heart pounding. Looking behind him, he saw fear on the faces of both the old and young policemen. All of them had heard the noise, and none of them knew what to make of it. Only Mike seemed unaffected. He pushed roughly past Doug, preparing to lead the assault into the rear of the post office, but Doug held him back. He was scared, but he was not about to let Mike do what he knew was his responsibility. "No," he said.
The policeman looked at him.
"I want to go alone."
Mike shook his head, pulling out his revolver, snapping off the safety.
"It's too dangerous."
"It's not dangerous. Not anymore." He looked into the policeman's troubled eyes. "This is between me and him."
Mike was silent for a moment, his gaze searching, then he nodded, something like agreement or understanding entering his expression. "All right,"
he said. "But take this." He handed Doug the gun. "You know how to use it?"
Doug shook his head. "Not really. But it doesn't matter. It won't work on him anyway. You know that."
"Take it just in case."
The whimper came again. It sounded like someone in pain.
"That's it --" Mike began, moving forward.
"No," Doug said, grabbing his arm, pulling him back. "I'm going in alone."
The policeman stopped, stared at him, but did not move away. Doug held his gaze, hefted the revolver in his hand. "I'll be okay."
Mike nodded slowly. "Okay," he said finally. "But we'll be right here if you need us." The policeman's words were reassuring, his tone anything but. "If I hear anything weird, I'm going in."
"Got it."
Doug stepped into the back room.
Into the lair of the mailman.
He glared at Doug from the rubble. Or, rather, _it_ glared at him. For the mailman now appeared only vaguely human. His body had shrunk, become thin and twisted and malformed like that of some giant insect. The red hair on top of his head, now blondish pink, had grown out tremendously and hung down in thick irregular tufts. His teeth looked overlarge in his caved-in head and sharp, as though they had been filed. Around him the desks and shelves, machines and bins, canvas bags and postal paraphernalia, were littered in a jumbled chaotic mess.
Behind Doug the door slammed shut.
The mailman laughed, a rasping chuckle that sent a shiver of primal fear down Doug's spine. The air was filled with a strange heaviness, a crackling eddying current of power that felt like charged electricity.
In the shifting emphasis of light caused by the closed door, Doug saw for the first time that he and the mailman were not alone in the room. In the far corner, against the wall, almost hidden by the shadow of a vertically overturned table, was an unmoving figure with wildly uncombed hair. The figure whimpered pitiably. Doug stepped forward until he could see a face.
Giselle Brennan.
His breath caught within him. Giselle was wrapped, mummy like, in brown packaging paper. One arm had broken free from the covering and was twisted at an unnatural angle, affixed to her side with rubber bands and encased in layers of folded orange and blue Express Mail envelopes. Blood had seeped through the wrapping in innumerable spots and had blackened and dried in even, regular stripes. Giselle's face, her neck and chin and cheeks, were crisscrossed with paper cuts, straight intersecting lines that sliced through skin and formed a field of squares, rectangles, parallelograms. Paper cuts also scored her lips, making it appear as though they had been sewn shut. One ear was torn off.