Tiny Horror

They drove out of Delavan in a small, discordant convoy. Muskie led the way in the heavy city flatbed, its diesel engine echoing against the quiet storefronts, while Roy followed closely in the F-150. The pickup was weighed down by the stolen jars and the mysterious crate, its rear suspension sagging under the shifting, inexplicable mass.

They passed the thawing lake, a stretch of rotting grey ice, honeycombed and heavy, pulling away from the muddy banks into black water. The Wisconsin spring was in full retreat, leaving behind a world of slush and grey mist. The handheld radio on Muskie's dashboard crackled with Roy's voice, thin and distorted by static.

"You think it's gold?" Roy asked. Muskie could see the reflection of Roy's headlights in his mirror, bouncing unevenly as the pickup hit a pothole. "That Barnum guy was a millionaire, right? Maybe he hid his stash in there. Gold bars or somethin'."

"Gold don't smell like a slaughterhouse, Roy," Muskie replied into the mic. The rattle of the flatbed was a constant, metallic drone, but he could still hear the faint thumping from the truck behind him.

The yard was a twenty-acre patch of scrub and rusted machinery ten miles outside of town. The ground was a slurry of half-frozen mud that sucked at the tires as the two vehicles pulled in. The sun had gone down, leaving the world in a bruised purple light that made the trees look like jagged teeth.

Roy sat in the cab of his pickup for a moment after he parked, staring at the crate in his rearview. The truck had handled as if the load were shifting every time he touched the brakes, yet the box sat dead-center in the bed. He couldn't shake the feeling that the interior of the F-150 was getting colder, a damp chill that seeped right through his flannel. It was just a heavy box of circus scrap, he told himself. He was just tired, and his nerves were frayed from a long day of hauling junk.

The tale continues...