Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Sunday Speed Trap Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

SUNDAY SPEED TRAP

The Sunday traffic was typical for a rainy, August morning. An hour from noon, vehicles poured from the north where both the Lutheran and Baptist churches let out their sinners for another week. From the south, it moved a hair faster as the Evangelist church was nine miles into the country. Even with the generally increased speed, three of five drivers kept their speedometer needles below the maximum MPH on the highway and the ones that pushed the needle, did so at such a minor clip that Officer Nick Christie couldn’t muster the will to concern himself with them.

Only those drivers ignoring the good Lord’s will, those not playing by the Sunday-driving rules, earned his attention. Mostly, folks in their church best took it easy. So easy that it often became hard to keep his eyes wide and his brain on point.

Christie had parked in a wooded hydro service laneway just off the northbound shoulder—one of five hidey-holes he used regularly along that stretch of asphalt. The radar gun leaned against the dash. He’d finished his second cup of coffee and in twenty-seven minutes, he’d roll from cover and head up to the Starbucks on Atlantica Street.

If he didn’t fall asleep before that.

The gentle patter of raindrops further soothed him. Beyond the highway and down a greyed stone bluff was the Pacific Ocean, lapping like a lullaby. Eyelids sliding, chin tipping toward chest, his breath hitched and he jerked backward. His eyes swung wide.

The fall off the tightrope between sleep and wake had brought him around in time to read big numbers on the radar. A rusty, navy blue Taurus station wagon flared into view and then out. The bugger had hit 71MPH.

“Here we go.” He rolled the cruiser to the lip of the highway, glanced to his left, flipped the sirens and lights, and squealed into the chase.

The Ford was a good distance up the highway, weaving, and racing. Red brake lights flashed and the herky-jerky hands moved the boat-like machine through the slow motion maze of devout and penitent drivers. A Toyota Tercel slammed its brakes and veered into the ditch. A Buick Enclave driver flung an arm out the window, revealing an ever versatile middle digit. A greyhound bus rolled as if unnoticing, as if on a plane beyond, slow and unwavering.

“What’s the rush?” Christie eyed the station wagon.

Ahead of the police cruiser, automobiles diligently pulled to shoulders and let the high-speed pursuit blow by. Christie moved at a steady 10MPH faster than the Taurus, his hands tight on the wheel, praying silently that God keep him safe in this particular task. He imagined an OJ scenario with the knife still in play, or a gun, possibly multiple guns.

A Nissan skidded and threw sparks from a guardrail as its driver reacted poorly to the encroaching Taurus and the screaming sirens. This was a sign of how bad things could go—a taste of much worse to come. Maybe.

“Not today.” Christie pulled up to the side of the Taurus.

The highway dipped and the shore loomed into view. It was calm and serene. Christie let his eyes play over the surf for one second before refocusing on the turn of the century family ride.

Most of the traffic had thinned thanks to the emergency sirens, and the chase had a half-mile of road to itself until the Sunday traffic again tightened. Christie scooped the CB mic and gave the make, model, license, and location to dispatch. The Taurus increased speed and Christie fell behind for two heartbeats before pushing the pedal to the floor; he had to get a better look at the driver.

Something was strange.

The CB switched from a radio to a megaphone. “You in the Ford.” He finally saw the teary-eyed face of the small boy driving the station wagon. “What in the heck are you doing?” The mic button had been released for that last bit.

The officer let his eyes play over the vehicle. There was somebody in the cargo hold. A woman: she did not look well. Ahead, a Mack rig puttered and Christie slowed enough to fall in behind the Taurus.

Christie lifted the mic. “Boy, pull over. Ma’am, I see you. Tell the boy to pull over.”

The woman’s face searched the floor around her, found nothing, and lifted her hand to the glass, began writing BABY HERE in Blood-dipped fingertip scroll, letters half-and-half backward and forward. Christie drank the message and felt his heart play in two directions. One was of worry for anyone stuck in the path of this kid trying to do the right thing. The other half bloomed with the miracle of God’s machine at work.

Past the build-up of traffic, Christie shot out, smashing the speedometer beyond ninety before sliding in front of the Taurus. He kept his speed up, peeling away some. He radioed to base to instruct and request an assist on clearing the path to county general. Not that he thought there was much time for that. The mess was a toss-up. If there were complications and he forced a stop, he might risk baby or mama. If he didn’t clear the way for the juvenile driver, he might kill more than just a mother and her unborn. Hard options.

The kid was a good driver, so far, so, okay.

The highway veered into two lanes. Vehicles lined the shoulders and Christie slowed to seventy. Stuck behind him, the Taurus decelerated to match. Sixty. Fifty-five. The kid honked and Christie smiled, this was under control.

The hospital had doublewide exit from the highway and Christie flicked his blinker, slowed to thirty, the kid tight on his ass, and then took the exit.

“Dang it, kid!”

The kid peeled further up the highway, past the exit, toward the pier. Christie radioed home while he spun a U-turn on the widened spot of street and peeled after the Taurus anew. Well behind, the officer pushed the needle to ninety-seven, braked to forty, swung around a Nissan, and punched it back to eighty. He whipped around more cars, onto the shoulder, into the oncoming lane, and twice onto the lawns beyond the shoulder.

The Taurus roared past the final exit into the city and began to slow as they came nearer the oceanfront. Thinking the kid might stop and turn around once he realized that he’d missed the exit, Christie left thirty feet between their bumpers.

He lifted the mic. “Kid, you missed the hospital. Pull over. I’ll get you help.”

The sweaty woman looked from the back window and spoke to the kid up front. The kid pushed back up to fifty.

“What in the heck are you doing?”

Winding past the pier, weaving around parked boats and construction pylons, the kid was on a mission and Christie was at a loss. This had to end, the Taurus had already missed too many close calls and now they were miles from the hospital.

The highway had become street and suddenly, once past the pier, rolling along the shore, it was a pack-asphalt road, full of potholes.

“Come on,” Christie said and suddenly knew the kid headed for the Catholic Church north of town. To him that meant there was something terribly wrong with mama or mama’s baby. He could hardly blame the pair for seeking the loving hands of God. “Where the…?” Christie mumbled as the Taurus passed all three laneways into the massive Catholic Church.

Christie radioed in and the signal began to cut. He tried again and heard nothing but static in reply, no idea if anyone caught either of his attempts.

The brake lights flared beneath their dusty red covers and the Taurus’ speed dropped down to twenty in a blink. Christie slammed his own brakes as the Taurus slowed further and jerked onto a sandy path in line with what appeared to be a toolshed on the beach.

Not expecting it, Christie rolled past and skidded to a loud, rubbery stop before yanking his shifter. He watched as three naked men burst from the shed.

“Now what is this?” he whispered and then lifted his mic, switched function. “You, stop right there!”

Sand spun beneath the wheels of the cruiser as he drove in behind the Taurus. The naked men had ignored him and the kid driving the car stayed put while the bulbous woman in a bloodied cotton nightgown, hand between her legs, waddled into the shed.

“Stop!” Christie tried again on the mic.

They heard him, had to have heard him, but they did not heed. Christie kicked open his door and pulled his firearm, wondering if he was about to become the kind of cop that shot people for most likely harmless—now that the Taurus had stopped rolling—non-compliance. He thought he probably was that kind of cop.

Citizens only ran when they had something to hide, right?

The officer slowed his pace, but still moved quickly. He inched toward the driver’s quarter of the Taurus. Pistol pointed, Christie swung open the door.

“What the heck is this?”

Tears had carved damp routes over the kid’s cheeks, his eyes were red-rimmed, and lips were bluish. He stared at Christie, answering, in a manner, “Laudate Dominium de novo. Laudate Dominium.”

Christie jerked back from the car. Nuts, the whole scene was nuts and somebody had hypnotized this child into speaking gibberish.

The kid wasn’t so important. Not anymore. He had to save the baby from whatever weird junk those naked men and the bloody mama planned on doing. 

Christie listened at the cracked shed door and heard only the lapping of the surf fifty feet away. He nudged open the door and peered into the shadowy space. Empty, utterly empty. Not even crap hanging from the jutting nails on the walls. A vacant box…with a trapdoor in the floor.

The officer gulped back his fear, whispered into the radio on his shoulder—no reply—and pulled on the coiled rope handle. Beneath was a tunnel into bedrock. Alongside drips and the lapping ocean, Christie heard a humming rhythm, something like a Sunday hymnal.

Pistol in hand, Christie crept down an old wooden ladder and into the tight cavern ten feet below the surface. He trailed the voices, but the words evaded him amid the cacophony of building pressure. It had begun to sound like a waterfall. Fear mounted, Christie moaned a quiet prayer for his safety, a reaffirmation of his faith in the Lord and His way.

Pistol leading his body, the officer rounded a corner and peered onto something that he hadn’t expected. Four men and five women on the floor, kneeling, their naked butts in the air. At the far end of the cavern was a stone platform before the thin waterfall cresting the space like a half-moon backdrop.

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis. Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis,” the bowed figures chanted.

“Police,” Christie forced out in an inaudible whisper.

On the platform—not platform, altar—the pregnant woman screamed until the crescent waterfall widened and dropped a great helping of ocean onto her face.

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.”

“Police.” Christie managed to get a little louder, still too quiet for even his ears to pick up.

The bulging bare belly of the pregnant woman rolled waves beneath the flesh. Her legs spread wide, a shiny black head crowned.

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis. Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.” The naked figures lifted their faces and hands.

The crescent waterfall increased its path again and pounded against the woman’s breasts. She did not move, obviously unconscious, possibly dead. The crowned scalp became a head and an inky black vacancy of face pushed free. The waterfall crept further, pressing just behind the child still mostly inside the woman.

“Police!” Christie’s voice was cracking, like a newly pubescent boy.

The two closest figures looked back at him with nightmare, obsidian eyes, never losing their place with the chant. “Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.”

Regaining his nature, his righteous manner, the faithful man of God’s will took two steps forward. The trio closest to the altar rose and moved to the birthing woman. The shoulders of the inky black form leaned into their hands.

“Stop all of this! On the floor, don’t make me shoot!”

None listened and Christie wondered if it would be suicide to fire in the underwater cavern. Possibly. Maybe.

This was enough to keep bullets at home and unspent. The weapon an empty threat.

The waterfall continued growing. The trio stood up and lifted their eyes, continued chanting, “Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.” The heavy patter began pounding them. Three more rose to stand on the far side of the altar, chanting, chins raised.

The water battered them and they stumbled, their words faltering. The naked figures grasped the altar and fought the water beating against them.

“Stop all of this or I will—!”

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.” The final two stepped up as the slick black baby oozed from the woman’s strained fleshy purse like a gigantic oil drip. The one who’d been ready did not catch the thing, instead leaned into the flow of the water as the waterfall completed its circle.

The chanting ceased.

The falling water slowed. The figures straightened. The waterfall then dimmed to droplets. The room was dead quiet but for the heavy heartbeat ringing in Christie’s ears.

The officer wiped his ocean-spattered cheek on his shoulder. “Step away from the…child.” Child?

The figures stiffened and turned their midnight gaze upon the officer. There was not an emotion found in these faces. A wet smacking pounded on the floor like monsoon clapping. The baby was a bloody mess before the altar, oozing from within.

“Step away from the child!”

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis.” The chant was slow and low.

“I said step the heck away from—!”

The sickly black puddle on the floor began seeping into the feet of the naked freaks. The hands atop their upraised arms began to melt into deep blackness, rolling down their limbs like candle wax.

Christie lowered his gun. “Dear Lord. Dear God.”

The arms melted completely, the heads followed, the chests, down to stomachs, hips, and legs, these people dripped and ran until there was only liquid remaining. The officer’s lungs ached with too great inhalations.

The black puddle on the floor danced as if boiling in a Petri dish. It raised to a foot, then two feet, three… An explosion burst upward in a black volcanic eruption, breaking the cavern’s ceiling. The scent emitted from the spray was of decay, fire, and feces. The rush was endless and Christie suddenly recognized that he was out of his depth. The officer ran back to the ladder.

Up and out. He kicked the trapdoor shut—as if that’ll help.

The child driver sat on the hood of the Taurus and frowned at the officer. “They did it. They broke the seal with the lamb. Mom said it wasn’t a real lamb, but a symbolic lamb. They did it. Laudate Dominum de novo!”

The sound of rushing liquid was hard behind him. He spun and stared at the reddening sky as every cloud evaporated and the rain ceased. A metallic cry filled his ears as if coming from within.

The kid’s lips moved, yapping gleefully as Christie stumbled to his cruiser. Hand on the door, the officer leaned, the pain and ugliness in the din was immense.

Then, with a crack, it stopped as if sucked into a vacuum. Thunder rolled and lightning slashed. The red sky darkened.

Christie jumped into his car.

Blood spattered against the windshield. The child danced on the hood of the Taurus, stripping naked and letting the red rain paint him.

“What is that?” Christie whined.

The ocean began to blacken as if an underwater pipeline had burst. Sea life bounced topside on backs and sides, dead. Crab-like creatures the size of Smart Cars crawled to shore. Clear blobs rolled behind them. Monstrous cyclopean octopuses dragged out in the third wave. The things kept coming, endless streams, but Christie could look no more.

He rolled the cruiser backward and out onto the road. His radio crackled to life and he heard the pleas and shouts. On the pier, boats sank and burned, the white blobs and the crabs collected fishermen and boaters, slashing and enveloping.

Christie shook his head. “Not for me.”

The Catholics had emerged from service taking to arms against thine neighbor. The church itself was aflame. The father had climbed atop a shed and stood with a six-foot cross lifted over his head. Christie gasped as a blue bolt of lightning struck down and burst the man from the inside out. He knew he should stop, but in his rearview mirror, fantastic purple squids rode atop enormous sea lions, slick with oceanic blood, galloping against the asphalt with hardened bone fins.

This was all above him. He was an officer of the law and faithful servant of God, but every battle called for a specific soldier. Christie was not the soldier for this fight, he was a police officer and never in the two years of college did an instructor offer a lesson on how to police the apocalypse.

Christie increased his speed, his wipers working overtime against the blood rain. Everywhere he looked people wrestled on the roadsides. An old man with a revolver entered a bus of Girl Scouts. There were flashes and bangs.

Christie was not interested. It was Sunday. The Lord’s Day, none of this around him made any damned sense, double that given how thickly God’s message reigned on Sundays.

A man with a horse trailer had pulled over, letting free his animals. They didn’t go far. Men and woman rolled and petted, stripped, began stroking, open mouths and legs and…

Christie choked on vomit rising up his throat.

No.

The cruiser sped up.

Sunday was the slowest day of the week and it was his job to be sure nobody…

A patch of forest withered, needles, leaves, and branches dropping as if sudden radiation sapped every cell holding life. The earthen floor shook and the highway cracked. Christie thumped over a broken stretch, murderous oceanic blood splashed out of the fissure, oozing from cracks in his peripherals.

He rolled as he had a thousand times before, rolled until he was back where he should be. No cars passed by and yet, he lifted the radar.

The stony bluff ahead and across the highway began tumbling. Monstrous crustaceans clamored and scrabbled in incredible numbers. They peered with beady black eyes, their backs protected by scabby grey shells, their legs skittering, cutting ruts everywhere they moved.

Those things were not a Sunday duty.

The passenger’s side door of the cruiser flung open. Christie swallowed a lump, chancing a sideways glance. He gasped and jerked his body still, eyes forward, doing his job. There was a hard clapping like bone on shell.

The officer closed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the figure leaning toward him. The metallic scent of blood bubbled alongside the scent of rotten, salty meat.

“Laudate Dominum de novo. Laudate filius ignis,” the dead and decaying man said—in his burial suit—as he clapped freshly grown pincers.

Christie lifted the radar gun and awaited the beep of a speeder. Eyes on the road, focused on his job. Tears fought to creep out when the cold, dead breath brushed his ear.

“Our Father who art in Heaven—Ah!”

A pincher cut into his thigh and the abomination whispered, “Laudate Dominium de novo. Praise the new Lord. Praise the son of fire.”

XX