Date: 2011-02-06 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Bethany And The Zombie Jesus: A Novelette Young Bethany has spent her entire life trying to be righteous and just in the eyes of the Lord. She has worked hard to please her Mama and to make sure she could live up to the trust Reverend Jones had put in her. Now Bethany's faith and life are put to the test as what she always thought was a stone-likeness of the Lord Jesus Christ decides it doesn't want to be up on that cross anymore! Can Bethany stop the Zombie Jesus before he brings the End of Days upon the Earth? With 11 other tales of horror and grotesquery ranging from deep space terror (Thro
Publisher: Createspace

Bethany and the Zombie Jesus

&

11 Other Tales of Horror & Grotesquery

Jake Bible

Published by Samannah Media

All content copyright 2010, 2011 Jake Bible

Through the Last WH originally published in “Dark Journeys: A Charity Anthology” 7/17/2010

Let Old friends be Forgot… originally published in “Farrago: The Michael Bekemeyer Project” 10/27/2010

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Bethany and the Zombie Jesus

“Father, hear me now,” I began, as always, when I knelt in front of the tiny altar in our tiny church. With the Lord Jesus Christ lookin’ down on me from his cross, His sufferin’ makin’ me feel even worse. “I have sinned, but I ain’t no wicked person. I try to be good, to be of the Faith, but it be so hard. So hard to be righteous.”

“Tell me about it,” a voice croaked, raspy and full of phlegm.

I stopped prayin' and looked about me, not so much startled as surprised. Why would anyone be here on Christmas Eve, knowing that the Rev Jones had been in the hospital for the past two weeks recoverin’ from heart surgery? I’d just come to make sure no pipes had busted and to water the few plants in the Rev Jones's office. He trusted me to take care of things. He kept tryin’ to tell me to do somethin’ else, like there was more important tasks, but every time he’d lean close and start to tells me what those might be, folks would be comin’ into his hospital room and he’d shut up like a venus fly trap.

“Um, hello?” I called out. “Who there?”

Silence. Quiet as the dead.

I shrugged and continued. “I stole three dollas from Mama’s purse. She didn’t notice none, but I feel bad about it. I just wanted it for Cokes.”

“That shit’ll rot your teeth,” the voice said again.

This time I jumped up from the ground and spun about, lookin’ for the lurker.

“I know you’s in here!” I shouted. “Come out now, or I’ll call the Sheriff.”

“Sheriff ain’t gonna help you.” The voice laughed. “He’s drunker than Peter right now!”

I froze. The voice seemed to be comin’ from everywhere at once. Dang acoustics. Always was why our tiny choir sounded like a huge chorus. The way sounds be bouncin’ off the ceilin’ and walls.

I reached out and grabbed a gold candlestick from the altar. “You best be leavin’ now!” I hollered. “Or I swear I’ll brain you somethin’ fierce!”

The voice cackled and I bent down, tryin’ to peer under the six short pews. Nothin’. No legs or feet stickin’ down. Maybe the person was layin’ in one a them.

I slowly, oh so carefully, walked down the aisle, my head dartin’ back and forth, side to side, ready for whatever was gonna jump out at me.

Weren’t nothin’ there.

The voice kept chucklin’. “Brain me. Hehehe. That’s rich.”

Where was it comin’ from? “What you want?!? Huh? You gonna rape me?!? That it? You want to take my purity?”

“Purity? You stole three dollas for Cokes. You be wicked!” the voice mocked my accent.

“Ain’t no need to get mean, you know,” I said, my fear goin’ away and my anger risin’. “I ain’t ignorant. Just from ‘round here and this is how we’s talk.”

“Don’t I fucking know it!” the voice boomed. “I’ve been listening to you yokels for decades! All you’re ‘I’s’ and ‘you’ins’ and ‘we’s be’. Damn, do any of you know proper English?”

“Don’t swear in here! This is the Lord’s house!” I shouted.

“Who do you think is talking, Bethany?” the voice asked quietly and this time I knew where it was comin’ from.

I turned around slowly and faced the altar, ready to whip back the cover and find the intruder underneath. But, that wasn’t what I saw. No, sir. I saw Him. I saw the Lord Jesus Christ starin’ back at me. His eyes red and angry. His mouth open and wet. His teeth sharp, oh so sharp. His wounds drippin’ blood from where he was nailed to his cross. His skin, which shoulda been all marble like, was cracked and oozin’, like he’d been painted in layer after layer of paint and it was tearin’ his skin right off.

I stumbled backwards, my hand droppin’ the candlestick, the sound of the metal echoin’ inside our tiny church. “Dear Lord. This cain’t be…”

“Oh, it can be, Bethany,” Jesus said. “It certainly can be. And it is.”

“How… How you know my name?” I stammered.

Jesus’s head rocked back and that laugh came again. “I’ve known you since before you were born, Bethany! And I’ve watched you grow up here in the church. Watched you get baptized. Watched you singing with the choir since you were just a little, tiny girl. Trust me, Bethany, I know you.”

“This ain’t real,” I said. “I must be dreamin’.”

Jesus licked his lips. His tongue was a swollen, blue mess and it flicked about the edges of his mouth like a snake.

“You’re the Devil come to trick me outta my soul!” I screamed and ran for the door.

“How old do you think the Reverend Jones is?” Jesus called after me, my hand nearly on the door handle.

“What kinda question is that?” I asked, pressin’ my back up against the door, ready to bolt. “He’s in his sixties. Maybe older.”

Jesus grinned wide. “Guess again.”

I knew this had to be the Devil. I knew it had to be. But, if I stayed right by the door, stayed vigilant for his tricks, then he couldn’t harm me. That’s what I thought.

“What you mean?” I asked. The Devil Jesus fixed me with his eyes. His evil, blood-red eyes.

“You ever see Rev Jones age? You ever see his hair get any greyer than it is? His beard get all grizzled like your Grandfather’s?”

I had to stop and think. I mean, Rev Jones had always just been Rev Jones. But, bein’ young, only in my twenties, I had to admit I didn’t pay that much attention to the old. They were, well, just old.

Then I remembered that this was the Devil talkin’ to me. “You’re the Serpent!” I spat. “The Liar and trickster! I cain’t believe nothin’ you say!”

“I haven’t said anything, Bethany. I’ve just asked you a question: do you know how old Rev Jones is?”

“Why? Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, not to me, but to him, well, it matters a lot,” the Devil Jesus said. “You see, Rev Jones and I have a deal, had a deal, I should say. I have given him Power and Glory. Let him have his dreams and riches, but he pissed it all away on sin. Drinking, women, gambling…murder.”

I shook my head. That wasn’t the Rev Jones I knew. Rev Jones was kind and righteous and full of God’s message, ready to smite evil and ready to help us sinners get to the great afterlife that waited for us in heaven. “No. No, you’s tryin’ to trick me with your serpent tongue.”

“Serpent tongues are forked, Bethany. Does this look forked?” He stuck out the  swollen abomination that he called a tongue. I could see the sores and pus oozin’ from those sores. I could see the wet, slick skin wiggle and squirm underneath like there were a million other tongues fightin’ to get out.

I put my hand to my mouth, strugglin’ to keep from bein’ sick. “No,” I said, but it was so weak I could barely hear it.

“Don’t you want to know the deal I made with Rev Jones, Bethany?”

I shook my head.

“Are you sure, Bethany? Are you really sure? What’s the harm in knowing?”

“’Cause it’s just tricks,” I whispered. “Tricks to keep me from being called Home when the Glory comes to earth. When the Rapture happens.”

Devil Jesus exploded with laughter, pink spittle flyin’ from his lips, sprayin’ and defilin’ the altar. “The Rapture? The Rapture? Bethany, the Rapture already happened!” His bound and nailed hands gestured wildly. “I came back, Bethany! Don’t you see! What is left here on earth, the people, their descendants, you are all what God didn’t want! You are the left behind! The unworthy! You are the children and grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren of the doomed!”

I couldn’t take no more, I grabbed at the handle and pushed the church door open, runnin’ from the tiny church and from the Devil Jesus.

***

The night air was chilly, but I worked up a sweat as I ran and ran all the way to the little house I shared with Mama, not stoppin’ once. I burst through the back door, slammed it shut and locked it tight, peakin’ out the curtain, seein’ if the Devil Jesus was on my heels, but weren’t nothin’ out there but the moonless night.

“Bethany?” Mama called out from the parlor and I near jumped outta my skin.

“Mama?” I asked once I could catch my breath. “What you doin’ home? Thought you had the Holiday shift?”

“Conveyor done broke,” Mama said, comin’ into the kitchen, her cup of coffee in hand. Mama never went anywhere without her black coffee. “They shut the line down, but said we’d all get paid. Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

She crossed the kitchen and gave me a big hug. “Sweet Lord, child! Why you all sweaty like that?”

“I ran home,” I blurted out. Mama fixed me with her eyes, lookin’ me up and down.

“You been with that Mitchell boy?” she asked, her voice goin’ all cold. “I ain’t ready for no grandbabies yet, girl.”

“No, Mama,” I laughed, strippin’ my coat off and hangin’ it on the back of the door. “I was at the…” I couldn’t say it.

“You’s at the what?” Mama asked, suspicion creepin’ into her voice.

I had to be very careful what I said to Mama. She could smell a lie five miles away, covered in horse manure and buried ten feet in the ground.

“I’s at the church makin’ sure everythin’ was all locked tight.”

She watched me for a moment then nodded and crossed to the stove. “You want some coffee, darlin’?”

“No, thank ya, Mama,” I said, fakin’ a yawn. “Think I’ll just turn in. Love ya. Merry Christmas.” I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then hurried myself off to bed. I prayed to the real Jesus to let me sleep. I prayed real hard.

***

“I thought you said you locked everythin’ up?” Mama said to me as we stepped past the crowd gathered at the doors to the church.

“I did,” I answered, my eyes not believin’ what I saw.

Inside the church was a mess, not just after a Sunday social mess, but with the pews overturned and Bible pages torn out and spread around. The walls and windows were smeared with what looked like blood, but smelled like, well, excrement. The altar was smashed, the candlesticks bent and broken. I just stood there lookin’ at everythin’, but not seein’ the most important part.

“They took Jesus!” I heard someone yell and all eyes and heads whipped about to the front of our tiny church. People gasped and some of the older women swooned at the sight of the empty cross with the bloody nails still stuck in the wood.

“Who would do such a thing?” Mama asked aloud, as did many others.

But, I couldn’t answer. My voice was taken. Taken by the sight of the bloody footprints, very faint, but there if you were lookin’, walkin’ straight down the aisle and out the door.

“Excuse me,” I said quickly, pushin’ past the others and out the door after the footprints. “I need some air.”

“She always was a bit squeamish,” I could hear Mama sayin’ as I burst into the Christmas mornin’ light.

I followed the footprints down the church steps and along the cement walk. Once they got to the gravel parkin’ lot though, I lost them amongst the oil stains and spots of rust from years of old cars comin’ and goin’.

“Whatchya lookin’ at, child?” a voice said, startlin’ me, and I had to squeeze hard to keep my bladder from loosin’.

I turned my head to find Deacon Lawrence standin’ behind me. He was a nice old man, been with the church as long as Rev Jones from what I heard.

As long as Rev Jones…

“Nothin’, Deacon,” I said, tryin’ to smile, but by the look on the Deacon’s face, I musta failed miserably.

“You sure ‘bout that?” the Deacon asked. “You looks like you done seen a ghast or somethin’.”

“Ain’t no ghasts on Christmas,” I answered. “’Cept the Holy Ghast.”

Deacon Lawrence smiled at my little joke and patted me on the shoulder, and then he walked back to the crowd that was growin’ larger as the Christmas Day service was supposed to begin.

“Don’t be long, child,” he called back. “I’m still givin’ the sermon today. Ain’t no hooligan takin’ Christmas away.”

I just stood there, starin’ past the cars, past Route 18 and wonderin’ what I should do. Should I tell someone? Should I say I saw the Devil? That Devil Jesus did that to our church? I kept starin’, wonderin’ what to do when I saw the eyes. The blood-red eyes starin’ back at me from the pines across Route 18.

I lost the battle with my bladder.

***

“Girl!” Mama scolded. “You’d think you were four years old, the way you been actin’! Peein’ yourself like that! Sweet Lord, didn’t I tell you to go before we left?”

“Yes, Mama,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I just got spooked and, well, couldn’t control it.”

“Spooked? What in Heaven’s name could spook a twenty-two year old woman on Christmas mornin’ in broad daylight?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, strippin’ my skirt and underwear off and throwin’ them into the wash. “Thought I saw someone in the pines ‘cross the road.”

Mama turned to look at me. “Thought you saw someone? Who’d you think you seen that would make you wet yourself?”

I didn’t answer, just grabbed one of the swimmin’ towels from the cupboard above the dryer and wrapped it about my waist.

“Girl, I asked you a question!” Mama said sternly. “You answer me now!”

I kept my eyes toward the floor. “The Devil,” I said quietly.

“What was that? What did you say?” Mama asked, grabbin’ my chin and liftin’ my face so she could see my eyes.

“I saw the Devil. The Devil Jesus.”

***

Ever since my Daddy died, I had promised myself I wouldn’t go near another hospital. Then Rev Jones took sick in the heart and I had to go talk to him and get my instructions. After that, I said to myself ‘never again’. But, there I was, not only in the hospital, again, standin’ before Rev Jones, again, but with Mama standin’ next to me, her hands gripped about mine, thinkin’ I was struck in the head.

“You think she’s afflicted, Rev Jones?” Mama asked, tears tricklin’ down her cheeks. “Her papa wasn’t quite right, as you well know, but I always thought it had missed my Bethany.” Her body shook as she sobbed and Rev Jones handed her the small box of tissues from the bedside table.

“Now, Althea, you know Bethany isn’t afflicted,” Rev Jones soothed, his eyes never meetin’ mine. “She’s always been a righteous girl, always followed the path. Would I have chosen her to help out around the church while I’m stuck in this God forsaken place, if she was afflicted?”

Mama sniffed and blew hard into a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and wadded the paper up tight, clenchin’ it in her fist like it could save her from all evil. “No, Rev Jones, I suppose not.”

Rev Jones smiled, still not lookin’ at me, and reached out to Mama. Mama frantically looked about for a trash bin, tossed her soiled tissue into it and stepped to Rev Jones’s bed, lettin’ him take her hands into his.

“Althea, you have to have faith,” he said. “Sometimes the Lord shows us things that we can’t quite comprehend. Sometimes…” Now Rev Jones looked at me, no warmth in his eyes. “Sometimes he shows us things and gives us tasks that we may think we aren’t ready for, but we are, for He knows us better than we know ourselves. Understand?”

Mama nodded like she did, but I could tell she had no idea what Rev Jones was talkin’ about. “Yes, Rev, I understand. I just have to have faith.” She looked back at me. “So, my Bethany ain’t afflicted?”

Rev Jones patted Mama’s hands and let them fall away. “No, Althea, Bethany isn’t afflicted.”

Mama put a hand to her heart and took in a deep breath. “Well, praise the Lord!” she cried. She fanned at her face and took another tissue, wipin’ at her eyes, but I could see she was smilin’ and the tears weren’t comin’ back. “Thank you Rev! Your words help make a mother’s heart beat a little easier!”

Rev Jones smiled up at my mama, but his eyes continued to search mine for the truth.

“Now, Althea, I am a might thirsty,” the Rev said. “And I’m sick of apple juice and ice chips they keep givin’ me. Would you be a dear and fetch me a Coke?”

Mama’s eyes went wide. “But, Rev, that cain’t be good for your heart!”

“No, probably isn’t,” he chuckled. “But, it sure is good for my soul!”

Mama swatted at the air in front of the Rev, battin’ away his joke. “Of course, Rev,” she said. “I’ll have Bethany here run down to that vendin’ machine at the end of the hall.”

“Oh, Althea, would you mind fetching it for me?” the Rev asked, puttin’ on his best hang dog expression. “I want to ask Bethany a couple questions about the state of the church.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed, but she seemed to remember herself and that it was Rev Jones askin’, so the suspicion was gone faster than it showed itself. “Of course, Rev.”

“Oh, and could you get me one from the cafeteria?” the Rev asked. “It tastes so much better in a cup with some crushed ice. If I’m gonna have one, I best enjoy it fully!”

Mama smiled, looked at me then nodded and left the room.

“What’d he say to you, Bethany?” the Rev asked. No explanations, no questions, just right to the point. That was Rev Jones.

I looked at my feet. “He said he done come back already and that the Rapture had happened and we were the children of the doomed,” I whispered.

Rev Jones sighed. “You’d think after two thousand years he’d come up with a better con,” Rev Jones said. “He has all the time in the world up on that cross, and it’s always the same hook. I guess he is right about the already comin’ back part.”

I gasped and pressed my hands to my mouth. Rev Jones frowned and waved my alarm away. “No, girl, you got me wrong,” he said shakin’ his head. “That isn’t the real Jesus. Well, it is his body, but it isn’t his soul. When the Lord Jesus Christ’s soul returns to earth then the Rapture will come.”

Rev Jones pushed himself up a bit in his hospital bed, wincin’ at the effort. I stepped to his side, takin’ his arm and helpin’ him get comfortable.

“No, Bethany, what you talked to, what tried to trick you was just a soulless shell,” Rev said. “Just an empty vessel lookin’ to spread Evil anyway it can.”

“So it ain’t the Devil?” I asked.

“No, no, not quite the Devil,” Rev Jones said. “But an agent of the Devil. A ghoul in a way.”

“A what?” I asked, not ever hearin’ that word before.

Rev Jones thought for a moment. “I guess you’d call it a zombie,” he answered finally. “That’s probably the most modern term for it.”

“A zombie? Like them movies?” I asked, not sure Rev Jones really knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout.

“Yes, Bethany, like the movies,” the Rev answered. “Just as bloodthirsty and hungry for the flesh of the livin’.”

I don’t knows why, but that gave me comfort. Knowin’ it was just a zombie and not the Devil was a lot easier to swallow.

The Rev Jones reached out and took both my hands in his. They were old and cracked, but most of all they’s was cold. Deathly cold.

“Bethany, I’ve been watchin’ you your whole life,” he said, his eyes burnin’ into mine. “From the moment you crossed the threshold of my church, I knew you were the one. He did too.”

“Who did? The zombie?” I asked, my voice just a croak.

The Rev nodded. “Yes, the zombie. That’s why I picked you to help watch the church while I was gone. I could see the Spirit in you. I could see you had what it would take to keep the world from fallin’ to Evil. I knew you wouldn’t be taken in by his lies and half-truths. But, now I need you to do something else for me, Bethany. Can you do something else for me?”

I nodded, not sure my voice would work anymore, not with the Rev’s eyes burnin’ into my very soul.

“Good,” he said, closin’ those eyes for a moment. “In my office in the church there's a safe behind the painting of The Last Supper. Combination is 12-25-00. In that safe is everything you will need to find and capture the monster and place him back on a cross. He must go back on a cross, Bethany. He must be watched over.”

It got hard to hear the Rev, what with my heart poundin’ in my ears so loud like.

“You can’t kill him, Bethany, just capture him,” the Rev said, slowly opening his eyes. “That is very important. The book in the safe will tell you all you need to know. You have to do this Bethany, only you, and you don’t have much time. Don’t tell no one, not even your Mama.”

“Don’t be tellin’ me what?” Mama asked, Coke in hand, as she came back into the room. “What you two keepin’ from me?”

Rev Jones fixed me hard with his eyes and I nodded so he knew I understood. He smiled weakly and reached out for his Coke. “You are an angel, Althea.”

Mama looked from me to the Rev and back again, but didn’t ask for either of us to clarify. “I think the nurse saw me bringin’ that in here, so you best be finishin’ it soon,” Mama whispered.

“Don’t you worry,” the Rev smiled, already suckin’ down the Coke like he was racin’ the Devil himself. “It’ll be gone in a blink.”

Mama watched me closely, but I kept my eyes on the Rev.

“Well, we best be goin’ and let you rest, Rev.” Mama took me by the elbow. “Thank you again for puttin’ my mind at ease about Bethany.”

“No trouble, Althea,” he answered. “You have a good daughter there. Always remember that.”

“I will,” Mama said, pushin’ me out the door. “Hope you get well soon and get back to us, Rev.”

“I’ll do my best,” the Rev said and I knew right then he weren’t comin’ back to the church ever again.

***

I kept waitin’ for the questions, but Mama made it all the way home and into the kitchen before tearin’ into me.

“You will tell me what you and The Rev was talkin’ about, Bethany Lynn!” she ordered. Ain’t no arguin’ with Mama when she has her Boss voice on.

“I cain’t, Mama,” was all I said, hangin’ my coat up. “I promised the Rev.”

She scowled at me somethin’ fierce! Near turned my knees to jelly!

“I am your Mama!” she shouted. “That Rev Jones is a good man, but he cain’t be comin’ between a girl and her mama!”

“He ain’t,” I said, my back straightenin’. “Nobody can come between us, Mama. Not the Rev Jones, not God, not nobody! But, I cain’t tell you what we was talkin’ ‘bout!”

Mama stared at me for a good long while. “Well, if you ain’t gonna tell me then you best be makin’ lunch,” she snapped.

“I don’t have time, Mama,” I said, knowin’ that wouldn’t sit well with her. “I have to get to the church right away to help…clean up.”

“Half the parish already cleaned up the mess, Bethany,” she said sternly. “Nothin’ left for you to do, but make your Mama some lunch!”

I didn’t answer. What was I gonna do? I couldn’t be sayin’ why I had to go back to the church.

“There’s somethin’ I have to do,” I said finally.

“For the Rev?”

I stayed quiet.

Mama made a rumble in her throat, Daddy used to call it her “bulldog growl”, and she pushed past me to the parlor. “Do what you will, girl. If I have to fix my own lunch then don’t be expectin’ supper to be waitin’ for you when you get home! You are on your own!”

Mama was more right than she knowed.

***

I read the small, leather journal from cover to cover and started over again before I noticed the light was gone and I had to switch the desk lamp on.

“So, it’s you then.”

I screamed so loud I near burst my own ear drums!

“Lordy, child!” Deacon Lawrence cried out. “I’m already half way deaf! You tryin’ to take the other half from me?”

I stared at the Deacon for a moment, watchin’ him glance from the journal clutched in my hands and up to my face. “Deacon Lawrence…what you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Bethany, but I knows the Rev has told you not to talk to anyone about what’s goin’ on,” Deacon Lawrence said, wavin’ away my question as he pulled a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket. The old man lit his smoke and watched me through the blue cloud that soon drifted between us. “You think you up for it?”

I just watched him, his cigarette glowin’ red each time he took a drag. Deacon Lawrence rolled his eyes.

“You gonna have to trust someone, sometime, Bethany,” he said between puffs. “Just like the Rev had to trust me. And many like me before. You won’t be able to do it alone forever.”

“Nothin’ is forever, Deacon Lawrence,” I said.

The Deacon snorted. “You may have read that old book there,” he said stabbin’ his Pall Mall towards the journal in my hands. “But, I can tell you ain’t understandin’ it.” He took two more long drags then let the cigarette fall to the floor, snubbin’ it out with the toe of his shoe. “It’s a lifetime gig, Bethany and your definition of a lifetime and the Good Lord’s definition of a lifetime may not quite jibe. You’ll see.”

He smiled at me softly then turned heel and was gone.

“Oh, and you best be hurryin’! Read that book quick, you ain’t got much time!” he called to me from the front door. “Good luck, child.”

I listened to him leave and when I heard the front door latch, I got up and removed what was left in the safe, just as the book said I should. I cleared the desk and spread the items out in front of me.

One long piece of rope, laced with silver and supposed to be blessed by the Apostle Paul himself.

One long, thin knife, like for cuttin’ catfish, with a handle made of some kinda bone. The blade was real sharp, which I found out the hard way as I tested it with the meat of my thumb and watched the blood well up.

The small clay whistle, made from the earth of the Potter’s Field where Judas The Betrayer killed hisself. At least that’s what the journal said.

One leather pouch of grey powder that was to be mixed with water and painted all over the Zombie Jesus once he was back on the cross.

Last was an iron hammer, heavy as Sin, with a short wood handle, said to be made from the original cross itself and three iron nails.

I scooped all these items up and threw them in a satchel bag Rev Jones had hangin’ from the back of his door. And with the satchel bag over my shoulder, and more fear than I’d ever known in my belly, I left the church to find the Zombie Jesus.

***

The journal said the same as Rev Jones, that the Zombie Jesus was just the body of the Savior, not the Savior hisself, and was left on earth to test us. Since the creature crawled from outta the cave, there has been one person tasked with keepin’ him from startin’ the Apocalypse. It hadn’t been the same person over the years, but it didn’t sound like there had been more than a dozen or so.

You see, the movies had it more right than they knew. If the Zombie Jesus was left to his own devices, that thing would attack every last person until all that was left was the dead. But, just like the movies, if he bites you then you become like him, a undead abomination tryin’ to spread Evil until only the dead walk the earth, lettin’ the Lord know to start the End of Days. I guess that’s when the real Jesus comes back to bring all the Righteous home to Heaven, but the book didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout that part.

What it did say was to blow the clay whistle and that would light my way to the Zombie Jesus and anyone he had corrupted with his bite. It also said that it would show the Zombie Jesus the way to me.

I really didn’t want to blow that darn whistle.

If that didn’t beat all, the book said that once I blew the whistle I wouldn’t never die, neither. Well, not never, but close to never, unless the Zombie Jesus bit me, then God couldn’t save me. Made me wonder what happened to Rev Jones to put him in the hospital.

The book also said that the rope could be used to bind the Zombie Jesus so I could nail its Evil ass. That’s some handy rope. ‘Cept it wouldn’t hold forever. That’s what the nails were for. The nails would freeze the evil, keepin’ the monster immobile until it was secured back up on the cross. Then there was something about needin’ my energy, so it weren’t no permanent solution.

The knife was for takin’ care of anyone the Zombie Jesus bit. Supposed to cut clean through bone and sinew like they’s made a butter. Seperatin’ the head from the neck was the only way to stop the things. No shootin’ them in the head, no sir, the head had to come clean off and only by the knife. Nothin’ else would put those bodies to rest. And I had to put them all to rest or they’d spread the Evil just as fast as the Zombie Jesus.

The hammer, well, that was for hammerin’. Didn’t say much else. Pretty simple, I guessed.

All this swam through my head, and a helluva lot more, as I walked through the church parkin’ lot and into the pines across Route 18.

From the second I stepped into the darkness of the woods I could feel him. Not like he was watchin’, but like every step he took had corrupted a bit of nature. Kinda like when somethin’ goes bad in the fridge and even though it didn’t touch anythin’ else, the smell just gets into it all and you have to throw everythin’ away. It was like that.

I knew I didn’t need to blow the whistle right away. No, the Zombie Jesus would be hungry, be lookin’ for some victims to chew on for a spell, and there was only a few places between the woods and town where he could do that. The first place bein’ the Tuckwiller farm, and that was where I headed.

Oh, and the last thing the book said? I had ‘til dawn to make it all right again or nothin’ would work against Zombie Jesus.

***

Miss Tuckwiller was knowed for three things in our parish: raisin’ the best tastin’ chickens in five counties and bein’ able to eat more of those chickens fried in one sittin’ than anyone in seven counties. She done proved it year after year at the State Fair.

When I found her sittin’ on her back stoop, she was fixin’ to break her chicken eatin’ record. Trouble was, those chickens weren’t fried. Heck, she hadn’t even bothered to pluck ‘em clean. No, sir, she’s was a eatin’ them raw and the one in her mouth was still kickin’.

“Missus? Miss Tuckwiller?” I called out as I came up on her, bloody feathers stickin’ to her cheeks and all. She spit out what was in her mouth and I looked down at the mangled chicken head that done landed at my feet.

“He says you’d a come by,” Miss Tuckwiller snarled, her voice thick like tar. “He says you’d try to take my chickens froms me. Ain’t no way no ones takin’ my chickens!”

Mr. Tuckwiller had died ‘bout same time as my daddy, so I knew there weren’t no one else around, but I turned my head nonetheless, just to make sure she weren’t talkin’ to someone behind me. She weren’t.

“Miss Tuckwiller, I’m awful sorry,” I soothed, steppin’ closer with each word.

Her face turned all scrunchy and mean-like when I spoke and she jumped up from the stoop, screamin’, “The Lord Jesus Christ says I gets to keep my chickens forever! Alls I gots to do is brings them with me!”

The third thing Miss Tuckwiller was knowed for was her size. She weren’t no taller than me, but she outweighed me, Mama, Rev Jones and any other two peoples put together. And that was what came at me. That and her chickens. The dead ones. But they didn’t move like no dead chickens and Miss Tuckwiller didn’t move like no four-hunert-pound farmin’ woman.

I stumbled back, the knife held up like it was a crucifix wardin’ off some vampire.

“Whatcha got their, girl?” Miss Tuckwiller grunted. “That ain’t nothin’ but a tiny ol’ pig sticker! You gonna kills me, you better brings a hatchet!”

Then she was on me! And I do mean on me!

I stumbled onto my backside and this undead monster was crushin’ the life outta me. I tried to bring the knife up and slash her throat like I’s supposed to, but her body be so big I couldn’t get around her belly.

So I cut her belly. And, Dear Lord, I really wish I hadn’t.

Her cold guts spilt all around, pouring from her insides like a sausage truck done fell over.

Miss Tuckwiller grunted and her face, ready to rip my face off with its nasty zombie teeth, got this hurt look on it and she pushed away from me. Good thing, too, since her chickens were comin’ for my eyes.

While I was busy slicing the heads off her zombie chickens, Miss Tuckwiller was busy shovin’ her stuffin’ back in. Ropey intestines were slippin’ through her fingers and she was getting’ more and more frustrated with every failed attempt.

“Damn you, girl!” she shouted. “Look what’s you gone and done! How’s I goin’ to eat your face if I ain’t got no guts?”

With the last chicken head fallin’ to the ground, I looked at her and frowned. “I really don’t rightly give a two-peckered goat turd about that, Miss Tuckwiller. My job is to send you to Jesus.”

“Silly little slut! Jesus already came!”

“No, he didn’t, ma’am,” I corrected her, keepin’ my knife arm behind my back as I moved closer. “That weren’t the real Jesus. That was Zombie Jesus and he’s just a plain ol’ ghoul in disguise.”

The look of hurt on Miss Tuckwiller’s face done near broke my heart.

“You mean Jesus didn’t tell me to eat your face? I ain’t saved?”

“No, ma’am. You’re dead. I’m gonna have to cut your head off.”

“Well, that ain’t very lady-like, Miss Bethany. No girl should be goin’ ‘round cuttin’ neighbors’ heads off!”

“I surely wish I didn’t have to, Ma’am. I truly do.”

The wind shifted and blew at me from behind as I inched ever closer. Miss Tuckwiller lifted her head up and sniffed like an old hound dog.

“Oh, Bethany,” she said, her mouth widenin’, showin’ me her nasty, zombie teeth. “I’m ‘fraid I cain’t let you kill me. I’m just too hungry. That Zombie Jesus said I’d be hungry, and he sure was right.” Her eyes shifted and the whites done turned bright red. “I think I’m gonna have to eat your face after all.”

My knife was ready when she let her guts fall and leaped at me. I couldn’t believe any blade could cut through a person, let alone a person as big as Miss Tuckwiller, as fast as that blade cut.

Miss Tuckwiller’s body fell in a bloody heap and I watched her head roll off under the chicken coop.

I said a prayer, hopin’ Miss Tuckwiller’s soul would be at rest. The journal didn’t say nothin’ about the soul, just the body. Guess she’d be judged just like the rest of us, but I liked to think what I done helped her on her way.

***

The trail of feathers and chicken parts led me to the last house between Miss Tuckwiller’s and town. Biscuit Shelton’s place

Now, on a good day I’d stay away from Biscuit. He be one mean, crazy man. Mama always said he had the shellshock. You know, the PTSD from the Iraq? Yep, he had it in spades. He’d be yellin’ and screamin’ at cars on Main Street, usually with his double barrel in one hand and a bottle of rye in the other.

In any other parish the sheriff just locked a crazy person like that up, but not ‘round here. ‘Round here the sheriff be Biscuit’s brother and an even bigger drunk. So you can imagine what I come upon when I found 'im.

Neither was lookin’ too good after meetin’ Zombie Jesus. The Sheriff had a big ol’ hole outta his shoulder and I could see right to his bone. Biscuit looked about the same, ‘cept he was missin’ a finger or two and black-red blood was just drippin’ away onto the winter dead grass.

“Don’t shoot ‘er!” Sheriff “Shelty” Shelton yelled, as the corner of the shed exploded into splinters and paint chips right by my head. “She ain’t gonna be as tasty if she’s dead, you moron!”

“Shut your flesh-hole, Shelty!” Biscuit screeched. “This be my land and I’ll shoot whoever I God damn want ta!”

“It ain’t just your land, Biscuit! Papa left it to both of us and don’t you forget it!”

“He loved me more ‘cause I’s a war hero! So it’s mine!”

“You’re a crazy jackass, is what you are!”

“Take that back! Nobody done call me crazy and gets away with it!”

“Oh, yeah?” the Sheriff yelled, cocking his pistol and shovin’ it against Biscuit’s head. “What you gonna do ‘bout it?”

I watched Biscuit try to swing his shotgun ‘round, but the Sheriff’s trigger finger was faster and Biscuit’s brain done exploded out the other side his head.

“Hoowhee!” the Sheriff shouted, slappin’ the smokin’ pistol ‘gainst his thigh. “That learned ya!”

The journal said the head had to come offa the neck, but I didn’t believe it ‘til I seen it. Biscuit picked hisself up off the ground, grabbing at some extra brain by his feet, and shoved his skull right back together. It sorta stayed put, but there was a flap of skin and hair that kept fallin’ down over his ear and I could see it pissed him off.

“Dammit, Shelty! That ain’t cool!”

“Oh, shut yer trap, ya big baby,” the Sheriff growled, bored with his brother as he turned his attention on me. “We’re bein’ rude to our guest. Hey, sweet thing, how about comin’ a little bit closer?”

“That’s what I’s aimin’ to do, Sheriff,” I answered.

He catched sight of my blade and laughed, holdin’ up his .44 pistol. “You think you can cut me with that, girl? I shave with bigger blades.”

“I shave with bigger blades!” Biscuit parroted.

“I just said that, stupid.”

“Screw you! I ain’t stupid!”

The Sheriff was so busy arguin’ with Biscuit that he didn’t see me come up next to him quick-like. I had his head off and rollin’ at his brother’s feet lickety split.

“You bitch!” Biscuit roared. “You kilt my brother!”

“Yes, I did,” I said to him, my confidence growin’. “And I’ll be killin’ you now too.”

Biscuit took a swipe at me with his shotgun, apparently havin’ emptied both barrels, but I jumped out of the way. He was just too drunk to hit anythin’.

As he spinned about I slashed at his neck, but he was so drunk he fell down at my feet and the knife hit nothin’ but air.

“Ha! You missed, bitch!”

My foot didn’t miss as it crunched down on his face over and over and over. With every stomp Biscuit would screech, then laugh, screech, then laugh. It was quite irritatin’.

“Hold still, Biscuit!” I shouted. “I ain’t got all night!”

Biscuit alive weren’t never cooperative, and Biscuit dead was even worse. He just kept rollin’ about the yard, his skull half caved in, laughin’ and cursin’. I chased after him, pickin’ up a long axe handle leanin’ ‘gainst the porch, thinkin’ if I broke his legs he couldn’t roll away no more, but every time I’d slam that hickory down it’d just hit dirt!

“Damn you, Biscuit Shelton! HOLD STILL!”

‘Fore I knowed it he was up and in my face. “How’s this, sweet thing?”

He smacked me ‘cross my cheek and my head rocked back, stars spinnin’ before my eyes. His fist was in my belly and I doubled over, tryin’ so hard to get my breath, but he grabbed me by my hair and slapped me again across the other cheek.

“Is that still enough?” Another slap. “How’s ‘bout that?” And another.

I bit my tongue something fierce and I focused on that pain, turnin’ it into anger.

“I’m done with your horseshit, Biscuit!” I yelled, drawing the blade across the back of his knee. He collapsed nearly on top of me and I shoved hard, pushin’ him away.

“Bitch! How’s I gonna dance on yer grave with a bum leg?!?”

Them’s the last words Biscuit Shelton ever said.

I struggled to my feet, my belly achin’, and kicked Biscuit’s head over to his brother’s. I didn’t give two craps whether their souls went to Heaven or not. I doubted they would, anyway.

My stomach hurt bad, but I had to push on. There was a Zombie Jesus to find.

***

Trackin’ Zombie Jesus was easy when there’s a trail of chicken feathers and guts and legs and parts to follow. Without all that stuff, though, the trail went dead right quick.

I pulled the whistle out of the satchel and gripped it tight in my hand as I walked my way along Main Street. I didn’t want to blow that whistle. Sure, I’d live forever, but from the way Rev Jones acted, that livin’ forever stuff wasn’t gonna be no picnic. I kept thinkin’ maybe I could find Zombie Jesus without the whistle, cut his head off and then go back to livin’ with Mama just as normal as could be.

I was kiddin’ myself.

Rev Jones could see me for somethin’ different and so did that Zombie Jesus. Once that ghoul hopped down off his cross, my life changed. Ain’t no goin’ back when you put your foot on the trail. Ain’t no goin’ back at all.

Main Street was quiet. Which was to be expected on Christmas night, but the quiet wasn’t right. It had a thickness to it, like there might be sound, but it was way, way down under twenty bales of cotton, fightin’ to get heard.

You ever feel electricity in the air? You know, like before a big lightnin’ storm? That’s what it all felt like. A tension and energy coursin’ through the whole town.

“Them legs of yours must be gettin’ cold under that skirt, Bethany?” a voice said from behind me.

“Yeah, Joey, yeah, they’s gettin’ cold!” another voice laughed. “Cold, cold, cold!”

“Shut up, Mickey,” Joey growled.

Joey Biggs and Mickey Porter. Two rotten peas in a rotten pod.

I spun about, my knife ready to take their heads off. They both jump back, they’re hands raised.

“Whoa there, Bethany!” Joey yelled. “We’s just playin’! No need to get all violent!”

I watched them closely and realized quickly they weren’t dead. Drunk, stupid and immature, but not dead.

“Go away, boys,” I snarled at them. “Get back home.”

“You ain’t my mama!” Mickey shouted.

Mickey Porter only had two ways of talkin’: shoutin’ and yellin’. His mama was known for bein’ a clumsy ox of a woman, so everyone guessed Mickey had been dropped more than once on his ugly noggin.

“Go home, boys,” I said again. “I ain’t got time for your bullcrap tonight. Get off the street. It ain’t safe.”

“You got that right!” Joey laughed. “We saw this crazy guy all dressed up like Jesus. He was singin’ and dancin’ and…”

“And what?” I insisted. “Tell me, Joey!”

“Why shoulds I? Not like you bein’ very nice right now.”

I was on him in a flash and the knife was right next to his privates. “I already told you I ain’t got time for your bullcrap!”

Joey’s eyes got all wide and he tried to step back, but I grabbed him by his dirty collar and pulled him close. “I’ll take your junk, Joey. Tell me where the Zombie Jesus is!”

“Zombie Jesus? Zombie Jesus!” Mickey cackled. “She’s crazy, Joey! Gone nuts in her brainpan, Joey! Cookoo!”

“Shut up, Mickey,” Joey whispered, all his attention focused on me. “I don’t know where the nut went, Bethany. Honest. We were laughin’ too hard at him to notice and when we looked back he was gone. Honest.”

My hand got all warm and I realized Joey had wet himself and it was leakin’ through his jeans. I jumped back and wiped my hand on my coat.

“You’re disgustin’,” I growled at him. “Get your stupid ass home! NOW!”

Joey turned and took off, embarrassment makin’ his legs pump faster and faster. Mickey took off after him.

“Hey Joey! Hey! Wait up, man!”

The two idiots nearly made it to the corner of Chestnut Street when they both stopped suddenly. I couldn’t quite see what they were doin’, but it was close to the alley that ran between Hollister’s Grocery and Mrs. Prim’s Bibles & Books.

“What are you two morons doin’? I said go home!”

“Hey, Bethany!” Joey called back to me. “I think I found your-!”

Dead hands reached out and pulled the boys into the alley, and I took off down the street so fast I nearly sprinted out of my shoes. But when I reached the alley they was gone. Not a trace. Nothin’.

“Where you at, Zombie Jesus?!?” I yelled, spinnin’ about. “Show yourself!”

The silence was finally broken as I heard that ghoul laugh his undead, thorny-crowned head right off. The noise filled the air alls about.

“HAHAHAHAHA! Poor Bethany! Little girl can’t do a man’s job! All you’re good for is taking a stiff one between the legs and pumping out some bastard brats! Like your mama did!”

“I ain’t listenin’ to you, ghoul!” I shouted. “You’re nothin’ but a liar!”

“Oh, dear! Mama didn’t tell you, did she? That wasn’t your real daddy, Bethany! He was just the man that took pity on your whore of a mother and married her when you were still a wiggling worm in her slutty womb!”

“Shut up, liar! SHUT YOUR EVIL MOUTH!”

The laughter stopped, but silence didn’t fill the void. No, it didn’t.

The sound of every door on Main Street openin’ was what I heard next.

***

“Bethany! Be-than-y! BETHANY!” they all chanted as they stepped, crawled, lurched and stumbled into the road. “BETHANY, WE ARE HERE!”

The whole town! The whole town was dead and comin’ for me!

What could I do?

I spun about and saw that I was surrounded. No where to run to. Not from the hunert zombies comin’ to eat me!

“Not so easy now, huh?” Zombie Jesus laughed behind me. “What’s the little girl going to do?”

I didn’t even think, just turned and slashed. Joey cried out and clutched at his throat.

“Why, Bethany?” he gurgled as blood spilled from between his fingers and out his mouth. “I didn’t do nothin’ to ya…”

He collapsed onto the ground, blood poolin’ about him.

“I’m so sorry, Joey! Oh, God, I thought you was him!”

“Who’s damned now?” the ghoul’s voice said next to my ear, but he was gone before my head whipped about.

“Show yourself, you big coward! SHOW YOURSELF!”

“With pleasure, Bethany,” he said from the middle of the street.

The ghoul-devil took a long, low bow, his arms spread wide.

“I’m right here, Bethany. Just going for a stroll.” He grinned as he weaved hisself through the crowd of zombies and away from me. “Just going for a stroll. I wonder if your mama’s awake?”

Then I lost sight of him as the undead closed around me, chantin’, “Be-than-y! Be-than-y!”

The satchel around my shoulders felt heavy, way heavier than when I put it on, nearly pullin’ me down to the ground. I reached inside and felt around, my hand closing on the handle of the hammer. I pulled the satchel’s strap over my head and let the bag fall as I kept a hold of the hammer.

Now, when I put that hammer in there it was small, like a mallet. But somehow that hammer growed. It weren’t no small mallet no more, no sir, it was like a sledgehammer! And the head of that sledgehammer glowed with a brilliant light. And I knowed that light. It was the light of Righteousness.

The zombies stopped in their tracks, their undead arms comin’ up to shield their empty eyes.

“Turn that light down, bitch!”

“Knock that off, Bethany!”

“Whore-child!”

“It burrrrrns!”

They all started backin’ away and yellin’ at me. To my greatest surprise, I could lift that sledgehammer with one hand, it feelin’ light as air, leavin’ my other hand free to keep that knife at the ready.

“I’m so sorry to y’all!” I shouted. “But I have to put ya to rest now!”

I stepped into the road swingin’!

Folks I knowed all my life fell against the hammer blows, their skin crispin’ up like bacon at the slightest touch of the head. Their undead mouths started to scream and they tried to run, but I hunted them down, crushin’ and cuttin’, slammin’ and slicin’.

Junior Morgan tried to grab me from behind, but I rammed that handle in his gut, turned about and sent his head a-flyin’.

The right upstandin’ Mrs. Edgar Winchell tried to take a chunk outta my arm, but I crushed her kneecaps, then her face, squishin’ her brain’s right out her ears.

I felt bad when I had to gut Scootch Mitchell. I knowed Scootch since we was in diapers. We fooled a bit every now and then. He was my first boyfriend until one day durin’ recess he made me eat sand. I made him eat iron.

Friends and folk I knowed forever came at me and I put ‘em down. I didn’t hesitate at all. I knew what needed to be done and I done it.

Like a machine of righteous death, I moved from zombie to zombie, makin’ sure not an undead head was attached to its neck and there weren’t nobody left movin’ on Main St.

By the time I was done dispatchin’ them all to the Afterlife, my body was covered in gore and zombie blood. Not a part of me was left dry.

“I’m comin’ for ya, Zombie Jesus! Don’t you touch a hair on my Mama’s head, you evil ghoul bastard!”

***

There was light on the horizon and I still had a couple miles to walk before home. I weren’t gonna make it before dawn. The journal book didn’t say what would happen if the sun rose before Zombie Jesus was back on his cross, but it weren’t gonna be good.

The crunch of tires on the gravel road made me turn, my knife ready and hammer still in hand. The long, black Cadillac pulled up next to me, the passenger window rollin’ down.

“Get inside, Bethany,” Deacon Lawrence ordered. “I warned you about hurryin’ up.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice and we was speedin’ to my house before my car door slammed shut.

“You been busy, girl,” the Deacon said. “I found your leavin’s in town.”

“They all come for me,” I whispered. “Ain’t nothin’ I could do, but set their souls free.”

“That’s true,” he nodded. “Don’t mean you can leave those corpses to rot in the road. You still got work to do when you done with Jesus.”

“Zombie Jesus,” I corrected him. “That ain’t the true Savior.”

“No, it ain’t,” he agreed as we swung into my drive. He sat there, his old eyes fixed on me. “What ya waitin’ for? Get yer butt in there!”

“You ain’t comin’?”

“No, ma’am, ain’t my fight. I can help with the heavy liftin’, but you gots to do the fightin’.”

“But I ain’t blowed the whistle yet. I ain’t committed!”

“There’s a town of dead folk back there that shows just how committed you are. Don’t fool yourself, girl. You may not be livin’ forever, but this is your job now. Until you die.”

I nodded, knowin’ I didn't got no time to argue, whether I be wantin’ to or not.

“I’ll be out shortly,” I said to the Deacon, more to boost my own confidence than anythin’ else.

He just nodded.

When I opened my back door all I could hear was Mama yellin’ at the top of her lungs.

“Get your rotted ass off me, you demon!”

“I just want to give you a hug, Althea,” Zombie Jesus laughed. “Hold still now.”

“You ain’t huggin’ me if you got the last prick on Earth! Take your stinky-ass self somewhere’s else! I ain’t buyin’ what you be sellin’!”

“Mama! I’m comin’! Hold on!” I shouted, rushin’ through the kitchen and into the front parlor.

But there weren’t no Mama there. Not alive no more, at least.

“Oh, Bethany, there you are!” Zombie Jesus said from the couch, his rotten arms wrapped around Mama’s naked body. “Your mother and I were just having ourselves some cuddle time! Care to join? She has coffee!”

“Come on, child! Get those nasty clothes off and come rub against your new daddy!” Mama said, grabbin’ at Zombie Jesus’s privates with one hand while holdin’ up her coffee mug with the other. From the color of the drippin’s on the side, I knew that weren’t coffee in that mug. “Don’t be shy!”

“But.. But… But I thought you was fightin’ him off? I heard you…”

“Oh, that? We’s just playin’, girl! Adults play-pretend right before gettin’ it on sometimes!” Mama grinned, lickin’ her already swollen lips. Her teeth came out and raked against her bottom lip over and over until blood started to trickle down and drip from her chin. “Don’t make me ask you again, Bethany. Get those clothes off and come show your new daddy your stuff!”

“Mama…no…please not you, Mama,” I whimpered, my heart breakin’, my mind and soul hurtin’, makin’ my belly do somersaults.

The hammer in my hand shrunk itself right back to its normal size, weighin’ more than I thought possible. I let the thing fall from my fingers and it thumped to the ground. I still held the knife, but the fight wasn’t in me no more. Mama was gone.

“You gonna cry, girl?” Mama laughed. “Little Bethany gonna go all boo hoo?”

“Mama…please…”

“Quit your bitching girl and come to Jesus!” the zombie ghoul yelled.

And there it was.

The Blasphemy.

I wasn’t doin’ all this to save my Mama, or the townsfolk, which I failed at, but to save the world. This was beyond my parish; beyond this little spit of land I called home.

I had a duty!

I had been chosen!

AND HE DONE PISSED ME OFF!

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain!” I snarled at the rotten monster.

Mama jumped up from the couch, her old woman, dead boobies floppin’ about, and charged right at me.

“Don’t you sass your new daddy!” she yelled.

“I love you, Mama!” I shouted as she rushed at me. “I love you more than anythin’!”

Her head came right off and I swear to God Above that there was relief in those dead eyes. Ain’t nobody wants to be a zombie.

“Oh, you are going to Hell for that, Bethany!” Zombie Jesus laughed. “Killing your own mother! What kind of monster are you?”

“That weren’t my Mama, ghoul,” I answered him, confident that my soul was saved. “You killed my Mama. You’re the one goin’ to Hell!”

“Didn’t you read that book of Reverend Jones’s? You can’t kill me, Bethany. I can’t be cast out of this body. At least not without bringing about the Apocalypse and it’ll take someone with way more power than a helpless girl to bring that on!”

“True enough, ghoul, true enough. But I’m pretty darn sure bein’ trapped up on a cross for eternity havin’ to listen to the Lord’s words is Hell for you.”

Zombie Jesus’s smile faltered.

“That’s what I thought,” I laughed this time. “That fear in your evil eyes? I think it is.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, girl,” the thing hissed. “You still have to catch me.”

He gave me a nod and turned to run out the parlor, but he forgot one thing: I’m a country girl and country girls know how to use rope when they need to.

I had that special rope out of the satchel before he could reach the door. I flung one end out and snapped it back like a bullwhip. It weren’t as easy to use, but it did the trick, smacking that Zombie Jesus right in the back of the knees.

Undead or not, you get hit in the back of the knees with a rope like that and you be goin’ down. That Apostle Paul sure knew how to bless him some hemp and silver. I was on that monster fast as lightnin’ and had the rest of the rope wrapped about him right quick. His undead, grey skin began to sizzle from the silver and I knew I only had minutes before things got ugly.

“BITCH!” he roared at me as I grabbed up the hammer.

That time the hammer stayed its normal size, but it sung with the power of God like before. I put that nail straight through his palm, pinnin’ that Zombie Jesus’s right hand down. He snapped at me with his nasty teeth, but I kept out of reach.

“That nail is for Mama!” I shouted as I watched the skin on his hand turn to stone and work its way up his arm.

I grabbed up the second nail and put it right through his left hand. More skin to stone.

“That’s for my parish!”

He hissed and spit at me, the spittle stingin’ like acid when it hit my skin. “I’ll eat your insides, girl! I’ll do it while you watch!”

“Shut up, ghoul. You ain’t eatin’ nothin’ no more.”

He kicked at me as I struggled to get his feet together, one on top of the other.

“I’ll eat your pussy first! Rip those lips right offa that snatch! YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

“This one…” I hesitated, makin’ sure he was lookin’ me right in the eye as I held the hammer in one hand and the last nail in the other. “This nail is for ME!”

I hammered that iron home and the Zombie Jesus went rigid, his whole body changin’. The howls that came from his mouth sounded like a chorus of demons. My ears pained to near bleedin’ with that sound, but I refused to cover ‘em. No, he wouldn’t get that satisfaction.

“WE’LL MEET AGAIN, BITCH! YOU’LL NEVER REST! I’LL BE WAITIN-!”

Then silence. Blessed, blessed silence.

***

“You do your duty?” Deacon Lawerence asked, leanin’ against the Cadillac while he smoked hisself a Pall Mall. He looked past my house at the pink-orange light peekin’ its way over the roof. “Time’s up, I believe.”

“It’s all done, Deacon,” I replied. “I’m gonna need some help getting’ the thing outta my house.”

“Ain’t your house no more, girl,” the Deacon said, a pained look on his face. “Can’t stay here. Grab some things and shove ‘em in a bag. We got about an hour to take care of town and hit the road.”

“The road? What are you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“This parish is tainted. That Zombie Jesus has put his mark on it. Ain’t nothin’ gonna live here again. Those not bit will drift away and soon there be only empty houses and dried up fields. We lost this battle.”

“We? What you mean we?”

“You cain’t do it alone. Rev Jones knew that. We’ll move along and you’ll set up another church and I’ll train me another Deacon. It all been done before.”

I stared at him, my mouth hangin’ open. “Another church? I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout bein’ no preacher! I’m just a skinny legged girl!”

Deacon Lawrence’s eyes turned fierce. “You know’ about evil! You know’s how to face it down and not give in! You knows everythin’ you need to be a preacher!” He saw the fear in my own eyes and his face softened. “You’ll do just fine.”

***

I watched the town burn in the side mirror of the Cadillac as we sped away down Route 18. I wouldn’t look back over my shoulder, not with Zombie Jesus trussed up in the backseat. He may have been stone and all painted up to look normal, but I wasn’t in no mood to look upon him for one more second that mornin’.

“You sure there ain’t nobody left alive in town? We ain’t gonna burn no innocents, right?” I asked, fightin’ the horror of what I done. Deacon Lawerence helped me pile the bodies and pour the gasoline, but I was the one that had to strike the match.

My Duty.

“Ain’t nobody left alive, Bethany,” the Deacon assured me.

“What about the hospital? What about Rev Jones?”

“Rev Jones passed on. When he passed on, the hospital passed on with him. Somethin’ you’ll need to be ‘ware of when you ‘bout to pass on.”

“What you mean by ‘passed on’? You ain’t talkin’ ‘bout regular death, is you?”

“Regular death? Ain’t no such thing, girl. But, no, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that. Rev Jones was all used up. He made some mistakes along the way. You be careful not to make your own, now.”

I weren’t sure exactly what he meant by that, or what exactly happened to Rev Jones, but I made myself a promise to keep my head straight and walk the line.

Havin’ a duty means you gots responsibility. I was gonna take that responsibility very serious.

***

Deacon Lawrence passed away yesterday, one year to the day when we left our little parish, which is why I’m writin’ all this down. I gotta keep record of what happened, and what could happen. That old journal just ain’t enough no more.

He was right, though, I gotta knack for preachin’ and as I gave his eulogy with the monster on the cross behind me, I looked out at my flock, at the cryin’ eyes and runnin’ noses and counted myself blessed.

That’s how I feel now.

Blessed for the chance to spread the Lord’s word and to do my Duty.

Blessed for the new Deacon that Deacon Lawerence found and trained. He’s a righteous man and I love him dearly. Pretty sure he loves me just the same.

Blessed I ain’t had to blow that whistle. With some luck, and Lord willin’, I may gets to die a normal death, whatever that may be. But, I’ll do my Duty if I need to.

And as I write these last words and rub at my swellin’ belly, I feel blessed that I had such a good Mama and I know I’ll be just as good.

I just pray my baby won’t have the Duty I have.

But, if she, or he, does, I’ll make sure they’re ready.

‘Cause Zombie Jesus is waitin’ up on his cross and only time will tell how long he’ll stay up there…

And You Shall Know Him......

Fields. Fields as far as the eye could see, cleansed and sterilized of all living matter. He stood at the End Of The World and looked out upon those fields. His fields. He grieved the loss of life, but rejoiced in the utter brilliance of the destruction.

Descending slowly, so He could savor the carnage before Him, He made His way past scorched boulders and burnt tree stumps into the plains of death. He needed no companion to walk with; He was His own company and counsel.

“Was I too hasty in my decision?” He asked Himself.

He laughed at His own folly of thought. How could He be too hasty? Life, Death, Existence; all were His to manipulate; all were His to own. Giggling to Himself, He picked His way through the devastation.

While He was responsible for it all, He was, of course, not to be held responsible. Why should He be? It was His to command and He did so justly.

His Angels had revolted, but He handled them. They cried out to Him. They begged for Him to stop. They whimpered and pleaded, scratched and clawed, suffered and died. His hands, His hands wrought their end. His hands snuffed out their Light. His hands brought them the mercy that was His to give. His hands were Life, Death, Existence.

Pleased with His own power He performed a small shuffle step, ala Dorothy and her Friends. He whistled and sang to Himself as He eased on down, eased on down the charred road. He clapped His hands together and the muted sound from the poly-fiber gloves echoed dully in the wasteland. He raised those hands above Him and praised Himself.

“I'm off to see the... I AM the Wizard! Ha HA!,” He bellowed in a false baritone.

Giggle, sing, shuffle, whistle, clap, clap, clap.

He passed His time this way for several miles. The landscape remained unchanged. Smoldering and smoking. Blasted and barren. His power was great and He was satisfied.

After a few miles, He grew tired. His shuffle lost some of its step; His whistle lost some of its tune; His claps lost some of their jubilation.

When He came to the first hunks of metal, blasted and twisted, He paused. He gazed inside at the improbable remains. The jawbone, the knuckle bones, a femur. He didn't regret His decision. He didn't feel remorse for His choice. He just paused and let the sight of the remains sink in as far as they could, and then He moved on.

He had grown hungry, but He was faced with a problem. How did He feed Himself with the helmet in place? He couldn't risk exposure. No, no, no, that wouldn't do. He guessed he hadn't thought that part through. He wondered if He should turn back. But, turning back would have been to admit defeat. And He was never defeated. He always won. He HAD won. So, with great resolution, He walked on and decided that hunger was beneath Him.

He hadn't gone more than a couple more miles when He started to miss His Angels. Their worship-filled faces, their disciple- like adulation and their unswerving (except for the end) devotion. How could He replace that? He had always felt alone, but He had never felt lonely. He guessed that was just par for the course; part of the territory; baby with the bathwater. He raised His hands again and asked for His own guidance.

“Self, please help me to be righteous upon this path. Self, please help me to be just in my soul. Self, please help me to be virtuous in my...In my...In my...Song!”

With great joy and uprightness He sang. He sang with all His voice. He sang with all His soul. He sang and sang and sang. He sang His song.

“Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the Nation......”

Through The Last WH

EMERGENCY SHUTTLE B635- FSS LOOKING GLASS LOG- 05233675

This is Chief Engineer Amanda Vebram. I have launched the emergency shuttle and abandoned ship. The FSS Looking Glass has been compromised and all are lost. I have set the self-destruct and hope to get this log recorded before the countdown is finished. I should have just blown the fucking thing right away, but this record must reach Command. The WH’s -STATIC INTERFERANCE- and all must be -STATIC INTERFERENCE-

***

“How many times are you going to watch that?” Lieutenant Stephens asked.

“As many as it takes to figure out what the Hell she’s talking about,” Captain Lawrence Little replied. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“As many times as needed to get you to stop,” Stephens said. “The crew is getting worried. The word ‘obsession’ has started floating around.”

Captain Little grunted. “Yeah, it’s not every day you get a chance to investigate one of the biggest mysteries the FSS has faced.” The Captain turned back to the monitor and the face of Chief Engineer Amanda Vebram. The woman was in her mid-forties, short brown hair, which looked matted and sticky; her bright blue eyes were wild with fatigue and one sported a nasty bruise. Her lips were split and she had applied a large bandage to one cheek, but blood had already started to seep through and stain the gauze. The Captain pointed at the image. “Are you telling me you don’t want to know how that happened?”

“Frankly sir? No. This whole mission creeps me out.”

“Well, suck it up Lieutenant. How close are we to the coordinates?”

“One more jump and we’ll be through the last WH, sir.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

***

EMERGENCY SHUTTLE B635- FSS LOOKING GLASS LOG- 05233675

(cont.)

After we came out of that last WH, it all went to Hell.

The first day showed no indication of what was to come. Melissa, my wonderful helper, all of twelve and nearly a woman, woke the six year old twins, Aston and Samantha, at 0700 for morning chores and breakfast, just like she usually did. Everyone finished what they needed to in our living quarters then set out to attend to the ship wide duties we had all been assigned. Benny, my husband, complained of a slight migraine, but it wasn’t one of his full blown put-him-in-a-dark-room-don’t-talk-to-him episodes, so neither of us thought anything of it.

Everything was fine! We met back in our quarters for lunch, finished the rest -STATIC INTERFERANCE- returned for dinner and to settle in for the night. There were no indicators! None! I -STATIC INTERFERANCE-

Chief Vebram looked away from the recorder, tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping from her chin. She wiped them away and turned back.

The screams that woke us that night came from outside our quarters, echoing down the ship’s corridors. We both bolted from the bed in our skivvies, not even bothering to put on pants and ran to the com.

Being Security Chief, Benny had expected the com to be lit up and a report waiting, but there wasn’t. The com was dead, the computer interface terminal was dead, even Benny’s handheld issued only static.

He told me to stay in our quarters, to watch the children then planted a kiss on my cheek and bolted into the corridor, the screams so much louder now.

Melissa woke up and came out into the living area. She was worried, of course, but I told her everything was fine and to go back to bed. There was so much more I could have said -STATIC INTERFERANCE-

Her brow furrowed the way it does when she’s debating whether to call me on my bullshit. To think that was the last -STATIC INTERFERANCE- If she was only two years older, I wouldn’t have been given the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t have made it this far. I wouldn’t be the last.

I checked on the twins, who were sleeping peacefully, and went back to bed to wait for Benny to return. Sometimes it sucked being an engineer in these situations. Nothing in my schooling or training could provide any practical assistance, so I just had to wait and worry. But, in hindsight, it was good, for me at least, that I wasn’t -STATIC INTERFERANCE-

***

Captain Little rubbed at his face, trying to keep alert. The eight month trip had been rough, but they were so close now, so close to some answers. Answers the FSS wanted badly and had told him to retrieve. The Brass didn’t bother hiding the ‘or else’ implications. They said it straight to his face.

***

EMERGENCY SHUTTLE B635- FSS LOOKING GLASS LOG- 05233675

(cont.)

I don’t know when I dozed off, but I awoke to tiny hands clutching and small bodies pressing up against me, Aston and Sam desperate to get under the bedcovers.

They were shaking with fear and kept saying something was wrong with Mel.

I glanced at the clock, 0830, and sprang from the bed. Where the Hell was Benny? He should have been back. The twins, eyes wide with terror, began to cry then Aston shrieked and pointed at the doorway.

Melissa stood there, silhouetted by the fluorescent -STATIC INTERFERANCE- large and round dangled from her left hand.

Vebram once again turned from the recorder to compose herself.

Something in me knew what it was right away, but didn’t want to admit it. I mean, what else could it be on a freighter that hadn’t seen spaceport in nearly 37 weeks and where every single item was meticulously accounted for?

“Daddy’s not coming back,” she said, her voice low and husky, a voice I barely recognized. That voice…

I asked her what was wrong, or would have if the words hadn’t been fighting a scream in my throat as Melissa rolled the object across my bedroom floor and -STATIC INTERFERANCE-  severed head of my husband, of my children’s father, of Melissa’s father, wobbled to a stop, dead, glassy, blue eyes staring directly at me.

“Daddy was a liar,” that new voice said. “All of the adults were liars.”

Were. There it was. Being married to a Security Officer for fifteen years taught me a thing or two. One of those things was to pay attention to present tense and past tense. A slight slip in tense could tell you all you needed to know.

-STATIC INTERFERANCE- making sure my body was fully between Melissa and the twins. They say most parents go into denial when their child turns on them, refusing to believe that their little baby could be human, be fallible, be evil. I know I didn’t want to believe, but I still had two small bodies pressed against me and all instincts screamed to protect them.

“You all lie,” Melissa growled. Yes, growled. Animalistic couldn’t come close to explaining it. It wasn’t my daughter talking. “You lie too, Mother. Mothers lie the most,” she snarled, taking -STATIC INTERFERANCE-. Her shirt, OH GOD HER SHIRT!

Engineer Vebram’s chest hitched, but she pushed on, pushed past the pain.

It was coated with blood; dark and sticky, clinging to her pre-pubescent body, accentuating the curves that had started to show and the angles that hadn’t softened yet. She was so close to being a woman. So close…

Her hands were black red up to the elbows and her left hand held an excursion blade, two feet long, similar to a machete, but serrated on one side. I tell you my blood went cold at the sight of the dripping wet steel.

I yelled at her to put the blade down before someone got hurt.

Her eyes narrowed, a flash of confusion, of self-doubt. My Mel! My Mel was still in there! But, the look was gone before I could even register it, making me doubt myself, doubt that anything like my Mel could still be in that thing.

I can still hear it, the sound from her throat, the sound she made as she charged me, the blade whipping about her head, her face contorted by murderous fury. I didn’t hesitate, too many years working freighters, working the deep and knowing a split second was all that stood between life and death, had -STATIC INTERFERANCE- the bedside lamp and swung it out, smashing it across Melissa’s head, knocking her to the floor before she could close the distance between doorway and bed.

It wasn’t until I heard the twins crying hysterically behind me that I realized I didn’t have the lamp in my hand anymore and it was my fist that was smashing down, again and again, into Melissa’s face. Or what was left.

Vebram focused her gaze on the recorder, her eyes were hard now, the memories no longer of pain, but of determination.

If the brutal killing of my own daughter wasn’t sin enough, I went and threw up. I fucking puked, splattering my dead husband’s head and my now dead daughter’s crushed face!

I ignored -STATIC INTERFERANCE- still lurching stomach and my throbbing, most likely fractured, right hand, and snatched the balling twins from the bed and bolted, nearly slipping and falling in the liquids pooled across the floor.

I had our living quarters’ door open and was halfway into the corridor when they came around the corner. Eleven and twelve year olds, what looked like all of them from the size of the group. In their hands, their bloody hands, were gripped various weapons: excursion blades, metal pipes and tubes, table legs, pry bars, stun batons. They saw me standing there holding the twins and their pace quickened. I stood locked in place, not believing, as the group came at me faster and faster -STATIC INTERFERANCE- and screaming that inhuman scream.

Aston and Samantha shrieked in unison, ripping me from my shock. I dropped them and pushed them back into the room, barely getting myself inside and the door locked and secured before the children fell on the door with a ferocity I hadn’t seen since the mine fights on SELIR 5.My God they were just children! I watched in awe as ten inches of solid metal shook and vibrated with a hundred fist blows. I shoved as much furniture as I could up against the door, knowing it was foolish since not even the vacuum of space could breach that opening, but doing it for the sake of the twins, to show them that we would be safe, that nothing could get in now.

That is what I told myself.

I slumped into a far corner, the twins held against my chest, their tiny tears wetting my t-shirt. They -STATIC INTERFERANCE- little cry when a particularly loud thump would bang against the door.

***

The Captain shifted in his seat, yawning and stretching. He’d seen all this many times before, but he had to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He had to think of the safety of his crew and the completion of the mission. He had to be thorough. That’s all he was doing, being thorough. Obsessions were for the weak willed, the lesser. He was the Captain of a Class 3 Battle Frigate. He wasn’t lesser and he sure as shit wasn’t weak willed.

***

EMERGENCY SHUTTLE B635- FSS LOOKING GLASS LOG- 05233675

(cont.)

They clung to me as I got up to shut my bedroom door, the sight of Melissa’s lifeless legs just too much to bear. I pried their little fingers off of my pants legs and told them I’d be right back. They held each other, quivering, and I saw one of them had wet themselves. -STATIC INTERFERANCE- closed the door then went into the children’s room and fetched two clean outfits, not sure which had had the accident. The screams, the new screams, began as I stepped back into the living room.

No more thumps against the door, just the sound of chaos and murder.

I cautiously stepped towards the door, climbing over the barricade to get at the inset security video screen. I was worried it wouldn’t come on and was dead like the com, but the screen flickered to life, revealing the horror beyond.

The eight, nine and ten year olds swarmed the older children. I watched the brutality for as long as I could, stunned at the ferocity with which the younger fell on the older. I didn’t activate the sound since I could clearly hear through the walls and see on their curled lips the word “liar!” being shouted over and over.

When it was over, when not a single eleven or twelve year old was left alive, they turned their attention on my door. Their little eyes crazed and -STATIC INTERFERANCE- I scooped up Aston and Samantha and took them into their room, shutting the door tight and pushing two of the mattresses up against it, both for security and to dampen the sound of the fists and the bloodthirsty calls.

The twins complained of being hot and I placed the back of my hand to each of their foreheads, but felt nothing strange. They were clammy from the stress and fear, but no fevers that I could detect.

Telling them they’d be fine, I once again brought them into my arms.

The pounding stopped after a bit and I prayed it was over, but knew even before the new wave of murder began that it wasn’t. -STATIC INTERFERANCE- of the third wave of screams that now the smaller children, five, six and seven year olds had attacked the eight, nine and ten year olds.

“Liar.”

There it was. The voice, muffled and small, but it was that voice again. And it was in my arms.

The pain was sharp and quick and I jerked back, seeing a bit of my t-shirt fabric sticking from the corner of Aston’s mouth.

He bit me. My own child bit me. The child I was holding in my arms, trying to tell that everything would be okay, bit me.

Samantha pushed away from me and snatched up a handful of building blocks, flinging them at my face. “LIAR!” she screeched. Aston’s fists -STATIC INTERFERANCE- and I pushed him away, knocking him to the ground. He let out a small yelp of pain and his eyes welled with tears.

What kind of mother was I? I had killed my oldest and was now shoving one of my youngest. I rushed to him, apologizing, but stumbled and fell short as the blow to my head threw me off balance. Samantha, book in hand lunged for me, swinging wildly and I had to scoot backwards on my butt to avoid being hit by her wild swipes.

-STATIC INTERFERANCE- the wall I kicked out, connecting with Sam’s thigh. There was a sharp crack and she crumpled to the ground, grabbing at her leg. “KILL THE LIAR!” she yelled through clenched teeth.

Engineer Vebram looked directly into the camera without blinking.

I broke my little girl’s leg. Snapped it like it was kindling.

Aston pounced and I don’t know why, but this time I didn’t think. This time I acted.

His fingers clawed at my face as I held him by his neck. Then it was over. His body went limp, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. I let him fall… I LET MY BABY FALL FOR FUCK’S SAKE! -STATIC INTERFERANCE- watched his unmoving chest, waiting for him to take a breath. He never did.

Samantha snarled, like Melissa did, exactly like Mel did, producing a sound no six year old could and she -STATIC INTERFERANCE- She wasn’t as fast as Aston because of her leg and I was able to catch her across the jaw with another kick. I got to my feet and took the book out of her hand. I took the book out of her hand. I took the book. I took it. And then I.

I.

I…

-END OF TRANSMISSION-

***

“Sir?” Lieutenant Stephens called. “We’ve come through the final WH, sir. Um, you need to get to the bridge right away.”

“What’s the issue, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, the Looking Glass is still here. It didn’t self-destruct we’re staring right at it. And, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant? Out with it.”

“There’s life support and full power readings. The Looking Glass is operational. Holy shit, sir! The thing is locked on us and bringing up all starboard weapons systems.”

“Weapons? Where the fuck did an engineering freighter get weapons? Shields up! Full power, Lieutenant!”

Captain Little dashed to the door, but came up short as the monitor behind him flickered back to life. He turned about and his jaw dropped as a new entry came up, one that couldn’t have been part of the original transmission, but had to be as he was clearly staring at the sobbing face of Chief Engineer Amanda Vebram.

He watched in horror as a pry bar slammed against Vebram’s head, over and over, splattering blood across the recorder, drops rolling down the image.

A tiny hand reached up, wiping some of the blood away, smearing most of it. The Captain’s breath caught in his throat as a child that couldn’t have been more than two looked directly into the recorder, its teeth and mouth coated and dripping blood.

“Liars. You are all liars. Liars. LIARS! LIARS! LIARS!”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Stephens shouted over the com. “Sir, we’ve been hailed! Dear…God…”

“What is it Stephens?” Little asked, his eyes unable to look away from the gruesome face on the monitor. “Stephens! Report Goddamn it!”

“They… They’re children, sir! Sweet bloody Hell! They’ve opened fire!”

The two year old on the monitor kept repeating ‘LIARS!’ over and over, keeping Captain Little transfixed until the ship began to shake from weapons impact.

“Stephens! Fire at will!” The Captain waited, but there was no response. “Stephens?!? STEPHENS!”

***

EMERGENCY SHUTTLE A35- FSS W.A.T. CARPENTER LOG- 12183677

This is Captain Lawrence Little of the FSS Battle Frigate W.A.T. Carpenter. The ship is lost. The bridge was destroyed before we could retaliate. I believe other shuttles were able to deploy, but I cannot confirm. I would have gone down with my ship, but this message needed to be made.

The Captain looked squarely into the recorder.

Do not go through the last WH. I repeat, do not go through the last WH. The FSS Freighter Looking Glass is active and has been compromised.

He turned away for a moment and collected his thoughts then turned back.

This will sound crazy, but whoever receives this message has to understand that something has gone terribly wrong in this sector. Whatever you do, do not go through the last WH!

The children will be waiting…

-END OF TRANSMISSION-

Jim Drurry, Interstellar Mediator

“Grubnar The Blistering will not tolerate this outrage!” squawked the translator box. “This is an affront to my supremacy and to all Flepsomnolinskies! I will rip out your gas exchange organs and fill them with my flatulence! Then place them within your chest cavity and glue your flesh together with the feces of an Arterian dogpod!”

Such was how Jim Drurry’s morning began. He sat at the end of the mediation table, head in hands, tie already undone, waiting for the many tentacled Flepsomnolinsky to finish with its tirade. The being from the Tulipsion System spit and foamed, bubbles frothing from its vocal tubes.

He’s going to short out the translator box if he doesn’t shut the hell up, Jim thought.

“Okay, Grubnar, calm down,” Jim soothed, wearily standing up. Holy Space Ghost, it’s only 9:30. Uggh…“No one is trying to insult you. We all come from different backgrounds and systems. I am sure Mr. Tintultintintul didn’t mean any disrespect. Right, Mr. Tintultintintul?”

Jim turned to the mousey little man sitting to his right. Mr. Tintultintintul just blinked once, twice then burped. “Excuse.”

Jim stared at the little man, waiting. But, the diminutive Mr. Tintultintintul did not offer any more to the table.

Sigh. “Okay…See Grubnar, he is-”

“That is Grubnar The Blistering! I should impale you by way of your elimination cavity! You are all space swine! Beneath me! Below me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Part of the rules of this proceeding are no threats against the mediator. You both agreed to this. Got it?”

Grubnar The Blistering waved his tentacles about showily, filling them with fluid and releasing, over and over again. Then abruptly he flattened his spine fins, turned around three and one half times and sat in his chair. “I am less aggrieved and will only use two appendages to defile you. Your apology is considered.”

Mr. Tintultintintul coughed. Jim turned to him expectantly, “Yes, Mr. Tintultintintul?”

The man lifted the obligatory pitcher and poured himself a glass of water. Slowly, he drank from the glass, upending it so every last drop fell into his mouth. He placed the glass back upon the table, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at the moisture around his mouth, refolded the handkerchief and burped.

“Excuse.”

Jim closed his eyes and counted to five. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time so I can be sure we have everything covered. I ask that you not interrupt, but only acknowledge the facts when I ask you to. Agreed?”

Neither party replied. Jim took this as a good sign. He straightened some papers and opened a manila file folder.

“Good. On the 312th day of the month Spenzinsor during the year 3553 Galactic Standard, an altercation occurred aboard the Interstellar Space Cooperative Juno 851.” Jim paused looking from one participant to the other. When he received no objections he continued. “Said altercation was between Mr. Eloschoysus Tintultintintul of the Mascral System and Mr. Grubnar The Blistering of the Tulipsion System.”

“Grubnar The Blistering has warned the fleshbag excretion on how to address Grubnar The Blistering! Grubnar The Blistering will now remove from the fleshbag all of its useless procreative organs and place them violently within the fleshbag’s vocal orifice!”

Grubnar raised himself to his full height of four feet and three inches, tentacles fully engorged and lunged at Jim. With weary patience and practiced motion, Jim flipped a switch conveniently located by his left hand. Grubnar instantly went rigid, his semi-opaque flesh flashing from bright purple, to pink, to chartreuse and back to its original aquamarine. Jim flipped the switch back and Grubnar immediately collapsed into his Flepsomnolinskian chair.

“Now, Grubnar The Blistering, I warned you. Another attempt on my life and I’ll have to have the guards restrain you physically. Are we understood?”

Grubnar sat motionless for a moment, except for the occasional tentacle spasm. Jim waited. Finally the Flepsomnolinsky gave the equivalent of a head nod and Jim cleared his throat to continue.

“Okay, back to the record. According to the Interstellar Space Cooperative Juno 851’s superintendent’s report, the altercation occurred due to the fact that Grubnar The Blistering’s condominium door was left ajar, allowing 4,328 of his progeny to escape. While they were quickly rounded up by Grubnar The Blistering’s spouse-” Grubnar began to engorge his tentacles once again, but Jim slid his hand towards the restraining switch and Grubnar quickly calmed himself down. Jim smiled. “-quickly rounded up by Grubnar The Blistering’s spouse, they did consume eight planters, four lounge chairs, one doormat and six ashtrays. Also, and the reason we are here, they consumed Mr. Tintultintintul’s prize winning pet Bankcrusian Salamander. A rare and exotic creature found only in a four by four square foot area on the planet of Bankcrusia. Is everyone in agreement so far?”

I freakin’ hope so, Jim thought.

Mr. Tintultintintul cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mr. Tintultintintul? You have something to add?”

Mr. Tintultintintul stood from the table. “The Bankcrusian Salamander can only be found in a four by four square foot area on the planet Bankcrusia.”

Jim blinked several times, feeling as if maybe he missed something. “Um, yes, thank you, Mr. Tintultintintul. So, we are in agreement then?’

Mr. Tintultintintul nodded almost imperceptibly and then sat back down.

“Okay, since those are the agreed upon facts, lets move on to the complaints and see if we can’t somehow get them resolved before Jupiter’s moons collide, okay?”

“Grubnar The Blistering wishes to eat of your excrement, digest said excrement and excrete the digested excrement upon your person for mentioning the blasphemous planet known as Jupiter,” the translator box hissed while multi-colored foam dripped from all twenty eight of the Flepsomnolinsky’s ocular cavities.

Jim immediately held up his hands in apology and to ward of any further protestations. "I apologize, Grubnar The Blistering, that was unintentional. I forgot about the ‘do not mention Jupiter’ stipulation in today’s proceeding. I humbly apologize and this oversight will be noted in my record by my superiors. Can we proceed?”

Jim didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed forward. “Mr. Tintultintintul has filed a complaint that Grubnar The Blistering is responsible for the procurement and replacement of the consumed Salamander. But, since the creatures only appear in their natural habitat every 14 millennia, this poses a problem. So Mr. Tintultintintul seeks financial restitution in the amount of 32.98567 quadrillion Interstellar credits.” Jim stared at the figure. “Is this correct, Mr. Tintultintintul? 32.98567 quadrillion credits? Am I reading this right?”

Oh, God this could take years…

“Yes,” the small man replied.

Sigh.

“Now, Grubnar The Blistering claims that according to the Cooperative’s by-laws, tenants are not allowed to keep pets upon the premises, thus voiding any liability he may have. Mr. Tintultintintul claims the same by-laws state that only a maximum of 350 offspring may be kept in any one condo at a time without a temporary use license and a full meeting and vote of the Cooperative’s board, of which Mr. Tintultintintul is a sitting member. Agreed?”

Grubnar flashed tentacles; Mr. Tintultintintul nodded.

Jim pushed back from the table, rubbed at his eyes and looked both of the beings square in the face region. “Now, before we continue, do either of you feel a compromise can be made here?”

Neither answered vocally, but Jim could tell from their body language that both were resolute in their views.

Sigh.

“Fine. I’m going to call my assistant in here and we are going to place our meal orders so we can work straight through this. Grubnar The Blistering there is an excellent eyeball menu I am sure you will appreciate. Mr. Tintultintintul, I’d recommend the egg salad right now. The onions are just right, not too strong with just the perfect amount of sweetness.”

Again, neither participant answered, but neither protested, either.

“Good.” Jim tapped the com button. “Marjorie? We are going to need a Flepsomnolisky menu and a human menu when you get a chance. Also, go ahead and call the cryo department. I’m going to need at least one clone thawed, possibly two.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Drury,” Marjorie’s voice buzzed from the com.

Jim rolled up his shirt sleeves and removed his tie completely. “She’ll be right in. She has to decontaminate and suit up.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Ammonia breather, you see.”

Mr. Tintultintintul chuckled faintly and Grubnar The Blistering’s color became polka dotted in yellows and oranges. Jim took this as a good sign.

Within minutes, Marjorie entered the mediation room, her massive iron suit making a horrible clanging noise. All three winced at each echoing, cacophonous step. Marjorie slowly made her way to the table and placed a menu before each participant.

“Just a reminder, sir,” Marjorie said, checking a data pad. “You have an 11am appointment in two hundred years.”

“Crap…,” Jim complained. “Fine, put them in stasis if we aren’t done in one fifty, okay?”

“Of course, Mr. Drury. Oh, and your wife called. She wants to know if she needs to thaw the kids’ clones today…?”

Sigh.

“I’ll handle that one. Tell her I’ll call her during lunch, maybe we’ll get lucky.” Jim glanced at the participants. Sigh. “Nevermind. I’ll call her in a minute.”

Of course, Mr. Drury.”

“Thank you, Marjorie,” Jim nodded and looked back to Mr. Tintultintintul and Grubnar. “Now before she goes, would you like Marjorie to call any descendants you haven’t already listed that would want to take up this negotiation in case this runs past yours and your next in-line’s life spans?”

Jim looked from one to the other. “No? Fine then. Thank you Marjorie, I’ll call you with our order.” Marjorie clanged from the room, the air seal whooshing shut behind her.

Jim watched the two participants peruse their menus. Jim didn’t need a menu, having memorized them over the past 3,400 years during which he, or his cloned bodies, had been mediating.

I hope my next clone’s stomach can tolerate sauerkraut. I miss sauerkraut.

“Grubnar The Blistering would rather rip your intestines from your body cavity, bury them for a thousand years on the acid moon of Traflagar, excavate the sludge, feed them to an Arterian dogpod, wait until they have been fully digested, then pluck them from the dogpod just before excretion and put them on a sun dried tomato tortilla.”

Jim rubbed at his neck. “The wraps are on the back of the menu.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. He quickly dry swallowed three pills, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Okay, I say we go ahead and get on with this. Get some of the insignificant details out of the way first. Oh, stop waving your tentacles already, I know nothing is insignificant to Grubnar The Blistering. So, first thing is, I want us to take a look at the cooperative’s by-laws…”

Twelve Drabbles ‘Til Midnight: A Short Story, 100 Words At A Time

1 P.M.

Mr. Tweedy stood in the closet doorway with food tray in hand, backlit from the sunshine in his bedroom. Angela lay bent over in the closet corner, her blond hair covering her porcelain skin and electric blue eyes. Mr. Tweedy leaned forward, setting the tray of food by her feet.

“You must eat now. You have to keep your strength up. Please?”

Angela remained mute, not even acknowledging his presence.

“Louis! Who are you talking to?”

“No one, Mother! Jeesh!”

Mr. Tweedy looked longingly at Angela, sighed and shut the closet door.

Angela refused to move, even after he left.

2 P.M.

“Sorry that took so long,” Mr. Tweedy whispered, carefully opening the closet door, trying to avoid any creaks or protests from the old hinges. “I had to help Mother in the garden. We have wonderful tomatoes this year. Would you like some?”

Angela refused to answer.

Mr. Tweedy sighed, picking up the food tray and looking at the untouched sandwich. “I’m not much of a sandwich eater either. But Mother says they are a good way to get all major food groups.”

He waited for a response, some sign that she had noticed him.

Silence. Mr. Tweedy closed the door.

3 P.M.

“I have to go out for a while. When I get back we are going to need to start getting you ready for tonight. Big night for us,” Mr. Tweedy beamed.

He waited, but only the sounds of Mother finishing the lunch dishes could be heard from back in the house.

“Come on, don’t be like this. Tonight is special.”

Angela didn’t speak, she didn’t move, she left Mr. Tweedy to puzzle and wonder in frustration.

“Fine! Be that way!”

He lunged at her, grabbing her by her smooth chin.

“You will play nice when I get back!” he growled.

4 P.M.

Mr. Tweedy hated waiting for Mother’s prescriptions.

The pharmacy smelled of delayed death. Mr. Finkeldorfer, the decrepit pharmacist, always seemed to watch Mr. Tweedy closely.

God, he thought. I was six when I took that gum!

“Elaine Tweedy?” Mr. Finkeldorfer called out, knowing Mr. Tweedy was standing right there, waiting for the pills.

Opening his wallet, Mr. Tweedy pulled out a twenty and handed it over. He got his receipt and forced a polite smile.

Turning, he noticed the counter rack of lipstick.

Hmmmm, Angela will probably want some for tonight.

He ran his fingers along the bright colored tubes.

5 P.M.

The light from under the closet door shone on Angela’s perfectly smooth, white hand. Never moving, never making a sound, she sat in the corner, waiting for Mr. Tweedy.

Tonight was something special; he had been telling her that for days now.

Angela didn’t care; she was cold to Mr. Tweedy. No matter how much he pleaded, how much he complimented, how much he raged, he couldn’t get her to play along.

All day, every day, she stayed in the closet corner, refusing to be his “special someone,” as he liked to say.

Angela frustrated him more than Mother did.

6 P.M.

“Is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!” Mother hollered from the living room. The sound of the shopping channel blared from the ancient console TV.

Mr. Tweedy stirred the pasta sauce and turned the back burner down low.

“Just about Mother,” he responded, swallowing his anger like a sour appetizer. Looking wistfully up at the ceiling, he longed to be in his bedroom, in the closet with Angela. He sighed and checked the garlic bread in the oven.

“Jesus, boy! The news is almost on. Hurry up with that dinner!”

“Yes, Mother,” Mr. Tweedy said, dishing up spaghetti onto a plate.

7 P.M.

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Tweedy apologized. “Mother was just non-stop with the demands. You know how she can get.”

Mr. Tweedy didn’t bother to wait for an answer, too excited to care about the never ending silent treatment.

“Okay, I really hope you like this. I saved for months for it and special ordered it from Paris!” He pulled a black, satin dress out from behind his back.

“Isn’t it beautiful? I thought it would bring out your fair skin.”

Silence.

“I’ll leave it here. I’ll be back if you need help.” He closed the closet door softly behind him.

8 P.M.

“Okay, Mother’s in her bath and---” Mr. Tweedy stopped as he opened the closet door. “You, you aren’t even dressed yet! I still have to do your hair and I bought makeup. Uggh!”

He bent down, grabbing up the dress, inspecting, smoothing it out. “Please don’t ruin this tonight. Don’t you get it? This is our only chance.”

Angela lay there, frozen, glassy eyed. Mr. Tweedy tried to get his anger in check, but couldn’t contain the rage any longer. He grabbed Angela’s wrist, yanking her from the closet and tossed her onto the bed like a rag doll.

9 P.M.

It was a struggle, but Mr. Tweedy was finally able to get the little black dress on Angela and get her hair and makeup just right. She sat in the rocking chair in the corner of his bedroom, unmoving. Her electric blue eyes refused to meet Mr. Tweedy’s and stared right through him.

“Wow,” he sighed deeply. “You are absolutely stunning.”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking at himself in the mirror. “I, however, look a mess.”

He pulled his shirt over his head and unbuttoned his pants. He had long since gotten over being modest around Angela.

10 P.M.

Mr. Tweedy rolled up the rug, revealing the carefully drawn pentagram encircled in red and black symbols and letters. He set the rug aside and grabbed several candles, placing them at specific points on the floor.

“What am I forgetting? Oh, yes, sage.”

He fumbled in a paper bag, withdrawing a tightly wound bundle of sage leaves, setting it in a ceramic bowl near the edge of the pentagram.

“I think that’s it,” he said, turning to Angela. “Ready Sweetheart?”

Mr. Tweedy didn’t wait for an answer while he crossed the room and scooped her up from the rocking chair.

11 P.M.

Mr. Tweedy knelt next to the pentagram, naked. Carefully lighting each candle, he chanted an incantation while he worked. He smiled lovingly at Angela with each movement, but refused to let her beauty distract him from his delicate, deliberate work.

The flickering light glinted off Angela’s eyes while she remained impassive and unmoving in the center of the pentagram.

Finished with the candles, he lit the sage stick, blowing on the tip until it was glowing red. He waved the sage above Angela’s prone form, letting the smoke drift about her. With each move, he made an ecstatic, guttural moan.

12 A.M.

The bedroom door burst open, interrupting Mr. Tweedy’s incantation.

“Louis! What--? My God, dolls again?”

“Mother?”

His mother rushed him, yanking him violently up by his arm, while kicking the candles. Hot wax splattered Angela’s porcelain form.

“No!” cried Mr. Tweedy.

“You are a grown man!” She grabbed up Angela and tossed her against the wall, shattering her instantly. Mr. Tweedy collapsed.

“No more!” Mother scolded, slamming the door after her.

“Dude! I don’t know what happened, but that’s some powerful mojo,” said the newly animated sock monkey from the shelf.

The downstairs clock struck twelve.

Mr. Tweedy wept.

Blister

“I have booked my flight, dear, so make sure you have your holiday time in order,” Mandarin’s mother mothered. “Are you alright, dear? You sound put out? It’s not something I said, is it?”

Mandarin gritted her teeth. Not this time it isn’t, she thought. “No, Mother, I just have a blister on my toe and I stubbed it getting out of the shower.”

“The shower? Oh, yes, it’s morning for you. On your way to work?” her mother asked.

“Yes, Mum. Gotta go now. Call you later. Loveyoubye.” Mandarin hung up the phone, slipped out of her sleeping t-shirt and stepped into the shower.

The blister didn’t actually show up until Mandarin got home from work that evening. It arrived on Mandarin’s left pinky toe like an irritating relative, a minor inconvenience; something easily ignored unless upset. She thought nothing of it and left it alone. It filled with fluid, burst, scabbed, healed and went away. The normal blister cycle repeated billions of times across the world.

***

When the blister came back again, Mandarin became annoyed. The first time it arrived she was very aware of which shoes pinched and could have caused the blister. She had made a point of avoiding those shoes even though it made coordinating work outfits quite difficult. The second time it was not as easy to ignore; she left it alone again and after a couple days it ran through it’s cycle and was gone.

“Well, it better not slow you down when I get there,” Mandarin’s mother sniped. “I didn’t spend a thousand pounds on an airline ticket to see Washington, DC by myself, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be fine by the time you get here,” Mandarin said. “Listen, gotta go now, I’ll be late for an appointment.”

“Oh, well, if you have to run off, don’t let me stop you. It’s not a date is it?” her mother asked, very non-nonchalantly.

“Ta.” Mandarin hung up, pretending she didn’t hear the last question.

***

The third time the blister returned, Mandarin worried. She wasn’t quite sure, but swore the blister was bigger, heavier and well, meaner. That was the only word she could apply to how the blister looked and acted. She felt silly attributing an emotion to such a normal epidermal occurrence, but looking at the third incarnation, all deep red and bulbous, she couldn’t think of any other way to describe it.

“It’s just mean looking, Mum,” Mandarin admitted to her mother over the phone.

Mandarin could hear the maternal gears whirring in her mother’s head, even separated by an entire ocean and only connected by ones and zeroes flying through space. She knew her mother was going to try to help, in her way, and Mandarin dreaded it.

“Have you been to the GP?” her mother asked half-heartedly.

“You know I haven’t. My insurance doesn’t kick in for another thirty days. We’ve talked about this, Mother.” Mandarin couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice. She was hoping the conversation wouldn’t steer down that track, but lately it was the only track her mother had when they talked. That and her love life.

“It’s a bloody crime really. You wouldn’t have that problem if you came home. What’s the point of having a job if you can’t stay healthy enough to work? Doesn’t make much sense, if you ask me,” her mother said, for what seemed to Mandarin the thousandth time over the year since she had moved to Washington DC.

“It’s just a blister, Mother. It hasn’t kept me from working. It hasn’t slowed me down at all. It’s just bloody annoying.”

“Hasn’t kept you from any of your dates, then?”

There it was. Mandarin fumed. She’s really pulling out the stops this go round, Mandarin thought.

“Whatever you do, dear, just don’t do anything rash, alright? Wait until I get there before you decide to self-medicate or self-diagnose or whatever.”

“Listen, Mum, I’ve got to go. I have a meeting in half an hour and I’ll barely make it through the security queue in time. I love you. Callyousoonbye.” Mandarin quickly ended the call and placed her cell phone in her purse.

Grabbing her keys, she almost made it out the front door without stubbing her afflicted toe. Almost. Cursing, she limped down the hall to the elevator, knowing the stairs would be faster, but too painful, despite her need to hurry.

***

“You don’t look so hot Mandy,” Alicia, Mandarin’s cubicle mate, stated a week later.

Knowing Alicia meant well, Mandarin kept her temper in check, but she hadn't slept well the past two nights which made casual interactions bitterly irritating. The blister was getting worse and even the slightest pressure sent stabbing pains up her leg. Mandarin turned from her desk, rubbed her tired eyes and tried to focus on Alicia.

“I know, I know. I haven’t slept well. I’m just tired.” Mandarin smiled wanly.

“Is it still your toe?” Alicia inquired, looking empathetic. “Let me take a look.”

Mandarin sighed, knowing Alicia wouldn’t let the issue go. She hesitated, and then took off her runner and sock. To her credit Alicia didn’t gasp, but Mandarin could see the alarm in her eyes. Alicia took Mandarin’s foot gingerly by the heel, turning it this way and that to get a full look at the grotesque toe. The blister enveloped the entire toe, deep purple splotched with pink, red and yellow. Instead of sticking out from the foot, the fluid-filled protuberance seemed to be crowding the other toes, forcing them away from it. Alicia leaned in closer and reached a finger down to inspect the blister. Mandarin jerked her foot away, regretting the movement, but not wanting to risk a misjudged prod by her co-worker.

“Are you fucking daft?!? Don’t touch it!” Mandarin’s voice screeched a bit shriller than she had intended. She could feel the office go quiet as the other cubicles tried to listen in. She reached for her sock and shoe, but Alicia placed a concerned hand on hers, staying her movement.

“Sweetie, you need to go have that checked out. I’m not kidding. That isn’t right,” Alicia said, deep concern filled her features.

“I can’t afford to go to hospital, you know that.”

“Here’s my brother’s office address. He’s a pediatrician, but he’ll see you after hours for free. I’ll call him at lunch and let him know you’ll be coming by after work,” Alicia handed Mandarin a sticky note with the address scrawled across it.

“I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a blister for God’s sake. It’ll go away soon. Plus, I have to pick up my mother tonight at the airport.” Mandarin tried to push the offered sticky away.

Grabbing Mandarin’s hand Alicia folded the note within the palm, closing the fingers over the yellow piece of paper. She patted her hand and smiled.“That thing is not just a blister. Go see him tonight. I’ll be glad to pick up your mother, really. Frank and the kids will be at a movie anyway. You need to get that looked at now.”

“That is kind, but I really couldn’t impose. I don’t want to inflict my mother on anyone and I am sure your brother is way too busy.”

“Mandy, my brother will not mind,” Alicia interrupted. “It’s what he does. Plus, he’s single and a workaholic. He doesn’t have any social life to speak of. Maybe you can buy him dinner as a thank you. That’ll give your mother and me more time to talk about you.”

“Oh, sure, that’s just what my mother would love to hear: that I am whoring myself out for medical attention and pawning her off on my best friend. Lovely.” But, Mandarin put the address in her purse, smiling thankfully at Alicia.

“If your mom is anything like mine was when I was single I am sure she’ll just be glad you are having dinner with a man. I doubt the quid pro quo will even faze her.”

“You don’t know my mum,” laughed Mandarin. Alicia laughed with her as they both turned back to their desks and the day’s tasks.

***

Mandarin pressed the after hours call button outside the Children First pediatric offices. She took out her compact and checked herself in the tiny mirror. She had escaped from her cubicle early to freshen up in the restroom. While she was able to tame her head of red hair, her face was only barely salvageable with a wash and fresh make up. No matter what she tried, her lack of sleep made her look much older than her 32 years. As she stood outside the medical office trying desperately to convince herself she didn’t look like a withered hag, the door buzzed and clicked open. Mandarin put away her compact, did a quick cleavage check, smoothed her clothes and walked into the office.

Oh, My God, our babies would be gorgeous, was all Mandarin could think as a six foot, blue eyed, brown haired, Dr. Jason Blumenthal walked out from behind the reception desk with an outstretched hand. She blushed at her thought and nearly dropped her purse when she fumbled to shake his hand.

“Well, it’s good to finally meet you Mandy. My sis is always talking about you when we get together. Is Mandy okay? Or do you prefer Mandarin?” He squeezed her hand warmly once and let go. Mandarin left her hand hanging in the air, and then embarrassingly brought it to her side when Dr. Blumenthal lifted an eyebrow.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long day. Umm, Mandy is fine. Or Mandarin, whichever you prefer, um, Dr. Blumenthal,” Mandarin replied, hoping she didn’t stutter too much.

“Okay, Mandy. Call me Jason please. My patients don’t even call me Dr. Blumenthal.” He smiled and she flushed further, her skin nearly matching her hair. Jason took Mandarin by the elbow and chuckled a bit.

“You are looking a bit flushed. Why don’t we take your temperature first and then we’ll have a look at this toe of yours.” Jason led Mandarin out of the waiting room and back into the medical office proper.

***

“Holy cow. That’s quite a, uh, blister,” Jason exclaimed once he was able to carefully get Mandarin’s sock removed. “I’ve seen my share, but this is quite a specimen.”

Jason turned her foot back and forth, examining the maligned toe. After a couple minutes scrutiny, Jason gently placed Mandarin’s foot back onto the exam table.

“Well, at first look I would never call this a blister. But, the tissue and the fluid are indicative of a classic water blister. The size of it is unusual, but not unheard of. It’s the color that worries me,” Jason said, grabbing a clipboard and jotting down a couple notes. Putting the pen down, he looked up at Miranda. “The color is from the fluid, not the skin around it. And, to be honest, I have never seen a blister fill with fluid this, um, shade before.”

The tone in Jason’s voice made Mandarin suspicious. She narrowed her eyes a bit and looked hard at her future dream husband. Jason couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“You want to drain it!” Mandarin exclaimed. She brought a hand to her mouth, feeling a bit queasy.

Jason smiled apologetically. “Unfortunately, yes, I need to drain it. First, most of your pain is from the pressure all this fluid is placing on the membrane of the blister. Draining it should give you quite a bit of relief. Second, I am just a pediatrician. This is a little out of my league and I would like to send a sample in for testing. We just need to rule out any infection or, abnormalities.”

Mandarin blanched at the word abnormalities. Oh, my God, she thought, he must think I am some kind of freak. She felt utterly embarrassed. Just her luck, she meets a handsome doctor and he has to drain some freak goo from her toe. Not exactly the makings for a perfect romance.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Jason said. “I know you just came from work and I haven’t had a chance to leave the office-“ Jason put on a pair of latex gloves, picked up and unwrapped a surgical lancet from the counter. “--maybe, after we’re done here you might want to--this may sting a bit- get something to eat?”

Before Mandarin could answer, Jason took a pad of gauze and a small vial and held them next to the blister. He carefully stabbed the blister with the lancet and placed the vial directly under the puncture to catch a sample of fluid.

“Um, yeah, sure. That would be great. There is a place not too far from here Alicia and I have been to. They have the greatest fried-“, but Miranda began gagging before she could finish her sentence. Jason started to wretch also. The smell that came from the oozing pustule was of rotted meat, festering with filth and excrement.

With his head filled with the putrescence emanating from Mandarin’s toe, Jason shoved the lancet deep into the blister. Mandarin screamed with pain. Jason, stunned, shook his head and took a slight step back from the table. White hot rage filled Mandarin and she reached down and yanked the lancet from her wound.

“Oh, God. I am so sorry Mandy! I don’t know why- Aaaaaaarrrgggh!” Jason screamed.

Mandarin had taken the lancet and slammed it into Jason’s left eye. She grabbed him by the back of the head with one hand and, still gripping the lancet with the other, she shoved with both hands, ramming the lancet straight into Jason’s brain. He staggered back, but before he got two steps, the life left his undamaged eye and his body crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from his head. Mandarin sat on the examination table, the rage filling her body. The anger overwhelmed her and she began to hyperventilate. Before she could get it under control the world swam, swirled and went away.

***

When Mandarin came to, the first thing she did was throw up all over the exam room floor. The second, was to make sure she did not look at the corpse of her best friend’s brother and now ex-future dream husband. The third was to grab her belongings, some gauze and bandages and hobble as fast as possible out of the office. She was able to make it to the elevator and inside without being seen and she slumped against the elevator’s wall once the doors shut. She scrambled to get a bandage around her toe, nearly passing out from the pain and trying desperately to not breathe the smell. Once she got it semi-covered, she put on her sock and tortuously managed to get her shoe back on. Shoving everything left over into her purse, she was barely able to get to her feet before the elevator doors opened onto the lobby. She slammed past a young couple, ignoring their looks of surprise and limped out to the street to hail a cab.

Twenty minutes later she bolted the locks on her apartment door and collapsed onto the hallway floor as she broke into hysterical sobs. Her body convulsed with grief and her mind reeled at the thought of what she just did. Why had she done it?

All she could remember was the smell. Never in her life had she smelled anything that horrible. Once, when she was back home and house sitting for her sister, she found a container of spoiled tofu in the back of the fridge. She had heaved for two full hours after opening that lid. The putrid smell that came out of her toe… well, this was a million times worse. It was Rot with a capitol R, the absence of all life replaced with absolute decay.

As she gained her composure, she stretched her legs out, inadvertently hitting her foot against the bottom of the wrought iron coat rack. She cried out in pain and clutched at her foot. Dreading what came next, Mandarin painfully pulled off her shoe and fluid drenched sock. Again, the smell hit her and rage filled her head. She glared down at the other four toes on her left foot.

“You are crowding it! Move the fuck over and give it some room!” she screamed at her toes.

She glared at the seemingly alien digits and when they didn’t obey and vacate the end of her foot as she commanded, she grabbed the closest one to her malignant pinky and yanked as hard as she could. The small victim bent backward with the force of her rage and Mandarin felt the bone break and flesh rip. Her hand knocked the blister and fluid seeped out, coating the floor. Mandarin placed her hand in the fluid and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She reached down for more and smeared it all over her face. She grabbed her newly mangled toe and wrenched at it again, trying to rip it off of her foot. Frustrated by the toe’s refusal to disengage from the rest of her foot, she shoved herself to her feet and hobbled to the kitchen.

Mandarin went straight to the knife rack and grabbed her barely used kitchen shears. She lifted her leg and put her left foot onto the kitchen counter. A wide, malicious grin spread across her face. She grasped the unfortunate toe and with one deft snip, separated it from her foot, giving her blistered toe the room it deserved. She brought the severed digit up to eye level; triumphant rage filled her face.

“How do you like that? Not so bloody smug now, are we?” she screamed at the toe.

With a flick of her wrist she tossed it into the garbage disposal. She looked down at her leaking toe blister and smiled. Then her gaze moved to the remaining three toes on her left foot.

“What are you three laughing at? Trying to take the piss are you? Well fuck you!” Mandarin screeched.

Without hesitation, Mandarin removed the others with three more quick snips. The pain was excruciating, exhilarating and Mandarin bent her head back to roar at the ceiling. Blood poured from the stubs and covered the countertop. Chest heaving, she looked down at her handy work and her lips pulled back in a rictus of pride.

“Now that’s better,” she said aloud. “But, we better make sure you little piggys can’t go wee, wee, wee all the way home ever again.”

Taking her foot off the counter, Mandarin hopped to the left and opened a drawer. She pulled a wide-bladed butter knife from the drawer and hopped over to the stove. She turned on the front burner and placed the blade of the knife into the element. Mandarin whistled absently as she waited for the knife to heat up, watching the blood spurt from her butchered foot. Her mind played games with the bloody patterns spreading across her kitchen linoleum. It’s like cloud watching, she thought calmly.

As soon as the metal started to turn orange she grabbed a potholder and pulled the knife from the burner. She plopped her foot back onto the counter and leaned in close. Eyeing the wounds carefully, she assessed the proper angle to apply the glowing knife blade. Sighing contentedly, she slapped the burning metal against the ragged stumps. The wounds sizzled and the kitchen quickly filled with the smell of charred flesh.

Mandarin breathed in deeply and then began to laugh. The pain filled her head and pushed the rage away. For a split second Miranda was unsure of what she was doing and why. In that second of doubt her subconscious took the opportunity to do what it did naturally in times of extreme pain and stress: it shut her down.

Blackness enveloped her mind and Mandarin crumbled to the kitchen floor.

***

“Dear Lord! Mandy? Mandy, sweety, can you hear me?!?”

Mandarin’s consciousness pulled itself from three feet of mental cotton. She felt hands on her, feeling her. She knew she should recognize the voice, but the fog was too thick in her brain and she couldn’t open her eyes yet.

“Mmmmmmm…,” was all she could reply.

“We need to call 911! Where is the phone?” Alicia said.

“Oh, dear me, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” another voice said.

Miranda’s ears pricked up at that voice. Oh, she knew that voice. She struggled to open her eyes, but her heavy lids refused to budge. Insanely, she felt her blistered toe respond to the voice also. But, that’s insane, she thought. Mentally she laughed at herself and the absurdity of the thought. Insane was her new sane now.

“What? What do mean? She needs help!” cried Alicia.

“I mean, my dear, that as much as I have enjoyed this evening with you, this is a family matter. I am awfully sorry for this,” said the second voice with casual regret.

Miranda heard a dull thud and felt a heavy weight fall across her chest, quickly it was lifted from her. This time she was able to get her eyes partially open. Through the squint she could make out her mother shoving Alicia's still body aside. Looking down at her, her mother smiled broadly.

“Ahhh, there’s my little darling. Now didn’t I tell you to wait for me before you tried to do anything with that blister of yours?” her mother asked condescendingly.

Miranda winced and rolled her head away. Her mother quickly reached down and pinched her face in her right hand, forcing Miranda to look into her eyes.

“What have I always said, dear?” her mother asked in that same tone.

“Mother always knows best,” Miranda croaked.

“That’s right, my sweet,” Miranda’s mother said, letting her face go. As she crossed the kitchen and pulled a chair from the table, she said, “Yes, yes, yes, Mother always knows best. I remember my first blister. I had to learn the hard way, also. I am sorry, dear, you weren’t spared what I went through. I tried to warn you. At least I am a little more understanding than my mother was. Now, let’s get some air on these and then I’ll make a cup of tea. We have so much to talk about.”

Sitting down she slipped off the designer Italian wedge from her left foot. She began pulling the sock from her foot.

“But, why? How is this possible?” Mandarin asked weakly.

Mandarin’s mother paused, “Well, dear, we all internalize our emotions. Some get ulcers, some get migraines, some grind their teeth. We, dear, well, we get blisters.” She finished removing the sock.

With the sock removed, it exposed a bare foot with only one toe. The pinky toe. And its blister looked mean. Mandarin blinked again and again. Her mother removed her other shoe and sock. A mirror image presented itself; one toe, one mean looking blister. Mandarin’s childhood flashed before her eyes; she had never seen her mother’s feet without socks or stockings. Dear God, how could she not have known?

She began to sob.

Mandarin’s mother stood and walked to the stove. She grabbed the kettle and moved to the sink to fill it. After placing the full kettle back on the stove, she turned the burner on. Then she turned on another.

“My sweet darling, it’s nothing to cry about. You learn to live with it. It’s really quite easy. You just have to make sure-“ she looked down at Alicia’s prone and bleeding body ”-you don’t project your issues on to others.” Placing the knife into the burner as Mandarin had done, her mother grabbed the kitchen shears and crouched next to Mandarin, her face the symbol of maternal understanding.

“Now, after we are done cleaning up here, we’ll go see that brother of Alicia’s. I am sure he faced a little more than he bargained for, didn’t he dear? And we have a little cleaning up to do there, also?” Mandarin’s mother asked.

Mandarin turned her tear streaked face away, shame and guilt clouded her features. Mandarin’s mother removed Mandarin’s right shoe and sock. She lifted the foot, turning it left and right just as Dr. Blumenthal had done. She brought the kitchen shears next to the foot.

“The key, dear, is balance. You just have to find your balance. Inside…and out,” lectured her mother as she grasped Mandarin’s right foot firmly and placed the kitchen shears’ blades to Mandarin’s big toe. “But, don’t you worry, Mother is here to help you through it.”

Mandarin reached out and stayed her mother’s hand. Her mother looked up inquiringly.

“Please be careful, Mother,” Mandarin said. “I think I am getting another blister.”

“Of course, dear, of course dear,” Mandarin’s mother cooed, as she turned back to her task. “I’ll take care of everything. Mother knows best.”

The kettle started to whistle as Mandarin’s mother started to snip.

Another Happy New Year In The Apocalypse…

A Quintrabble-500 words exactly

“Gentlemen!” Jestor The Pimp called out as three college boys walked past his corner, his territory of pleasure and pain. “You lookin’ for a good time? I got the best time you’ll ever find right through those doors!”

The three glanced past Jestor at the shabby double doors, once bright red, but now faded and so dirt encrusted they looked like someone had painted them with menstrual blood and smeared shit.

“No way!” Mitch said. “There ain’t enough antibiotics left in the Ward to get me in there!” He slapped Stu and Chip on the shoulders. “Right guys?”

Stu laughed and he and Mitch kept walking, but Chip lagged behind. After a couple of paces Mitch realized he was missing a comrade and turned to call back. “You coming, Chipster?”

Chip didn’t move. He just watched the doors.

“Hey! It’s New Year’s! Let’s go!” Stu called out.

Jestor looked Chip up and down and knew what he had in front of him. “You gentlemen carry on,” he said. “I think your boy here has other plans.”

“Suit yourself, you little freakin’ perv,” Mitch said, walking away with Stu right on his heels. “Don’t come crying to me when your pecker falls off.” Then they were gone around the corner leaving Chip to Jestor.

“So,” Jestor began. “What you looking for?”

Chip looked away from the doors and locked his eyes onto Jestor’s. “You know what I’m looking for.”

Jestor laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Follow me kid. I’m sure I got what you want.”

Inside the building was dank, dark and smelled of shit, piss and sex. But, there was another smell, a smell Jestor didn’t much care for, but tolerated because it fetched a certain price.

“Down here.” Jestor directed Chip to a small set of stairs at the end of the hallway and past the curtained doorways.

By the time they were at the bottom of the stairs, Jestor had placed a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Chip, on the other hand, breathed deep the putrid odor. The odor of the Rotted.

“What’s your kink?” Jestor asked, his voice muffled.

“Redheads,” Chip answered. “Real.”

Jestor stepped to the third door on the right. “She’s, um, all yours. And all real,” he said, his hand extended. Chip automatically reached for his wallet and pulled out three crisp bills. Jestor laughed. “You know the price. Guess this isn’t your first rodeo.”

Chip opened the door and looked down upon the writhing form chained to the floor. Jestor had to fight his gorge. “You’ll want to wear a couple extra rubbers. She’s a little worse for wear.”

Chip fixed Jestor with a hard stare. “I don’t need condoms.” He licked his lips, his tongue tracing the skin and then his teeth. “It’s all about the head with these things.”

Jestor tried to smile, and then closed the door after the kid. He shivered as he walked back upstairs, pocketing the bills. “Another Happy New Year in the Apocalypse…”

The Scatological Reincarnation of Luke Bloomberg

“Lickspittle Blabberfatz!” Coach yelled. “Get your fat ass over here!’

Lickspittle Blabberfatz pried his 6 foot, 450 pound bulk off the gymnasium bench and shuffled over to Coach. His long, stringy blonde hair hung over his eyes; eyes that were cast down at his duct tape wrapped sneakers, refusing to look up. His tattered sweat shorts slipped from the top off his buttocks, revealing torn, tighty-not-so-whiteys and a plumbers crack that was less than clean. He pitifully picked his nose, wiped the offending treasure on his Balmouth Sound High School t-shirt and stopped five feet from Coach, still looking at his Upchuck Taylors.

“Boy, I said get your fat ass over here!” Coach bellowed, pointing to a spot directly in front of his manly, clean, freshly-pressed, gym-shorted personage.

Lickspittle shuffled closer, but stopped just shy of the Coach’s intended destination.

“God Damnit! Do I have to teach you how to freaking walk? Do I? Look at me when I talk to you boy!”

Without looking up at Coach, or any warning from himself, Lickspittle Blabberfatz crapped his shorts. Right then, right there. In front of the entire third period gym class. And horrifyingly, in front of Jasmine Von Skoopen, who Lickspittle thought was the smartest, prettiest, most popular girl at Balmouth Sound High School.

Everyone started laughing, thirty seniors, the two assistant coaches and the entire varsity cheerleading squad that was practicing at the far end of the gym. They all laughed and pointed and shouted and said horrible, horrible things to young Mr. Blabberfatz. All except Jasmine Von Skoopen, who, for some reason, had always been kind to Lickspittle. She did not laugh, but stepped away from the cheer squad, her hand to her heart, nor did she turn away when the smell hit her. The others all turned away, though, holding their noses, mouths covered, gag reflexes being fought. Some rushed to the locker rooms, knowing they would lose the gag fight.

“My God, boy! What the hell did you do?” Coach screamed, a vocal, baritone version of his Coach’s whistle. “Did you crap yourself? Are you a freaking baby, Blabberfatz?”

Lickspittle answered rectally with another voiding of his bowels. The smell! The smell was incredible! Six-month-old tofu shoved up a dying camel’s ass after being given a rancid goat yogurt enema was the first layer of stench. The pickled smegma of a thousand nursing home ex-whores was the second layer of olfactory blasphemy. The third layer could not be put into words, the reek so consciousness-shredding, so mind-bendingly putrid. The fourth and last layer was bacon. Crispy brown bacon, not the soggy still-see-through-the-fat kind. Lickspittle Blabberfatz sniffed at the air and frowned deeper than his usual ‘I am so fat and hated’ frown.

“Excuse me,” Lickspittle croaked.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? Are you God Damn kidding me? You just shat yourself! That wasn’t some squeaker you poofed out your enormous butt! You dumped in your drawers! Twice, for God’s sake!” bellowed Coach, his overgrown, 1977 moustache trying desperately to crawl up his nostrils to get away from the evil emanating from Lickspittle Blabberfatz’s posterior. “You are a disgusting blob, Blabberfatz!”

Lickspittle stood there, feces streaming down his corpulent thighs and calves, onto his shoes, the gym floor. He sniffled lightly, but said nothing as the uncharacteristically liquid excrement pooled around his sorry excuse for shoes, seeping between the cracks in the duct tape, canvas and rubber. He could hear the jeers and guffaws; the whip crack of pointing fingers; the thought balloons of disgust. Lickspittle sniffed again and reached back to scratch his ass.

“Oh my God, you freaking retard! You now have crap all over your hand! What in God’s name are you thinking? What could possibly be going through that Twinkie-addled brain of yours?” Coach hollered, jabbing his right middle finger into the air space between Lickspittle and himself. “Go get yourself cleaned up! I don’t want to see your fat face again today! Do you hear me Blabberfatz?”

“Sorry,” Lickspittle Blabberfatz said, turning away from Coach as he shit-slipped and shit-slid his way to the locker room, leaving a slug trail of liquid scat in his wake. All the while he tried to keep his soiled sweat shorts from falling off his offending ass. Behind him he could hear Coach screaming for someone to get the janitor and “Clean this freaking mess up!”

The laughter exploded bigger, meaner and nastier and filled the gymnasium as soon as the locker room door latched shut. Lickspittle found his locker and stripped his soiled clothes from his body, peeling his shorts and underwear from between the shit-glued fat rolls of his thighs. He tossed them into the trash can at the end of the locker row.

Before he could make it to the showers, more excrement poured from his now stinging butt. It splashed onto the institutional tile, splattering back up his legs. He looked down, terrified now. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Except for the expansion/contraction of his anus, there was no feeling coming from down below. No tight warning from his insides telling him to go squeeze one off. No crampy, near-pain to say that breakfast was making room for lunch. It was like the on/off switch to his colon was shorted out. One second, no crap; the next second, crap. And oh so very runny crap it was. Lickspittle lumbered into the showers, feeling truly empty inside and turned on a nozzle, hoping to rinse his shame away.

He knew they were coming for him as he turned the water on. His Weird Kid radar could sense them; could hear their barely contained malevolent whispers. It was part of his daily cycle, and he only wondered what it would be this time. The answer came in a painful smack to the backside of his head. He had learned over time that attacks were less likely in the showers if he kept his butt aimed at the shower entrance. His massive ass cheeks seemed to repel and repulse the bullies. No one wanted to be seen approaching those gigantic buns, for high schoolers that would push too many homophobic buttons. But, today his elephantine tush seemed to have lost the usual kryptonitic effect as another blow struck his head.

When he turned around to face his attackers he got an eyeful of flying bright pink. The impact rocked his head back and sent him sprawling onto his filth covered haunches. Haunches that now seemed to spew forth an even greater volume of not so solid waste.  Lickspittle grabbed at his eye as soon as the pain registered. He looked down at the shower floor and saw three urinal cakes lying in the drain, excrement swirling about them in a psychedelic sewage ballet. The fourth urinal cake broke his concentration when it skipped off his forehead. He followed the trajectory and saw them standing there, the popular, the not so popular, the formerly persecuted, their hands full of urinal cakes. As one the bullying horde lifted their throwing arms and attacked without remorse. Lickspittle Blabberfatz desperately tried to ward off the fluorescent blitzkrieg with flailing arms and head dodges, all the while his insides continued to void themselves.

Soon he was huddled in the corner of the showers surrounded by pink projectiles and brown colored municipal water. The barrage stopped as the mob ran out of ammo. They began the taunts and insults in earnest, hoping that words would hurt enough while they waited to be re-supplied.

Lickspittle Blabberfatz slowly forced himself to stand, sending one final, awesome deluge of crap out and down. When he was fully on his feet the locker room went quiet. The sudden silence made Lickspittle dare to look directly at his attackers. All of them stared at him, jaws dropped, mouths agape, stunned.

Puzzled, Lickspittle glanced behind him, wondering if someone else was in the shower. No one was. He looked back at his enemies as they continued to stare with their well-built, social life-having, success-bound eyes. They were looking at his body. For the first time since he could remember, eyes were not averted from his obese form. He looked down at himself and his knees buckled and gave way.

Patting his body with his hands, he struggled to find the fat that defined him. Instead of rolls of lard, his hands encountered sagging, empty flesh, as if the fat had been sucked out with a straw. The loose skin flopped in his hands. If not for his nervous system registering the feelings, he would not have believed he was holding mounds of his own inelastic skin. He grabbed at it, smacked it, flipped it about, still not quite comprehending what had happened.

Looking up once more, Lickspittle would have crapped himself out of fear, if he had any crap left. Instead of urinal cakes, the crazed bunch of testosterone fueled, hate junkies were holding baseball bats, hockey sticks, tennis rackets and even a couple ping pong paddles. Lickspittle Blabberfatz gulped and scooched his back up against the antique avocado-colored tile that lined the showers. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Freak,” one of the better-thans said. The others nodded their agreement and as a single homicidal unit they converged on Lickspittle, bats smacking palms, sticks raised, rackets swinging side to side, paddles fanning the air. Then they were on him. Lickspittle tried to curl into a tight ball, but his limbs became tangled in his flesh flaps and he cried out defenseless and exposed.

When they were done, Lickspittle Blabberfatz was left broken and bleeding, sprawled on the shower floor, semi-conscious. Piss rained down on his head as one of them decided a final indignity was necessary for the survival of the human race. Closing his eyes to the acrid stream, Lickspittle waited for them all to leave.

When he heard the locker room door slam shut and empty silence fill the torture chamber, he tried to get to his feet. Several attempts proved unsuccessful, as a broken arm betrayed him, cracked ribs defied him and an alarming amount of his own blood mocked him and kept him from gaining purchase. Lickspittle Blabberfatz closed his eyes and sobbed, emptying his soul of self-pity and loathing, leaving his psyche bunched and deflated like his implausible new form.

“Here, let me help,” the Angel’s voice said.

Through swollen lids, he could see the Holy School Spirit standing before him. Dressed in her specially embroidered BSHS half- shirt, matching pleated cheer skirt and always white sneakers, Jasmine Von Skoopen held out her hand…and a towel. She didn’t seem shocked or repulsed by his beaten, fatless, skin-hanging body. He stared at her hand, wary and gun shy.

“Come on, Luke, it’s okay. Take my hand.”

The use of his real name, not the evil nickname he had been saddled with since 4th grade, seemed to jar him out of his disbelief. Slowly he reached up and took her perfect, blessedly smooth-skinned hand and Jasmine Von Skoopen brought Luke Bloomberg to his feet.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course,” she smiled. “Do you remember when I came to this school sophomore year?” She assisted Luke in draping a towel around his nakedness, his ribs and arm not allowing him to perform the simple task himself. When her bare arms touched him he shivered and cringed. “It’s okay, you’ll be sensitive for a bit. But, you’ll adjust, trust me. Do you remember when I started at BSHS?”

“Yes, very much,” Luke answered, his eyes locked onto his 5’4” savior’s cherubic face.

“There was a reason I left my last school,” she said. They stopped in front of Luke’s locker and she helped him slowly dress in what had always been tight, ill-fitting clothes. They were now hopelessly baggy and hung off him likle an empty tent on a single pole. “I think you are the only person that can understand that reason now. It happened to me, Luke and others out there, too. I had a feeling about you when we first met in Geometry.” She smiled sweetly and tenderly stroked Luke’s beaten face. “I was looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” Luke looked deep into Jasmine’s eyes and fought to keep the tears from spilling. He reached up and took her hand from his face, her perfect brown eyes saying everything he needed to hear.

“Are you hungry?” Luke asked carefully.

“Yes, Luke, yes I am hungry,” Jasmine responded, grinning widely, never breaking eye contact. She squeezed his hand and grabbed his school bag for him. He put his arm around her shoulders and she helped walk him to the locker room exit. “I think first we’ll go to the ER, though. And we may need to find you some new clothes.”

“Okay,” Luke grinned painfully. “Will you help me pick them out?”

“I’d love nothing more. Oh, and don’t worry about all the skin, it’ll snap back,” she said, patting her own belly.

“It doesn’t matter if it does,” sighed the new Luke Bloomberg. “So how do we find the others? The others like us?”

“Oh, you’ll know. Trust me. You just have to look in their eyes,” Jasmine smiled as the locker room door swung shut behind them.

Let Old Friends be Forgot…

Wednesday, December 15th- Daybreak

I can see out the window this morning. The fog has finally lifted, leaving a clear view of everything beyond the fence line. The mountains are glorious; the dawn light glints off the snow sending a pink radiance glittering across the landscape. Makes the world look like it was decorated by a six-year-old girl. The air is clear and crisp. Wish there weren’t a couple hundred Reamers scraping at the fence. Sorta ruins the moment.

Wednesday, December 15th- Lunchtime

I am eating the last of the cat food for lunch. I may have to eat the cat tomorrow. He’s pretty much skin and bones though. I am not sure if I’d even get any nourishment. I may do it out of self-preservation though. I think he may kill me in my sleep tonight and eat me. I swear he killed and stashed Leon last week. I still can’t find the body and I know he never left the compound.

Wednesday, December 15th- Midnight

Well today thoroughly sucked. There were two fence breaches. I took out 18 Reamers before I could fix the first one. A couple nearly touched me, but I was able to fend them off. By the time I had that one taken care of, another section gave way. It took me two hours to corral the jerks and another two to fix the fence then I still had to execute the horny bastards and burn their bodies. I try to keep a couple Reamer corpses on hand to light on fire when I see they are bunching up in one spot. It doesn’t make them go away completely, but they will disperse and wander around for awhile. It kinda pisses them off though. God, I am exhausted.

Thursday, December 16th – Pre-dawn

Woke up to a horrible howling. Turns out the dog ate the cat. Don’t blame him; you have to do what you have to do. Looks like I may have to eat the dog. I’ll scrounge as much as possible. I think there are still some roots out in the garden. The ground is so frozen though. I’m not sure I have the energy to dig. I’d probably burn more calories trying to get at the roots than they are worth. I hate being hungry. I don’t mind the ever present terror and knowing that some day I could be one of them. I can take care of myself when the time comes. I have zero plans of being gang raped by those fuckers out there and I sure as shit won’t become one of them. I am going to try to get some more sleep before the day starts. They’ve been slowing down due to the cold, so at least my days are easier lately. We need a good hard freeze to kill a few off so I can get a decent night’s sleep and be able to rest. I’m burning too many calories each day.

Thursday, December 16th- Afternoon

Smashed my thumb pretty bad. May lose the nail. It hurts even more because I am so freakin’ cold. I’m trying to conserve the wood for the heart of winter. If I use it all up now I’ll freeze to death before February. I may have to start ripping down the other buildings for wood and supplies. I’d rather not; it’s easier to tear down than to build back up. No fence breaches today. I hope it stays that way for a couple of days until my thumb heals.

Thursday, December 16th- No Freakin’ Idea What Time It Is

I have no idea what is going on, but all hell has broken loose outside. It’s a new moon and pitch black. I can hear the Reamers howling and clawing at the fence. The night time cold hasn’t slowed them down at all tonight. I think I hear gun fire somewhere out there, but I’m not sure. It could just be frozen branches snapping in the woods. I really want to know what has them all so riled up. I haven’t heard them like this since they first found the compound. Back before everyone left.

Friday, December 17th- Morning

Well, I found out why the Reamers were all up in arms. Looks like a couple black bears came through and ripped a few apart. They are starving, just like everything else in this world. Too bad the bears don’t know that eating Reamer flesh is suicide. That’s why they eat their victims alive while they defile them. The flesh hasn’t had long enough to be tainted. It looks like it didn’t take long for one of the bears to change though. I feel sorry for the bear that lost that battle. I have no idea where the other one is. Just what I need, a Reamer bear on the loose. Great.  I wonder if the pelt will stay contaminated? I could use the fur.

Friday, December 17th- Sunset

I was able to get to the bear corpse. The dog kept the Reamers occupied enough for me to circle around and get the body through the gate with only a couple getting through. I carefully skinned the bear and have the fur hanging outside. It’ll take a while for it to be workable considering how cold it is outside. Once it dries out a bit I’m going to lock the dog in the shed with the fur to see if it’s still toxic. I don’t think it will be. I am freakin’ starving. My mother used to yell at me every time I said that as a kid. She would tell me I have no idea what starvation is. She was right. Wish she wasn’t.

Saturday, December 18th- Evening

Busy day today. I had four fence breaches. Two at the same time. I think the cold is affecting the materials. The fence isn’t holding up to the constant pressure the Reamers are putting on it. I spent all morning and afternoon fixing the fence, corralling Reamers, burning Reamers and shoring up weak spots. I lost the dog. Bummer. I won’t be able to test the bear fur. I have to admit it was funny watching the horny monsters trying to catch the dog. They’ll fuck anything. It’s a boy dog, so the women were chasing it too. Their emaciated tits flapping along has they stumbled after it. I think he got away, but I lost sight of him when he hit the tree line. Means more food for me, though. I found some canned ham and beans under the floor boards. I’ll bet 100% it was Luther that hid those cans. He was always such a selfish son of a bitch. He let his own daughter die. She screamed for hours before they were through with her. The women tried to get a piece of the action, but anatomy is anatomy and they just kept getting more and more frustrated until they ripped her apart and ate her before the flesh changed and spoiled. I fucking hate Luther. Oh well, I should be able to make the food last until next week. Wee.

Sunday, December 19th- Lunchtime

Well, I found Leon. He was under the floorboards in the kitchen. I have no idea how he got there. It was just him and me left when he disappeared. He had a butter knife through the eye. Did I do that? God, I don’t remember doing that. It’s so freakin’ cold that his body is perfectly preserved. Although it made the cutting slow going. I’ll render and smoke him up tomorrow. If I ration right it should give me food enough for the rest of the year. I hate eating people I know. I am sure my body doesn’t care, but my mind gives me diarrhea. I can’t afford to crap too much, but I can’t afford to not eat. The Lover’s Plague is hell on the digestive system.

Monday, December 20th- Afternoon

Dog’s back. I thought he was a goner. I guess he was out looking for food. More power to him, ‘cause he can’t have any of mine. Well, I may let him have some Leon. I don’t know. If he keeps staring at me like I’m some cartoon steak, I may have to kill him. Or feed him. God, this dog is making my head hurt. He’s a good dog though. I have him chained outside the cabin until I am sure he’s clean.

Tuesday, December 21st- Morning

I have blood in my stool. Great. I’m hoping it’s just a burst hemorrhoid. I’ll have to keep an eye on that. Bleeding out the ass is not the way I want to go. I guess we don’t choose how we go though. Well, not yet. Keep hope alive.

Tuesday, December 21st- Afternoon

Took all day to get Leon all smoked up and put away. The smell drove the Reamers freakin’ nuts. Even though they only eat it fresh and raw, I guess the memory of barbecue is too much to resist. I was able to patch up some weak points in the fence before they could breach it. Almost doesn’t make it all worth it. Almost.

Wednesday, December 22nd- Dawn

Fog is back. I hate the fog. I can’t see a damn thing out there. It makes the Reamer moans bounce around the compound so sometimes it sounds like they are right next to me. Freaks me right out. I hope there aren’t any fence breaches today. As soon as the fog lifts I am going to do a full fence check. I have decided to start tearing down the other buildings. I need the materials for the fence and the fire. That should take me a couple of days.

Thursday, December 23rd- Morning

I am exhausted. I got the admin building mostly torn down yesterday. Found Sylvia. Looks like someone killed her and stashed the body in one of the filing cabinets. From the looks of her someone raped her either before or after they killed her. Real rape. Takes a lot of caution and insanity to pull that off. I bet it was Luther. Asshole. I’ll bet he had it all planned out. Who else would be sick enough to wrap her entire body in plastic except for a hole in the crotch. He even left the doubled up condoms inside her. Like there isn’t enough of this shit out there already. Don’t see why he couldn’t whack off like most survivors. Sylvia’s body was too rotted to provide any food. I bagged her up though. The body will come in handy as a distraction if I need to get the Reamers out of the way. I am going to finish the admin building today and then start on the rec center. Maybe I’ll find more of Luther’s treasures. Hopefully it’ll be food and not another of his playthings. God I hate Luther. Good freakin’ riddance.

Friday, December 24th- Christmas Eve Night

The dog and I sang Christmas carols tonight. He has a good voice. I let him in yesterday, once I was sure he hadn’t been tainted. I have to watch him, just in case. I splurged and ate some of Leon for dinner. I shared with the dog, more out of self-preservation than compassion. I really hope the fence holds tonight.  Maybe Santa will bring me a Christmas miracle and this nightmare will all be over tomorrow.

Saturday, December 25th- After Midnight (Merry Freakin’ Xmas)

Someone is out there, outside the fence. I can hear voices calling out. It sounds like maybe two or three of them. I can’t tell if they are male or female. I’d of course prefer all female. Less chance they’ll kill me and take all of my stuff. If there are men with the women then I am probably screwed. The men will kill me right away to keep me away from their women and then take all of my stuff. You know this whole thing has really showed which of the sexes is the best. All it did was turn men into murderous, covetous dickheads. And that’s before they become infected. The women have been great through the whole mess, though. They’ve always had better control of their hormones. I digress. Anyway, I have the dog muzzled so he doesn’t bark and we are hunkered down to see if it’s friends or foes out there. It doesn’t sound like they are in trouble. They’re probably testing to see if they are going to get their heads blown off. No chance here. I haven’t seen bullets in years.

Wow, that was quite a noise. I think they have a truck and they just drove through the gate. I hope they didn’t damage it too much. If I live and they don’t find me it’ll take me all day to fix it I’m sure. I better put the lighter away. I just needed to write this down in case I don’t make it. I hope this isn’t my last entry. But, if the newbies don’t kill me I am sure the Reamers they let in will. I’ll barricade the door before I turn in. Hope I wake up alive and without any orifices violated.

Saturday, December 25th- Morning

I’m still alive. The dog is whining. He probably needs to piss. I know I do. If he gets any louder I may have to snap his neck. I haven’t risked looking outside. I haven’t heard anything since the big crash. I assume whoever it was didn’t make it. That means I probably have a compound full of Reamers. Great, it’s going to take me all day to slash and burn the place clean.

Saturday, December 25th- Evening

Well, I got lucky. And I mean lucky. The new folks drove right through the gate with an old Dodge Ram. They made it twenty yards in the dark before smashing into the metal maintenance shed. One of them went through the windshield. Head went bye-bye. More food. Ugggh, I’d give anything for a nice salad. Anyway, there were only a few Reamers to deal with. Apparently there were two people in the back of the truck and they fell out when they hit the gate. That kept the fuckers happy and occupied for most of the morning. I could have danced a jig right in front of them and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Nothing can distract a Reamer from its dinner and a screw. The only problem is now some are fed, which makes them stronger. I’ll have to watch for that.

So one dead on the hood of the truck; two dead and defiled by the entrance gate; which left one alive on top of the maintenance shed. I spent all morning cleaning up and getting the gate closed and secured before I noticed her. She was holding herself, rocking back and forth just watching me. I can’t believe she was up there the whole time and I didn’t see her. I think she must have laid down flat to hide herself and only sat up once she realized I looked harmless enough. Or she realized she wasn’t going to make it on her own when she saw what it takes to repair and maintain the fence and gate. That and the fact I was butchering and rendering her friend right in front of her. It’s easier while it’s fresh and hasn’t frozen solid. I probably stood in the middle of the compound watching her for an hour while I worked before I approached the shed. As soon as I did she drew a .44 semi-auto from her coat and leveled it at me. Wow, hadn’t seen a gun in quite a while. Made me think of High School, but that’s a whole other story. I lifted my hands in the air and waited until she seemed satisfied. Another hour passed and then she got down off the shed.

Her name is Allison. She just met the others a few weeks ago. She had been hiding in a cave with her family for the past three years, but this year they were found by Scavers. She was able to get herself and her brother out of there, but they got her parents and two little sisters. She cried for another hour before being able to go on. I’d have held her and comforted her, but those days are gone for the human race now. I kinda know what she went through. Anyway, her and her brother found these other folks down the mountain and hooked up with them. I guess it wasn’t all peaches and cream though. She said there were seven others. They had a leader and he, well, thought he owned everything and everyone in the group. He really liked her brother. I guess he liked him to death one night, just like Luther liked Sylvia. That’s when she put a bullet through his brain. Pretty ballsy considering how precious bullets are. Three of the others had been thinking the same thing and took the opportunity to kill the ones that were deadly loyal to the leader. They butchered and rendered the bodies and loaded up the truck with as much gas as they could. It only took them three days to find my compound. The gas was all gone, but I saved the food.

I showed her my cabin and decided to risk eating a little more Leon. With the extra meat she brought with her I think we can afford it. We ate dinner in silence. She likes the dog. She won’t put the gun down, though. Merry Xmas!

Sunday, December 26th- Morning

Allison has night terrors. Great. That’s not the bad part. I guess she never let go of the gun. So in her sleep she pulled the trigger. There are dog brains all over the cabin. I’m just going to move us to a new cabin and rip this one down. I have a back-up all set and outfitted, so it’s not too much of a pain in the ass. She keeps crying though. I told her the dog was either going to die soon or we would have to eat him once the food was gone so it was just a matter of time anyway. That didn’t seem to help. I think I will miss that dog. It’ll mean less rest at night. It was nice having him being the first alert if anything got through the fence and got near the cabin. Oh, well. I wonder if there are any more dogs left out there that aren’t Reamers? Sucks to be a mammal these days. She did give me the gun though. Three bullets. I put it away. Three bullets aren’t going to do us much good. Plus, bad things happen when guns are around. I know from experience. So does the dog.

Sunday, December 26th- Lunchtime

It seems Allison is used to having a lot more provisions than I am. She wolfed her lunch down before I had taken more than three or four bites then asked for more. I chuckled a little then saw she wasn’t kidding. I took another big bite and offered her the rest of mine. She didn’t take it of course. Even though men aren’t carriers, you just never know. I then explained to her the facts of surviving here at the compound. She turned a little green when I told her about October. Whew, I’m still amazed I made it through that month. She said she’d slow her eating down considerably after that. I promised her we would eat a big meal on New Years to celebrate.

Sunday, December 26th- Evening

It looks like Allison and her friends drew a following on their way to the compound. The Reamers have doubled since she arrived. They must have followed the truck; it only took them a couple days to shamble their way here. Allison felt bad and helped me reinforce the places in the fence I knew wouldn’t hold up against the extra pressure. We really worked up a sweat. It’s nice to work with someone again. Leon didn’t like to work, so I pretty much did it all. When we were done and got back inside I stripped my sweaty clothes off and put dry ones on to keep from freezing. After all the years in this hellish world she hasn’t lost her modesty and turned away to look out the window while I dressed. I think she saw my reflection in the glass, though. When I told her she could turn around she had tears in her eyes and a strange look on her face. She probably saw the scars. One day I’ll tell her how those happened. Not everything was snips and snails and puppy dog tails before the Apocalypse. I stepped outside while she changed. She had her shirt off before I could get myself outside though. Now I have her naked torso in my mind. Great, just great. Later when I handed her her dinner plate her fingers brushed mine. We both jerked back in shock. I still had that image in my head and grew careless. We ate in silence. I don’t think either one of us will be able to sleep. No one was ever sure if all it takes is a touch, but for her sake I hope it doesn’t or at least that she’s clean. She took the gun back. I don’t blame her.

Monday, December 27th- Morning

Yay, Santa came late! He brought me a Luther. Son of a bitch was here all along. He made a hole under the rec center floor. Looks like he had been planning it for a while. He had blankets, pillows, extra clothes, canned food stashed, all kinds of stuff. He had Rebecca down there too. She was trussed up just like Sylvia, but it looks like he got bored of that. Who knows what he was doing to her before he started to eat her. Who knows what he was doing to her after he started to eat her. Asshole. We had been inside tearing apart the rec center for maybe an hour when the prick came at me with a freakin’ pick axe screaming, “Dibs!”. What a jerk. Anyway, Luther’s an idiot so I only had to side step two swipes of the pick axe before I was able to put my crow bar through his brain. Where the hell did he get a pick axe? I could have used that to dig in the frozen garden. What’s crazy is that Luther isn’t contaminated. His skin wasn’t all flushed and his eyes, while bat-shit crazy, weren’t oozing. More food. Most of Rebecca’s body is salvageable once I cut off the Luther bite parts. He just started gnawing on her. Didn’t even bother to cut her up and cook her. God I hate that guy. Though, it does explain the whole Leon thing. Good to know I didn’t off Leon. Murderous blackouts aren’t a good thing. I’ve worked really hard to get past those.

My, I mean our, supplies have nearly doubled now. Christmas really came after all. In fact, this has been the best Christmas time in years. Well, almost. I miss Charlotte. She was great. Even though I spent last year’s Christmas locked in the Hole, she stayed outside the door all day to keep me company. We talked about everything until she started screaming. Then Leon opened the door and let me out. Good Times.

Guess what?  Luther had two bottles of Wild Turkey stashed. Where did he get those? He must have had them on him when he got here. Bastard.

Tuesday, December 28th- Afternoon

I have the rec center all torn down now. Alison is busy taking care of Rebecca and Luther’s bodies. It took me a while to find her after the Luther attack. She likes to hide on roofs. Once I stripped down and showed her that I had no Luther bites or scratches she came down. She was together enough to make some crack about it being cold out. Real confidence booster there. She wouldn’t get near me though until she was able to assure herself that Luther wasn’t infected and couldn’t have infected me. That’s what sucks about this fucking plague. You either get it from intimate contact with a woman or from being brutally beaten and/or raped by an infected man and you are unlucky enough to survive. I guess it sucks more being a woman though. They are the carriers. Something about the chromosomes I guess. I don’t know if the doctors ever had time to figure it out. The shitty part is that a woman can’t know if she is clean or a carrier until it’s too late and she has infected some poor guy. If she isn’t ripped apart from the brutality of his change then she becomes just as fuck hungry as the men. I’d say almost more so, since her prey needs a dick, which cuts the options in half. Lesbianism doesn’t exist anymore, the infection took care of that. The men, however, screw any orifice they can find on anyone or anything they can find. And I mean anyone, anything and any orifice.

On a more practical note, I have been thinking about fortifying the compound more efficiently. I am going to use as much as possible to brace the fence. Tomorrow or the next day I am going to use the pick axe to start digging a deep trench around the cabin. Then I’ll fence in the cabin also. Since it’s just the two of us we don’t really need the whole compound. It’s too much space to look after. Putting a fence around the cabin will give us a nice buffer each time there’s a breach. I may be able to sleep better at night. Lord knows I can use the rest. It really all depends on how hard the ground is. It may not be worth spending the energy to dig the trench or build a secondary fence. We’ll see.

Wednesday, December 29th- Evening

Allison and I worked hard today. I told her about my trench and secondary fence idea for around the cabin. She took to it with enthusiasm, so we got started right away. Even with the pick axe it was slow going. I have posts set for the fence, but that is all we could get done. At lunch she told me how she and her family made it out of their city and found the cave. She mentioned that they escaped with another family, but all she would say is the family didn’t make it to the cave. I have a feeling her father had to make a hard choice. At least a hard choice back then. They aren’t even choices anymore. I nodded in all the right parts of her story and let her cry during the other parts. I could tell there was something else she wanted to say, but I didn’t press.

When we were done eating we kept working for as long as we could. The sky grew dark and the wind picked up so much it made my teeth hurt. With the cloud cover it grew too dark to keep working without hurting ourselves. Allison tripped twice before I called it a day. I had to stop myself from helping her up. She wanted to keep working. I think she understands what I’m trying to build here.

Friday, December 31st- Morning

Turns out the clouds weren’t for show. We woke up to the pure silence only a big snow could make. I say “we” because it got so cold in the night that Allison moved her pallet over to mine and we huddled together, making sure no skin was exposed, through the night. It was nice. It was the best non-sex I have ever had. When she got up to pee I heard her gasp. She apologized when I scrambled out from the blankets and grabbed my crowbar. It wasn’t an attack, just three feet of snow and still coming down. We both stared for a good long while out the window. Even with everything that has happened in the world, the wonder of snow has never left. Especially when it’s burying a couple hundred Reamers and making it near impossible for them to move more than an inch at a time. If it keeps up they’ll be fully buried and immobile for at least a few days. I am hoping the storm lasts and kills all the bastards. I know we won’t be that lucky, their need to survive to rape and kill and eat drives them too much. Even if it doesn’t last, it sure has made for a nice New Year’s Eve.

Allison farts in her sleep; smells like Leon.

Friday, December 31st- Afternoon

All good things come to pass. Allison asked me how I got here and how many others there were. I don’t know why, but I told her the truth. After I was done she got very quiet and wouldn’t look at me. I honestly think she wanted to leave right then. Even in the middle of the storm. It’s just like when Leon and I first arrived here from the hospital and the others found out where we came from. They all had the same look in their eyes. I don’t know what I can do about this. I tried talking to her; tried telling her that I believe the world as it used to be was what caused me to do what I did, that since it all changed I haven’t had a single urge to do the things I used to do. I have had plenty of outlets for those feelings without hurting the ones around me. Leon was different though. He never lost the urge. I guess that’s why all the others decided to leave Leon and me here. Well, except Luther, the prick. And I guess Rebecca, but she probably would have left if Luther hadn’t tied her up and kept her for himself. Asshole.

I told all this to Allison. She looked at me hard then started to laugh. She actually laughed at me. When she got control of herself she asked me if I actually believed that everyone left. Of course I did. She asked how they left. So I told her that one morning I woke up and they were all gone. Leon told me that they left in the night and that we were all alone now. Once again we were rejected and forgotten. As soon as the words left my mouth it hit me. Allison could tell I got it now. I wonder what Leon did with all the bodies. He was always good at keeping secrets.

Allison reminded me I promised a big meal tonight so I better get started.

Friday, December 31st- Almost Midnight

It will be the New Year soon. She grew mad at me during dinner because she found out we had canned food. She threw one of the cans at me and screamed at me for making me eat her friend when there were canned peas and corn and ham. I told her that the cans will last for years, but that her friend wouldn’t. It was a practical decision and I wasn’t being mean. She sulked the whole time we ate. Reality broke through, though and she apologized for the cut above my eyebrow the can made.

We talked all through the rest of dinner. She told me about her old life and her family. She cried awhile. When she was done I could see again that she wanted to say something, but couldn’t get it out. To break the tension between us I told her about my scars. They are old scars, older than the plague, older than my time in the hospital. People were brutal monsters before the plague hit. When it was your own mother, the brutality became exponential. Allison didn’t flinch when I told her how the police found me just sitting in the apartment with parts of my mother’s body strewn around the living room. I have no memory of any of it. I only know what the police report said and what my lawyer and shrinks told me. Apparently days went by before the neighbors complained of the smell and called the cops. I ended up in the hospital, but had to be isolated and restrained due to my inability to get along with others.  I would black out and then come to covered in blood with orderlies trying to hold me down. They kept me pretty well doped and that is how I was when the world went to shit. That’s how Leon found me. She asked about Leon. I told her a little, but I kept the really bad stuff to myself. Leon was Evil with a capitol E. No one needed Leon in their head if they didn’t have to. Like I said, there were monsters before all of this.

Allison is getting ready for bed while I write this. She pees in front of me now in the can in the corner. I hope she knows what she is doing. I’m not so good with temptation.

Saturday, January 1st- Lunchtime

Happy New Year! I don’t have much time to write before Allison has lunch ready. The snow is up over the windows and it’s still snowing. I’ll dig out later and assess the compound and move all of our supplies into the cabin. This could be a long one. I don’t mind, I have some company. We rang in the New Year properly, with Wild Turkey and sexual frustration. It got kinda silly after that, it’s all still a bit hazy. I remember an empty bottle of Wild Turkey and cooking grease. I think Allison has a couple urges in her that she’s been repressing. I am trying not to dwell on the details too much, but we each had a very good time in our own way.

Lunch is ready. Allison has something she wants to tell me. I think it’s what she has been hiding from me. There is a new look in her eye since last night. The Look Of The Harlot my dear departed mother used to say.  But I don’t know how that will play out. I really, really don’t want Allison getting hurt.

Saturday, January 1st- Afternoon

I don’t have much time to write. I need to get this down in case something goes wrong. Allison dropped quite the bomb on me. She said she didn’t want to die a virgin. I laughed and then regretted it right away. She had been working up to this admission for a couple days and I go and laugh at her. The pain on her face nearly crushed me. After a quick apology on my part I asked her how she expected to pull it off without risking us both. That’s when the rope came out. I may be incapacitated for a bit.

Saturday, January 1st- Evening

James is a little tied up so I am going to be writing for a few days. Records could be important some day. We ate, screwed like bunnies (real bunnies not Reamer bunnies, that’s a nasty sight to see) and then passed out. A crash outside woke me up. I think one of the buildings’ roof caved in. I am hoping that’s what it is. Whether it’s that, Reamers or Scavers, I don’t really care. Let ‘em come. I got this thing down now. I’m ready for the future. I’m ready for a future. Too bad James has to stay roped to a chair and gagged until we are sure I’m not infected and haven’t infected him. Should only be a couple days before we are positive. In the meantime we’ll make the most of his situation. I have a lot of ideas I am dying to try. James is certainly willing. I pray I don’t have to kill him. But what’s the point of living if we can’t really live? Screw it all.

PS- James farts in his sleep; smells like Leon.

Just Desserts

“How many times have I told you, twenty feet? Huh? How many?” Banana Foster said, adjusting his silver sequined tube top and pulling his hand out from under his flame red mini-skirt after adjusting his g-string. “How am I supposed to get any clients with some hippie stoner bopping around me? Seriously, man, step the fuck off!”

The stoned-out pot dealer stared blankly at Banana, scratching at his overgrown face scruff while watching the moths flit about in the pink-orange of the streetlamp light. Banana waited for a response, when none seemed forthcoming he snapped his fingers loudly, making the hippie jump slightly.

“Whoa, sorry man. Totally lost there for a sec,” apologized Baked Alaska, shaking his head a little. “Hey, by the way, how does that g-string fit around your balls?”

Banana foster closed his eyes, trying to fight the urge to bitch slap the loser. “It just does, okay?”

“Hey man, no need to get all hostile,” Baked soothed. “We’re all friends here.”

“No we fucking are not friends,” barked the tranny hooker. “Friends help each other. Friends support each other. Friends don’t ruin each other’s hustle. More specifically, my friends don’t ruin my hustle.” He clenched his fists, closed his eyes and took two deep, slow breaths.

“Jeez, harsh the mellow why don’t ya. I have friends, I know what friends do. They don’t act like that, that’s what they do. Don’t do…do,” muttered Baked Alaska, scuffing away from the angry hustler.

Banana glared, and then turned quickly, sticking his chest out and straightening his platinum blonde wig. They stood silent, twenty feet apart, pretending like the other didn’t exist. Minutes lapsed and a car slowly passed by, the driver glancing sideways at Banana. Banana did his best ‘hard to get’, making the driver circle the block and come by for a second look. This time Banana stepped to the curb, fully expecting the driver to slow down, which he did.

“Hey baby, looking for some fun?” he asked in a husky falsetto, his best Kathleen Turner impression. “I know exactly where you can find some.” Running his hands slowly down his body, Banana Foster winked at the prospective john.

“Um, well, yeah, maybe. Whatcha offering?” stammered the driver as he leaned across the passenger seat, trying to get a good look at Banana.

“Well, sugar, I---”

“He has a huge fucking cock! Dude, I’ve seen it! It’s mother fucking huge!” Baked Alaska yelled, running up to the car, knocking Banana out of the way and leaning into the passenger window. “Hey, you want to buy some weed too? You guys could get totally stoned while he goes down on you, or you go down on him, if that’s your thing. Don’t matter to me, I don’t judge. If you want a big, huge shlong in you mouth, that’s your business.”

The driver’s eyes went huge and he hit the gas, speeding away as fast as he could. Baked Alaska was caught in the passenger window, screaming for help. The driver reached over and punched Baked, knocking him loose and onto the pavement. The car squealed away and around the corner, while Baked rolled a couple of times, then lay still. After a few moments he punched his fist in the air.

“I’m okay!”

Furious, Banana Foster stomped over to Baked—not an easy thing to do in ten-inch stilettos—and kicked Baked Alaska square in the balls.

“You okay now, motherfucker?” He gave him two more swift kicks for good measure. Baked Alaska let out a tiny squeak, then turned on his side and retched. Banana Foster tensed his entire body and screamed up at the night sky. “What did I ever do to be cursed with a fuckstick like you in my life?”

The enraged tranny stomped back to his strutting spot, fists still clenched and body trembling with rage.

Slowly, Baked Alaska pushed himself up on his elbows. He took a couple of deep breaths, tried to stand and thought better of it.

“You promised Mama you’d look out for me. You know I ain’t so good with life skills,” he said, finally finding the strength to stand. He slowly wobbled the few steps to Banana Foster and stopped, putting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “You’re the smart one, the ‘go-getter’, as Mama says. I mean look at this spot.” He waved a hand around him at the piss-stained, shit-soiled piece of concrete the two worked. “Location, location, location is what they say, and you found it.”

Banana stared at his obviously mentally-disturbed brother, almost seeing him for the first time. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Baked Alaska nodded, “Yep, sure do.”

Banana shook his head, then grabbed his brother up, hugging the breath back out of him. Baked gasped, but relaxed into the hug. “That’s what I’m talking about, man.”

Banana let go and gave Baked a playful shove, then his eyes went wide. “What time is it?”

Baked dug around in his many pocketed, multi-patched pants until he finally found his beat up Mickey Mouse watch. “Ummm, 1:30.”

“Shit, shit, shit! We’re late!” Banana cried, shaking his hands in the air frantically. “Mama is going to be so pissed if we don’t get her her bottles of NyQuil!”

“Oh, fuck, man. We are so dead,” Baked agreed. He ran over to a dumpster a few feet away and grabbed a large duffel bag, slung it over his back and took off running down the street, his sandals flapping against the asphalt.

“Wait up, fuck head! You have my sneaks in there!” Banana Foster cried, clacking after Baked, an amazing display of balance and grotesquery.

A car lazily drove by, the driver leaning out his window. “Hey sweet thing, I’m looking to party. You want to join me?”

“Fuck you queer, Mama needs her NyQuil!” Banana Foster yelled at the driver.

The car sped away, leaving the sounds of sandal flaps and stiletto clacks to fill the night air.

All The Freaky Bedbugs Of The World

They keep me awake at night. Partying, carrying on, laughing, drinking, hollering. And dancing, oh the never ending, bass thumping, booty shaking, let’s get it on dancing. Sometimes it’s just wild rave-style, then club, house, trance, tango. But, tonight they have gone too far. Way, way too far. Tonight, its country line dancing.

I hate the freaky bedbugs. I hate them so much.

I try to roll over and cover my ears with the pillow, but that doesn’t help. Apparently, the VIP lounge is now deep within the down feathers. The things I hear. So I throw my pillow against the wall. Tiny screams issue from the avian plushness, silence and then a massive, “Yeah!” as the little freaks get off on the free amusement park ride they experienced.

I think about burning the pillow.

My mattress vibrates with miniscule refrains of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie”. Hand claps, knee slaps and boot stomps echo from the box springs. They must be on the wooden frame now, only place to have a proper line dance. What am I thinking? There is no proper place to have a line dance. I can just imagine them with their pearl buttoned, plaid shirts. Their polished belt buckles and tight jeans, shined cowboy boots lifting and lurching, kicking and scuffing against the unfinished 1 x 2.

I haven’t slept in days. I think about burning the mattress.

My friends have normal, quiet, microscopic, never-mess-with-your-sleep bedbugs. I try to talk about my freaky ones and, well, they just don’t understand.

“Umm, Jerry, bedbugs don’t dance,” they say.

“The hell they don’t!” I scream at them, disbelievers all.

“But, Jerry, you can’t even see bedbugs, let alone hear them,” they say.

“Oh, yeah? Well I can! I hear everything those little freaks do,” I insist, alone, abandoned, room empty.

And freaks they are. I know they are gay, straight, bi. I know they have tattoos, piercings, wear thongs, wear nothing. Some are into latex and lube. Some like it rough, others like it alone. Some just come to dance, dance, dance. Others, it’s all about the hook-up.

The frat freaks are the worst. It always ends in a drunken brawl, the bed shaking with the violence and then hours of sobbing girlfriends, pissed off bouncers and the little freak police trying to sort out who started what and when.

I’d sleep on the couch, but apparently the couch is freaky bedbug Europe. I can’t stand all the pretentious accents and cigarette smoke.

“Boot Scootin’ Boogie” is over and the song I dread, the one I have prayed wouldn’t start, does. You know it. There’s aches, there’s breaks and there’s hearts in it. Sweet Jesus, make it all stop!

Covers thrown aside, I pound the mattress, screaming, screaming, screaming! Throat goes raw. Tired from the exertion, I collapse. Must be using MP3s since I didn’t hear the music skip a beat and it should have with the pounding I dished out. They don’t even spin vinyl. I hate them.

I stare at the pillow bunched against my dresser. Burn it.

Shoving stuff aside, I dig under the sink for the lighter fluid. Bleach. Counter scrub. Ant traps. Mason jar full of…something. Old vases and rusty steel wool. Lighter fluid.

The pillow is in the bathtub; fitting, since I think they put in a Jacuzzi in the VIP lounge. I squirt and drench it, listening for the pleas for mercy. Silence. Petroleum fumes lift my brain and float it on high. Why won’t they scream? I need those screams. I need their pain and torture to be palpable upon my tympanic membranes. They must suffer and I must witness.

Silence.

I scrape the match upon the tile grout. Sulfuric flame spurts to life and I place it to fuel. Fire!

I watch, wait, turning on the ceiling fan for the smoke. Pillow burns, then smolders, sputters, then smokes. Damn flame retardant chemicals. I slump to the floor, lean back against toilet and sob. My body racks with despair. And then they come, the screams. I can hear them now. Agony, pain, suffering…laughter? Motherfuckers!

Grabbing my straight razor from the sink, I rush the tub and snatch the sooty, scorched pillow from its enamel barbecue. I slash, slash, slash, ripping their little party palace to shreds. Covered in lighter fluid drenched feathers, I lift the empty casing aloft and let loose a war cry that even Crazy Horse himself would run from. I am their destroyer!

Toss pillow carcass aside and march to war against my captured Sealy. I will not show mercy. I will not give quarter. I do not take prisoners. Enter bedroom, the strains of Shania Twain grating at my stability. The pulsing, pounding, monotonous, redneck pop abomination chalkboard-fingernails my psyche. I squeeze my hands against my ears, nicking my temple with the straight razor. I feel the blood trickle down my cheek, but I don’t care. This is war and there will be blood!

Climb on top of my occupied sleep country and raise razored fist. Down I slice, again and again and again. I rip through fabric and elastic, grating on metal springs, opening their private party to the world; my world. Roar down into the opening; I will make them fear me.

They turn the music up, crank it, blare it. Taunt me. I shove my face into the shredded maw, screaming at them, “Bring it! Bring it all, bitches!”. And, to my great fear and surprise, they do. They bring it all.

All the freaky bedbugs of my world unite and pour from torn stuffing and coils. They are NOT microscopic, NOT miniscule, NOT too small for my eye to see. I see every one of them in all their freaky glory as they discharge from their festive fissure; flea circus of the damned. And Damn them and their freaky costumes and alternative lifestyles they insist on rubbing in my face. They bear knives sharpened, torches lit, pitchforks pronged, empty beer bottles properly jagged, lengths of chain linked and some, yes some, have firearms. Little tiny, itty-bitty pistols, rifles, automatics (semi and fully), guns of shot, all locked, loaded.

Oh, but I am ready also!

“Oh, but I am ready also!” I bellow at their ranks, the force and stench of my breath knocking their first charge into convulsions.

Miniature medics rush to their side, reaching for potions of unknown composition, designed specifically for their freaky bedbug metabolisms and immune systems. That is when realization rapes my conscious mind and I stumble in my rage, fear forcing its phallus between my abused hemispheres.

They have done this before!

This is not their first campaign! I did not force this battle! They had been sitting in wait for my mental collapse. Why? Do they have some type of freaky bedbug Geneva Convention preventing them from waging unilateral, pre-emptive war? Would the freaky bedbug United Mattresses have issued sanctions upon them? Bits of psyche flake and peel and float away, to be lost forever as the implications of an organized freaky bedbug civilization whittle at my grey matter.

Soul-filling vertigo. I vomit.

Let loose the chunks of war!

Partially digested scotch eggs and stout wash over the freaks. They drown in the cloying mixture of hardboiled egg wrapped in sausage, battered, breaded and then deep fried and hops, barley, roasted chocolate malts and yeast. The medics, already on the front line, are some of the first to die, leaving their legions no hope for curatives. Even if they didn’t perish immediately, they couldn’t withstand the after effects of the mighty globs of late night revelry and the liquid napalm of my bile.

Resilient they are, as am I.

I shove my fingers down my throat, launching the second wave of my stomach arsenal. Explosive projectile retching annihilates their ranks. Decimation is my aspiration, and oh how I aspirate! Green bile coats the battlefield.

But, still they come!

Dashing, crashing, crawling over their fallen comrades in arms. They have no regard for their wounded now; they must destroy me. Satisfaction shall not be theirs, neither shall victory.

Cackle laugh at my foes! Tug open the fly, free penis and rain piss. Hosing them, washing them away, back into their celebratory chasm. Drown in bladder juice, bitches! Kidney squeezins tide goes out and they are caught in their own doomed undertow.

Oh, but they are many. Legions now phalanx and re-group. Their mistake. They should scatter, go guerilla, split up. But to cluster together? They have condensed their doom!

Drawers drop and I carpet bomb them with scat shells. Hot death scouring the landscape with anal-ilation. It splashes up my legs, stinging my calves, curling my nose. But it is mine and smells of grandeur. Final squirts burst and the theatre of war becomes silent.

Drawers replaced, I survey my conquest. All dead, none spared. Silence washes me, cleanses me; sweet silence. Do I weep? Will tears of freedom stain my cheeks? They might; they do.

What is this I hear? What dares to break my hard fought silence?

A pounding? Not my head, not my heart. My lungs heave like bellows, but do not pound. Where? What? I listen and hear. The front door! The outside world! Now all shall see my triumph, my glory! Friends! Neighbors! Show me your gratitude, for I have saved your world!

Wipe eyes and turn step from soiled bed space and freeze. If my bowels were full they would be loosed now. I am blocked, flanked, outnumbered and voided. I despair. Sanity fleetingly gained, now lost.

Before me, fresh from the living room, reinforcements arrive.

Tactically speaking, I am an idiot and I shall pay dearly for my mistake.

I forgot about Bedbug Europe.

Leather Belts And Wooden Spoons

I tremble at the screeching from the kitchen. It’s her, Wooden Spoon, angry and frustrated. Did I do it? Is it my fault? Probably.

“Edward? Come here! Now!” she screams. She has gone over the edge this time.

I scramble away from the television, jumping the loveseat, trying to race the crazy bitch to my bedroom.

“Edward?”

I hit the hallway at a full run, my socks slipping on the wooden floors. I bounce from wall to wall like a fleshy pinball trying to escape a flipper that has come loose and is now in pursuit.

“Tilt! Tilt!” I holler, my voice cracking with fear.

“There you are! Get over here now!”

I glimpse her out of the corner of my eye and see she is holding her namesake, her wooden spoon. Dark with food stains, she wields it like a club, swinging it about her head, spittle flying from her puffy lips. She can’t catch me with those fat legs. I sprint the last couple feet, sliding across the threshold and into the carpeted sanctuary.

Door slammed and locked.

Wooden Spoon pounds away between gasps, “You Little Fucking Shit! Get out here right now!”

“No!” I bellow at the beast beyond. “Fuck you!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have said that! That’s disrespect, that is! You’ll really pay now!”

She yanks at the doorknob, trying to man handle it open. She can’t, I’ve fortified my sanctuary for just these situations. I get called out too often to let a piece of cheap hardware be my downfall.

“What have you done? Have you changed your lock? Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!”

She throws herself against the cheap wooden paneling. That I didn’t adjust for. If she continues tossing her girth against the door, she will surely split it wide open and I will be plucked like a dirty pearl from a rotted oyster. But, as with everything, she grows tired quickly. I creep closer, pressing my ear carefully against the door. I can hear her wheezing on the other side, her strained lungs laboring for simple breath.

“Edward…sweety…I…won’t hurt…you. I…promise,” she forces out.

“Bullshit!”

I am answered with a roar of rage and fists pounding, the wooden spoon still in her hand, wood on wood clacking, echoing against my bedroom walls. I jump back, eardrum pained by the concussions.

“Wait until your father gets home! Oh, he won’t be pleased! This will ruin his evening, ruin his re-lax-ation!” she drawls the last word, mocking it and emphasizing it at the same time.

Father, good ole Leather Belt, won’t be pleased. That is true. But, is he ever? Not since I came to be; not since I ruined his re-lax-ation.

“Fuck him!” I scream back. Silence. Then a small giggle; I can hear the grin spread across her face.

“Tell him yourself, boy. He just walked in,” she mocks and I hear her footfalls grow fainter as she leaves the hallway.

I risk another ear-press, and strain to hear them. Muffled voices, angry voices, drift back from the living room, down the hall, through the wood and into my brain.

“…belt…locked…last time...,” is all I can make out.

Last time? Is this it, have I finally pushed them too far. Will Wooden Spoon and Leather Belt get rid of me now? Toss me aside, into the trash heap, burn pile, compost?

Who are these monsters? My parents? I can’t think that could be true. Why would evil such as these two have children? I don’t remember my birth, but others say they don’t either. But, is that right? Should I remember? Would it be important?

“Son?” I leap away. Damn, he’s quiet! I didn’t hear him even approach the door. “Son? Open up. Please.”

The calm voice; the dangerous voice. I know he has his tool, weapon, bit ‘o justice, wrapped tightly in one fist: his leather belt. I’ve watched him squeeze that cowhide too many times to not see it in my mind instantly. I begin to sweat, desperate drops trickling down my back, pooling at my waistband.

“No,” I state flatly, more courage in my voice than I thought possible.

Silence; pre-storm quiet.

SLAM!

“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!”

This is it! This time it’s real! They will kill me, dispose of me, replace me! I scan my room, desperate for an answer. No weapons to speak of, at least nothing a boy could use against a grown man sadistically bent on killing. Escape? The windows? I dash to them, ripping the drapes wide. I yank the screens away and crank the windows open. They crack just enough for my ten-year-old frame to squeeze through. I glance at the shrubbery below me, maybe five, six feet. I can do this.

“You Little Fucking Shit!!!! I will count to three and you will open this door!!! Otherwise I will whip your ass until the skin comes off!!!!”

He will, I know that. And I drop.

They knew I might do this, hence the miniature holly bushes. I tear my self from their pointed leaves, scratching skin and ripping clothes. The evening sun is almost set and I am just now embarking on my escape. I have no plan, no destination, no idea where to go, how to get help. So I run.

I only make it past the edge of the house before I am stopped. Slapped in the face by Wooden Spoon; by her wooden spoon. Tears well up as my nose protests and I fall onto my haunches, mud and leaves sticking, coating my backside.

“Think you could out smart me, boy?” she grins, slapping the spoon in her palm. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

I move my hands, bracing myself to stand, and feel something. A rock? No, a baseball. I curl my fingers around my new best friend.

“Get up and get inside,” she growls. Thwack! Thwack!

“Is he out there?” Leather Belt hollers from the back door.

“Yes! Come get his ass!” she looks down at me with pity and loathing. “I promised your father he could punish you tonight. This will be a long night for you, Edward. Quite possibly your last night.”

I fling the baseball at her face, but miss horribly. She cringes anyway, arms flying up to protect herself. I take her distraction and use it to flee. Up out of the mud I bound, heading for the Woods; in the twilight they will not be kind, but they will be a better refuge than here.

Wooden Spoon wails and Leather Belt joins, seeing me escape into the gloom of underbrush and overgrowth.

“Come back here! You Little Fucking Shit, come back here!” His rage is lost to me, now meters into the Woods. I sprint and squint, hoping I can make out any obstacles, leaping them when I do, tripping and falling, when I don’t.

Minutes, hours, days? I run, I run, I run.

Creatures pursue, nightmares follow, the Boogeyman waves. “Hi there!”

I run until there is nothing left. I run until I collapse.

The floor of the Woods is softer than my bed, softer than any bed and I fight the drifting, comforting sleep that envelopes me.

“Please don’t eat me…,” I whisper to the monsters, creatures, creations that lurk.

Blackness creeps in....

“Hey.” I am jostled. “Hey, you awake?”

I start, arms flailing, hands connecting with skin.

“Ow! Stop!”

I push myself to my feet, ready to fight the voice that has accosted me. But, senses returning, I see only a girl, my age, tattered, ripped, bruised, eye blackened. She waves her hands, warding me off.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammer. “Who are you?”

“I’m Stupid Little Bitch,” she says quietly and looks at me questioning.

“Oh. Oh, I’m Edward,” I respond. Her face drops, shoulders sag in disappointment. “Um, but, they call me Fucking Little Shit.”

She brightens, lifts her head and beams. I blink and she is hugging me tightly.

“Whoa, whoa,” I gently push her away. “Why are you here?” I look around at the Woods, nighttime has fallen, but the Woods glow by the unseen moonlight.

She looks up at me, smiling, crying; she wipes a tear. “They were going to kill me on Wednesday. They said so. I ran Tuesday night. I ran and ran and ran…until I came here.”

“Who were going to kill you?” I ask, knowing the answer. She wraps her arms about her flat girl chest.

“My Wooden Spoon and Leather Belt.” She steps toward me, taking my hands in hers. “Did yours say they would kill you too?”

“They always say that,” I answer, but know she wants more. “Yes, this time I think they would have.”

She smiles brighter. “We can stay here, you and me. They say it’s okay.”

“Who says that?”

“Them.” She gestures at the surrounding trees and ‘they’ step into the open. Monsters, beasts, creatures of all sorts. Trolls, giants, banshees, witches, werewolves, real wolves and vampires surround us.

My eyes widen in fear. I clutch at her hands, crushing her knuckles.

“Ow! It’s okay,” she says. “They’re just like us.” She looks at the all the nightmares about us and smiles. They smile back, in their way. “Everyone changes in the Woods.”

“What do you mean…everyone?”

She smiles coyly and turns, lifting the back of her peasant’s dress. I blush and turn away at the sight of her underpants. She grabs me and twists me back to her. “It’s okay, really. See?”

I risk a peep and see a bump protruding from just above the cleavage of her butt cheeks. Too curious for propriety I bend down closer. Is that…

“It’s a tail!” she pipes with glee, letting the dress fall back in place. “I’m getting a tail!”

The beings about us move closer and I honestly see them for who they are. They are not evil monsters filled with malice, beasts driven to devour, to lure and kill. They are Little Fucking Shits, Stupid Little Bitches, Lazy Bastards, No Good Pieces of Crap. They are me, us, we.

“Will I…?” I whisper.

“Of course! Everyone becomes themselves in the Woods. Oooh, I wonder what you’ll be?” she muses as the citizens of the Woods surround me, welcome me and take me in their arms.

From the shadows of the trees the Boogeyman waves. This time I wave back.

***

“You promised us they would be obedient! That they would be ours forever!” I holler at the Dark Woman standing at the podium. “We paid you and you promised!”

I look around the meeting hall at the other Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons, urging them to respond. Howls of protest, shouts of betrayal, calls for refunds go up in a cacophony of indignation and unrest.

The Dark Woman- tall and sleek, not a dumpy flesh vehicle like the Wooden Spoons- raises her hands, asking for calm and quiet. Within seconds the protests cease and the Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons wait for her response to their outrage. I do not take my seat; she is not my master. I am a Leather Belt and I will not be bullied.

“Please, please,” she placates. “I did as you asked, I brought you the children. It is up to you to raise them right. To train them into submission and make them your willing slaves. All I can do is make sure they have no memory of their former lives, no memory of parents beyond your loving embrace.” She spreads her arms wide, taking in the room and smiles her best ‘I understand and I care deeply’ smile.

“But what do we do now?” my Wooden Spoon calls out. “They have all left us! Left us for the, the…the Woods!”

Gasps and shouts echo in the chamber. Voices begin to rise again. I take my cue.

“You are right,” I yell above the mob. “You have given us what we paid for. But, you have not given us what we wanted.” I slowly begin to pull my leather belt from around my waist. As I do, I can taste the change in the room, smell the violence, the juicy, delicious violence becoming solid. The sound of leather being pulled through denim belt loops becomes a chorus.

The Dark Woman fixes me with her bottomless black eyes. The smile is not in there, it never was.

“I have fulfilled my end of the bargain,” she states calmly, quietly and steps from the podium. A Wooden Spoon rises from her seat, brandishing her tool. The Dark Woman brushes her aside like crumpled newspaper. The Wooden Spoon collapses, skin and bones dried to brittle dust then blown away by an unseen breeze.

We stop. We quiet down. But we do not put our belts back on or sheath our spoons.

The Dark Woman looks at us all, making eye contact with each person present. “I cannot be bothered with your wants. I cannot be bothered by your inability to parent. Some folks, villages, countries, worlds, dimensions should not breed. Yours is one. Learn to live with it.” She walks to the meeting hall’s double doors, pushing them wide. Turning, she says to us, “Of course, you could go into the Woods and get your children back. There is always that option.” And then she is gone.

I take my seat, next to my Wooden Spoon, and sigh. She places her hand on my arm.

“Don’t worry, Love,” she soothes, patting my violence-toned muscles. “We’ll find a way to get that Little Fucking Shit back.” She grins at me, her very best, most wicked grin. “Then we will get what we want, what we need, for hours on end. We will drink from his fear, lap at his misery and eat of his despair. That will tide us over for awhile until we can find a more permanent solution.”

I kiss her deeply, tasting the boiled eggs and cabbage from dinner, then pull back. “Of course we will.”

Someone, a Leather Belt, clears his throat from the back of the meeting hall. We all turn.

“Why can’t we fetch them from the Woods?” he poses.

Mumbles, whispers, growls lift to the air.

“The Woods are death!” someone hisses.

“The creatures would eat us!” another whines.

A thought hits me and I stand again. “Have any of you been into the Woods?” I ask, looking at their faces, finding the answer quickly. I split my lips into what some call a smile. “Well then, I think we all need to take a trip down a dark and ominous path.”

The others look at me in shock, disbelief polluting their features.

“After all,” my smile widens. “It’s for the children.”

They understand now and rise as one.

***

I watch from the shadows of the Woods’ edge. Nora stands next to me, her newly formed tail switching back and forth. Her eyes have changed, the pupils lengthening, turning to cat-like slits.

“How far away?” I ask, twisting the leather in my hands. The monster I have become is pure terror for my fellow denizens of the Woods. I am a Leather Belt, true horror. If it wasn’t for Nora’s hand constantly entwined with mine, I feel that most of the others wouldn’t speak to me and would shy away in fear and loathing.

“They’re at least a mile off,” Nora states. Her tone has become more matter-of-fact as her transformation has progressed. Neither of us know if she’ll stay humanoid, such as the Werefolk, or if her body will fully give over to the feline form. We both wait, hoping for the former.

“You’re sure you saw smoke? Torches?” I ask again. She shoots me an impatient look. “Okay, I believe you.”

I turn to the Boogeyman and catch him staring at my hands wrapping and unwrapping the leather belt. The leather belt that appeared one morning when I woke. The leather belt that is a part of my arm, an extension of myself. No need to slip this one from the belt loops, it slides from my forearm when needed, when called out.

Boogey meets my gaze, his eyes apologetic. I nod my understanding and smile. “Has a Leather Belt or Wooden Spoon ever come into the Woods?”

Boogey shakes his head and answers in his high falsetto trill, “Oh, no, no. Never. We are their nightmares, their hidden fears. We are how they control the children, with threats to be cast out to us. To be taken forever.” Boogey casts his eyes down. “They do not know we are the children. The cast out.”

I reach out and pat his black cloaked arm, trying to reassure the fragile creature, the lost child. “What do they want?” I wonder aloud.

“You are the last,” Nora says, nuzzling against my shoulder.

“What?”

She pulls back, puzzled. “You are the last. The last child. All the rest have run here.” She gestures about the Woods. “Or they have, well, been disciplined and buried. You are it. They have no more children.”

How could I have not seen this, not noticed there weren’t any more kids in the village? Was I so self-absorbed that anything outside my personal hell didn’t matter? Was insignificant? Looking back on my former existence, I realized I was that self-absorbed. All I cared about was keeping myself safe, keeping them from getting to me, from working their parenting skills upon the backs of my legs, arms, head.

They finally crest a small hill and I can see what Nora saw: a Mob. Torches, pitchforks, axes, spades, clubs, machetes. And of course, leather belts and wooden spoons. They do not come to talk, to reason or cajole us into returning. They come to kill. From far off I can make out a chant, their call to arms.

“For the children…for the children…for the children…”

“Are they going to take us back?” a small vampire asks, standing at my elbow. I glance behind me and see that most of the denizens of the Woods have joined us now.

“No,” I say to the vampire, to everyone. “I won’t let them.” I step from the shadows of the Woods, into the open. Fear cannot hold me back. Nora claws at my arm, but she can’t hold me back either.

***

I lead this Mob to the Woods. We are the adults, we are in charge. We will not be scared away by imaginary monsters, fairy tales and legends. Our children are in those Woods and we aim to take them back.

“Look! One of them is attacking!” someone shouts from the Mob. I scan the Woods and see the lone figure emerging, brandishing its weapon, twisting it in its hands like…like a leather belt.

“Oh my God!” my Wooden Spoon cries. “It’s him, it’s our Edward! That Fucking Little Shit!”

I hear the venom in her voice, the murder waiting to be let loose. I place my hand on her fleshy shoulder. “Patience, My Love. Let’s not spook him back in.” I glance furtively at the others in the Mob, then lean in close and whisper in her ear, “At the very least, we can take our child back. Let’s play this out.”

She cackles, but quickly covers her mouth, trying not to draw attention. I lift my hand, motioning for the Mob to stop. They do. What obedient children they must have all been. What strong Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons they must have had.

***

The first Leather Belt, their appointed leader, separates from the Mob and approaches me. As he gets closer my insides clench and my bowels threaten to loose.  Be strong, I tell myself. Don’t lose it now.

I walk towards my Leather Belt, trying to keep my legs from shaking, trying to be so much older than I am. I think of Nora and that gives me strength.

***

My son, my Edward. That Fucking Little Shit. Figures he’s the ringleader of all this bullshit. Figures he is the one that has kept the children from coming back, kept them captive with those monsters and nightmares in there. In the Woods.

I approach him, my leather belt still strapped to my waist, no pitchfork, no torch; empty handed.

“Edward, son, please, let’s be reasonable here. Your mother is worried sick and wants you to come home.” I gesture back at the Mob. “They all want their children to come home.”

***

The calm voice; the dangerous voice. He’s good. Any other child would be swayed, I’m sure. He’s a charmer, my father.

“I don’t think so…Frank,” I say to him, strength in my voice that I wasn’t sure was there. I hear the Mob take a collective gasp at my use of his real name.

My father’s head snaps back, as if physically slapped. His eyes narrow and I see his hands twitch towards his leather belt.

“You. Don’t. Call. Me. That,” he growls, the calm voice gone.

The speed with which I have broken him gives me more strength.

“I’ll call you Old Fucking Fart if I want to…Old Fucking Fart,” I spit at him. “You are nothing here.”

His face twists with rage and the Mob reflects the same wrath. I hold up my palms, giving them something.

“But, despite that, I do have an offer for you. Interested?”

My father cocks his head to the side, studying me.

“Whip him bloody! Break him! Split his skin open!” I hear voices from the Mob call out. My father raises his hand for silence and is obeyed. Figures he would be the ringleader of all this bullshit.

“Okay. Let’s hear it,” he says, grinning a grin that does not reach his eyes.

***

My son takes a deep breath, one of his last if I have my way, and sets forth his proposal.

“You can leave here, forget about us and let us live out our lives in the Woods,” he says. Groans and cries of protest erupt from the Mob. Again I silence them with my hand.

“Or?” I ask, more than curious for the next part of the proposal.

“Or,” the Fucking Little Shit continues. “Or you can step into the Woods and take back your children. They are all in there, waiting. Although they aren’t quite how you remember them. It’s really up to you.” Edward shifts his weight, cockily thrusting a hip out to the side. I’ll kill him slowly for this. For all of this.

I laugh at his proposal. “Well, the second part is what we planned to do anyway. So I don’t think you are really giving us much of a choice there.”

Edward shrugs, actually shrugs at me. “There’s always a choice. I guess you have made yours.” I see him surveying the Mob, sizing them up and counting the numbers. The math is easy: two parents per child. We outnumber them two to one. He turns his attention back on me. “Let me just tell them it’s time to go home. Give me a minute?”

I nod. “One minute exactly, then we come in there and take what is ours.”

“No problem.” Then the coward quickly slips back into the shadowed edge of the Woods.

***

“Edward! What are you doing?” Nora asks in alarm as I return to her side. I can see the fear reflected on the others’ faces as well.

“Hoping I understand these Woods,” I answer.

Boogey sidles up to me, clutching at my elbow. “You can’t let them come in. You can’t let them take us back.” The others cry out in agreement and terror.

“I won’t and neither will the Woods,” I soothe. “Think about it. There must be a reason none of the Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons enter the Woods. Can’t any of you see why?”

They all stare at me, too scared to think. I sigh. “The Woods is made up of nightmares and monsters. Look at what we have all become. We are our own nightmares. That is what will happen to them also.”

“But, what is a Wooden Spoon’s nightmare?” Nora asks.

“I think I have an idea.” I lean in close to her ear, her furry tufted ear and whisper. “If I’m right then I will need you to back me up. To help me keep things from getting…ugly.”

“How?” she whispers back.

“Be kind.”

***

“Minute’s up you Fucking Little Shit!” I yell at the Woods. Turning to the Mob I bellow, “Now we take back our children. They are rightfully ours, paid for with our sweat and souls. The Dark Woman thinks we are too afraid to do what is needed to retrieve our children. Let us show that conjuring bitch what we are made of!” I pump my fist in the air and the Mob does the same.

With a roar and weapons raised, we charge the Woods, penetrating the shadows that hide our property from us.

***

“Here they come!” I cry to the others. “Fall back and hide! We need them as far into the Woods as possible!”

“But be kind!” Nora calls out.

“Why should we?” a troll grunts.

I turn and address those nearest, hoping my voice will carry to ones already scattered. “Because you were shown kindness when you entered the Woods. That is the magic. That is what keeps us safe. We are not the monsters here, no matter what they say.”

“There they are!” my Leather Belt shouts to the Mob. “Come here boy! Time to come home and take your punishment like the Fucking Little Shit you are.”

“Stupid Little Bitch! I’ve found you now!” a Wooden Spoon’s voice I don’t recognize screeches. Nora shudders and grabs my hand, her eyes filled with fright.

“I can’t go back Edward,” Nora whispers.

“You won’t, trust me,” I answer, turning to run, pulling Nora with me.

“That’s right you coward! Run away! Go cry to Mommy! Oh wait, Mommy’s right here!” my Leather Belt taunts.

“Yes, Edward! Come give Mommy a hug,” my Wooden Spoon cackles. “I need a cuddle from my Fucking Little Shit!” I can hear her thwacking her wooden spoon against trees as she and the Mob pursue us. I can hear them all thwacking and smacking their wooden spoons and leather belts.

We run, run as fast as we can as far as we can. Deep into the Woods, far into our sanctuary. Soon most of the Mob tire, crying after us to stop, to wait, to come back to Mommy and Daddy.

My parents do not stop. They never have.

I shove Nora forward, away from me. “Keep going! Find the others and rally them back here!”

Nora refuses to let go of my hand. “No, Edward, no! They’ll kill you!”

“No they won’t,” I pant, winded from the chase. “They are no longer who they think they are.” I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “Trust me.”

Nora narrows her eyes, daring a look past me. “I hope you are right.” She plants a quick kiss on my cheek and dashes further into the Woods.

I lean down, hands on my knees and try to get my breath. I have only a moment before my parents, and what’s left of the Mob, catch up to me. I keep my head down, forcing my self to draw slow even breaths, refusing to look up at them. When my father speaks I know I am right.

“You…Fucking…Little…Shit…” he gasps, his lungs fighting for air. His voice is small, tiny, like a child’s. I smile and stand upright, looking him in the eyes, looking all of them in the eyes. I tower above them.

Their rage hid the truth from them, hid their nightmares until now. Now the Woods show them who they really are.

I stare down at a group of small children, all trying desperately to look tough and mean, but only succeeding in looking pitiful, fighting to hold onto their now oversized weapons. Most of the Mob fail and pitchforks, axes, clubs clatter to the earth. My Leather Belt, tiny little Leather Belt, glares at me.

“You think you’ve won?” he yells in his four-year-old voice. I chuckle.

“That’s your problem. It’s never been a game.”

His little face darkens with rage and I watch the tantrum erupt. The rest of the Mob stare at him, stunned, as he throws himself to the ground, kicking and screaming.

“Nonononononononononono!” he cries, tiny tears of anger spilling from his eyes. Some of the other ‘adults’ begin to cry in sympathy, as only the very, very young can.

Gasps from behind me tear my eyes from the spectacle that is my father. The rest have come back, led by Nora, all of their eyes wide in disbelief. I study their faces, looking for the ones that can’t forgive, that want revenge. To my great relief, I see only pity and amusement.

“You were right. How did you know?” Nora asks.

“If you were them,” I gesture at the now completely distraught and vocal Mob. “What would be your worst nightmare?’

***

We walk out of the Woods, all of us, leaving the screaming, whining cry-babies behind. The Woods will take care of them now.

Nora holds my hand and turns her face to the now night sky, basking in the moonlight as if it were the sun. “Will we change back, Edward?”

I think about this for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. Honestly I don’t.” We walk some more, hand in hand, the others behind us, around us, talking in cautious whispers, unsure of their future. Soon the outline of the Village comes into view. The whispers grow bolder.

“I think,” picking up where I left off, louder now so everyone can hear. “I think that life leaves scars. What we do with those scars will dictate whether we change or not.”

My statement ripples through our group, each taking what they can from it.

Now we stand in the middle of the Village, our Village. No, not our Village, but our village. A normal place, a safe place, a place without forced nightmares and homicidal parents. A place for us.

From a shadow, the Dark Woman approaches. I have never met her, but I know her, somehow.

“Very good, children,” she praises. “You behaved admirably. Would you like to be rewarded for your kindness?”

“No, thank you,” Nora answers first. “We’d just like to go home.”

The Dark Woman appraises her carefully then nods. “Very well. If you need me, in the future, I’ll find you.”

“I don’t think we will. Thank you, though,” I say, confident of my words.

“Sometimes scars never heal,” she says back to me.

“Yes, but they are our scars and not to be bargained with.”

She watches me and smiles, but it fades quickly and she just stands before us all, the Dark Woman.

One by one we excuse ourselves from her presence and make our way to our homes. I follow Nora to hers. I’ll fetch my things in the morning, when the sun shines upon us and there are no more shadows and nightmares. No more parents. No more Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons.

About The Author:

Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his wife and two kids. He is the author of many published short stories and the creator of a new literary form: the Drabble Novel. DEAD MECH is his first novel and represents the introduction to the world of the Drabble Novel, a novel written 100 words at a time.

Learn more about Jake and his work at http://www.jakebible.com. Links to his Facebook fan page, Twitter and his forum can be found there, as well as his weekly drabble release, Friday Night Drabble Party, and his weekly free audio fiction podcast.

Table of Contents

- copyright
- Bethany and the Zombie Jesus
- And You Shall Know Him......
- Through The Last WH
- Jim Drurry, Interstellar Mediator

- Twelve Drabbles ‘Til Midnight: A Short Story, 100 Words At A Time

- Blister

- Another Happy New Year In The Apocalypse…

- The Scatological Reincarnation of Luke Bloomberg

- Let Old Friends be Forgot…
- Just Desserts
- All The Freaky Bedbugs Of The World
- Leather Belts And Wooden Spoons
- About The Author: