Ruthless
Author: Shane McKenzie Bentley Little; Shane McKenzie
Date: 2010-04-13 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Extreme Horror; Torture Porn; Short Stories; Splatterpunk; Anthologies; Horror; dark fiction
Description: This shocking short story collection includes sick and twisted tales by the following disturbed authors: John McNee, Daniel Fabiani, Lucas Pederson, Danny Hill, Jessy Marie Roberts, Shane McKenzie, Jared Donald Blair, Lesley Conner, David Bernstein, AJ Brown, Tom Olbert, Nate Burleigh, John "Jam" Arthur Miller, Thornton Austen, Aaron J. French, Eric Stoveken, Alec Cizak, D. Krauss and Airika Sneve. With introduction by Bentley Little
Publisher: Pill Hill Press

Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection

edited by

Shane McKenzie

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Pill Hill Press on Smashwords

Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection

Copyright © 2010 by Pill Hill Press

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Ruthless: A Shock Horror Collection

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION by Bentley Little

BEBBEL by John McNee

SANCTITY OF PASSION by Daniel Fabiani

TO BOIL by Lucas Pederson

YOUR TENDER LOVING TOUCH by Danny Hill

PUMPKIN SOUP by Jessy Marie Roberts

TRUE LOVE by Shane McKenzie

THE BLOODMITES by Jared Donald Blair

ADAPTATION by Lesley Conner

FINALLY ALONE by David Bernstein

RISE UP NANKING by A.J. Brown

MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER by Tom Olbert

SAUCY by Nate Burleigh

CRANKIN by John Arthur Miller

BIRTHDAY SONG by Thornton Austen

THE ABORTIONISTS by Aaron J. French

LITTLE MESSIAHS by Eric Stoveken

STRENGTH by Alec Cizak

THE WORLD WITHOUT SOULS by D. Krauss

LITTLE BLENNY BUNTING by Airika Sneve

Introduction

by Bentley Little

Extreme horror has gotten a bad rap.

In the realm of serious literature, William Faulkner—who wrote exclusively about a Mississippi county populated by a serial arsonist; a suicidal man, his slutty sister and retarded, castrated brother; a woman who slept for years with the corpse of the man she killed; an impotent criminal who raped women with a corncob, and a white trash man in love with a cow—showed once and for all that literary merit could not be determined by subject matter. He proved to the world that even topics seemingly more suited to the grossest sort of pulp could be serious, nobel-prize-winning literature.

But the namby pamby gatekeepers of horror never seem to have gotten that memo. These prissy little prudes tsk tsk every time an unapproved orifice is violated or blood is spilled in a manner that they deem inappropriate. They sniff disdainfully that real horror fiction doesn’t need to depict bloodletting in such detail and that writers who wallow in such filth should not be taken seriously.

Well, fuck them.

With Ruthless, Shane McKenzie has proved yet again that politesse is overrated, that it’s not necessary to be smooth and restrained, that sometimes horror needs to be rough and messy.

The philosopher Thomas Hobbes famously stated that life is “nasty, brutish and short.” The same description could be applied to these stories. Which means that, despite their outrageous depictions of extreme violence and gore, the pieces in this book are ultimately an honest reflection of life as seen from a Hobbesian worldview.

Sounds good, huh?

In fact, that’s probably the argument I would make if I wanted to be a pretentious asshole and defend Ruthless on an intellectual level against the criticism of the literary establishment.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is that the appeal of horror is not intellectual, it is emotional. These stories don’t address the head but the heart—or, more accurately, the gut. They hit us where we live, forcing us to experience the fear and terror of their varied protagonists, to read about the acts and situations most people would be afraid to even imagine.

The twenty stories here are all over the map. They take place in big cities and small towns, in suburban kitchens and college labs and hellish carnivals. They happen now and in the future and in times that have never been. But what they all have in common is a willingness to look unflinchingly at pain and death and suffering, at evil in all of its gruesome hideousness.

This is not to say that graphic sex and violence are the only criteria for horror. In our online age, when anyone can self-publish and the correctly named “vanity press” has been misleadingly rechristened the “indie press,” too many wannabe writers think that all they need to do to establish their credibility as artists is describe carnage in explicit detail. And there’s a cadre of post-literate fans who enable them, who buy into that bullshit. But the hard truth is that the fundamentals of good storytelling still apply. Shane McKenzie understands this, and the pieces he has chosen for his debut anthology reflect his respect for the written word. Some work better than others, of course, but that’s always the case.

I’m not going to waste any more of your time hyping these stories, or pontificating about the meaning and importance of extreme fiction. You’re already here. You’re holding this book in your hands.

So read it.

Because this is the real deal. Hardcore, kick-ass, take-no-prisoners horror. It’s gross, it’s disgusting, it’s rough, it’s raw.

And if you don’t like it, well, fuck you, too.

Bebbel

by John McNee

Bebbel hates the silence.

His world, presently, is all black and pain. And silence. An unholy trinity. But it’s the silence that he hates most.

He swings back and forth on his wires. Suspended in the void; lost in the black. And he’s surrounded on all sides, but it’s so lonely. So quiet.

He’s not the man he once was, is Bebbel. His mind isn’t for thinking. It’s for reacting. He needs stimulation. He needs distraction. What can he do with silence? Silence is for thinking and he doesn’t think. He fears and he hates, but that’s not thought. He’s not capable.

He used to think a lot in the dark. He thought about his old life. He longed for the days before the show, and the people he knew and loved. But that’s all gone. That’s not who he is anymore. He can’t recall it. He’s lived longer in here than he ever did out there, and it’s all there is of him. No man anymore, is Bebbel. A freak. A freak in a world of freaks. An exhibit. Part of an act to be packed away between performances. Packed away in the black. And the pain.

And the silence.

He hates and he waits, does Bebbel. Nothing more to do.

But hate and wait.

There are others here. In the black. Spoiled for company, really, is Bebbel. Not that any of them are much use. They sit and swing, hunched and crouched, bent, broken, hobbled, strung, mangled, and mutilated. There’s not a one with a thing to say.
He senses them out there, close by, packed away like him. He used to wish they’d say something. Make some kind of noise. Not that he can reply. Not much of a conversationalist, is Bebbel. Not anymore. But just to hear another’s voice would be something. A murmur in the dark. A sound to break up the endless quiet. He doesn’t wish for that now. Wishing is thought and Bebbel doesn’t think. He’s emotions, is Bebbel. He’s reactions. He’s not thought.

He hates the silence.

He waits for noise.

Hate and wait.

Hate and wait…

***

Metal on metal. Keys in the padlock. Chains slap against corrugated iron. The bolts are drawn back. The shutters rack up and the generator rumbles into life.
Oh yeah… Show-time.

Fat Charlie comes marching in from the side door and Bebbel recognizes him by the sound of his clumping boots and the smack of his mouth as he chews his tobacco. He’s waving a flashlight around, is Fat Charlie, giving everyone the quick once-over. Just to make sure everybody’s ready for the performance. The white beam glances on knotted flesh, burnt leather, jagged bones. The light turns on Bebbel and, for a moment, he’s blind. He tries to raise a hand against the glare. Behind his mask he murmurs something, some kind of protest. Fat Charlie gives him a quick smack on the side of his leather-clad head and he quiets down.

“That’s enough out of you,” Charlie adds, and spits, sending a jet of brown saliva onto Bebbel’s goggles.

Bebbel says and does nothing. Fat Charlie moves on and out, slamming the door behind him. There are shouts on the other side of the wall, and a jangle of keys. Next thing, motors above begin to purr and the whole container starts to move.
They’re in an elevator, Bebbel and his pals. Going up.

The troupe makes a little noise, excited-like. They don’t talk, exactly. None are quite capable anymore. Those with teeth have had their tongues cut out. Those with tongues have had their vocal chords severed. Those with vocal chords have had their lips sewn shut. But they manage some eager sounds. A haphazard chorus of grunts and groans in the dark.

They arrive at the top of the shaft, and the sounds of the outside world start to bleed their way past the concrete, steel, and iron. Bebbel can hear music, laughter, crowds of youngsters screaming in unison, the thunder of the roller-coaster, and all the unmistakable noises of the fairground.

Sally puts a lot of effort into the cover. The crowds that come for the rides and the games and the candy-floss get all they could hope for and more. More fun than they can handle. But it’s all a front.

And a privileged minority that knows of Sally’s most impressive attractions, and the small black tent in which they can be found.

That privileged minority is gathering now, on the other side of the velvet curtain. They’re forcing themselves to take their seats, though they can hardly bear to sit, they’re so excited. It’s a different sort of crowd, is this, to the one outside. Generally older. No children here. No popcorn. No candy-floss. They’re all washed and shaved and turned out in their finery. Charcoal gray suits, satin gowns, and diamonds. Dressed more suitably for a night at the opera than a backwater county fair.

They’re not all locals, this crowd. People travel hundreds of miles to catch one of Sally’s performances. It’s a rare thing. Few in the audience know each other or would even care to. They can’t claim to have anything in common, excusing a shared knowledge of Sally’s world—the dark subculture that stays hidden, just beneath the surface of the everyday—and an interest in its strange delights.

Bebbel’s thin fingers start to twitch. They always do this close to show-time. The rest of his troupe is just the same. Knuckles cracking and joints a-popping. All limbering up. Not that Sally ever demands much from them in the manner of acrobatics.
A hush falls on the crowd beyond the curtain—signal that the tent’s lights have been dimmed. A band begins to play. Small thing. Accordion, snare drum, and double bass. They manage the best fanfare they can as Sally takes to the stage.

Wild applause signals her entrance.

And there really is no mistaking Sally.

She’s truly something else, is the Keeper of the Dark Secrets. Something else. Just under six feet tall in her bare feet, she tends to favor thigh-high leather boots with tall heels tapering to pin-points. On her torso she wears a laced bodice of black and silver—everything black and silver—trailing grand long skirts that drag across the floor behind her like flowing rivers of oil. Thin strips of satin are wound around her breasts and shoulders, the porcelain-white of her flesh showing through the gaps between the fabric. Similar strips—like black bandages—coil around her elbows and forearms, down to her palms. Her fingers are bare but for a few silver rings of unknown origin. Her only other piece of jewelry is an ebony tiara with four silver horns and a single diamond in its center.
Sally’s hair is dirty blonde, long and wild. Her face is young and beautiful, her features so pale and delicate, they might threaten to blow away in the wind. A light dusting of makeup highlights her hooded eyes and plump pink lips. The rest of her face and body is the color of the snows.

Truly something else.

“Thank you,” she says, lilting in that sing-song Southern drawl of hers, somehow still clearly audible over the noise of her audience. “Thank you all so much.” Pressing her hands to her breast, like an award-winner overcome by the adoration of the crowd. “Thank you… Please… Thank you.”

Bebbel can’t hope to understand the emotion he feels when he hears Sally’s voice. It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable concoction of adoration and terror, and he only feels this way around her. The rest of the troupe is the same way. In a corner of the darkness, he hears the echo of running water as one of his companions pisses himself.
The sound makes him thirsty.

“Thank you,” Sally continues, as the crowd finally gets control of themselves and simmers down. She smiles. “This ain’t quite the main event.”

Several in the audience laugh. For most of them, the sight of her alone is more than worth the price of admission.

“I welcome you all,” she continues. “I am surprised—and not a little humbled—to see so many of you. It swells my heart to know the followers of my art are in such great numbers. Hell!” She grins. “It does more’n that. Makes me wetter than July!”

That gets a laugh. A round of applause. Sally laughs herself and the band starts up again. Quiet, so as not to drown her out. A minor waltz this time.
“For those that don’t know or haven’t guessed, my name is Sally,” she says. “I am the Keeper of the Dark Secrets. Black magicks passed down from the Age of the Immortals. Tools of creation and destruction wielded only by the sages of the ancient Underlords…” She straightens up, arms out, puffing up her chest, breasts straining against the satin straps. “And me.”

The man on percussion strikes a cymbal at that. More applause.
“What you will witness tonight is just a small taste, a flavor of the beautiful cruelty at the center of our universe. I will illustrate for you—with the assistance of my troupe—how malleable are the creations of God to the wills and fetishes of the most unholy. I will show you the power of the darkness.” She paces the stage, pin-point heels damn near punching holes in the wood under her feet. “I am an artist,” she says. “The Dark Secrets are my pallet. The human body is my canvas. Those of you coming here tonight expecting a freak show… you’ll get your freaks. But not freaks of nature. Freaks of design. For your enjoyment.”

She marches to a far corner of the stage, long skirts trailing after her. Drum roll. “Without further ado, then,” she says, “The Carnival of the Dark Secrets!”

Applause. Of the most undeserving kind.

The curtain comes up. An organized spark ignites a low wall of flame in a semi-circle at the front of the stage.

Hokk is first out the gate. Easy for him, being on wheels and all. There isn’t much of him that’s original man. No legs. Everything below the belly’s been hacked away, replaced by bent metal and the rusted frame and wheels of a tricycle. He bends his back and hauls himself forward, gnarled claws pummeling the floor. His skull is compacted, the back of his head scooped out. No eyes. No tongue. A trio of metal tubes protrude from his eye sockets and gaping mouth. He half-scuttles, half-bikes to the front of the stage and thrusts his misshapen head into the flame. Fuses in the metal tubes catch alight. He raises his head and his face is fizzing with sparks. He spins about on his wheels and the light of the sparklers appears to trace a spiral through the air. It’s like ballet, is this. Choreographed. Hokk is well-trained. Better than any of the others. But he has been at this the longest.

“Hokk,” says Sally. Applause.

Hokk turns and rolls back into the throng of the troupe, past Lupi, Ignit, Bebbel, and all the others. He rolls right to the back of the platform and touches the sparklers to a paper fuse. The rear wall explodes into heat and light. Big scare. Nice effect. The whole carnival is illuminated.

Those that can do so rush forward, away from the fire. Applause as they approach the front of the stage. Turano and Frenchie—arms and legs fused together so they can never be parted—roll into the center, back onto back onto back. A single bolt fastened through the jawbones of each keeps their heads locked in place, one pressed against the other, bent low.

Emery slides out like a snake on his grossly stretched belly. Cax scuttles forward on limbs stripped to bone; the bones varnished and filed to points. Bidaro follows a little behind, moving awkwardly on cauterized stumps. His mouth gapes open, exposing a swollen black tongue pierced by a thick metal hook. There’s a rusted chain attached, maybe six feet long. At the other end is a heavy tank of green liquid in which his severed hands and feet bob like dead white fish. He drags it with him wherever he goes.

Bebbel doesn’t move yet. He can’t. Not freely. For the moment he watches through his stained goggles, looking past the deformed monsters dancing before him, straining to make out the faces in the audience.

The more agile take up positions at the front of the stage. Emery hangs his head over the edge, great flapping mouth opening wide as he roars as only a beast could. People in the audience laugh and cheer, instantly taken with the slithering behemoth. Behind him, Lupi, Ignit, and a few others are brought forward. Not Bebbel. Not yet. These members of the troupe don’t enjoy the luxury of free movement. They’re wrapped in chains, attached to machines or otherwise restrained. Some, like Ignit, are little more than quivering torsos, limbs long lost. She hangs in a mechanical bracket, operating on a piston that drives her to and from the front of the stage. Nails have been driven into her bald scalp from which dangle threads of razor-sharp metal. It has the appearance of long, silver hair and when she snaps her head from side to side, the threads strike the iron arms of her truss, creating sparks. The effect is quite striking and impossibly cruel.

Lupi is operated via remote control. Somewhere off-stage a switch is thrown and she rumbles into life. Her body begins to shake, shoulders quivering, head lurching. The exhaust pipes jutting out from between her ribs belch black smoke. Blood seeps out through her gritted teeth. There’s a motorcycle engine in her belly. The block is visible where the metal has split the skin. Under her seat is a single motorcycle wheel, and it starts to roll now, inching her towards the front. When the revs get up, Lupi vomits blood. She can’t make a sound, poor Lupi. Her throat is full of liquid. Can’t speak, laugh, or moan. But her eyes are screaming.

Sally announces every one of her creations. She has a little to say about each. Their personalities, talents, history. Most of it nonsense. Each gets a round of applause from the audience. Some get more than that. Then, at long last, it’s time for Bebbel to move center stage.

The band, which has till now been building to a crescendo, suddenly quiets to a whisper. The troupe hold their positions and limit their noise. Emery ceases his beastly roars. The audience steal themselves to witness Sally’s prized attraction.

The overhead crane conveys Bebbel to the edge of the stage and past. At no point do his feet touch the floor. He glides slowly out over the audience, hanging above their heads. The guests in the first three rows are forced to turn in their seats, craning their necks to keep in sight of him.

The movement causes him no small amount of pain. When he and the rest are locked away in storage, in the dark and the silence, his body seems almost to forget the wrongs that have been done to it. He doesn’t feel his scars. Can’t sense the cold metal under his skin.

But now his back burns.

The crane finally brings him to an abrupt halt over the center of the crowd. He can see them clearly now, beneath him. Almost close enough to touch. Almost. Up until now he has kept himself tightly coiled; legs folded close to his chest, head bent forward, arms wrapped about his knees and face. He sways like a pendulum in this position a few moments more, then slowly begins to unfurl himself.

“Bebbel…” says Sally.

He lowers his legs, keeping one foot crossed over the other, and spreads his arms out to the sides, head bowed, suspended in space. Unknowingly he emulates Christ on the cross.
There are no cheers for Bebbel. No applause. No cries of laughter. No gasps of horror. All Bebbel gets is silence. Which seems fitting.

Thing is, Bebbel isn’t quite like the rest. He is still, for the most part, intact. He has all his limbs. No scars on his hands, feet, arms, or legs. He still has his genitals, dangling hairless between his legs, the same dead gray color as the rest of his body. His head is encased in a modified gas-mask, with a long hose attached, drooping down, like the trunk of an elephant. The idea of a lifetime spent behind that mask would surely horrify the claustrophobic, but compared with some of the troupe, it seems he’s gotten off lightly.

In Sally’s expert opinion, it is Bebbel’s wholeness that makes him special. It is the restraint she showed in his mutilation that gives him such presence. Sometimes less is more. Not so monstrous, is Bebbel. He is a freak. In a show of freaks. But he is still recognizably human. When the audience looks upon him they see themselves. The sight gives them pause.

Bebbel’s back has seen the most abuse. 667 steel fish-hooks dig into skin and muscle. 667 wire cables connect the hooks to the crane from which dear Bebbel slowly swings. A life-sized marionette, is Bebbel. A pale-skinned puppet.

And what’s more… A puppet with a talent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Sally, “With your indulgence, Bebbel would like to dance.”
The band begins to play something new. A slow, lilting waltz. Bebbel’s theme. Written especially for him. He raises his head, cocks one leg and begins to sway, back and forth, his arms outstretched. The wires in his back prevent any great dramatic movement, but he does the best he can, does Bebbel. It’s a neat little dance he’s devised, swinging back and forth, gracefully arcing movements of the arms and legs. He’s as theatrical as he’s capable. It’s certainly more complex than any of his fellow freaks’ displays and is further indicative of how much of him is still man.

It earns him some slight applause. A few smiles.

Seconds later they’ll all be laughing at him.

Behind him, Sally draws audience attention her way. She holds up a thick black remote control with a single red button and aims it at Bebbel like a pistol. Bebbel ought to know what’s coming, but he makes no sign. He focuses on the dance. Sally grins and, when she does, Bebbel can see people below him grinning back. They’re all smiling. Every last one. Almost.

Sally presses her thumb down on the button and 20,000 volts of electricity surge through the crane, down the wire cables and into Bebbel’s body. He does a new dance then, does Bebbel. Legs kick, arms thrash. Spit and blood spatter the inside of his mask. The band accompanies with a frantic gypsy jig.

The audience erupts with laughter. Cheering. Applause. All laughing. Every last one. Almost.

Sally releases the button after far too long and Bebbel goes limp. Smoke hisses upwards from his mask. A few hooks have come out of his back in the fit. A few always do. They’ve taken small chunks of flesh with them. He can feel hot blood running down the backs of his legs.

Someone below shouts for an encore. A moment later there’s a chorus. Bebbel doesn’t mind. Sally can shock him as much as she wants. He’s used to the pain and the torture by now. It’s all the same. In any case, his attention is elsewhere. He’s watching the back row. He’s watching the only two people in the whole audience who don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves. The couple. The boy and the girl seated one beside the other. Her hand clasped in his. Her face pale and twisted in disgust. His a map of confusion. Look at them. So much younger than the rest of the crowd. Look at their clothes. Him, jeans and t-shirt. Her, denim cut-offs and pink halter-top. Poor kids. They look like they’ve come dressed for the fair. What, one might have cause to wonder, could they possibly be doing here?

Bebbel knows how they ended up here and why, but he’s not saying. Can’t speak a word, can Bebbel. He’d say if he could. He’d cry out. Warn them. Tell them to run. But he can’t. In any case, it’s already far too late.

Sally obliges the crowd and shocks Bebbel a second time. He dances his frenetic jig.

In the back row the girl in the pink top rises, turning her head away, blocking the sight of Bebbel with her hands and telling her boyfriend she wants to leave. Right now. He agrees with her, cursing himself for letting the fat man in the cowboy hat talk him into coming to this tent. Convinced him the show was unmissable. The pair begins pushing their way along the row, past the long skirts and starched collars to get to the exit.

Sally is watching them from the stage. Abruptly, Bebbel’s dancing comes to a stop. His performance is over. “For this next part of the show,” says Sally, “I will require a volunteer from the audience...”

Amazingly, more than a couple of hands shoot up. Idiots. Sally ignores them, directing her attention to the back row. One of the stage-hands anticipates her whim and turns the spotlight on the girl in pink. She halts, frozen with fear as all eyes fall upon her.
“You,” says Sally, curling a silver ringed-finger. “Young miss. Would you come up to the stage, please?”

The girl can’t speak. She shakes her head ‘no’. Her boyfriend hurries her along to the end of the row. Sally looks to Hokk, her most loyal subject. She signals him with a nod of her head, which he sees without eyes and comprehends. He launches himself from the stage, hitting the ground hard on one wheel and racing around to the left and up the aisle to catch the girl, getting between her and the exit. She shrieks as he clamps his gray claw on her wrist. Her boyfriend grabs her other arm, tugging her towards the flap in the tent. “Come on!” he shouts. “Come on!”

Hokk digs in, dragging the girl back to the stage. She tries to twist her arm free but his grip only tightens. She yelps with pain and is wrenched from her boyfriend’s grasp. “Josh!” she screams.

Josh means to answer, but is for a moment preoccupied with the grand shadow looming into view before him. A silhouetted figure stands at the tent flap, blocking their escape. Josh recognizes him as the guy who sold them the tickets to the show. The guy in the cowboy hat. Fat Charlie.

“Josh!” the girl screams again and she’s already lost a lot of ground to Hokk. They’re almost halfway to the stage.

“Yeah, hold on,” Josh answers, a moment before Fat Charlie plants a hatchet in his skull. The boy takes three steps back and crumples to the ground. Fat Charlie earns his first round of applause of the night. He doesn’t bow.

The girl doesn’t register her boyfriend’s death. Not immediately. It’s all too quick. She’s on the stage before she realizes she’s all alone. She starts to scream, then, but she’s almost into Sally’s arms, so any hysterics are certain to be short-lived.
Bebbel continues to dangle limply above the audience, who seem to have very quickly forgotten about him. He has his back to the stage, can’t turn, can’t see what’s happening to the girl, but the scene doesn’t interest him. It’s all much too familiar.
Sally steps forward to enclose the girl in a warm embrace and the girl, against all sense, finds herself running into her arms. Better to be in Sally’s clutches than Hokk’s, one might assume. And be disastrously mistaken. “Come now,” the Keeper of the Dark Secrets coos, clutching the quivering girl’s head to her breast. “Just relax. You needn’t fear us. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Tiffany,” the girl sobs. “Please don’t kill me…”

Chuckles from the spectators.

Sally’s lips curl into a soft smile. “Kill you?” she says. “My goodness, no. Far from it. Tiffany, honey, you don’t realize how lucky you are. You’re going to live… forever.”
The girl raises her head at that, blinking tears out of her blue eyes and staring up at Sally with a quivering chin. Sally cups Tiffany’s head in her hands and kisses her mouth. It’s not a passionate kiss, nor does it last particularly long, but even the thickest in the room can recognize something special in it. There’s a change in the atmosphere. Not electric. Ethereal. As though, for the briefest of moments, the air turns thin. A strange taste on the tongue. Just for a second. Then gone. No one can doubt the cause. When Sally kisses the girl something magical takes place.

Tiffany knows it. When Sally breaks the kiss the girl shuffles back two steps, her eyes still closed, her head still tilted, lips pouting, kissing air. She’s just beginning to sense the power of the gift Sally has given her. There’s a new light inside, warming her heart. A paranormal energy courses through her veins. Changing her from the inside out. When Tiffany finally opens her eyes and looks at her hands, she sees that her skin is glowing. It’s strange and wonderful and transfixes her so that for the longest time she doesn’t even notice she’s surrounded.

Five more of Sally’s freaks have entered from the wings. These aren’t quite like the rest, however. Not part of Bebbel’s troupe. These five are Sally’s Favorites. They all have hands. They all have eyes. They all have teeth, filed to points. And they all carry knives.
Sally nods her head and her Favorites begin.

Tiffany doesn’t scream when they grab her and pull her to the floor. Still dizzy from Sally’s kiss. She wakes up a bit when the Favorites draw their blades and start cutting away her clothes. Murmurs some kind of protest, but still doesn’t quite seem to understand what’s going on. The Favorites enclose around her like a pack of hungry dogs, obscuring her from the audience. Torn scraps of fabric are thrown over their shoulders. Pink cloth first, then denim, then strips of white cotton—presumably her underwear. She really starts to holler when the Favorites get to laying their nasty paws on her naked body. Then the first real scream comes. She shrieks. And the next scrap thrown over the shoulder hits the floor with a wet smack!

Backstage a switch is thrown and now Bebbel’s moving again. Back the way he came. The crane conveys him over the heads of the enraptured audience, back across the stage. For a brief few moments he passes above Tiffany and has an unspoiled view as the Favorites skin her alive. Not that he finds it particularly interesting. His part of the show is over. The crane takes him backstage. Soon he’ll be in the dark again, while the audience gorge themselves on the delightful torment wrought upon the girl center stage.

She’s really screaming now. Horrific wails of agony as they strip her skin from muscle, splashing her blood up and down the boards. She’ll scream and scream, kick and claw, but it doesn’t matter. None of it makes a difference to the Favorites. Whatever she does, they will not stop. They will subject her flesh to cruelty beyond imagination. They will force her to endure unspeakable pain. Till the end of days. And she will endure. For however much she may pray, whatever they do, tonight or for a thousand years… she will not die.

***

Hours later and Bebbel’s back in the black and pain. Nothing to do but hate and wait. He’s suspended in the void, is Bebbel. Listening to the silence. How he hates the silence.
Then…
Metal on metal. Keys in the padlock. The side door opens and Fat Charlie enters. Not alone. He’s got someone with him. A new exhibit. “Give her a hearty welcome, folks!” says Charlie. “She’s one of the family now.”

Bebbel studies her through his stained goggles. A quivering red thing of raw muscle and bone, speared through on a knot of spikes, like a giant cocktail onion. Charlie unloads her off the trolley and makes his exit. Closing the door, he informs them that Sally has named her… Azelea.

Azelea spends the rest of the night in the black screaming.

Screams and screams and screams…

Bebbel likes it.

Sanctity of Passion

by Daniel Fabiani

Psychiatry is my dark art of vast and endless capabilities. It mutates exponentially as much as it shrinks my patients’ minds into a coercible slack. I wake up most days and have already predetermined the work load. Continual frowns, suicidal tendencies, angst-ridden and adolescent-minded yuppies who have delved so far into the voracious world of superficiality that they cannot dig themselves back is usually what I get. Welcome to the culture of the Upper East Side.

I also specialize in the power of persuasion. If you are reading this, you have broken into my private journal and are now going to read the sticky labyrinth of my thoughts; this is the first entry. I am here to say that I have an unjustifiable and parasitic need of watching feeble-minded people punish themselves to satiate the barbarity of my ways.

My training in the medical field is exquisite. I have received my PhD in psychiatry from an Ivy League institution in New York City and I am also a board certified medical doctor. If you were to ever seek help by way of my knowledge, you would see that my office here on the Upper East Side would not spark any sense of morbidity in you, albeit the latter occurs regularly here; my facade is even greater than perfect.

You will find omnipresent accolades hanging on the walls in shining frames and would never think that the nefarious intentions on my client’s beaten souls could actually progress here. It just looks too pretty. If you were ever a client of mine (or patient, if you will) you would see that my suite is nothing short of a typical professional plunder.

My building is a classic style 1940’s edifice with a slight New York City attitude and sneer. Giant translucent windows line the outside like a diamond prism. Sunlight smiles though the glass and changes the shapes within. No one would ever know what I conduct behind the walls of my building. My staff is completely oblivious to the obliteration I perform onto one’s vulnerable subconscious. I can read the human condition like a children’s book from the moment a client struts into my office and sprawls their flaccid, depressed limbs upon my black leather lounge chair. I am dutiful master of my execrable practice.

I can easily bend your mind into tangents beyond physical recollection and mold it in ways that you never knew were possible. My abilities can override any person’s will power. When a new patient is being treated, my cerulean eyes scrunch innocuously at their sorrows and they soon begin to understand that I am a friend.

You would never know, as my patient, that it would turn out to be a game for my affection when you first walked into my office. You would not be aware that you acquiesce to my mental enslavement as I envelop your thoughts accordingly. Lusting for me is a common ground, nearly a funeral. My emollient words, the melody of my charm and laughter, the corn silk blonde fur hugging my face—are connections you make, lulled by the tranquility of my voice.

Pleasure groans within you, then soon turns to pain when you are turned away for the day. You never want your session to end. To come to terms with the notion that there is no other person like me out there drives you mad. It will haunt you like the nagging of your most despised in-law, or be culpable for the arguments between you and your lover. You want to be with me forever.

When being treated by me, Dr. Robert Quinn, a patient realizes I become their entire everything. No longer is oxygen or nutrition required as my wheeling words become sufficient enough. After all, these Upper East Siders are quite a sensitive bunch. The very cadence of my sentences crawls through the solidified convolutions of their inept minds. It traverses the dank flaps of their soul, dripping in time with the monotony of their own secret self-hate.

I massage my phrases unto their useless sentences and let them seep viscously into the pitiful pulse of their existence. Then the magic starts. I become implored to continue, to pour prescriptions down their throats and offer more caressing words. Within the shriveled essence that was their mind, a patient never regains full knowledge of square one or of why they came to me in the first place. That is when I strike.

Take Catherine Segal for an example, a typical Manhattanite, twenty seven years old, who lived life by the hearts of men. She adored the idea of making them squeal like slaughtered pigs with the dagger of her sweet pink labia between the milk of her thighs. Enamored over her sacral length hair and the wafting feminine products which she splashed on her body liberally, she finally cracked and realized her life was equivalent to a parasite. Catherine came to me in need of mental stability and inner peace.

I offered her my thoughts and my perception of impotent reality. She wanted something more than just a rudimentary education of my vast experiences and medically trained advice. She was seeking unprovoked affection. When she suctioned me with her sticky glossed lips and pushed me to my expensive lacquered desk, I knew she was the shallowest thing I had ever met.

She straddled me with a fire billowing from the far recesses of her hormones. The coolness of her thighs was washed away by the heat of her womanhood. I could not extinguish it fully. I never wanted anything more from my clients other than to debilitate their will and deplete their funds. I am simply not a sexual creature.

My fingers burned as she bit the tips. She ravaged my suit with her hungry hands and her bestial and womanly needs. And then the tide turned. I stopped the nonsense, the sexual depravity. I pushed her slow trembling body away from mine and guided her back to the lounge chair. She obsequiously listened to all ideas that sluiced from my strong mouth, but could not be sufficed with the sharp wit of my words. The seemingly endless answers I provided to the questions in her life that she so adamantly believed made her feel overwhelmed.

Catherine’s agenda was quite clear after that. She’d visit four days a week during the evening hours and sit haphazardly on my listening chair, and babble on with her incessantly daft issues. My legs would cross and my mouth would halt her words before she could finish with her incessant stories. Warm phrases caressed her will casting persuasion unto her way of thinking. When I finally told her to take off her blouse, she did so without hesitation. She ripped it right from the hot oven that was her torso and pushed up the cleft of her cleavage. I demanded she listen to me forever; she agreed lasciviously. And then I dropped the bomb on her unexpectedly (but more on this material creature in a moment. First, allow me to digress…).

My practice has been skulking in the Upper East Side for just under ten years. My youthful complexion has not faded during that span, rather it has accentuated. My golden, thin eyebrows perfectly arch over the alabaster of my forehead. My eyes could pierce steel and melt egos of rock stars into a lucid gel. If my hands touch your skin, horripilate becomes your friend. My smile is forever long, teeth as clean and gleaming as pearls. They poke through your senses with every stretch of my rose petal lips; the persona that will eventually end up becoming the demon inside you.

I have never thought twice of the mental agony I intrude onto my patients. After all, if I wasn’t doing a swell job, would I have any clients? I don’t have any back story or any pestiferous upbringing that aided in the choice of turning my clients into jelly-minded fools. I have no one to blame but myself for the perversity of my passion, the sanctity of the marriage between me and death itself and the offering of it to me. Within the haggard minds of the city folk lay the deepest and most surreal form of fragility that the world has ever known: the need for a friend.

Who wants the life of loneliness? Who wants that sought for corner office, that salary raise, and the lackluster assistant who runs wild for your coffee without someone to share it with? Ladies and gentlemen you have just been introduced to one of the delicacies of psychiatry and the fear of solitude; a lurking loneliness that mocks the human race wildly.

I learned this quickly as my patient load began to bloat with the same damn story over and over; life as a loner, successful entrepreneur, unsuccessful lover, and a fascination with the twisted material world. This is as shallow as it gets here on the Upper East Side. Its inhabitants toss money around like it was meant to be rid of. They dabble in the finer side of life and spend slews of cash on that material world they supposedly despise so much, never worrying of the impending greed and narcissism that was destined to backfire on their useless existence.

I always knew these people were a frivolous, snarky bunch. But they all seek me to cure the life of indecency in money, indulgence, and the surreptitious hatred for themselves. The idea of lying in a muddy, mildew-bearded grave in a plot meant only for one rips their sanity to shreds. Loneliness is the best and most malleable weapon. Speaking of which, I now bring you back to one Catherine Segal…

“Here take this,” I told Catherine, her eyes as desperate as a puppy starved of its mother’s milk.

“What is this, doctor?” She said knowingly.

“Unravel the cloth and find out, my dear.”

“I love it when you call me that, Robert.” Her face was languid with lust, cheekbones high and lips as pink as a baby’s gums.

“…It’s Doctor, Catherine, let’s not forget that.”

Catherine quickly unraveled the fine black cloth, revealing a shimmering scalpel. Under my spell, the undefeatable power of coercion, she looked at the freshly fabricated scalpel with not reluctant eyes, but spanning balls of hazel dancing on the periphery of inquisition. I stood and rubbed my strong hands into the deep tissue of her shoulders and raised her beady vertebrae on the back of her neck. She quivered slightly with the despair I was about to implicate on her.

“Cut me off a piece of your soft, female flesh,” I whispered to her, my breath licking the salt of her fear, her penetrable human condition.

“Cut off…what?”

“Use that masterful piece of steel I have just proffered and make me the happiest man you could ever dream.”

“I would do anything to make you happy, Robert.”

“It’s doctor, Catherine, don’t make me correct you again.”

“I'm sorry, I am just so…”

“Here, let me help you.”

By the guiding light of a violet setting sun, my window facing perfectly against the western hemisphere, our arms took on a cast of purple-white as I showed this malleable creature where and what to cut. The medical man within me rived, jumping and drooling at the knowledge that I had turned this patient into my own momentous sanctuary. Her assent was the devotion I’ve always lived for. The weak listen to the incandescence of my ingenuity like sheep.

The fragile ingénue little pig was more than welcoming with the accommodation of her body. I explained all the details, mapped out the places that I needed, marked up her sweat-slick skin with my fountain pen. The black ink drew thin tire tracks along the fatty parts of her female frame, smudging a bit from the dampness. I am no murderer you see. My clients are more than happy to snip off a taut pink nipple or completely flay their faces like a prize-winning flounder by which to seek my approval.

And Catherine was no exception. She was ordered to start with her shoulders then follow the line of fountain ink as it strewed across her scapulae-like black thread. She held the scalpel at eye level like an ancient piece of argent, her hazel orbs studying the fine steel like sacred metal. Then I signaled for her to do it, to slice me a crimson sash from shoulder to shoulder, to open her body and reveal to me the passion within her; to feel the animalistic and womanly heat and the love she has gained for me.

And as the blade glided across her upper torso, I offered her a drink spiked with just the right dosage of GHB (a date rape drug) to keep her awake, and the only alcohol of her suit, vodka. I used this on Catherine in order to stabilize her mood to enhance my experience. She took the drink, swirling with the thick grains of crushed drugs and swigged it subserviently, oblivious to the cut across her chest and the trickling of blood droplets tunneling down.

My fingers could not help but to crawl across the stream of exquisite red dripping from the parting of her insouciant flesh. As I did so, she grinned wild, unable to thwart the caress as if I had cast upon her the touch of a thousand spiraling orgasms. She complied the way that all my clients had, blinded by the inanition from the cocktail with confusion and gratification in making me smile. Their minds soon slip to cadavers and they cannot stop the juggernaut effect.

I gently licked her blood away from my greedy fingertips as she continued cutting along the train tracks I had drawn for her; not a wince of pain initiating. Next came her finger, stubby and pale, the nail perfectly polished in its upkeep; one of the many rules of fashion on the Upper East Side. Nothing can be nothing short of immaculate. I was never a finger man, but if Catherine felt the need to castrate her own, then who was I to stop her? I grabbed the red glossed stump and pocketed it in my jacket, hoping to partake of it later. Next came her nipple, all fleeting, cherubic, and tumescent from the dissevering, it melted in my mouth as she offered it for consumption.

I gripped her dank shoulders, slippery with red life and bent in. “Mangle your face a bit for me, honey.”

I purred lovingly in her ear, my breath passing through the tympanic membrane like a molesting poltergeist would, teasing her brains with passion, fervor, and orders. And like the trained animal I had molded her into, the scalpel was now raised with assail of a tortured soul and scraped across her cheekbones, metal to hardened calcium.

Warm flaps of flesh fell to the floor, piled like frozen globs of cherries. Her self-mutilation was uncontrollable under the spotlight of my words. Moon pale shards of face bone slid down, with nothing but a whimper escaping her useless vocal chords, paralyzed from the cocktail of medication.

“Go deeper, give me something special. Give me something I can take with me forever.”

“I can’t,” she said, her strength exhausted.

“You do whatever you need to do to please me.”

Catherine glazed my face over with question, falling to the coo of death by loss of blood and loss of vitality. Her meat sack of a face, like a catcher’s mitt, was scooped clean of its former capsule of outer beauty. Flaps of skin just hung lax, devoid of nerves, slipping to a slow death from her decaying heart beat. They were steadfast like tadpoles dying on a strip of parched land. I thrived in every moment.

She had idolized me in her final testament. She spilled the words from her lips as she sliced them clean from her face, ripping the kisser off her mouth, I love you. Then she followed the drawings I made to her heart, lifted the reddened scalpel in defiance to her past life: her yearnings for money, men, and power—finally realizing the banality of her existence—and plunged the fine sparkling steel into her chest.

Her eyes weren’t as full of pain as they were release. Her sandy brown eyes soon shifted from a scrunch of delusion, to complete and utter paradise; my own facial expression showing nothing more than the simple pleasures of life. As the sun crawled into a bed of illicit gray clouds bloated with oncoming rain, I licked her clean of her scarlet soul and packed her away in a safe place.

***

Chuck Hansmith was another one of those young, troubled Upper East Side folk. Raised in New York City by way of the American potato land in the shape of a D, Idaho, he saw things very unclear as my patient. He wanted the greater things in life, the material world wrapped up in small parchment pieces and slowly handed to him for him to savor. What he never knew was that my intention was not to help him heal of his divulgence within the poison of superficiality, but to make him my own. I wanted nothing more than to allow the rages within myself to become enveloped in my innate need for human defamation.

He came to me in dire need of help, hoping for science and intuition to cast that magical spell on him in the form of my psychiatrically trained phrases. I, of course, obliged, with the agreement that he see me and that he told no one of his visits (something I intermittently practiced since I began business in 1999.) The poor and susceptible chap agreed; his colorless eyes ignorant of my perilous intentions.

He had become another one of those sheep that couldn’t withstand, nor bare, the great wave of the golden-like apparatus of my hair or my wind blue eyes. Just another one of those unstable Upper East Siders who cannot seem to distinguish life outside of designer clothing and a loathing self-image; my how I loved them! Oh, manipulation! If the entire world was as cowering and made up of imbecilic fibrils like the hot shots of New York City, then I’d have a cure for everyone and I’d never go hungry.

Not only have I pursued a superior career in ending the grievous hearts of my clients, I have also loved the taste of their demise. To fully understand such a simple complexity that is myself and them, the joining of our temporary bond while they were alive, can only be found through the slurp of their body and blood, like the good Lord once said.

Chuck was not excused from my wants and practice. He came to me in need but was not aware of the need that was spawning inside me, the man he had come to for help. His appointments followed a three time a week schedule near to sunset in the winter, about 4:45 p.m. and in the spring at about 7:45 p.m. We went on like this for nearly two years. And in that time I seasoned him with hollow promises of a cure for his self-depressed manic state. But for me it was two years of weaving my impelling words like silken spider webs into the faulted sack of his cognition.

He soon became yet another distilled robot at my disposal. At twenty four years old he was young enough to be coaxed with empty cures, but not yet old enough to grasp my superior vocabulary and meddlesome ways with words. It was all the better in the end because I received my prize, something well earned.

He came to his last appointment around 4:40 pm during this past January. The streets were no longer blotched with sticky black gum, but with slews of chunky rock salt. His attire was ragged as he burst through my door, covered with snow. He had nearly reverted back into his adolescent years as he wore no gear to protect himself from the nasty teeth of old man winter with some yellow in the snow.

“Why is this our last appointment?” Two black and crazed eyes scolded with a lurching mouth and rosy-cheeked face.

“You're near to being cured, Chuck,” I said, already reaching for the ensconced scalpel in black silk within my desk drawer.

“But I need you! I am lost without our talks…please Robert.”

“My name is Doctor, Mr. Hansmith.”

“Doctor Quinn, please!”

Poor little Chuck, as young as spring but as spent as dead autumn leaves. He never knew his last appointment was the spoiled icing to the cake of our two-year affair. This would be his final sacrifice for me and the bond we had created.

“Would you like a drink, Chuck?” I asked.

“Please, Rob—err, Doctor Quinn, tell me why? And yes, I’ll take a drink.”

I offered Chuck Hansmith my finest concoction. An amber glass of whiskey with the cloudy remnants of Vicodin and Codeine whirling through the ice cubes as I swirled the spoon in, forever bonding to the structure of ethanol. (One of the perks of having a medical degree is my constant supply of prescription medications). When ingested, the escapade was to be pain free, as well as consciously executed. He took the drink by the dim light of the lamp in the room; his trembling hand something too innocuous to savor.

He chugged without hesitation, my eyes rumbling beneath the sockets as I knew I was going to feast—and feast well. I considered the drugs that I offered to my clients, via alcoholic beverages, as a kind of saccharine baste to their tissues—they always taste sweeter after. I walked to my desk. Chuck’s face was beginning to droop a little from the effects of all the mind-bending substances. He finally went silent, probably some sort of defiance to my bidding adieu to our sessions.

I took out the scalpel clothed in silk, handed it to him, as well as set up my feather pen with fresh ink at its tip. I used no words as I traced all the points in his face I wanted him to destroy, to give up for me in order to satisfy my cravings, both hunger and sadism. I marked him up like blueprints, drew thin black lines around the hollow orbs of his eyes, prominent cheekbones, and drooping ear lobes, ending at the soft spot behind them.

Once again he had no words to offer—he kept his entire facial expression bleak and careless, allowing me to do my duty. I opened the silk cloth for him, the texture as smooth as the subcutaneous of our integumentary system. I gently placed the scalpel in his flimsy fingers. He suddenly dropped it to the floor.

“Chuck, my friend, pick that up,” I whispered to him.

His vacant eyes flickered, confusion masking his secret need to please me, “I can’t, I’m too weak,” he mumbled like a day-old drunk.

“You can do it, please. I have faith in you.”

“But you never want to see me again,” his words ricocheted like that of a spoiled child.

“I'll see you, as long as you listen to me now. Wake up a bit.”

Chuck looked at me, a young chicken in my eyes. Tasty, pasty flesh was all I wanted. He took the scalpel when I handed it back to him, sliced his own finger like the vilest of paper cuts and did not even notice. I instructed him further as his mind sunk far into a dune of pity, the feelings of never seeing me again—leading the final moments of his death.

“Let's move onward, Chuck,” I chided, unable to control my enthusiasm for his demise.

“What if it hurts?” he asked.

“It will do no such thing.”

He nodded his senseless approval. I ordered him to start at the base of his ear lobe, to feel for the soft spot behind it and then dig the blade in a scooping motion. I offered him a small, portable mirror for the occasion and he took it with no malice; hands not quavering, yet blanketed in gooseflesh. I shut all the curtains to my office, allowing him to feel at home, in peace for the offer he was about to provide me.

The scalpel sunk in easily through his skin, but scraped along the small jutting bone behind his ear. A shudder came over me, one of happiness, the other my pet peeve of shrieking noises; noises like metal to bone. He continued to carve away, using the mirror as his guide as well as the markings I drew. A fabulous cherubic flood colored one half of his neck, as well as the shoulder of his white t-shirt.

He then proceeded to ravage his external ear. Cartilage split impeccably as his hard working hands ripped his own ear from his head, ending with a squish and snap. Sinews of skin like peachy red threads were left behind for me to play with. He gave me the ear, sopping with blood and a strange, tawny puss. Must have been when he pierced his ear drum. I put it in my mouth and swallowed the filet-o-flesh like a raw clam; it hit my stomach and suffused through my intestines as if I had savored holy water.

Then he saw the lines drawn on his face and pushed the scalpel through the sensitive, vitreous humor that was his left eye. Eye juice sprouted viscously, dripping crimson tears down the side of his face.

When he had passed the cornea and entered the sclera, Chuck began to twist, forcing the eye into a raging circular motion. It popped into his hand like a small festered potato, and all the while not a word sounded from his drug induced stupor. He obviously needed me more than I needed him, and nothing would stop him from satisfying my needs first.

Then, it seemed, as if his foggy cognizance plundered down a black hole or some needy quicksand, as he began to convulse. I eased the situation with a kiss to his blood-greased forehead and he relaxed. I asked him to proceed, albeit his state was in no need of the further procession of self destruction, but I could not help myself.

I pointed into the mirror as little bines of blood sneaked down its silvery, mock surface. He knew what to do by then. Chuck raised the surgical instrument and entered the tender, pumping spot on his neck, the hearty carotid. He sunk it in deeply as a low choking noise commenced from his slack mouth. Then he followed my drawing like a good little boy and continued cutting until his skin parted like lips and became a separate entity from the tightness of his throat.

Muscles poured forth like mince meat pushed through a cheese grater; a display of mashed po-tissue. His Adam’s apple protruded like a pointing finger of disdain. My smile radiated a thousand suns; a forever universe of heat and passion. He saw this through his one eye and ended the entire ordeal by cutting me out his stringy carotid. Chuck offered it to me like a dead worm before he fell over in a slouch face-first. I imbibed on the entire blood vessel like sweet taffy.

I packed him away like I did all the rest, in large black garbage bags. But first I would dismember the limbs and drop them in buckets of lime and bleach and acetic acid (with a touch of water to make the acid zoom with some fervor). I’d watch the skin melt into a stew of disintegrated meat then turn to liquid at the bottom. I love my life, and my patients…

***

Cheryl Hansmith closed the black journal and shuddered by the single entry she had finished reading. Tears flowed down her cheeks and seared as if they were made of liquid metal. Her brother Chuck had been missing for almost a month before she used her police skills and put it together; Chuck’s constant sessions, the lack of any "help" or "progress" in his mentality.

When she decided to take it upon herself to investigate the show office of Dr. Robert Quinn, she found just what she was looking for…wrapped neatly in a blood-crusted silk cloth in one of his desk drawers was the magic scalpel. The same one he used on Catherine and Chuck and myriad others. His secretary was nice enough to allow her into the suite without the doctor’s consent—said that he would be right with her and asked if she could make herself comfortable. She waited, tapped her gloved fingers against everything for clues and could not help but to wonder where exactly Chuck was killed.

When the yellow-haired God walked into the room, his brow was sweaty and his body stagnant with antiseptic and disinfectant. She immediately withdrew her pistol and he made no move to run. The man simply stared down at the open journal of infidelity and impassioned killing. She read him his rights and called it down to the station and cuffed him abruptly. She hoped to hurt him just a smidge for what he had done to his clients—especially her brother.

She sat him on the leather lounge chair and stared him down; the winter moon sneaking its star white face across the city sky, florid and thin through his window. She had words for him, but none that could be said without the presence of another witness. One thing was for certain: she was curious as ever as to why he looked so handsome and had the eyes of a patron saint. And she could not wait to converse with him...

To Boil

by Lucas Pederson

Jason Raker smiled when he pulled the severed forearm from the pot of boiling water with a pair of old barbeque tongs. The smell in the kitchen, as foul and as rancid as it was, didn’t much bother him. He was hungry and such things didn‘t matter when he was hungry. The smell was like candy to him.

The blistered foot came out next, skin sloughing off, pinched tightly in the tongs.

“Yummy-yum-yum,” Jason grunted.

He set the human foot down on the table next to the forearm; different owners, of course. He liked variety. Both body parts had been boiling all day and finally they were done.

Suddenly Jason doubled over, hands clasped to his stomach and vomited all over himself. Yellowish goop and blood splattered to the floor and on to his jeans. He laughed, despite all this. Then he vomited again. Being seriously sick or in need of a hospital never crossed his lunatic mind.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand and then left the kitchen, still chuckling to himself. Muffled, barely audible, he heard them down there in the basement; his donors.

“Help me! Oh God! Help me! Please!”

Jason’s smile lengthened. He had sound proofed the entire basement in preparation of this. He wasn’t dumb. He had also replaced all the wooden doors in the house with thick, almost vault like, metal ones. He made sure those down stairs were padded. There was nothing worse than bruised meat after all.

Each door was locked with inch thick dead bolts on the top, middle, and bottom of them and each has a combination lock with its own unique combination. And of course Jason knew them all by heart. No. He wasn’t dumb. Even for this brave new world in the year 2270.

So in other words they could scream themselves to death down there and no one would ever hear them. Not unless someone were to listen really, really carefully. And still they might just think the noises were other things. A breeze blowing through the eves, an ionic water heater on the fritz, or maybe a ten legged stray cat trapped down in the basement.

The stench of boiled human wavered in front of his nose and he took in the rancid aroma gladly. His stomach growled. Supper time. But first...

***

She heard him just outside the door. She could hear his breathing, that slurping, gasping noise. How many days has it been now? Three? Four? A week? Maybe more? Cindy didn’t know. Time had no meaning here anyway. But it felt like an eternity.

Why is he just standing there, her weary mind screamed. She winced at the power in it.

Brushing away ratty, dirty hair from her eyes she stood up. He had already taken her virginity along with three of the five fingers on her right hand, which he had stitched the stumps back up, nice and neat as if nothing had ever happened. Enough was enough. Since the finger cutting incident he’s been using her as his own personal sex toy; raping her over and over again, each time hurting a little more than the last. He was a sick man and she hated him. Even now she could feel his small wart encrusted penis, ramming and probing. She shuddered at the thought.

The sound of the single deadbolt sliding away made her jump in place. She held the plunger handle tight in her left hand. The door knob turned slowly and Cindy got ready, lifting the plunger handle up over her head. She just prayed she’d be quick enough and strong enough. Otherwise she was a dead girl standing. She would become one of his gruesome meals for sure.

Cindy stood on the right side of the door, her butt pressed firmly against the rusty steel sink. She was skinny enough now so he wouldn’t even see her standing there, not at first glance anyway.

But what if he’s prepared for this sort of thing? Why else would he just leave the plunger in the bathroom, she thought.

But Cindy didn’t let this thought sway her in the least. The door swung open and he stepped into sight. Cindy brought the plunger handle down as fast and as hard as her malnourished arms would allow, breaking the handle, over the back of his neck. He immediately went down like a sack of rotten potatoes, smacking face first into the floor. Blood splattered out of his gaping mouth when he hit. He twitched once and then fell very still. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not and it didn’t matter now anyway. She dropped the remains of the plunger handle and shot out of the bathroom.

The stench hit her like a brick boxing glove, making her stop cold in her tracks. Of course it wasn’t an unfamiliar smell; she had been there for some time and it was a common aroma. But it still got to her and made her sick every time. Her stomach did a lurch and she fell to her knees and vomited up what little lunch she had; a slice of white bread and a glass of rusty water. The guy liked his woman lean, like his meat.

After what felt like hours of dry heaving, Cindy finally began to feel a little better. She got to her feet, her legs trembling and her eyes searching. She had to find a way out of here. She took a step and then heard them, the others. Those still down in the basement, screaming for help. She stood still for a moment, deciding on what should be done. Then she half trotted, half stumbled to the basement door. And without any further thought she slid open the dead bolts, all three of them.

If it wasn’t for the round, black and white combination lock, she would be unlocking the others already. But all she could do was stare at it and cry. She didn’t know the combination.

Cindy slammed her fists against the steel door, bellowing sobs at its shiny surface. They had to get out too. There are mothers down there, wives, daughters, and even a son or husband or father. And when that prick had come down to bring her upstairs for his sick pleasures, the only man down there had looked close to death already. She had to get them out.

Just leave, said a voice in her head. Leave and let the cops get them out later. But what if there was no later? What if they are so close to dying right now that an hour or two would mean their end? This didn’t seem very likely, but it might be possible. And what if that evil bastard woke up? What if he saw she was gone and killed everyone and fled? Or even worse; killed everyone and came after her?

No. If she left them he would kill them all. That’s if he was still alive, of course. She had to save them now. What was that old saying? Now or never? Sure, that was it.

Cindy stepped away from the steel door and walked into the kitchen. Her eyes darted this way and that. And every now and then she’d peek over her shoulder, just to make sure no one was creeping up behind her. The smell in the kitchen made her gorge rise again and her stomach to churn. The smell was always the worst in here.

Of course it is, whispered a phantom voice from within, This is where he does all the cooking. Her stomach did a triple flip inside of her at the thought. She glanced around but found nothing that would help her open the steel door.

When she came upon the boiled forearm and foot, Cindy didn’t throw up. She was too—

Suddenly she was on the floor, her ass throbbing dully under her. And it took her a good minute to realize what had happened. She had slipped in something, but—

The chunky, slimy liquid feeling on her bare feet finally registered in her frazzled mind. And a wetness soaking through her tattered green summer dress he always made her wear, brought out a disgusted, little, panicky whine. Oh God! Oh Christ! I slipped in his puke! She felt her gorge rise further and swallowed it down with every bit of strength she had. A wave of faintness blew over her then was gone.

On her knees she crawled to the sink and yanked down the hand towel that had been lying on the counter. After cleaning the vomit from her feet and bottom she immediately left the kitchen. She just couldn’t be in there anymore. It was an awful place. She came to the living room and stopped. The room, to put it bluntly, was a pig sty. And not just a pig-sty but a nasty room all together.

Here, human bones in every variety lay in a thigh high mound near the end of an old and badly tattered sprung couch. Rats. At least a dozen of them scurried about the room, most of them gnawing on the remains of various limbs and appendages that were well on their way into decay.

The stink in this room was even worse than that of the kitchen. She has never been in this room before and the stench was so sudden it made her dizzy. Instead of boiled human, this was decaying human. Cindy took a step forward and felt a strange sort of jelly goosh between her toes. And she didn’t have to look down to know what it was. Puke. More of that sick fuck’s puke. She glanced down and to her horror she found she was standing in not puke but a small heap of nearly decayed guts. Now she wished it had been puke instead. She let go a sickened gasp and quickly stepped out of the squishy, rotten pile of intestines. It was hard to tell if they were human or animal. Cindy didn’t give a shit either way. It was gross.

She wiped her feet off on the dirty carpet and backed out of the room of death and decay. A rat, adventurous in its own twisted way, came scurrying towards her. Cindy blew out a shriek of terror, turned, and ran.

***

The last time she looked at the clock that hung over the kitchen sink, two hours had passed. Two hours and nothing to show for it but tears. She had to find a way to get those people out. Although it never occurred to her that in the two hours she had spent searching for anything to open the door, she could have already been at the police station, safe, and spilling everything about this stinking hell hole. She had found nothing in her search.

A half an hour ago she had built up enough courage to check on the bastard that laid half in and half out of the bathroom. He still didn’t look like he was breathing, which was a very good sign. Now she stood staring down at him again as he lay face down on the moldy bathroom tiles. Without any thought at all she pushed him the rest of the way into the bathroom. His head struck the toilet with a dull smacking sound. The sound you get when you strike a rock and a log together. It was a horrible sound. Cindy closed the door and pulled the deadbolt home, just in case.

In a frazzled sort of way she wished he was at least somewhat alive to know how it feels to be locked up. Eye for an eye, as they say.

That done, she turned away from the door and glared at the basement door. There was nothing she could do to get them out, that was obvious now. But it still didn’t take away the shitty feeling in her gut and heart.

Now! Go now! He’s locked up. Hurry, shouted that restless inner voice of hers. Yes, he was locked up alright. Hell, he could be dead for all I know. And that was all it took. She bolted, on legs that felt a bit rubbery under her, down the short hallway and to the front door that gave way to freedom. The front door resided in the dining room. A strange place for a front door, but that didn’t matter. This room was clean and dignified looking with its long oak table and immaculate setting. But she came to a sudden, sobbing stop.

The front door, the entrance to her freedom, also had one of those forsaking combo locks on it.

“No!” She screamed. “No! No! No!”

Just then, the phone rang. The phone? The phone! She whirled around, listening and tracking at the same time. She never even thought of looking for a phone. How many times had she passed right by it looking for something to break down or through the door to the basement? A dozen? Maybe more?

She followed the beeping ring of the phone, wiping her watering eyes as she went, through the kitchen and then into the living room; that nasty room of decay. And there it was; a fairly new GE cordless digital phone, lying on the arm of the old and battered and grimy couch, a white speck of clean amongst an ocean of dirt and decay. It was truly beautiful.

She stood, watching it ring. Part of her wanted to answer it and another part didn’t. What if it’s someone he knows? A buddy or something. What if he has a partner? She doubted the latter but it might be possible to assume, right? She reached out for the cordless, and then drew her hand back quickly as if the phone was on fire. Soon it stopped ringing and she felt a gush of relief seize her.

Picking it up was the hardest, but she managed. It felt roughly fifty pounds in her left hand. She stared dumbly at it. Her eyes lowered to her mutilated right hand. The stitches were holding good but the stumps looked a little too red for comfort. Infected, by Christ, it’s infected. He hadn’t used any peroxide or alcohol to sanitize the wounds. Of course it was infected. Cindy shook her head from side to side. No time to worry about that now.

The digital phone looked simple enough to use. She has used her fair share of cordless phones in her lifetime to know. She pushed the oval TALK button and the phone beeped on. She lifted it to her left ear and listened to the constant, never ending hum of an open line. A smile of triumph curled on her dirty face.

“Now...” said a growling, low voice from somewhere behind her.

She spun around, dropping the phone. Her breath caught in her throat like a sharp fish bone. But no one was there. A cold chill ran through her and she shuddered.

Quickly she bent down and picked up the phone, nearly grabbing onto a fat rat in the process, and dialed 911.

“Now...You’ll die...” rasped that same grim voice from behind her. A voice she knew all too well by now. It was his voice. She didn’t have to turn around to know it was coming from the kitchen. But she turned anyway.

“911 Emergency. How may I help you?” a woman’s voice said from the phone.

Cindy couldn’t answer. She stepped forward, eyes wide and focused on the archway leading in to the kitchen. Her heart sped to an alarming pace in her chest.

“Hello? Anyone there? Hello?” the woman’s voice called out from the phone, sounding a bit concerned now.

“Gonna getcha, Cindy. Gonna eat your ovaries. Yum-yum,” the voice from the kitchen hissed.

“No,” Cindy moaned.

“Hello? Hello? Who is this please? You’ve reached 911 Emergen—”

But Cindy no longer heard the woman on the other end of the phone. All her attention narrowed towards the kitchen where his voice spoke from.

But there’s no way he got out without me hearing. No way at all, she thought absently. She waited for a long time, just standing there and staring at the archway. The 911 dispatch woman had hung up a couple minutes ago and now the phone was braying at her in that annoying tone.

Something clanked in the kitchen. A pan, perhaps, being set on a stove. Or, and Cindy feared this most of all, a knife being set out for cutting purposes. Cindy gulped down a whine in her throat and took an unconscious step forward.

“Oh Cindy, you’ve been a bad, bad, little girl...” hissed that maddening voice.

She snapped out of her little trance and by that time she had nearly made it to the archway. She had been walking unconsciously towards that voice. The phone was still making that irritating racket and she pushed the TALK button again. The phone turned off. Backing away from the archway now, she realized she was sweating. Sweating badly by the feel. A rat skittered between her feet without notice. Shaking her head she pushed the TALK button and dialed 911 again. This time it was a man’s voice that answered, strong and very stern sounding to her left ear.

“911 Emergency. Please identify—”

Cindy cut the man off in an explosion of panic.

“You got to help us! Please! We’re trapped in this house. He’s...He’s—”

“Cindy...” that familiar evil voice taunted. “Oh, Cindy. I’m so hungry. So hungry...So—”

“Hello? Miss? You there? Miss?” The man’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded more than frightened now. All that authority seemed to have been vaporized.

Both voices reverberated inside her head, mingling and merging and then bouncing all over.

“No.” She moaned again and hung up the phone without realizing it.

“Oh so tasty you’ll be…Those juicy ovaries...Yum.”

A shadow passed across the archway and the phone fell from her trembling left hand. She shrieked in terror at what she had just seen. Laughter, his laughter, cackled out at her from somewhere in the kitchen. Another clanking noise then everything fell quiet. Cindy sucked in a breath, gritted her teeth, and walked to the archway, her eyes darting. Her fear was at its undeniable peak, but still she kept moving. It was time to face her fate. It was either that or insanity.

She stepped into the kitchen cautiously, preparing herself for a fist in the face or worse, a knife in the neck. Her eyes tried to dart everywhere at once. But there was nothing in the kitchen. Nothing but the boiled body parts and that rank smell.

“What—” she began and a freezing chill blew into her. She whirled in its direction, but again nothing was there. I’m losing it. She thought. I’m losing it.

***

She gave in to her curiosity and opened the bathroom door. A large meat cutting knife she had swiped from the kitchen held shakily in her left hand. But he lay as before. His face smashed against the grimy tiles, his body sprawled and lifeless. She was pretty sure he was dead now. Unless she had managed to knock him completely comatose, which she doubted, but yet had her suspicions. She waited for maybe two more minutes just staring down at him, ready from him to spring up and get her. But he lay limp on the floor and still his back did not rise and fall to indicate breathing. Yes, he had to be dead.

Cindy closed the door and locked it again with the deadbolt, unaware she had done it at all. Dead and harmless now.

Remember that, girlfriend. Dead and harmless, she thought to herself. But the fact remained she really didn’t know if he was dead or not.

Trying to find a way out of this house was like trying to find ones way out of a giant labyrinth. She searched the house again, still finding nothing to help her open the doors. Trapped like a rat. She had heard the phrase used many times before and only now she knew the true meaning, the true feeling, of it. She had forgotten again about the phone.

After an hour or so of pacing the house she found herself sitting down at the kitchen table, her weary eyes transfixed to the boiled human body parts. How do they taste? She wondered. Like pork? It smells a little like pork. Her stomach growled savagely at this thought and she shuddered.

What seemed like hours, but was only about twenty minutes, passed. She heard them down there in the basement. Their voices hoarse and dry from shouting too much. It was amazing some of them could shout at all. They’ll never leave that dungeon. She thought. They were doomed from the beginning. They are already dead. Dead and doomed like she herself would be in a couple days or so if she didn’t eat or drink anything. Her eyes fell to the body parts again without thought. Her stomach growled unnoticed this time.

“Gonna eat you, bitch. Gonna eat you all up...” rasped his voice for the hundredth time since she heard him the first.

Cindy shook her head and lifted her eyes from the human parts on the table.

“Think of it as exotic pork…” whispered some other voice. A new voice she had trouble placing.

Her gorge rose and it took a tremendous effort to swallow it down.

Pork? she thought. Oh, that’s sick. It’s just wrong, and she tried to push the thought away. And again she found herself staring down at the boiled body parts. As her eyes narrowed she noticed the prickles of black, coarse hair sticking out of the forearm. She grimaced at the sight of half cocked and yellowed toenails. These were man parts. Could they be from the man in the basement? She wondered. Did he finally die? Or did he kill him? Cindy thought the latter to be the closest.

A cold wind blew into her and she shivered. A loud clanking noise sounded behind her. She jumped and spun around in the chair. A shadow, dark and hunched, lurched towards her.

“I’m gonna eat ya, Cindy. Oh… I’m so hungry...” growled the shadow.

No matter how much she wanted to get the hell out of there, she couldn’t move. She was frozen by fear. And the shadow came for her, its clawed hands clenching and unclenching. The right corner of Cindy’s mouth twitched and her face fell slack.

“Give me those ovaries, Cindy…” snarled the awful shadow as it advanced on her.

All she could do was close her eyes. A very sudden, frigged wind blew in to her. There was a moment of cold terror that shook her from the inside out and then...it was gone. Just like that it was gone. Her eyes popped open and she began to laugh. Then the simple laughing turned into pure hysterical gales. She pushed away from the table, doubling over and holding her thin stomach. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she barked humorless laughter at the floor. She laughed so hard she began to dry heave again.

The insane laughing ceased as if it had never happened. Now she was all too aware just how hungry she was. Her stomach had shrunk, sure, but that didn’t mean she needed less to eat exactly. It felt as if there were a billion king crabs inside pinching at her guts. She began to giggle again at the thought of crabs. She put a sudden stop to the giggles that would surely turn into that awful barking again.

Could they hear her down there? she wondered. Did they just hear that crazy laughing? Sure, they might have. But so what? What could they do for her? What could she do for them? Nothing, that’s what. And they could think she has gone totally coo-coo all they want. Yeah, coo-coo and then some, huh? What did it matter? Again, nothing was the answer.

Cindy glanced around. There was nothing to eat. She hadn’t even found the bread he had fed her earlier today. She thought that he might have hidden it all away somewhere, but no matter how hard she looked she still came up with nothing. Nothing to eat, but—

Her eyes fell to the body parts on the table. And her gorge rose once again. No. Not that. Anything but that, she thought. But then her stomach growled again.

“Go on Cindy, eat it. Eat my food or I’ll eat you.” His voice so close to her ear she felt the heat of his breath on her lower lobe.

Cindy whirled in the chair. But again, he wasn’t there and she didn’t notice the shadow that moved near the refrigerator. A hulking, grotesque shape that stood watching and waiting.

She stared at the body parts now, utterly fixed upon them. Saliva welled in her mouth and her eyes widened.

***

Four hours later the police finally broke through the thick steel front door and came billowing inside, shotguns and side arms drawn. All of the six that entered stopped in their tracks just a few feet from the front door. Some began waving a hand in front of their faces and grimacing. Others held their nose closed with their free fingers. The smell in the house was one of burnt flesh, hair, and a rank whiff of something they could only really associate with boiled pork...and puke of course. All these smells mingled together in one rancid stench creating a sickening soup. Even their eyes began to water because of it.

“Ha! Gotcha, you lil’ wiggly!” screeched a woman’s dry, crackling voice up ahead, just down the short hallway in front of them.

“Yum-Yum!” the woman cried and then came the smacking and slurping sounds.

“Good shit!”

The police advanced slowly, preparing themselves for what might be waiting for them past the short hallway. They all had been told it was a woman that had called in and they knew it took them longer than they thought to trace the call. For that they were at a loss. They were carefully keeping their eyes peeled for this woman who had called in. But somehow, deep inside of them, they knew the worst.

They kept moving, their guns raised and ready. They all passed slowly by a door on both sides. One steel and the other wood. And from the steel door to their right they heard very faint shouts for help. Those people would get help soon enough. First thing first. They didn’t realize it then, but would later, that they were stepping through a pool of blood that had evidently seeped out from under the wooden door with the single deadbolt. Their focus, the small archway to the kitchen, looked too close but still they kept moving.

Loud and raspy coughing blew out at them from the kitchen, then came several braying belches. Then the sound of thick liquid slapping to the floor.

“Fire it up!” the woman in the kitchen screamed so suddenly some of the men jumped.

The awful aroma grew worse with every step forward. It was like stepping into a strange dimension or another world. Each man’s heart quickened as they came forward. This was it.

When the first three snuck to the archway they were stuck in an almost trance like stare. Mild grimaces furrowing on their faces. One, the youngest of them all, backed away, turned, and ran all the way back down the hallway and puked up his supper. Never in their entire careers had they seen such a disgusting and horrifying sight. Never. And some will leave the force because of it, unable to handle the nightmares and having to work the job at the same time.

The woman in the kitchen paced back and forth from the stove to the table, table to stove. Her hair had been burnt off, her scalp blistered and black in most places. Her head was still smoldering. She was completely naked and smeared with blood from head to toe. Her right hand was missing and from the stump more blood spurted. Blood was everywhere. She grinned and gnawed on what looked like a human finger. Perhaps her own.

On the stove, in a large steel pot, human body parts, feet, hands, and various other extremities, boiled and frothed. And on the table was a feast only suitable for Hannibal Lecter. A hand, fingers, what looked like a man’s bicep and toes. And laying near a blistered and boiled finger lay something half eaten. Something they would later discover as a penis.

And still the woman with the smoldering, burnt head continued pacing back and forth, never even noticing the police officers standing and watching with disgust in the kitchen’s small archway.

The woman, who turned out to be Susan Bright—a missing teen who had been gone for over two months, simply fell dead when one of the officers touched her. They got the other people out safely, all were horribly dehydrated. And behind the wooden door with the single deadbolt, a man, cut to pieces. Most of the pieces, and most certainly the penis, were to be the woman’s feast for the night.

Yum-Yum.

Your Tender Loving Touch

By Danny Hill

Police were baffled on responding to a call from a worried neighbor regarding the whereabouts of James Collinwood of Hartington Road, Staffordshire. The worried neighbor, an elderly lady naming herself as Mrs. Wilshaw, had remarked over the telephone that she had neither seen nor heard from Mr. Collinwood for nigh on two weeks. What worried her most, she explained, is that poor Mr. Collinwood had only lost his wife—that poor, poor man—to a dreadful illness just weeks before. The police-operator thanked Mrs. Wilshaw and commended her for her show of concern, before assuring the thoughtful neighbor that the matter would be dealt with promptly.

Later that evening, due to a lack of response from Mr. Collinwood’s property, and also due to the concern for his mental and emotional safety, the police applied a ram to remove his front door from its hinges.

By then, however, it was far too late.

The team of officers, highly trained in these scenarios, searched the house and found Mr. Collinwood in his upstairs bedroom, blatantly dead. One senior officer, experienced in these matters, surmised that Mr. Collinwood had been dead for three or four days. He didn’t need the pathologist’s professional opinion to guess as much. The only light in the dingy bedroom offered itself as a pale drift from the slight gap in the dark, thick curtain fabric.

The deceased was positioned on a double-bed, arms spread out on either side in a gesture of acceptance, dressed in light-blue-and-white striped pajamas. From the deceased’s mouth a thick blue tongue lolled out obscenely; the eyes bulging from their sockets, eternally frozen in grave terror.

Police would later go on to report the nauseating stench of rotten meat, the overall stuffiness of the room, as though air had not been let in for days, and the copious amount of litter strewn across the carpet. It seemed as though Mr. James Collinwood had been living reclusively in the room for weeks prior to his death.

Perhaps the most alarming thing about the scene was the discovery of a severed arm lying next to Mr. Collinwood. From where the severed limb should have met with its shoulder, the humerus bone protruded repulsively, to the other end, the hand’s nails had been manicured carefully. Beneath the nails, however, seemed to be an abundance of dirt. On witnessing the tableau, one younger officer turned distinctly pale and promptly vomited. Detectives would later discover the arm had once belonged to the deceased’s dead wife.

But perhaps the most baffling aspect of all to detectives investigating the case was the subsequent coroner’s report, which delivered a verdict of death to Mr. James Collinwood by strangulation. There had been no evidence of any third-party involvement at the scene: no signs of forced entry, no statements from any residents of Hartington Road that indicated Mr. Collinwood had any other friends visit his house over the course of the few weeks leading up to his death.

Baffled, after weeks and weeks of intense investigation, fruitlessly trying to fit together the pieces of the last weeks of Mr. Collinwood’s life, the police delivered the verdict of suicide by manual strangulation and closed the case. But certain questions remained open, and the mystery would cloud Staffordshire Police’s detectives for years to come.

***

Grief can be highly underestimated. Although the death of a loved one affects all of us, for others the absolute grief can mean the final weight to tip the balance into insanity. Words of comfort and well-meaning platitudes simply do not cut it. Some people will go to strange and extraordinary lengths to regain what has been cruelly taken away.
It had been almost a week since the death of his wife. James Collinwood stared down at the dead body of his wife, positioned elegantly in her coffin. The funeral director had done a remarkable job. Barbara’s peaceful expression in death seemed so appropriate, thought James, such a faithful testament to the woman she was in life. Barbara had eventually lost her brave year-long battle against a particularly virulent brain tumor. During the latter days of her fight, Barbara had seemed almost unrecognizable from his wife of twenty-four years. It had pained him just to look at her.

Yes, the undertaker had done a remarkable job preserving her. James reached for her hand, noted its coolness, the alabaster complexion of them; her nails had been manicured and painted immaculately red, just as he‘d specifically required. James lowered his head softly and lifted his wife’s hand to the side of his face, closed his eyes.

Close family members and friends, all dressed in black, lowered their heads in respect. The coffin was placed in the center of James’s cluttered living room. The well-wishers sat around the perimeter of the room on sofas, cramped together on armchairs and perched on hard-backed plastic chairs borrowed from the nearby village hall, balancing delicate teacups and saucers on their knees precariously; the rattle of china and the hum of nearby traffic the only distractions to a tenuous air of tranquility. The pale afternoon sunshine forced itself through the room’s tiny window; dust motes danced frenetically in its glare.

“How I will miss you,” James whispered, still holding his wife’s hand to his face. “What I will miss most of all… is this.” He swept her hand sensitively against his cheek, enjoying her touch, her floral scent. Remembering his audience, he gently lowered her hand back inside the coffin and faced the gathering. James had the appearance of a man that had not slept for days, jowls hanging loosely and wispy black hair, graying at the temples, disheveled and untrained. The whites in his eyes were bloodshot red. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he addressed the assembly, “I would like a few moments to spend alone with my wife.”

Harmonized murmurs of agreement and hasty rattles of china soon followed as his close family respected his wishes, all leaving in single file by the front door. Then James was once again alone with his wife.

Good, he thought. At last. Now it was time to get busy.

Amputating Barbara’s arm had not been as easy as James had expected. The job had to be done cleanly and quickly, as not to arouse suspicion from other friends and family members. Without delay, he attached a tourniquet across his wife’s upper arm, fastening it tightly to stem the already vast bleeding of the embalming fluid.

Now came the tricky part. Using a saw against her right shoulder blade, James set about removing the arm. The noxious tang of decomposition gases beneath her flesh almost made him gag. He fought back the rising bile in his throat with a grubby handkerchief from his pocket. Separating the upper limb’s humerus bone from the scapula and fibrous humeral head proved extremely difficult; he could not allow the resonating sounds of crunching bones and wet, squelching noises of tendons snapping distract him from his work. After all, his guests were only a few feet away.

When the process had been completed, he removed the arm and went into the kitchen, placing it in his freezer’s top shelf, using the space he had cleared earlier. From the fridge he grabbed a thick, foot-long German sausage he had acquired from the butcher’s earlier that morning, and set about replacing his wife’s arm with the meat. After carefully disguising the sausage in the white silk of the coffin’s interior decor, he relaxed. After all that hard work he had developed quite a sweat. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and cleared a few wispy strands away from his forehead. For all the world to see, he was a man that had simply just been racked with tears of grief. They would have no idea.

Quite perversely, under the circumstances, he felt a flutter of pride for a job well done. There was no way anybody could possibly notice any signs of a disturbance in the coffin.
For the first time since his beloved Barbara had passed away, he could actually afford a little smile to himself.

James had always found funerals such insipid, tedious affairs, and found his wife’s was no exception. The clenched fist of emotion in his chest was not of grief, but of hatred for the sanctimonious family members of his wife’s side, crammed into their pews in cheap black suits and frocks, dabbing at crocodile tears with frilly handkerchiefs. Their hypocrisy in the face of the Lord amazed him. Especially Barbara’s sister, Joan, sitting at the far end of his pew, sobbing ridiculously and wearing a preposterously large hat with a tattered veil; the vile woman had not even extended the offer of a Christmas card over the last seven years, let alone a visit. The priest’s monotonous recitals of passages from the Old and New Testament’s only served to reinforce James’ inner-lassitude.

Barbara’s favorite Beach Boys song God Only Knows and the burial did offer James some respite, however. As each second came to pass he knew he would soon, once again, be alone with his wife’s touch upon his face. The added knowledge that his earlier endeavor had gone undetected also served as some comfort.

“The world could show nothing to me…”

He had to admit to himself that his brother’s wife, Catherine, had done a tremendous job in organizing the catering for the wake. Nonetheless, James quickly became tired of his guests, their clichéd sympathies, the social awkwardness and bleeding-heartedness that only a death elicits.

“So what good would living do me? God only knows what I’d do withooout youuuu…”
James, standing at the bar, dreamy with alcohol, remembered the days of his youth. Barbara and he had just started courting. He had acquired his first car—a terrible old banger it had been. Oh, how we’d laughed!—and the pair had agreed to visit the countryside, in a place near Buxton. Quiet, serene. Sleeping silently under the stars. Barbara twining slender fingers through his hair—thick hair it had been back then—and he basking in the warm glow of her fingertips as she smoothly caressed his face. He had fallen in love at that moment. At that precise nanosecond in time. How many people could recall the first time they’d fallen in love?

James squeezed his exhausted eyes closed, then opened them again. The last of the party was beginning to filter outside into the cold night air. Oh darling, he thought, it won’t be long. Not long before I can once again feel the warmth of your touch. Your tender loving touch.

That night, slightly unsteady through drink, James retrieved the limb from the freezer and carried it off to bed. He changed into his pajamas and turned off the bedside lamp. He snuggled sleepily against the flesh of her palm and pulled the covers up to his chin. The arm rested next to him, the hand propped up against his pillow, next to his face. He felt her fingers revivify from their discomposure, furling frigidly around his hair. In his drunken state he wondered if he were imagining it, but prayed excitedly that he wasn’t. He felt the soft stroke of her polished nail against his cheek—cold at first, making him flinch, but soon endurable—and he closed his eyes. He imagined the stars burning above, the distant chirp of crickets and that silly old car.

For the first time in a week, sleep claimed him like rainwater into a drain.
The following two days and nights provided James with consummate happiness. He felt as though they were on their second honeymoon. He would lie in bed until lunchtime ignoring phone calls and his daily work at a local factory, and do absolutely nothing but bask under the soft caress of his wife’s hand. Her arm had thawed since its initial sojourn in the freezer, and now the digits moved with a great deal more dexterity and flexibility, regularly pulling itself across James’s wispy chest hair to tousle his hair affectionately. As James slept, the limb would cradle itself gently around his shoulder, resting there until he woke.

Occasionally the limb would use its nails to lever itself to his face, a soft index finger curling lightly against his cheek. James did not mind the slight pain as its fingers dug into his skin for purchase. Not at all. The occasional winces of discomfort were a small price to pay for his overall contentment. He was in heaven. He felt as though all his prayers had been answered. If James had wanted for anything, it was for that moment, her touch as he slept and as he woke up, irrespective of her (or its) slight carelessness.

Some days later, however, thoughts jostled in James’s mind that the limb was not exactly his wife, but more of an extension of her. In spite of this he quickly pushed them away. It was nit-picking, that’s all it was. He was delighted to have her, or it, back. Really he was. No, really. The limb’s incapacity for speech really did not bore him at all, not in the slightest. Come to think of it, the limb’s incapacity for anything other than its servile indulgence of him did not nuisance James in the least. Even the smell of decay steadily emanating from his wife’s arm day by day did not unsettle him. Small sacrifices had to be made, he reasoned. Besides, he would hate to say or do anything that could hurt its feelings.

If, indeed, it had any.

Pretty soon, only a few days after the amputation, the limb began to grate James’ nerves. The honeymoon period was beginning to dissipate. James’ earlier resolve was diminishing with accelerating pace. But James fought his irritation back. His bouts of insomnia and restlessness as a result of the rising stench from the limb only served the opportunity for it to stroke and caress more frequently and over more sustained periods of time, docilely misinterpreting James’s requirements. The limb was unable to interpret facial expressions, did not sense the grimace and rigidity beneath its touch, nor could it see James’s tightening lips and wrinkled nose of disgust. So the limb continued with its gross indulgence of James, blatantly oblivious to his growing irritation, heedlessly tightening the knot of irritation in James’s chest even further.

One day, the limb demonstrated its ability to stand as it held its arm upright and scurried across the floor on its fingers. James had an idea. As the limb drummed its nails excitedly across the floor, dancing a jig of delight with its new sense of independence, James said, with a mild subtext of irony he was sure the limb would not interpret, “Well done! Bravo! Now why don’t you run along and fetch me a nice cup of tea?”

The limb seemed delighted with its new sense of challenge and hopped on its fingers with steadfast exuberance. James, however, relaxed in the luxury of his bed, fluffing his pillows triumphantly and folding his arms behind his head, wondering just how many more tricks the dumb piece of meat could perform for his benefit.

The answer was... quite a few. If truth were told, James hardly had to do anything for those next few days. The limb did everything for him: washed his dishes, brushed his teeth, cooked his meals, and fetched his morning paper from the front doormat. James, adapting quite easily to his new effortless lifestyle, did not even see the need to change channels with the TV remote. What was the point of doing it himself when the limb, subservient as it was, was more than willing to do it for him?

As more demands were bestowed upon it, the limb carried out its tasks energetically and without compromise. James had noticed the limb’s skin beginning to darken into a grayish color, small chunks of rotting flesh dropped out of its stump, and the smell was definitely getting much worse, so much that James wrinkled his nose in disgust whenever it was within even a few yards proximity. James soon banned the limb from his bedroom altogether.

“From now on,” he ordered it, holding out a finger in a regimented posture, “you shall carry out your chores downstairs. As far away from my sight as possible. You shall sleep in the dog’s basket on the kitchen floor. You shall wake at approximately 7:30 a.m. each morning to prepare my breakfast. And don’t forget to knock before you enter my room!”
The limb, as always, did as it was told with absolutely no perception of James’ mounting unkindness towards it. As the days went by, the limb appeared more and more tired. Its dynamism was soon supplanted by drudgery in its movements, preferring to drag itself around languidly by its sharp nails than to poise itself upright and skip around merrily.
James had forgotten the exact point in time when he had ceased to refer to the hunk of dead meat downstairs as his wife. He tended to think of it as more a cat or a dog. No, perhaps that was more of an insult to those animals. He quite liked cats and dogs. Dogs could be subservient, yes, but not overbearingly so. Even the limb’s servility had begun to bore James. Cats kept themselves to themselves for the majority of time and kept themselves relatively clean. James hadn’t even the stomach to look at the limb nowadays.
One night, as the limb went about its chores in the kitchen downstairs, James could hear its nails clattering industriously against the linoleum kitchen floor. The rising irritation in his gut stretched and snapped. Enough was enough.

James leapt out of bed for the first time that week and crept slowly downstairs. The limb was occupying itself with the vacuum cleaner in the living room. James crept slowly behind it and went into the back garden. He found a spade in his tool shed and a spot in the center of his garden and started to dig. He returned to the living room some minutes later to find the limb finishing its chores, dragging itself across the fireplace with a duster in its hand. James crept up and grabbed the limb by its elbow. The limb, unaware of James’ purpose, flexed its wrist immediately in panic. Its shock turned to pleasure, seeming pleased that James was touching it again. It tentatively flexed its fingers to stroke James’ arm, blatantly misinterpreting its master’s intentions. Even as James abandoned it in the garden—casting it forcefully into a deep hole—even as its fingers slowly submerged into a pool of thick, wet mud as James smothered the limb with dirt from his spade, it stretched its palm outwards, begging for reciprocation.

Sleep that night did not come as easily as James had envisaged. Rainfall had not relented, and the tapping of raindrops against his window pane did nothing for his tattered nerves. In a mad, fleeting moment, he had considered that this agitation may have taken root in his conscience, but he doubted it. The limb got what it deserved. It had become a damn nuisance! It was then he felt a stirring coming from outside his bedroom door. Though the firm knowledge that he was alone in the house crackled through him like lightening, he dared not move an inch. He heard it again. Shuffling. Moving up the stairs.
James pulled the bedcovers tightly across his mouth, his eyes darting left to right, his breaths draining him in short and harsh gasps. Watching with eyes rigid with fear, he saw the bedroom doorknob twist, the door open a fraction. He could not see the floor from the end of his bed. Terrified, James then heard the thump-thump of something heavy crawling across the floor. He felt a weight across his bedcovers at the foot of the bed, felt something grabbing for leverage on the fabric, hauling itself up. James strengthened his grip on the bedcovers, the whites of his eyes broadening still. He wanted to scream but the air had completely drained his throat.

The limb moved with such speed and agility across the bed that if James had the capacity to move, or scream, the opportunity would never have presented itself. Its mud-encased fingers were around his throat in a nanosecond, tightening, blocking his esophagus, restricting his air. Outside, the patter of rain against the window pane served as a soundtrack to the scene, and James wrestled with the limb under the glow of soft moonlight offering itself through the gaps in the thick curtains. James desperately battled to pull the limb from its vice-like grip around his throat, kicking out and tugging with all he had. But the limb did not release any pressure until James’ kicking feet eased softly and rested on their sides. Pretty soon James rested his arms and they flopped to his sides too. The fight was over.

Unfurling its fingers from James’ throat, the limb then positioned itself next to the rigid corpse, elbow angled slightly, its fingers once again lightly caressing a now-prominent stark blue vein of his cheek. One of its fingers trembled slightly, as if it were to sigh. The limb rested then, against its pillow, and it never did move again.

Pumpkin Soup

by Jessy Marie Roberts

Kaylee winced as the tip of the long kitchen knife sliced into the pad of her left thumb, splashing blood on to the diced white onion she was chopping on her wooden cutting board. She dropped the blade onto the counter and stuck her thumb into her mouth. She gagged as metallic blood mixed with the sharp, onion tang, assaulting her taste buds.

“Shoot,” she muttered, watching as the root vegetable soaked up the crimson droplets of blood, staining itself a light shade of red. It was the only onion she had purchased and she did not have time to run to the grocery store to replace it. Her company would be arriving in less than an hour for her annual Halloween dinner party.

The ghoulish goulash was baking in the oven, the Van Helsing Bread, with extra garlic and chives, was buttered and ready to be warmed, and a nice blood red burgundy wine was chilling in an ice bucket on the well-dressed, festive table. All that was left to finish was her pumpkin soup, the traditional opening course to her Halloween meal.

She glanced at the clock above her stove again. Fifty-three minutes until her five costumed friends would be knocking on the door, hungry and ready to be fed. She hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a small box of bandages to dress her shallow cut.

Back in the kitchen, she fished a sauté pan out of a cupboard and set in on the stove at medium heat. She measured out two tablespoons of imported Italian extra virgin olive oil and one tablespoon of butter and tossed them into the pan. When the butter melted, she scraped the blood-tinted onion into the fat. The diced vegetable sizzled, the red seeping into the oil.

Nobody will ever know, she thought, as she stirred the onion mixture with a flat-tipped wooden spoon. She turned her attention to the half a pound of russet potatoes she had peeled earlier and soaked in cold water. She made quick work of dicing them, and then tossed them in with the onions to brown in the oil.

She pulled out a standing cheese grater and placed it over a bowl, picked up one large chunk of pumpkin and rubbed it against the sharp, stainless steel teeth of the grater. She moved her hand up and down faster, hurried.

Her hand slipped and her knuckled collided with the metal grater. Layers of skin sliced off of her fingers until the tip of her bone was exposed at the joint of her middle finger.

Blood flowed freely down her hand and dripped all over the cutting board and the counter, dressing the grated pumpkin resting in the bowl. It reminded her of raspberry vinaigrette. She grabbed an orange dish towel and wrapped it around her hand, the blood soaking through almost immediately.

Another glance at the clock told her she had forty minutes before dinner was scheduled to be served. She was usually good in the kitchen, at ease working with the dangerous equipment.

Determined to serve dinner on time, she tied the orange towel around her hand and began grating the pumpkin again. When she was finished, she threw the grated orange fruit into the sauté pan, stirring to coat it with oil and butter.

She saw thin, translucent slivers of skin shrivel as they fried in the oil, eventually disappearing into the pungent mixture.

Nobody will ever know, she reminded herself.

She put a large stock pot on the stove and fetched a quart of whole milk and a pint of heavy cream from the refrigerator. She popped the lid off a large can of chicken broth and dumped it into the stock pot, then added the sautéed mixture to the broth and stirred well.

She dipped a spoon into the liquid and tasted it, added a couple of pinches of sea salt and some fresh ground black pepper to the broth, then tasted it again.

It was missing something.

As she lowered her spoon into the soup a third time a trickle of blood that had escaped saturation by the bloody towel shimmied down her finger and splashed into the soup. The red droplet disappeared into the simmering liquid.

She was surprised to note the soup tasted better.

She turned the heat down to low and stirred in two and a half cups of milk and half a cup of cream. She needed to whisk the soup constantly as it came up to temperature. It could not boil or it would separate into an oily disaster.

She felt something wet trail out of her nose and over her upper lip. Her tongue flicked out, lapping up the offending moisture.

Blood.

The air was too dry for October, and the lack of moisture gave Kaylee daily nosebleeds. She scrunched her nose up in an effort to control the bleeding, but it streamed more heavily out of her left nostril.

She lifted the bloody towel to her nose to quell the flow of blood, but it was coming out too quickly, too fast, the towel already saturated with the sticky red fluid.

Blood rained into the soup, the light golden color of the cream mixture exploding into brilliant hues of red.

Fascinated, Kaylee continued to whisk, watching as the crimson blood drops swirled and played in the creamy pumpkin soup. She threw the towel into the sink and gripped the whisk with her injured hand, the glint of white bone catching her eye as she flexed and twisted her middle finger.

She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the reddish, creamy concoction. Her eyes drifted shut as she tasted the soup. It was rich and succulent, by far the best she had ever cooked. It still needed a little something. More blood, maybe.

Her guests would be eating the soup in less than half an hour. She had to finish up soon.

Grabbing the knife from the cutting board, she ran the tip of it over the soft flesh of her wrist, suddenly slashing down until blood spewed from the cut. She held her wrist over the pot, siphoning all of the blood into the soup and whisking it in, then tasted. Better. Saltier and earthier.

It needed texture, she thought to herself suddenly. She opened up a drawer and pulled out the kitchen shears. She held the tips of her long, brown hair over the pot and snipped, the dried ends falling into soup.

It was not enough. It was not perfect.

Frantically, she picked up the cheese grater and held it over the pot. Leaning over, she put her freckled and flushed cheek against the metal teeth and moved her face up and down against the grate.

She screamed, chunks of her flesh falling into the soup. Blood sprayed the counter, the spatter making twisted and macabre trails down the white wall behind the stove. She pressed her face harder against the grater, grinding against it until she heard bone hit the stainless steel.

She looked into the soup. Grotesque blobs of flesh floated atop the ruddy liquid. She whisked the globs into the soup, then tasted it again.

Almost there. So close. Her guests would beg to know the secret ingredient, what she had added this year that had given the soup such depth and flavor. But she would not tell. They would never find out. It was her Halloween trick-or-treat.

More texture, she decided.

She cracked her front tooth against the edge of the counter, then reached into her mouth. It was loose. Pinching it between her index finger and thumb, she jostled it back and forth, trying to force it out. She could hear squishing noises as the air and the blood seeped out of her swollen gum.

With a hard yank, the tooth was free. She put it in a small zip-lock plastic baggy and set it on the cutting board. Picking up her cast iron skillet, she hammered down on the tooth, smashing it over and over into tiny chunks. She opened up the bag and dumped the small particles in to the soup pot.

Her large Cuisinart blender was sitting on the countertop, plugged in to an electrical outlet. The final step in preparing the soup was to blend it until it was smooth and creamy.

She ladled half of the soup into the blender and turned it on, gently pressing down on the pulse/ice crush button and watching the soup whirl around in the small appliance.

She poured the pureed soup into a mixing bowl and then added the last of the chunky mixture into the blender. The appliance whizzed to life as she pressed the pulse button again. She took the lid off of the blender and put her injured hand into the piping hot liquid, pressing it down as far as she could against the razor sharp blades.

The blender was switched to the low setting, its blades roaring to constant action. Kaylee shrieked in ecstatic agony as the machine pulverized her tender flesh.

She removed her minced hand and turned the machine off. With her uninjured hand, she poured the fleshy puree back into the stock pot, and then added the contents of the mixing bowl. She turned the heat up to high.

Kaylee opened up the crisper drawer in her refrigerator and removed a bunch of fresh parsley. She laid it on the cutting board and hacked at it with her good hand. Fresh parsley was the perfect herbaceous garnish to pumpkin soup. It added freshness and color.

The soup was steaming, coming up to temperature. She dumped the hastily chopped parsley in to the soup and gently folded it in with a large wooden spoon.

Five minutes until dinner.

She leaned closer to the pot, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious. Her head sank further into the pot, her nose almost touching the liquid.

Her tongue gingerly stuck out to taste the soup. It burned, singing her taste buds.

She lowered her nose and mouth into the soup. It was blistering hot, the creamy liquid boiling her skin. Desperate for breath, she sucked in, the scalding liquid scorching her nasal passage and shooting down her esophagus into her lungs.

Her knees gave out. The pumpkin soup was infusing all of her senses, was all she could taste, see, hear, smell, touch. It was all around her, all consuming.

Her last thought before she slumped to the floor in a dead heap was the soup could have used a pinch of nutmeg.

True Love

by Shane McKenzie

She opened her eyes, taking in gulps of air. The sound of applause filled her ears as she gained consciousness.

Where am I? What’s going on?

Amy tried to stand up, but the straps on her arms and legs held her in place. She rocked in the chair but couldn’t move.

A full audience sat to her left, all wearing strange masks. They clapped their hands as she struggled. The white, expressionless masks gave them a ghostly look. As her mind became less groggy, she noticed that she wore no clothing. She could feel the eyes on her bare flesh and wanted to scream. As she thrashed in her chair, the audience grew more excited.

A loud click came from above, followed by a blinding light. Two spotlights hit the stage. Amy squinted as the light shone on another person sitting across from her.

“Andrew?” she said, staring at her fiancé. He sat naked and bound to his chair. He met eyes with his lover, strapped and bare in front of him.

“A-amy?” he said with a look of disgust, “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up here.”

He struggled with his restraints, every muscle in his body bulging as he twisted and thrashed.

The audience grew quiet as they stared at the exposed couple.

The squeak of a rusty wheel became audible above the sound of shuffling feet. A small person walked toward them, his face covered by, what looked like, an executioners mask. He pulled along a wagon, metal instruments piled into it. Stopping in front of the couple, he dropped the wagon handle to the floor. Amy thought he might be a child until he got closer, his proportions giving him away. He stood in front of them, glancing back and forth between the two.

“We shall begin,” said a voice from above, booming through the room. The audience responded with loud applause.

Amy looked at Andrew, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He continued his attempt to escape, the veins in his neck bulging. Warm tears ran down her cheeks as she watched her one true love acting in desperation.

“Baby, it’s gonna be alright.”

“Let us the fuck out of here!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips.

“Amy,” said the voice from above, “Do you love Andrew?”

She looked all around, trying to find the source of the voice. The audience sat still, awaiting her answer. The mini-executioner stood his ground, still as a statue.

“With all of my heart.”

Mumbling came from the audience as they whispered to each other.

“And Andrew,” said the voice, “Do you love Amy?”

“Fuck you!”

The midget knelt to his wagon and revealed a scalpel, the metal shining in the spotlight. He took a step toward Amy, and with no hesitation, pressed the cold metal into her flesh. She screamed as the blade dragged downward, slicing open her shoulder. Blood poured from the wound, crooked red lines running down her arm.

“Stop!” yelled Andrew, “please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her.”

“Andrew, do you love Amy?”

“I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” Tears and mucus ran down his face.

Amy felt a strong love for Andrew as she watched him weep in his chair. Nobody she had ever met could make her feel the way he did. She wanted to kiss him, hold him to her bosom, and tell him how much she loved him.

“Good Andrew, I knew you would come around,” said the voice. “We brought you here to put that very love to the test, to see how much about each other you truly know.”

The audience began clapping again, their anticipation bursting for the game ahead. Amy watched as they whispered to each other. Her shoulder stung and spewed blood.

“Andrew, what is Amy’s middle name?”

Amy knew he wouldn’t cooperate with this game so easily. His stubbornness defined him.

“Let us go right fucking now!” he yelled, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The midget reached into his wagon and waddled toward Amy. He held a pair of pliers to her breast, squeezing the flesh of the dark nipple. She screamed, staring down at her chest, then back at Andrew. The executioner held the tool in place, awaiting Andrew’s cooperation.

“Okay, God damn it,” said Andrew. “It’s Catherine. Her fucking middle name is Catherine.”

“Correct,” said the voice. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

The audience exploded into applause.

The midget dropped the pliers back into the wagon and stood by, awaiting the next question.

Amy’s pulse quickened as she waited for her turn. Andrew never told her his middle name, always felt embarrassed by it. That God damned stubbornness was going to cost him now.

“Amy, what is Andrew’s middle name?”

She sat in silence, staring at him. She cursed him for not trusting her. The executioner grabbed a hammer from his wagon of weapons, looking back toward Amy.

“I-I don’t know.”

Andrew stared at her as if she should have known. His eyes grew wide as the midget marched toward him.

“Leave him alone!”

The executioner raised the hammer above his head. Andrew strained against the straps. The hammer slammed down onto his big toe, splitting the nail and skin. Andrew let out an agonizing scream. Amy choked as she watched, the audience cheering in the background.

Blood oozed from the toe as the midget did the same to the other foot. Andrew responded with more thrashing, screaming in pain. Amy saw the leather of the straps tightening around his arms and legs as he struggled.

“Now you see how our little game works,” said the voice. “A wrong answer leads to unfortunate punishment.”

Amy stared at Andrew, blood pooling around his feet. He breathed in deep gasps, his hair wet and drooping over his face.

“Amy, what is Andrew’s favorite food?”

She felt her spirits rise as she remembered countless meals with her fiancé. She was the open minded one, open to trying new things. He loved what he loved, no exceptions.

“Fettuccini alfredo!”

He looked up at her, his face twisted into a grimace. He shook his head as his breathing grew quicker.

“That is incorrect I’m afraid,” said the voice. “According to our sources, he’s a T-bone steak and potatoes man.”

The midget rummaged through his wagon, pulling out a small ax. The audience responded with more cheering as he walked back toward Andrew.

Again, wasting no time, he raised the ax into the air and slammed it down on to Andrew’s forearm. Blood splattered the executioner’s mask as he wiggled the ax free.

Andrew shrieked between sobs, watching as the midget moved to his other arm. After severing that arm at the elbow, he tightened the straps above the spewing stumps. Andrew gurgled and moaned.

The mini-executioner grabbed the severed limbs and beckoned toward the crowd. They responded with cheers, jumping from their seats to address him. He threw one arm into the audience, then the other like souvenir t-shirts at a football game. Amy watched as they scrambled toward the limbs, wrestling with each other to claim the prize. She felt the blood rush to her face, her heart thumping in her chest.

“You fucking liars!” she yelled, “I know that answer was right, I’m his fucking fiancee for God’s sake!”

“We have our sources my dear,” said the voice, “and I’m afraid you are incorrect.”

Amy thought hard, looking back at their relationship, all the meals they had together. She couldn’t remember him ever ordering a steak, not once.

“Amy,” said Andrew, his voice barely audible above the mumbling audience. “I’m sorry.”

Blood leaked from the stumps of his arms, trickling onto the floor.

“Don’t be sorry baby, we’re gonna get outta here.”

“Andrew,” said the voice, “it’s your turn.”

The midget stood by his wagon, waiting for his next chance to wreak havoc.

“What is Amy’s favorite food?”

Andrew looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the speaker. His breathing came in short gasps, mucus stretching from his lip. Amy could see him shaking, his skin turning pale.

“Eg-eggplant parmesan,” he muttered, “with a c-cesar s-salad.”

“That is correct.”

Fresh tears rolled down Amy’s cheeks as she watched Andrew slump back into his chair. He fought to hold onto consciousness, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with her.

“Amy, how long have you two been in a serious relationship?”

“Three years, five months, and ten days,” she said, remembering every day she spent with her love.

“Correct.”

The audience booed, hungry for more blood. The executioner shuffled his feet, anxious for the next question.

“Andrew,” said the voice, “when was the last time you were intimate with Amy?”

For a second, Amy thought he had passed out, but then he spoke, barely audible.

“Last night,” he said, “we made love last night.”

Amy’s stomach dropped as she stared at her wounded lover.

Last night?

They weren’t even together last night. He told her that he had to work late. She stayed at home and read her novel, sipping coffee as she waited for him.

What was he talking about?

“That is incorrect, I’m afraid.”

“Andrew, what’s going on?”

He glanced up at her, a look of surprise on his face. He seemed to realize that he messed up, that he blurted out an answer without thinking.

Before Amy had time to think this through, she heard metal being pushed around. The midget held his hammer again, but also held two metal spikes. The crowd came alive as he waddled toward Amy.

He held the spike above her knee, the point of the metal dimpling her skin. Amy pleaded with him, begging him to stop. He slammed down the hammer, driving the spike into her leg. She screamed, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Her hands gripped the chair, her fingernails digging into the wood. She struggled, wiggling as the midget walked to her other leg. He repeated the process, the metal penetrating her bone. Amy screamed and bared her teeth at the small man.

“You mother fuckers, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” screamed Andrew, the sheer act of yelling causing him to grimace.

The audience went wild, some standing to cheer, others whistling. The executioner faced them, his hands in the air, taking in his fan’s embrace.

Amy shivered, any small movement brought shockwaves of pain. She looked up at Andrew, feeling anything but love at that moment. At a time like this, how the hell do you get an answer like that wrong?

“What were you thinking?”

He shook his head as he stared back at her.

“Amy, I will ask you the same thing,” said the voice, “when was the last time you two were intimate?”

Amy never took her eyes off of Andrew, the pain in her legs almost too much to bear. She remembered the last time. Remembered how he lifted her into the air and fucked her where he stood. She told her friends how sore she was the next day.

“Thursday, three nights ago.”

“Correct.”

The audience booed again, anxious for their executioner’s next trick.

Andrew screamed, grabbing the attention of the crowd. Their snickering quieted as they all stared at the blubbering man.

“You bastards,” he said, “you fucking bastards.”

The crowd burst into laughter, elbowing each other as they cackled.

Amy’s thoughts were full of questions as she looked down at her wounded thighs. Her stomach threatened to empty itself as she stared at the gushing blood, the heads of the nails shining in the light. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was somewhere else.

The booming voice from above brought her back to reality.

“Amy, has Andrew ever been unfaithful to you?”

Amy thought back to their relationship, how perfect everything seemed. Andrew used to tell her that she was the only thing in the world worth living for, how he would do anything in his power to make sure she was happy. They used to lie around all day, making love and talking. She couldn’t imagine her love, the only person to ever make her feel this way, ever doing anything to deceive her. The look on Andrew’s face as he awaited her answer made her feel differently.

“No,” she said, “he would never do anything like that to me.”

Andrew made a low growling sound, his muscles rippling as he struggled in his seat. Blood pumped from his stumps as he tensed up, doubling him over in his seat to moan in pain.

“That is incorrect,” said the voice, sending the audience into a frenzy.

This couldn’t be happening. Andrew could never do a thing like that. He loved her. He had always said how much he loved her and how he could do nothing to ever hurt her. But now, she saw a different side of him, a look of guilt and shame as he wept in his chair.

“That’s bullshit!” yelled Amy, refusing to believe such nonsense.

“I’m afraid it’s not,” said the voice. “Observe.”

A loud click brought a flickering image onto the blank wall to Amy’s right. The image showed Andrew holding hands with a woman. They sat at a table opposite each other, a big steak on his plate.

“You mother fuckers!” yelled Andrew, causing more uproar from the crowd.

The image changed. Andrew leaned over the table, his lips planted on the woman’s mouth.

Amy stared at the flickering images, her mouth hanging open. She gasped as she saw her fiancé, her one and only, straddling the woman from behind. More photos continued to flash onto the wall, each one worse than the last. Amy felt numb, her thighs no longer an issue.

The midget stood in front of Andrew, holding a large pair of gardening shears. This time he did hesitate, looking over at the crowd, their whooping and yelling getting louder as their anticipation grew. He opened the shears, placed them between Andrew’s legs, and snapped them shut.

Andrew’s eyes burst open, screaming as his member fell to the floor with a thump. Blood rained down from the fresh wound, a crimson waterfall splashing onto the floor.

The mini-executioner grabbed the limp flesh, gesturing to the crowd. The audience pushed and shoved each other, their hands in the air, pleading him to throw them the souvenir.

Amy felt no sorrow for Andrew.

That son of a bitch, how could he do this to me?

After everything they had been through. All the nights spent expressing their love for each other, it was all bullshit. The flesh being tossed into the crowd was supposed to be hers, was supposed to give her children.

Andrew looked up from his blood soaked chair, his face twisted and contorted. He stared at Amy with hazy eyes.

“I l-love you,’ he said, struggling with every syllable. “I-I’m so s-sorry.”

“Go to Hell!”

The voice from above broke the tension.

“Now, we haven’t much time. This next question I will direct at Amy. You need to really think about it, and make sure you mean what you say.”

Andrew wept, going into coughing fits as Amy awaited her question.

“Do you love Andrew?”

The audience grew quiet; every white, blank face staring at Amy. Even the midget had his full attention on her, blood dripping from his gloved hands.

“Think clearly now,” said the voice, “make sure you mean it.”

She looked over at her fiancé. He breathed in rapid gasps, blood spilling from his atrocious wounds. She did love him. No matter what he had done to her, she couldn’t help but love him.

Contemplating their relationship, she thought about all the great times they had together, all the sleepless nights making love. She thought about their destination wedding, how they were supposed to get married on the beach in Mexico. They were supposed to start a family together.

She looked over at the audience, holding their breath as they awaited her answer. She shook her head, causing the crowd to erupt with applause.

“No.”

The hurt in Andrew’s eyes at that moment was worse than any she had seen since the game started.

“Finish it!” yelled the voice from above, sending the audience to their feet. They clapped and cheered, some jumping up and down with excitement.

The executioner pulled out a long saw. He ran his hand down the jagged teeth, getting the crowd more and more excited.

He swung the saw, sticking it into the side of Andrew’s neck. Andrew hardly even flinched, even as the midget began moving the metal back and forth.

Andrew stared at Amy.

His eyelids flickered as the saw cut through his flesh, blood dribbling from his mouth and nose. He kept his eyes locked on his fiancee, refusing to take them away.

Amy felt a nagging feeling of regret, watching her once true love’s head hit the ground. The midget picked it up and walked toward her. He undid the straps of her chair and helped her stand up. Her legs throbbed with pain as she stood, the metal nails digging deeper into her flesh.

The midget handed her Andrew’s head, fresh warm blood pouring from it.

Amy smiled at him, took the head, and tossed it into the crowd.

The Bloodmites

by Jared Donald Blair

William sat, spine erect, within his lavish leather armchair, ensconced by an intangible yet unmistakable fear. His ears remained ever attentive as his gritty fingernails delved deeper into the stiff material on the armrests. For over an hour he simply sat, muscles tensed and buttocks clinched, listening to the walls. Intermittently, his reddened eyes affixed to various spots in the room, never blinking, never wavering. His reading quarters, usually an area of solace and reprieve, now became a mausoleum of aural affliction and mental torment. From his perch in the center of the room, alit only by a single candle on the table before him, he witnessed shadows of perpetual fluctuation dance along the walls and looming bookcases. Yet still he failed to catch even a glimpse of these perceived scurrying marauders. His head shot back as his focus ran to the ceiling, a darkened chasm due to its height and insufficient illumination. The sound mounted to that of one thousand knives scraping and prodding against the walls. He imagined the patter of innumerable, tiny, sharp legs parading throughout the inner-framework of his home. He quivered with every fanciful fabrication; this was all he could take.

“Enough! That’s it!” William leapt from his seat within a fit of exaggerated trembles. “This must stop!” Tossing up his hands, he made for the door. Gripping the cold handle, he threw open the dense wood. Yet as it swung adjacent to the threshold, he let out a coarse yelp and fell to the floorboards.

The gray hominid figure that stood above him cocked its head to the side as spines and barbs began protruding from its shoulders. A gaseous cloud emanated from its form, thickest around its head, forearms, and legs. William lunged back as the creature crossed through the doorway. Methodically, it outstretched a shaky arm toward him, causing its more grotesque features to melt curiously away.

“Ms. Festin?” William propped himself up by his elbows.

“Oh, my.” The elderly housekeeper held a chuckle behind her surprise. “Mr. Peur? Oh, I’m sorry.” Her laughter finally seeped from between her lips. “I did not mean to scare you. I was coming in to inform you, again, that your supper is ready and getting rather cold.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. I am just a little preoccupied at the moment. But yes, food will serve me well.” William took hold of Ms. Festin’s hand.

“Good.” She gingerly helped William to a stable stance. “Will you be eating in the dining room or would you prefer that I set the floor?” The corners of her mouth curled upward as she strode towards the kitchen.

“Yes, yes.” William could not help but crack a smile. “You know, for a measly old woman you’re quite the jokester. You would be right-minded to highlight that in your résumé when you’re looking for a new job.”

“Oh, Mr. Peur.” She spoke with a comical distain. “Always so feisty around mealtime.”

“Well...” He froze, remaining on the outskirts of a witty comeback, as his ears again perked to a peculiar, yet familiar, din of scratching and scoring. The aural attack encircled him while somehow holding a formidable distance. Hoping to garner another pair of ears, he sent a glance to the right, only to realize that his housekeeper had already vanished into the kitchen. Unfortunately, as abruptly as the screeching invaded William’s perception it had receded.

Fearing any resurgence, he cautiously approached the plate of food that was lying at the precipice of a long, mahogany table. He sat, tentative to propagate even the slightest creak of the wooden chair, and gazed into the slab of beef that filled the plate. Almost immediately, he dropped any inclination to bear his ears to the walls and procured the knife and fork.

He developed such a steadfast intent on fishing out the scuttling intruders that he completely neglected nourishment, for this was, he realized, his first meal of the night. His knife paved through the perfectly charred portion of steak from between the middle tines of his fork with ease. Yet as he hoisted the skewered chunk to his wetted lips, he felt the phantom twitch of his ears once again. There he sat, the juicy morsel mere millimeters from his gapped mouth. He could taste the aroma with every inhalation, but could not move his arms. Along with his intensifying respiration, his ocular movements scoured every conceivable region of his direct vision and peripheries without success. He knew that something, or rather somethings, were inside the walls of his hallowed home. But the aggravating fact that he could not look upon corporeal proof threw his mind into twists of agony.

“How dare you…” William muttered under his breath, blowing his words onto the ever-cooling piece of beef just below his nose.

As if his vapor utterance pierced the immediate vicinity, the torturous din subsided, allowing him to finally pop the morsel into his welcoming palate. Each clamping and retraction of his jaw released a welling ecstasy within his body, as if this was his first introduction to sustenance. Content with the fading fibrousness of the hunk, he swallowed. His gut warmed, his muscles relaxed, and moreover, his mind was put to ease. Although this initial bite uncovered his apparent hunger, he sliced through the meat serenely and calculatedly, savoring each bit of tissue—each dripping of runny, diluted blood. Every now and then William would stop mid-bite, shoot equal glances to the left and to the right, listen, but inevitably return to his chewing. After, one by one, consuming the medley of vegetables and forking through the mashed potatoes, he gathered his plate and silverware from the table and made for the kitchen.

As he stepped up to the sink, an overwhelming feeling, that of being pursued, sent his limbs into rigidity. He sensed a devilish shadow arching overhead and found it increasingly difficult to breathe. An invisible smog began to pour from the rafters, searing William’s throat with each rise and fall of his chest.

“I know you’re there.” He spoke in a rasp, tilting his head to the side without tearing his focus from the cluttered countertop. Suddenly, as if a cleansing wind swept through the room, his skin warmed and he continued toward the sink with only an impotent paranoia. Usually Ms. Festin insisted on tending to the dishes, but William found such trivial chores to be soothing, in a sense, therapeutic.

After quieting the faucet, he made his way to the stairwell, scattering his suspicion along the floorboards as he trod. Each wooden step creaked beneath his featherlike footfalls, setting off a symphony of dissonant voices. He had never felt so unwelcome within his own home. But he nevertheless reached the apex and sauntered past Ms. Festin’s room.

“Goodnight, nice work today.” He offered his words and stopped with an ear to the door as he would often do. Though she never graced his ears with a reply, William always waited several seconds before moving on. He accepted her silence with gratitude.

Content, he trailed the long oaken banister to his room. As the door crept toward the wall, a scurrying of tiny bodies seemed to track the depleting darkness. He quickly flipped the light switch and scanned his living chamber. The bed was tidy, each pillow and fold of fabric in place. The dresser was cleanly, each knickknack in the proper orientation. Altogether, the room was virtually untouched.

With no shred of haste, William stepped through the archway and latched his fingers around the door, motivating it to the threshold without altering his focus. He again ran his aching eyes over the landscape of his room, attempting to differentiate the overwhelming silence from the door’s grinding hinges. Finally, the locking mechanism slid into place as William found himself encased in solitude. He was unhappy when he heard them, those tiny uninvited bodies, but also discontent with the overbearing quiet. Unable to swallow his dread, William slinked over to his luxurious bed, his only unerring sanctuary. He draped the heavy blanket over his trembling body and took in its warmth. Setting the edge to his chin, William tucked the cover around his neck and nestled deep into the mattress.

***

He awoke, arms flailing, with a raging primal grunt. William sat atop his elbows as tiding images of scattering bodies and scampering legs waned from his psyche. Sweat dribbled from his forehead and arms. Although morning had finally come, he could not help but feel ensnared within a cloud of gloom. Everything looked dirty to him, everything except for the cone of daylight beaming in from the window. Excluding the specks of grime trickling throughout its radiance, the light was pure, a comfort he regularly took for granted. But this day, thankful of every silken fiber against his skin, William took his eyes over the glorious illumination and through the tall window from which it bore. He traced his vision throughout the untainted light-blue of the sky, tagging along with a graceful formation of blackbirds. Looking to the sidewalk below, he smiled at the sight of three skipping schoolchildren. He sat up and commended their playfulness while envying their innocence; he all at once disregarded his fears.

A sudden slapping sounded from the opposing wall, immediately startling his posture and redirecting his focus. Unfortunately, his attempt to seek out a source of the clamor yielded no result. Passing his eyes from corner to corner, panel to panel, he found nothing out of the ordinary. His belongings, the dresser, the nightstand, all remained as he left them. Combing needle-like fingertips over his stressed scalp, William tightly clamped his eyelids, returning his would-be focus again to the window.

“No...no...what...no...it’s just your mind...” He whispered incessantly, driving his palms into the crown of his head with each word. Forcing his arms aside, William again opened his eyes. He saw the window and beyond with equal clarity as before. Yet, something was new. Housed within the center of the glass was a miniscule, oblong mound of black. William’s brow sank as he leaned over his knees toward the peculiar bulb; he made no movement and neither did it.

Vivid effigies took his mind, he ventured over the memories from last night up to now, saw the way his flesh cringed—the way his hairs lifted—whenever he heard the sound. Distinguishing then from now proved growingly difficult. He wallowed in a subtle panic but did not once rip his gaze from the blackened body. He loathed the manner in which it simply hung there, this untrustworthy organism, as if it harbored no remorse for treading within a man’s home.

“You have no right.” William spoke from between barely breached lips. Quickly, his hand slung to the bedside table and found the nearest object. The moment his fingers closed he thrust the mass from a whip of his elbow and crick of his wrist. The projectile struck the pane with a louder snap than William had anticipated. Instinctively, his shoulders hunched and his eyelids fluttered. Looking upon the glass, he was surprised that it had not shattered. Yet, a web of cracking did begin to trickle down to the sill, from where that thing had sat. William then noticed a smear of crimson and violet at its peak. The thick blotting reached about a foot’s length with splatters climbing to each edge. He surely thought it impossible that this mess came from that tiny, black body.

His eyes then crept to the floor just below the window. There lie a tapered block of red tissue. The thing was accented with vibrant, yellowed vegetation. As much as he abhorred the very thought, he knew this to be a bodily organ of some kind. He hastily removed himself from the bed and stood over the mass, it staring up from a widening pool of its blood. Turning his hand, he looked upon the same red blotched over its palm. He edged alongside the sanguine puddle and hurried from his room.

“Ms. Festin!” He yelped, his voice mangled by his chattering jowl. “Ms. Festin…I need your help!”

“What is it, Mr. Peur?” The housekeeper’s words trailed up the staircase, her voice completely calm compared to William’s.

“There’s a mess...” He cleared his throat. “A mess in my room...on the floor...”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Peur.” Ms. Festin’s voice interjected from downstairs, cutting off the shaken William. “I’ll take care of it.” An odd silence followed. “Just come down and eat, I’ve prepared your breakfast.”

The tinge of gleefulness on her voice gave serenity to William’s limbs. Stretching his shoulders and back, he motivated his feet forward, knowing that food would certainly calm his head. As he marched on, his breathing slowed to a tranquil pace. He slinked down the stairs without a creak or moan underfoot. Attributing this as Ms. Festin’s handiwork, his expression relaxed into a restrained grin.

Upon entering the kitchen, William found each tile to sparkle. The countertop was uncluttered and polished to a reflective shine. Every inch free of dust or filth; Ms. Festin has outdone herself again. William approached the table in an astonished daze and sat before an inviting bowl of cheerios and milk, his favorite. Collecting the spoon from the tabletop, he teetered back in his chair.

“Thank you, Ms. Festin, the kitchen looks great.” He spoke while admiring the glint of his utensil.

“No need to thank me.” Ms. Festin’s voice rolled down the stairs.

“I was just...” William cut his breath short, dumbfounded. He pondered on how exactly his housekeeper found her way upstairs without passing by. Yet, he immediately dropped his puzzlement as the spoon’s sheen again caught his eye. Dipping the steel gingerly into the milk, he released every twist of tension from his shoulders. But as he brought the utensil to his chin, he stopped with eyes wide. Stuck throughout the moistened heap of cereal were three bloodied teeth. Releasing his grip on the spoon, William leered down to the bowl. There, atop the circles of cereal, sat several more vermillion stained teeth.

“Ms. Festin!” William shrieked, stumbling over each syllable. “There’s a problem down here...I need you to...”

“Don’t you worry,” The housekeeper’s voice again rang from upstairs, cutting off the master’s cries. “I will be down in a second.” As with earlier, a strange silence followed. “Just go into the study and read a good book, I will take care of everything.”

Without a reply or a single disparaging word, William shoved back his chair and stood up from the table. Making the effort to keep his attention from the unnerving cereal bowl, he made hastily for his study. As he prodded open the door and passed through its threshold, he felt an imperceptible tranquility wash over his skin.

Lending a tiresome exhale into the air, William fell back into his leather lounger. He noticed a dusty, weathered book balanced across the right armrest and abruptly brought it into focus. The Prospect of the Insect, a novel by Beaufort Giles, he read the gold leaf titling slowly to himself. The binding cooed as William pried open the cover, his unblinking eyes wavering over each word as he made ample headway into the first chapter. Though, while turning over the next page, he felt his vision darken and his head totter. He soon gave in to slumber, cheek to his shoulder and knuckles resting on the upturned page.

***

William’s eyelids slithered open. He straightened his head, massaging the stiff ache from his neck. The clock adorning the adjacent wall stared down with scornful intent. Somehow he allowed himself to sleep from early morning to mid-day. With disappointment glossing his features, William ambled from the study, through the kitchen, and up the newly amended stairway. As he walked, the haze began to fade from his periphery. From his lucid awareness, every surface in the house boasted a renewed spotlessness. Stopping at Ms. Festin’s room, William put his ear to the door.

“Good work today, Ms. Festin, everything looks immaculate.” He offered his words and loitered just outside the room.

“Oh, of course, anything for you, sir.” Ms. Festin’s voice came as if vapor. William shifted his weight, perplexed. His humble housekeeper never answered his routine utterances of appreciation.

“Is everything alright? If you don’t mind me asking.” William eliminated further distance between himself and the door.

“Oh...yes...it is all fine.” The housekeeper’s words came disjointed through a fit of coughing.

William’s heart pummeled his ribcage. He grasped the doorknob and forced the wood to the conjoining wall. Throwing his eyes to the bed before him, William saw his housekeeper’s body, at least what was left of it. The shoulders and head were propped up against the headboard while Ms. Festin’s desecrated limbs lay splayed out over the soiled sheets. William stood petrified of the disfigured woman, the hair ripped from her scalp, the skin stripped from her face. A flow of tiny black bodies weaved throughout the ravaged carcass, through the foamy blood and muscle, dilating the housekeeper’s already pared flesh. A procession of bugs tracked from wrists to sternum as another followed from ankles to pelvis. The scent of putrefying tissue, amalgamated with the sting of flatulence, bore into William’s unprepared nostrils; he cupped his nose. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting.

“No! You little fucking devils!” William spouted until his throat ran raw. “You demons! You intruders! You have no business in my home!” He rotated the hand from his ailing nose as his mouth jostled open for further reviling. Yet, noticing the bugs’ quickening pace, he opted for silence. The tiny oblong bodies organized around the housekeepers exposed larynx and began to oscillate.

“We...had...to do it.” The words came from the housekeeper’s mouth in sharp and surreal jolts. William’s extremities froze as a chill swiped over his sweating skin.

“Why...no...” William spoke, turning his head from the disheartening scene. “You might as well kill me too.” He inhaled deeply through the tensed gap of his mouth.

“We wish to bring no harm upon you.” The mutilated housekeeper’s words barely masked the sloshing of busy legs throughout her carved neck. “We are here to serve you, to tend to your every desire. You are our new master.”

Forcing his inevitable regurgitation down and his tears aside, William again brought his focus to the blood-saturated mattress. The wetted bugs began to climb out from the caverns of torn sinew and filed over the bed sheets to the floor. Awestruck, William stood his ground. As the shadowlike bodies amassed at his feet, he noticed a change welling within his gut, a feeling more near curiosity than terror.

The bugs assembled in uniform rows before him, as if miniscule soldiers awaiting an order. William’s knees bent slightly, his body rocked. Outstretching his right arm, he knelt down, placing the edge of his hand to the floorboards. Capturing the nearest bug in his gaze, he watched on as it undulated onto his knuckle. William stood, never breaking his stare, and shakily filled his lungs. He looked over the black bump, his eyelids never urging to close, as a smile reshaped his lips.

Adaptation

by Lesley Conner

Closing her eyes, Thea leaned back on the cream-colored couch, allowing the cushions to swaddle her. It was so relaxing, lying enveloped by the soft pillows. A cool breeze caressed her bare stomach. Relaxed, she sighed in contentment, thinking she would be perfectly happy never stirring again. A light movement along her body forced her to open her eyes. Looking down at her chest, a pair of emerald eyes stared back at her.

“Mommy,” the infant cooed. A thin smile formed on pink lips, and the baby nuzzled her chest. It hugged Thea's bare breast and latched on, drawing nourishment from her. A warm, tingling sensation spiraled through her, tugging at her nipple.

Thea smiled, proud she was able to feed her child and help it grow strong.

The green eyes stayed locked on her blue ones as it suckled deeply.

***

Awareness pushed through the cloud of sleep. Thea struggled to open her eyes. The dream was too strange, too surreal. She wasn't a mother. With school, work, and hopes of one day owning her own business, she didn't want a baby. She knew she was too selfish for that responsibility. Finally, the allure of sleep won out over the wrongness of the dream. She slipped back into its embrace.

***

The solid heft of the infant weighed heavily on her torso, seeming to pin her to the couch. It continued to stare up at her, and once it seemed sure it had Thea's full attention, it smiled at her again. She could see her nipple stretched into its mouth, its tongue rolled around it. Sharp, shark-like teeth lined the baby's gums.

“Mommy.”

Within the confines of the dream, Thea struggled to sit up. The pillows that had been so inviting, so plush a moment before, now were suffocating. The woman fought against their softness, only managing to sink further into them. A giggle escaped the baby, and then it burrowed its face in her chest, ravenously nursing.

***

Fear forced Thea awake. Her eyes fixed on the textured ceiling as she tried to slow her racing heart beat. The air rushing from between her full lips was loud in the quiet of night. Bringing her hands to her face, she groaned, wondering what the dream meant.

“I guess I'm really not supposed to have kids,” she said. “That was a nightmare.” She let out a little laugh of relief. The bed sheets rustled against the mattress. Thea froze, focusing on the sound, and then tried to sit up. A heavy weight on her chest stopped her. Panic crept up her spine, tightening the muscles on either side of her back. Even though she didn't want to, she looked down across her body. A pair of emerald eyes stared back. A scream ripped from Thea's throat.

“Mommy,” a soft voice said. The creature, lying across Thea's torso, looked like a baby, chubby and almost cherubic, but lacked the pink glow of a newborn. Instead, its skin was grayish blue and opaque. Its pale, milky lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing the razor-like teeth Thea had seen in her dream. She couldn't help but scream again at the sight of her bare breast within its mouth. Blood oozed from several bite marks, bathing the creature's tongue and throat. It swallowed greedily. Pudgy hands grasped her, trying to shove more of her large breast into it. The fingers ended in sharp nails digging into her tender flesh, bringing tears to the woman's eyes. As she lay there, frozen by both fear and shock, the baby giggled. Not only did it understand the terror it was causing, but it seemed to enjoy it.

It was the laugh that broke through Thea's denial. The sound was high and grating. It was something she’d never heard, not from an infant or anything else. Her legs kicked at the covers. Her hips bucked, trying to dislodge the creature. Its eyes narrowed, filling with hate. It used its sharp nails to anchor itself to her body and then it smiled at her.

As she lashed out, Thea thought she saw it wink up at her, and then it bit down. The pain was instantaneous, circling from her breast, then through her body. Blackness swept over her, wanting to force her into unconsciousness. Thea fought harder, not knowing what would happen to her if she allowed herself to blackout.

Her flailing hands came into contact with the baby and she clutched it just as desperately as it was clutching her. Yanking the thing away from herself, she felt her skin ripping and saw the baby swallow. Her nipple was gone. As she flung the creature across the room, she allowed herself to cry out once in pain and grief for her ruined breast. And then she ran, clad only in a pair of thin, black panties and a torn t-shirt.

Thea heard the baby moving from the corner. She didn't look back to see if it was following, but focused on her bedroom door instead. Her feet pounded on the soft, rose colored carpet, eating up the distance of the room. Wrapping her fingers around the doorknob, she yanked open the door and stepped into her hallway. A plaintive wail called from the bedroom. A part of Thea yearned to go back and cuddle the injured infant, but the rest of her balked at the idea, shoving the motherly feelings aside like she’d been doing most of her adult life. If she wanted to survive, she knew right now was not the time to start listening to her biological clock.

Halfway down the hallway, Thea risked a look back, needing to know whether or not she was being followed. The baby was crawling across the bedroom floor, illuminated by moonlight filtering through lacy curtains, one leg dragging behind. It raised its head towards her, its face scrunched in agony and let out another cry. Thea backed away from it, making her way to the front door of the small house.

The baby climbed to its unsteady feet and toddled towards her, hands raised to clutch her. It babbled and cooed, looking just as sweet as the infant in her dream.

Suddenly, its feet flashed against the carpet, covering the distance between the two quickly, as the charade of innocence was dropped. Turning, Thea ran.

She rushed through the house, her bare breasts swinging with each step. Blood splattered from the gaping hole in her right breast, covering her body and soaking the remains of her shirt. The pain was shocking.

Moonlight lit the narrow hallway, allowing Thea to avoid the clutter threatening to trip her. As she entered the kitchen, she let out a little yelp of joy. The front door was only a few feet away, and she knew she was going to escape.

Just as her steps were gaining confidence, Thea slipped, her body falling forward. She reached her arms out, trying to grab a hold of anything that would stop her fall, but they banged against the kitchen counter and then followed her to the floor.

The creature was on her in an instant. Small hands and feet dug into her skin as it crawled over her, its sharp nails sliding through the fabric of her shirt with ease. It bit and licked its way up her body, finally settling on her back. Thea could feel its breath on her neck.

“Why are you running, Mommy?” Its breath ruffled her hair as it leaned towards her. “I'm hungry. Don't you want to feed your baby?” A long, pointed tongue flicked out of its teeth-filled mouth and ran along the inside of her ear. “I'm so hungry, and you taste so good.”

Thea felt it nibbling her earlobe. Her mind replayed the sight of it biting through her breast and swallowing her nipple. Anger surged through her, making her chest feel hot and tingly. She wasn't going to lose another part of herself to this monster. As she found her feet and stood, the creature slipped down her back. Its nails ripped through her shirt and dug into her skin. It screeched in protest, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. Clamoring higher, it settled on her shoulder and grabbed her by the neck.

“I'm hungry, Mommy. Feed me.” Its voice was shrill, sending waves of revulsion through Thea. Without thinking of the long, sharp talons pressed into her throat, she grabbed the creature around its soft, round belly. Squeezing, she pulled it off of her and looked it in the face. Ribbons of her skin clung to its nails. She could feel blood pouring from the wounds it’d raked into her neck, and for the first time, she knew if she didn't get help soon, she would be dead. The chubby cheeks and pouting lips smiled at her, showing its joy for her terror as it popped its fingers into its mouth and sucked her flesh from them. Its nose wrinkled with happiness.

Not wanting to hold the squirming thing any longer, Thea dropped it to the floor and kicked it back down the hallway. She scrambled around the kitchen table and grasped the locked, front door. As she fumbled with the deadbolt, she couldn't help but look back down the hall. She could hear the thing coming towards her again, but couldn't see it.

Finally the door was open, and Thea ran out into the night air. Her skin puckered in its chill. She stumbled down the steps of her small porch and paused, not sure where to go for help. Looking around at the forest and the deserted road, she turned to her left and headed for Mrs. Burns' house.

The old widow was Thea's closest neighbor. Her house sat at the bottom of a long hill and was surrounded by a rock garden inhabited with what seemed like hundreds of lawn ornaments. Thea had asked her about it once, thinking it looked incredibly tacky, and Mrs. Burns had simply said she didn't have to mow a rock garden.

Now, Thea was happy to see the collection of garden gnomes and plastic animals grow bigger as she got closer. Her head was beginning to feel heavy and her steps were faltering. She kept reminding herself why she was bothering her elderly neighbor in the middle of the night. It felt like it had all been a dream. It was only the sight of her naked breasts, and the wounds and blood they bore, that proved to her it hadn't been.

Thea's bare feet were wet from the dew forming on the grass, leaving prints on the cold, stone path as she walked towards the house in the middle of the rock garden. She found it hard to control the shaking that had settled in her arms. Her eyes were growing heavy. The porch was so close, but all she wanted was to lie down and go to sleep.

A clamoring from behind made Thea jump. She heard a giggle in response. Turning, she choked on a cry as she saw the baby crawling across the rock garden. Its long nails clicked on the stones, and it grinned at her. Dipping its head, it licked at a drop of blood.

“I found you, Mommy.” The creature giggled again. “Not that it was hard. You left a yummy trail for me to follow.”

Terror poured through Thea, pushing back the shock that had been taking over her body. She watched as the infant stood and started running towards her. Stumbling on the flat stones of the path, she turned and ran. Her eyes were opened wide, searching for anything to defend herself with. There was nothing amid the smiling lawn ornaments.

Veering from the path, Thea took off across the rock garden, trying to buy herself some time. Jagged points of rock bit into the tender flesh of her bare feet. They were uneven and hard to run across. She had to concentrate to keep from falling.

It wasn't too many steps until her battle to stay upright was lost. She fell against a large, cement donkey. The ass was cold and unmoving, toppling the softer woman to the ground. Thea heard the baby give a whoop of glee as she tried to sit up. As she struggled, she saw the creature crawl over the top of the donkey. It smiled down on her from its perch.

“Caught you, Mommy. This has been fun, but I'm getting tired of our game. And so it must come to an end.”

“You're right. It must.” Thea shot a foot out and knocked the creature from the donkey's back. Then she placed both feet on its side and shoved with all of her strength. At first, the lawn ornament didn't move, and Thea feared that it was somehow anchored to the ground, but then she felt it give a little. Pushing even harder, she finally toppled the cement ornament. It fell to the ground with a thud, pinning the creature beneath it. A loud wail erupted from the baby’s mouth as its short arms pushed at the donkey. Its small face scrunched in anger and pain.

Thea stood up and looked down at the infant-sized monster. It no longer looked terrifying to her. Instead, it seemed small and pathetic. Weariness weighed on the woman's shoulders. She wanted this all to be over. She wanted to slip back into the comforts of a dreamless sleep.

Looking at the ground around her, Thea bent to pick up a large rock with a flat side. She crouched down beside the wiggling creature and lifted the rock high above her head. It came down hard, first with a soft pop, and then a crunch as it passed through the tissue of the monster's face and ground into the rocks beneath it. Thick, black blood splattered across the cement back of the donkey and covered Thea's hands. As she stood, she wiped them on the tatters of her t-shirt, thinking to herself that the thing had popped like an engorged tick. She guessed it really hadn't been much more than that.

Turning, she tried to cover her nakedness as she climbed the rickety steps of her neighbor’s porch and knocked on the door. The sun was rising over the hills. Morning had come to drive away all remaining nightmares.

***

“Bob's been eliminated.”

“Dammit.”

Two curved chairs sat in front of a large display screen. They were small, covered in a plush, white fabric, and sat low to the ground. In them sat two creatures. Their short, chubby legs rested on the ends of their seats, their feet dangling above the floor. On the screen an image of Bob could be seen, what was left of him still pinned beneath the cement lawn ornament. One of the aliens punched something into a console on his right. He turned and looked at his companion.

“Has a clean-up crew been sent?”

“Sarah and Beth are on their way.”

“Good. You know that yard is going to be crawling with humans as soon as the woman calls for help.”

“Her neighbor has already called for an ambulance.”

“Well then, clean-up better work fast.”

“They will.”

The alien working on the console pushed it away. Small, infant-like hands rubbed at his large eyes.

“This is the fifth time this week that our mind control has failed.” His words were muffled by his hands.

“I'm aware of that.”

“At this rate, we aren't going to have enough blood to feed the colony.”

“We'll manage.”

“Maybe this week, but what about next? Bob was one of our best collectors, and that human smashed him.” The alien sighed. “I should have had him come back after his last session. He was nearly full, but he thought he could hold just a little more. He said there wasn't any point in coming home early if he wasn't completely full. Now he's dead, and all the blood he collected has been spilled.”

“Sarah and Beth may be able to save some of it.”

The other alien looked disgusted at the thought.

“Yum. I want to eat blood that has run all over the ground.” His voice was bitter in its sarcasm.

“It would be better than going hungry.” The alien's voice was tight and high-pitched. “Look, it isn't as if this is truly a surprise. The rate of mind control failing has steadily increased since the eighties. Human females aren't as in tune to their maternal instincts as they were in earlier times, especially in the developed nations of Earth. You know, Jack, for our illusion to work the subject has to want to believe it. We can't force the image upon a woman who has no motherly feelings.”

Jack shook his head before answering, cringing slightly at the sound of the human name he was forced to use.

“It used to be so much easier. Thousands of years ago, when we first realized how perfect human blood was for our needs, the species was just starting out. They had to adapt fast to be able to live in the harsh environment of their planet. The species' survival depended on them reproducing and nurturing their young. Now, the population is quickly outgrowing the resources of the planet. They need to stop reproducing so Earth will still be able to support them. Women don't dream of being good mothers, they dream of being doctors, or living in Hollywood. How are we supposed to compete with that?”

“Lucky for us, I've been thinking about this for a while.”

Jack looked up at his companion, his large eyes opening wide. “What does that mean?”

“If you remember, back in the early nineties, I went to the council and suggested human females were evolving away from the motherly figure and moving towards more powerful roles. You all were convinced I was wrong and the trend would swing back towards natural instincts in time. I wasn't as convinced, but I couldn't change your minds. So I've been doing a little work on the side. Tinkering with things, you might say.” The alien slid from his chair and headed towards the back of the room. He pressed his hand against the wall, and a doorway opened. “Come on, I'll show you.”

Jack followed, shocked that his colleague—a being he considered his friend—had been keeping something from him for so long. He followed Todd into the room, flabbergasted by what he saw.

“What is all this?”

The room was long and narrow. Down each wall were tanks filled with a bright, pink liquid. Forms could be seen within them, but Jack was unsure what he was seeing. At the back of the room were five clear cubes. Each one held a bed with a human strapped to it. In one of them, an alien could be seen.

“This is my solution to our problem.”

Jack looked at Todd and waited for him to explain.

“Once I was convinced it wasn't guaranteed humans would go back to depending on reproduction, I began thinking of what instincts would always be a part of their society.”

“Todd, there are no guarantees. It depends on what is needed at that moment in time. That's why we chose to build our mind control around reproduction. A species must reproduce to continue. It seemed like a safe bet and look where it's led us.” Jack peered into one of the tanks, squinting to try and make out what was within.

“True,” Todd answered, “but there is a natural urge that isn't necessarily centered on the need to survive.”

Jack looked unconvinced.

“And what would that be?” He could see the form in the tank was much larger than any of the members of the colony. It looked very much like the humans of Earth, but better. Legs and arms were long, lean, and well-muscled. The chest and back were broad. The face chiseled.

“Sex. Every human fantasizes, whether they'll admit it or not.”

Jack could feel a smile spreading across his face. Yes, why hadn't he thought of it before? He turned towards Todd, his face full of expectation and disbelief.

“You're saying that you've found a way to feed off humans using fantasies to subdue them? How? It took us decades to contort ourselves to our current form. How have you done all of this without the rest of us knowing?”

Todd smiled.

“Plenty knew. I needed volunteers to undergo the drastic changes. I just kept it quiet from the council until I thought you'd understand the need.” He paused. “Unfortunately, it isn't perfect yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've perfected the form, created the ideal human, both male and female, so we can stop concentrating solely on the women of Earth. But the mind control is still weak.” Todd looked aggravated having to admit that his new plan wasn't perfect yet. “Watch, you'll see what I mean.”

Jack turned to peer into the clear cubicle at the end of the room holding two forms. Inside, a female Earthling lay strapped to a padded table. She seemed to be in a deep sleep, her eyes moving rapidly beneath her eyelids. An alien paced the small space, staring at her. His form was majestic, tall and muscular. Jack looked at him with envy, feeling inadequate in the infant body his people had spent years trying to achieve. He knew the alien was attempting to conjure a dream within the woman from the look of deep concentration on his face.

For hundreds of years, the aliens had brought on dreams of nursing to relax human women so they could feed from them. They’d found the image engaged natural instincts that, until recently, made the feeding process much easier. Now things had changed, and Jack wondered if Todd was on to something with this new form.

The woman on the table moaned softly in her sleep. Her hands began moving, caressing her breasts and sliding down her stomach. The muscular alien smiled, looking pleased with himself. He walked to the table and bent over the woman, kissing her lightly in some places and then more passionately in others. He returned the woman's moan, and his penis grew hard.

Jack shifted uncomfortably, looking at Todd. He raised his eyebrows in question.

“It's just to heighten the illusion. It helps keep her in the fantasy.”

Jack didn't say anything, but thought it looked as if the alien was fantasizing a bit himself. Finally, he climbed onto the table, still stroking and kissing the woman. He stopped for a moment and looked at Todd, who nodded. Opening his mouth wide, the alien bit into the woman's shoulder and began feeding. Bright, red blood seeped between his lips and her skin, pooling above her clavicle. For a moment she continued to moan and then her brow knitted in pain. Her eyes flew open and she began screaming. Her body bucked. Her hands struck her attacker, slapping at his back.

“Shit,” Todd said. He turned away from the scene. “Every time. Every single time, we can't hold the illusion long enough to finish the feeding process.” The alien held the woman down, not seeming to be fazed by her panic.

“Go ahead and finish her off, Jeff. We'll drop her body in the woods of southern West Virginia. No one will find her for years.” Jack saw Jeff give the slightest of nods while he continued to drain blood from the woman.

“You're just going to kill her?”

“What? You want to release her back into the population and have her telling everyone she was abducted by aliens? Or better yet, she was attacked by a vampire?” Todd snorted. “It's best if we just do away with her.”

Jack wanted to ask how many humans had already been done away with, but knew he wouldn't like the answer. This is exactly why Todd hadn't come to the council with his experiments. They would've never continued the work if it meant a large loss of life, but now times were getting desperate.

“Okay. You're onto something, Todd. You really are.” Jack looked Todd in the face, making sure the other alien was listening to him. “But keep the fatalities to a minimum. The mind control has to be strengthened, or we will never use this new adaptation full scale.”

“I have no doubt I’ll have it figured out by the end of the year.”

“Good. Until then, I want us to concentrate our feedings among religious groups. The more zealous, the better. A lot of them believe children are a gift from God, so maybe their maternal instincts are still strong enough. They might have enough nurturing left in them to make our dreams better received.”

The screams of the woman followed Jack across the room, only to be cut off by the closing of the door. Looking back up at the image of Bob magnified on the viewing screen, he shook his head. He couldn't help but wonder what his people had become, and whether or not they would be able to survive.

Finally Alone

by David Bernstein

Marla Kelper lounged on her back porch, feet up and smiling. The night had been pleasant, warm, with no humidity and a gentle breeze. She’d received word her sister’s surgery had gone well. Grabbing some gourmet cheese cubes, whole grain crackers, and a bottle of Zinfandel, she poured herself a glass of wine and toasted her sister in silent prayer. Listening to the crickets chirp, Marla remembered it was Tuesday night, garbage night. She raced to the garage, grabbed the two cans and hauled them to the curb. Upon returning to the house she was grabbed from behind.

The arms enveloping her were like steel. She tried screaming, but a large gloved hand covered her soft delicate mouth. Kicking, punching, biting, Marla did everything a person in her situation was suppose to do. She might’ve had a chance, the slightest of possibilities to get away, but once the needle entered her neck, the fight was over.

Marla awoke in a confined space, the temperature sweltering. Darkness, like a black abyss, consumed the air around her. Walls made of wood stood inches from all sides. Where was she? She kicked and hollered before calming herself. Whoever her abductor was most likely didn’t leave her in an area where she’d be heard. She needed to stay relaxed and clear-headed. Save her energy.

The silence was as consuming as the darkness. She’d hoped her eyes adjusting to the dark would help, but it didn’t. Wherever she was it was completely sealed off.

She felt around. Her abductor had dressed her in what felt like a pair of cottony shorts and a t-shirt. At least she wasn’t naked.

It seemed like hours passed, the heat intolerable as her skin was moist with sweat. The air grew thinner and she began to hyperventilate. Panic was building, her body trembling. Was she in a box? A coffin, maybe?

Marla began kicking and screaming, her anxiety besting her. She pounded the sides with her feet and fists until the lid of the box opened and a blinding light seared her eyes.

A man wearing a black ski mask stood over her. He dropped a bottle of water onto her stomach. Marla went to sit up, but the man immediately shoved her back down. His strength seemed inhuman.

“Drink,” the man said.

Fearing the water might be drugged, Marla drank anyway, her mouth parched. She finished the water quickly, too quickly, as a cramp struck her stomach. Looking down at the container she was in, she saw that it was coffin shaped, painted black, and made of plywood. Past the man, she saw concrete cement walls, a wood planked ceiling, and steel support bracers. Yellow construction stands held bright, halogen lights, all directed at her.

The hulking man reached down, grabbed a brown paper shopping bag and dropped it at Marla’s side. He took the empty bottle from her as she held it tight to her chest. “Poison,” the man said before shutting the lid.

Marla heard the word echo through her mind, the hair on her forearms standing. What did that mean, poison? Was the water poisoned? She heard a crinkling noise from the bag. Something was moving inside it. She tried grabbing the bag, but it was just out of her reach. Using her feet, she nudged the bag closer. She reached again, touching the frayed edges. A sharp pain, like a needle poke, stung her hand. “Ouch,” she yelled, surprised, and brought her hand to her mouth. What the hell was that?

Her hand began to burn as if she had touched a hot burner on a stove. The heat started encompassing her hand before spreading up her forearm. That’s what the bastard had meant. The thing in the bag was poisonous. Marla’s heart began hammering, thudding loudly. She felt something brush her thigh, and she flinched. Another needle-like sting punctured her leg.

Again a fiery pain erupted under her skin. She began to cry, her mind producing images of spiders, snakes, and insects. She had to know what was in the coffin with her.

She lay still as a tickling sensation crept across her leg. It felt weighted; its little hairs making her skin itch where it didn’t burn. It took every ounce of her will to stop from swatting the thing and freaking out.

The pain hadn’t subsided as time wore on. As before, she had no idea how much time had passed since seeing the man. The creature kept crawling over and around her, even nestling in her hair.

Finally, the lid opened, the light piercing again, making her wince. The man reached in wearing black gloves and picked up a large hairy brown spider. “Brown Recluse,” he said, massaging the creature’s back. “Very poisonous. Deadly.” He put the spider down, and tossed another bottle of water to Marla. “Drink.”

Marla went to sit up, saw the man lean toward her and lowered herself back down. She finished the water and went to hand it back to the man. He grunted angrily, swatting the bottle away. Marla’s hand took the brunt of the blow. Along with her other pains, her hand felt as if it were broken.

The man picked up two more bags, dropping them in. “No, no, no,” Marla yelled. “What do you want?” The man slammed the lid closed.

Darkness came, silence rushing in, both like an unseen phantom trying to choke Marla to death until she heard the crinkle of the bags. She lay completely still, fighting nerves and trying not to move.

She felt something bump her leg, then her elbow. An icy rope slithered between her bicep and ribcage. Marla flinched, knowing it was a snake. It didn’t matter which kind, she loathed the scaly reptiles. A sharp pain bit her bicep. She reached over in a panic and received another painful bite on her uninjured hand. She cried out, quickly remembering to calm herself. Further movement would only agitate the creature.

Marla lay still, a small shiver here and there. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and down into her hair. The snake continued its slither throughout the coffin as if on some unknown mission. It glided over her, under her, and in her hair.

The spider was back, its hairy texture familiar, and had worked its way onto her shin. A quick shiver had brought a stinging pain. Afterward, the insect simply rested on her, its presence like a poisonous death weight. But why, with all the bites, was Marla still alive? She felt a little nauseous and was sweating, but other than that she was fine. It had to be the water. The sick bastard had laced it with the antidotes she would need. Why was this guy subjecting her to deadly creatures only to keep her alive? Too scare her? Marla, finally accepting her plight, had calmed, but a new need had begun paining her. A need to pee.

Marla ground her teeth, her jaw muscles bulging as she fought against the pressure in her bladder.

What seemed like the worst hours of Marla’s life had finally passed as the lid was opened. The bright light, again, making her want to shield her eyes, but she dared not.

The huge man stood over her. He reached down, picking up the snake. The reptile struck repeatedly at the man’s gloved hands as he laughed. He looked upon the beast with gentle eyes before placing it below the coffin and out of Marla’s site. Next he picked up the spider that was still resting, balled up, on Marla’s shin.

She was finally able to glance at her hand. It was swollen to the size of a small cantaloupe. She felt a knob against the inside of her bicep as well. She was sweaty, the cool air of wherever she was, rejuvenating.

“I need to pee,” she said. The man was petting the spider, ignoring her. “I need to pee,” she repeated.

The man reached down and picked up another bottle of water, tossing it to Marla. “Drink,” he said.

“No,” Marla said, sternly.

The man glared at her, eyes fierce. “Drink,” he said.

“My bladder’s full. No more room. I have to pee,” she pleaded.

“Drink or die,” the man said, putting the spider down and picking up a white wooden box about the size of a shoebox. He held his index finger up to his lips, “Shush,” he whispered.

Marla didn’t like the creepy vibe she was getting from the box or the man’s actions. An icy fear filled her chest and she began to drink, wanting to make certain the antidote for whatever deadly creature lay in wait was in her body. The man smiled, his teeth sparkling white.

Marla finished the water, which had a yellow tint to it this time. The man lowered the white box, resting it at Marla’s feet. He held out his hand, accepting the empty bottle. “Remember, quiet,” he whispered before gently closing the lid.

Marla swallowed, the sensation of a peach pit stuck in her throat. She was grateful the spider and snake weren’t with her, but this new terror frightened her nonetheless. The man’s words about staying quiet and his gentleness with the lid indicated whatever was with her was easily agitated.

Minutes passed, Marla resisting the urge to release her bladder, when she heard a low buzzing sound. The buzzing grew louder as if a hundred tiny high end motors were running, her toes vibrating against the wooden box. Bees. The bastard had placed a bee hive inside with her.

A buzzing sounded in the air. A bee had left the nest. Another followed, the sound multiplied. More and more began taking off, filling the box. Their wings worked frantically, the tiny, but threatening, buzzing noise alarming as they flew around, bouncing off the walls. Soon the coffin was abuzz with the stinging insects. Marla’s skin covered in them. Bees smelled fear, it excited them. Marla’s breathing intensified, speeding up like a charging locomotive.

She tried to relax, remembering the nature shows she’d seen on television. Most bee keepers, even without netting, walked away from hordes of bees without many stings, if any at all. She simply needed to stay calm, unmoving.

The buzzing grew louder as the air continued to fill. Bees flew about, landing everywhere, crawling over her face and in her ears. They nestled in her hair, getting stuck, frustrated, and flapping their powerful wings to break free. Marla twitched as one crawled between her lips. She crushed it quickly, but not before it stung her. She let out a small squeak, keeping her eyes closed, fighting the pain.

Bees lined her body like moving skin, tickling her. The worst were the ones under her shorts and shirt, like a thousand unwanted caressing hands. Her body was naturally tense, but still. Her breathing came in controlled, even breaths through her nose.

Suddenly, a sharp pain struck her belly. Marla bit down, fighting against the need to yell. Warmth gushed on to her legs, dampening her pants, her bladder no longer able to contain itself.

She received another sting on her leg as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

As time passed she’d acquired five more stings: One on her left beast, two on her face, one on her scalp, but the most painful being the one on her spine. She wasn’t sure how the little devil got under her, but it had.

Some time later, exhausted and in unimaginable agony, both mentally and physically, a slot opened on the side of the box. “Hold your breath,” the man’s voice said. Marla wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but she took a long intake of air and held it in.

A cool, damp air, coming from the slot, covered her skin. Slowly the bees stopped tickling her. The buzzing died down. Soon the insects were silent, unmoving.

The lid opened, the cold air sucked out. She opened her eyes, the man standing over her held a hose. The sound of a vacuum filled the air as the man began sucking up the bees. He made sure to get the ones in Marla’s hair. After vacuuming the bees the man shut the lid. Marla lay in the dark, ready to pass out. Her body ached and throbbed with the fierceness of a hundred root canals. She had to do something before it was too late. The maniac was using a deadlier creature each time, increasing the poison and pain until she died. The antidotes were used to prolong her suffering.

The lid opened again, Marla’s eyes not as sensitive to the bright lights. The man held a bottle of water, tossing it to her. She had to do something.

Marla downed the water, another antidote, its taste sour. The man retrieved the empty bottle before bending down and picking up a black box. He placed it at Marla’s feet and removed its top, quickly. A loud hissing sound came from within. The hulking figure stood, laughing, holding his belly.

Son of a bitch, Marla thought. The sick fuck is really enjoying himself. She’d had enough. Dying wasn’t going to be an option today, especially by the hands of this freak.

Looking into the box, she saw a large black snake, the bright lights reflecting off its scales like a warning sign. No longer caring, realizing the antidote was flowing through her veins, Marla reached into the box. She grabbed the snake by the back of its head. The angry reptile hissed and spat, its tail whipping wildly. Marla, seeing the man coming at her, flung the serpent at her tormentor.

The man put his arms out, trying to keep the flailing snake away. It landed on him, wrapping its tail around his forearm. The snake’s mouth opened wide, revealing two glistening poison-filled fangs, and bit the man in the center of his chest. The maniac grabbed at the snake, stumbling backward, trying to pull it free. The creature refused to let go, like some kind of attached alien sucker. The man’s eyes rolled up as he fell over, crashing to the ground and convulsing as the poison went to work.

Marla watched, mouth agape, in terror yet relief at the same time. The man continued convulsing and began foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. After a minute, he stopped moving, except for a few minor spasms. A pool of bubbles leaked from his mouth. The snake slithered away.

Marla stood, legs shaky, body racked with agony. She stepped out of the coffin. Looking around she saw the confines of a basement. Six halogen lights on stands surrounded her along with a video camera. The red recording light was glowing.

Marla bent, pulling the man’s mask off. She didn’t recognize him. A stranger. Just some deranged lunatic.

She found a set of stairs and climbed, the wood creaky. Her head was foggy and she more than once had to steady herself, but she made it to the top. She opened the door and found herself in a kitchen.

The room was eloquently decorated. The windows had flowered drapes, the floor was Italian tile, the table decorated with lace doilies and the sink was of French design. On the refrigerator were pictures of a happy family: a man, his wife, and young boy and girl. All had warm smiles and looked to be enjoying their time together. The man in the photos was the same man lying dead in the basement. Marla felt a chill run up her back.

“Honey,” a female voice sounded from around the corner. “You finish your video yet?”

Marla grabbed a steak knife from the cutlery block. A five-foot-seven, petite blonde came around the corner. She wore a pink skirt, white blouse, and high heels. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “You got out?”

Marla stood, knife out, too confused for words.

“Did you kill my husband?” the woman asked. “Please, tell me he’s dead.” Tears began falling down her cheeks.

“Yes,” Marla finally said. “He’s dead.” She lowered the knife.

The woman broke down, falling to her knees. “I’m finally free.”

Marla came over. The poor woman had been a prisoner. She felt for her, wondering if she’d survived the same ordeal to become the sicko’s prize. Marla hugged the woman. “It’s over now. It’s over.”

Marla patted the woman’s head until she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her stomach began burning. She shoved the woman away and tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She fell to the floor, unconsciousness taking hold.

Hours later she awoke in semi-darkness, a sliver of light coming through the slot in the coffin’s side. “No, no,” she cried and began pounding against the familiar confines.

From the slot, Marla heard the female’s voice. She sounded far away. “Yes, yes, bitch. You killed my hubby.”

“Let me out, let me out,” Marla yelled.

“Don’t worry, baby doll,” the woman said. “You’re all alone in there this time.”

Something heavy thudded the box’s top before breaking apart. The sound kept repeating itself, becoming softer. Pieces of dirt fell in through the slot before jamming it up. Complete, well-known darkness filled Marla’s space. She began laughing hysterically. She finally had the place to herself.

Rise Up Nanking

by A.J. Brown

Kym Pau Lie jerked awake. His eyes fluttered and he listened for a sound he wasn’t sure he had heard. A single heavy thud echoed through the apartment, bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head trying to push away the remnants of sleep.

The knock came again, sounding more like wood on wood than the hand of a visitor. Kym sat up on the couch and glanced at the clock across the living room. It read just past four in the morning.

“Who knock on my door?” he called in broken English.

He stared at the entrance, waited for a reply.

Another thump on the door came, this one much harder.

Kym licked his lips and swallowed; his skin prickled with goose bumps, his heart revved up. He reached over to the edge of the couch and grabbed his cane. He stood, his knees popping and his back begging him to sit back down.

“Who there?” he asked.

The single rap at the door came again. Kym frowned. “Who there? Answer me.” He took several hobbled steps toward the door. He stopped just short of opening it and listened; waited for another knock that didn’t come. After several minutes Kym unlocked the door and the dead bolt. He slid the chain free and opened the door.

With the exception of the small white light near the stairwell just down the hall, all was dark. Kym looked in both directions, his eyes slits, and searched the black corridor. He saw nothing, no one. He shook his head and grunted, then rubbed a wrinkled hand through his thinning white hair.

Kym turned to go back inside. A blinding pain started in his jaw and raced up into his cheekbone as something hard struck him. Kym crumpled to the floor, his jaw on fire and blood spilling from the split bottom lip and the holes where two teeth had been. He spat one of them out onto the floor; the other one slid down his throat. Tears spilled from his eyes.

Looking up, Kym saw a lone figure standing in the shadows, his muddied boots the only thing visible in the dim light of the front room. One of the boots came up and landed solid against his ribs. Kym fell onto his back, his lungs burning and his mouth open, trying to suck in some air. He held his ribs and rolled onto his side, his knees to his chest. Nausea filled his stomach.

A dull crack echoed through the small apartment and Kym’s head erupted in a pain of white and yellow circles that danced in his vision. His world swam away as he faded from consciousness. Just before passing out, Kym heard a command given to someone he couldn’t see. It was in a familiar Chinese dialect.

Take him to the rice fields.

Kym woke face down in a puddle of mud. Rain poured down and the world was cast in gray tones. He lifted his humming head and grit slid off of him. On his knees he realized he was naked. Kym’s face hurt and the sound of old locomotives rushed through his ears with each heavy heartbeat.

A sharp jab in his back sent Kym sprawling back to the ground, his hands out in front of him but not keeping him from landing back in the mud. He spat out the dirty water and grunted as the pain of another poke came between his shoulder blades. He shook his head trying to get rid of the wave of disorientation that swept over him. A third prod came and Kym rolled onto his back and sat up.

A machine gun pointed at him. He followed the barrel up the arms and to the face of his captor. Kym’s bladder released. A dead Chinese soldier stood in front of him, the skin on his face peeling off and the tissue beneath it a sickly gray color.

Angry words spouted from the Chinese man's decaying mouth.

Get up! Get up! Or I'll shoot you! I kill you!

Kym stole a quick glance around as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood in a rice field. Though the rain fell down all around them, the ground looked dry and harvested. Thousands of bodies lay strewn about, most of them barely skin and bones with black hair still growing from long dead skulls.

The bones moved, many of them standing and taking on flesh. Kym watched as the paddy field became alive with men, women, and children. The sounds of weeping and begging swept through the air, followed by the loud cracks of gunshots.

Kym looked for the Chinese soldier but he was gone. He turned in time to see a Japanese man bring the butt of a rifle down on the head of a small boy. It split with a hollow crack and the child crumpled to the ground; one eye popped from the socket. A woman screamed and dropped to the ground to cradle her child. Tears streamed down her dirt stained face as she lifted the boy in her arms.

The Japanese soldier grabbed the woman’s arm and jerked her up. She dropped the child to the ground and struggled to break free. Kym thought the man looked familiar; his features, the tone of his voice. The man yelled at her, warning her that no one would cry for her when she was dead. He threw her to the ground next to her child.

The woman glared up at the soldier, hate in her eyes. The soldier turned his rifle around, pointed it at her. The bayonet appeared sharp, even with rust and bloodstains covering it. He yelled for her to get back to work. When she didn't comply he thrust his rifle forward, the bayonet tearing into her throat despite her attempt to protect herself. He jerked the rifle from side to side and her lifeless body flailed about until he pulled the bayonet free. He drove the blade into her body several times, jabbing it down into her breasts, stomach, face, and crotch.

A young Chinese man looked up from his rice and quickly glanced back down. The soldier smirked and grabbed the man’s arm. He pointed to the woman.

Fuck her! Fuck her now, or I'll kill you!

The man shook his head but the soldier slapped him hard across the face. Blood spilled from the man’s lips and his eyes filled with tears.

You will fuck her! Now!

He shook his head again in protest. The soldier turned his bayonet on him and rammed it into one leg. The man fell to the ground. The soldier lifted him up and shoved him forward. He motioned for other soldiers to pull the woman’s black pants off and to do the same to the man. They pushed him on top of the woman. He screamed and tried to get off of her but several steel bayonets punctured his legs and shoulders and he fell forward again.

The man begged for mercy.

Fuck her! Or I will kill you!

The man shook his head again. An instant later he slumped over, the front of his skull missing.

Kym closed his eyes and tried to push the images away. They flooded his mind, memories of a time long ago that he tried hard to forget. When he opened them again the scene had shifted, the rice field no longer there, the dead child, mother, and man gone as well. He wasn't naked but in full military regalia, like in his youth when he was a member of the Japanese army. He held a gun in his hands. At his feet lay a man in civilian clothes, his body ran through several times with a bayonet. Laughter amid screams rose up and he glanced to either side of him. Other Japanese soldiers, much like him, drove their blades into the living bodies of civilians. They laughed as they taunted the dying.

Kym threw the rifle down and stumbled backward, his hands shaking and his heart hammering. He fell over the leg of a corpse and tried to catch himself. His hands hit the decaying body of one of the dead, pushed through its chest cavity with a wet splut. Kym screamed and rolled off the body.

He was old again and when he stood his knees and ankles popped and his muscles groaned in protest. The landscape had changed again.

He stood at the edge of a firing line, staring at a group of nearly two hundred young men roped together like bales of hay. One man sagged within the restraints, his head a pulpy mass of beaten flesh. The captives stood on the edge of a giant hole. Kym stood in a line with other soldiers as ancient as he was. Their eyes were frantic and they all held machine guns.

At the end of the line stood the Commander, his arm raised above his head.

FIRE! he yelled and lowered his arm.

The soldiers released a barrage of bullets on the civilians. Smoke billowed from the guns, clouding Kym’s vision. He saw several men slump over and others topple backward. The smoke cleared and the civilians that didn’t fall back into the hole lay on the ground near its edge.

“No,” he cried and backed away. Again, he tossed his weapon down. Kym ran for the Yangtze River, his legs groaning, his heart racing, fear swelling in his chest. He stopped just short of the water. Hundreds of bodies floated in the blood clouded river. Many of them piled up along the banks, while others floated with the current downstream.

Kym grabbed his head and fell to his knees. He cried out and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he would be back in his tiny apartment in the not so nicer part of town. Instead, all around him were many soldiers, their pants down to their ankles. Dead women and young girls lay about the grounds. Those who weren’t dead were being raped, slapped, and stabbed by the soldiers. As they finished with each female they killed them and left them with the other bodies.

The same soldier who had killed the people in the paddy field stood, his pants down, a woman on her knees in front of him. He held a knife to her head and yelled for her to keep going. The look of fear was unmistakable in the young woman's eyes. The soldier's eyes rolled back as he let out a loud moan. He grunted and brought the knife across the woman's neck. Blood sprayed from the gash and she dropped to the ground, her body shaking and her eyes filled with shock.

A wave of nausea spilled over Kym and his legs grew weak; sweat beaded on his brow and the wounds on his face, head, and ribs resurfaced in a pounding anger. His head grew light and his knees buckled. As he fell, several arms caught him and lifted him back to his feet.

With his world in a haze, Kym couldn't make out who held him up. Death hung in the air, mixed with blood, smoke, sex, and . . . fear. A vague memory surfaced of a Japanese Commander telling his soldiers of how defiant the Chinese had been; it would not be tolerated; lessons had to be learned.

The scent of gasoline, flames, and burning flesh seared Kym's nostrils. He gagged as he tried to catch his breath in the haze the stench left behind. They pulled him through the streets of Nanking, his feet dragging along the ground, over the bodies of the slain. Amid the chaos, Kym heard the crying and screaming of the wounded; the begging and pleading from those about to die; the gunshots and laughter as executions were committed. He smelled the smoke and the blood and the shit and the dead. He could taste the polluted air, its mixture of scents turning his stomach. Worse still, he saw the deeds carried out; the soldiers cheerfully murdering innocents for the fun of it; the rapes; the baby killings.

They dropped him to his knees and a moment later one of them ran a bayonet through his shoulder. Kym screamed in pain and put one arm out in front of him to keep himself from falling on his face.

The sound of motors made him turn his attention to the Hsiakwan Gate. Its defenders, soldiers and civilians alike, lay in dead heaps in front of it. Tanks entered through the gate crushing the bodies. One Chinese man's body was lifted up in the treads and shredded, falling back to the ground in pieces.

Move!

Kym turned to see the familiar soldier, among many others, herding a group of blindfolded men, their hands bound behind their backs, toward a clearing where blood soaked the ground.

Get down! the soldier yelled. The men dropped to their knees, their heads down. The soldier rolled up his uniform sleeves. A circular scar sat on his forearm, a sign of loyalty to the Japanese military that only a handful of men had gotten. Kym looked down at his own arm, rubbing the scar in the exact same place as the young soldier before him.

“No,” he said in Japanese, a language he hadn't spoken in over sixty years.

The soldier looked up, as if he had heard Kym speak. In his eyes Kym saw what he feared. Looking back to the prisoners the soldier said nothing, drew a sword from its sheath and raised it. He yelled and brought the blade down on the back of the neck of the closest captive. The man's head tumbled off and landed in front of Kym. The soldier—Kym in his younger years—picked the head up by the hair and held it high for all to see. He laughed and tossed it aside.

"No. No. No."

Come! the Chinese man barked and prodded Kym with his gun. Kym looked back at him. The man had been dead for a long while. What little skin remained sagged and was torn by bones poking through. His eyes were nothing more than black orbs; a gaping hole smiled at Kym from where the man's forehead used to be; his uniform was bloodied and tattered. He walked with a prominent limp.

Chinese civilians stood around him holding weapons in dead hands; their bodies decaying and barely more than skin covered bones. Dead children crawled on hands and knees, their faces missing, their bodies torn; their mouths hung open in death screams. Once pregnant women carried dead infants in their arms, their stomachs and vaginas cut open. Some of the babies dangled from still tethered umbilical cords.

They approached an area where many dead people lay, but they were not civilians, their insides torn asunder and their heads bashed in. Instead, the men wore Japanese military uniforms, both Army and Navy. Many of them were as old as Kym was. Their bodies burned but the flames didn't melt them away. Screams and moans echoed from the dying soldiers. They reached for him, thousands of hands stretched out, begging for mercy only to be beaten away by civilians carrying guns, axes, and pitchforks.

One of the civilians grabbed Kym's hand and thrust a shovel into it.

Dig!

Kym shook his head. A bony hand slapped him across the face, tearing skin and tissue. Blood spattered across the civilian and he yelled at Kym.

Dig!

Kym drove the spade into the ground as another memory surfaced of Chinese men doing the very thing he had to do. He tossed the dirt aside and continued. Several civilians surrounded him. Many of them threw stones and poked him with sticks and pitchforks. Still, he dug until he stood in a hip deep hole that was about three feet long. His arms ached, his back felt like it would break if he lifted out another spade of dirt, his legs burned.

Another stone hit him in the ribs and he doubled over. Tears formed blurring his vision. Above him the civilians taunted him, much like he and his comrades had done to them so many years before. He wanted to say he was sorry but knew it would do no good.

Kym reached down, grabbed one of the rocks they had thrown. He scanned the dead men around the hole. Only the one that had brought him there held a gun. Kym slung the rock at the civilian, striking him in the chest. The dead man fell backward, dropping the gun.

Kym tried to push his way out of the hole but his exhausted body didn't want to cooperate. He reached for the gun and turned it on the mob surrounding him. He fired off one shot, taking out one of the men with a pitchfork. The trigger stuck. Before he could look back up, a sharp pain tore into his chest as the blade of an axe ripped down the front of his old uniform. Blood sprayed from the wound and Kym fell into the hole, holding his chest.

Bury him, one of the men said. A clump of dirt landed on his lap, followed by another and another. He looked up to see several of his comrades, shovels in hand, tossing dirt on to him. Their eyes held a familiar resignation in them—one he had seen on so many defeated Chinese men, women, and children during the seize of Nanking.

"No," Kym said and tried to climb from the hole. The crack of a rifle sounded and Kym felt the sting of a bullet enter his chest. He fell back and grimaced as he gasped for breath. A scoop of dirt struck him in the face. He spat out some of it, swallowed the rest.

Kym glanced up toward the gray sky, toward the dead Chinese people. A little boy stood at the edge of the hole, his head bashed in and one eye dangling by his cheek. He held a rifle. He spat at Kym and pulled the trigger. Kym's jaw disappeared, blood and bone spattered along the ground. A hole erupted in his throat and the air from his lungs whistled out of the wound, taking his life with him.

With his world fading, Kym reached up, trying to claw his way from the grave. Though he couldn't tell how far away the voices were, he could hear the chant ringing in his ears,

Rise up Nanking. Rise up and live.

Mother’s Little Helper

by Tom Olbert

2034 A.D.: Near Williams University, Virginia

Karen Peters brushed aside a tear as she contemplated suicide. The night was dark. The crickets droned on. The fountain by which she sat reflected the lamplight in the park. The water spattered on beside her, the tears of the little stone cherub mocking her own. Glancing down at the dimes and pennies at the bottom of the pool—wishes and hopes of earlier days—she whimpered, then laughed, trying to see the humor in the absurdity of her situation. One stupid night of beers at a frat house, celebrating the end of finals. Just blowing off a little steam.

Harmless fun. That’s all it took to change the rest of her young life.
She clenched her fist, her nails digging into the palm of her hand as she curled into a fetal position. How could she have been so stupid? Letting that creep get her alone? She’d barely been able to look her mother in the eye over the vid-phone as she’d forced the words out. Her dad hadn’t been able to speak to her at all. Or wouldn’t. The answer had seemed almost a given. What else could she do? They’d spent so much. She’d worked so hard. Her whole life lay before her. All that gone in one moment? Yeah, that’s fair. The guy goes home and brags. The girl gets to choose. Good job, God.

“Don’t blame God, you stupid, drunken slut,” she screamed at herself.

She drew a deep, strangled breath, raking her fingernails across the denim fabric of her jacket, shivering in the icy wind. She imagined the one she carried. Sleeping innocently in warm, liquid darkness. Do you feel anything yet? Nerve endings fired? Synaptic pathways begun to form? For a moment, she regretted having selected pre-law instead of pre-med. Then, the idea of a soul occurred to her, and she considered theology 101. She broke into hysterical laughter which quickly dissolved into anguish.
She buried her hot, feverish face in her hands and cried. At times of crisis, like a failed test, she’d probably be huddled in her dorm room with Linda, drowning her sorrows in a brandy. But Linda hadn’t spoken to her since her decision to abort the pregnancy. Except to say she’d pray for her. She’d said it without meeting her eyes and with a coldness that had gone through her like a knife.

Everyone had treated her that way since the decision. Except for that nice young man, Will Daubson, the medical technician at the clinic where she’d had the tests. He’d looked at her with those kind eyes of his, an expression of sympathy on his thin face, and told her not to worry. God had a plan for everything, he’d said with a gentle smile.
Stop sniveling and pull yourself together, she admonished herself, pulling herself straight and drying her eyes. Think of someone besides yourself, for once! Think. There was still time to alter her decision. She could still keep the baby. Would mom and dad go along? Help her financially? The state wouldn’t, that was for sure. Maybe Linda’s church group could…she started. Something furry was brushing against her ankle.

She looked down and laughed. A cute little dog. A cuddly little Yorky eagerly wagging its stubby tail. Its comical face with its upswept eyebrows stared up at her, the jaw lowering in a sharp little cough of a bark. The faint whirring of electric gears and the clicking of red lenses behind the canine’s black eyes told her it wasn’t a real dog, but an animatron. She smiled anyway, playfully running her fingers along the pseudo-animal’s back, remembering the more primitive toy dog she’d played with as a child. An image of her own little one someday playing with such toys flashed through her mind. The sight of her infant daughter’s bright little eyes and beaming smile brought a wide smile to her own face.

Yes. She would have this baby. She felt a warm wave of comfort and safety flow over her. She’d never really bought into Linda’s lame ideas about omens and God’s secretive ways, but something about this felt right.

She reached down to gratefully scratch behind the little fellow’s ears. It turned its shaggy muzzle to lick her hand, as its built-in A.I. was obviously programmed to do. The smile slipped off her face, her hand jerking back in pain, as though a wasp had stung it. She stared at the swelling little red prick mark on the heel of her hand. She looked down and caught the flash of a silver needle retracting into the robo-dog’s mouth. A drop of milky venom fell from the needle’s tip to the pavement at her feet. A few more merry little barks. The tail wagging as her head swam through an ocean wave of euphoria, the lampposts swaying wildly as she slumped to the pavement, all feeling draining out of her body. She saw the dark, silhouetted figure with the remote control unit step out of the bushes just before the darkness swallowed her whole.

***

Will Daubson smiled down approvingly at Karen Peters’ sleeping face. She looked so peaceful. And so pretty, even now. Rapid eye movements behind her fluttering eyelids indicated a slightly agitated thought pattern. He glanced at the shimmering CRT image on the console beside her, checking the graph indicator of her brainwaves. The memory loop was stable. She was reliving her entire life…all 20 years of it…on a 30 minute repeating cycle. Time was meaningless, of course. From her point of view, all was as it should be. Nothing interrupted. He couldn’t help smirking the tiniest bit.

He delicately ran an index finger along the line of her forehead where he had ever-so-precisely cut off the top of her head with a laser scalpel, leaving her brain exposed. He carefully checked the electrodes protruding from the convoluted gray mass of her cerebral cortex. Ever the worry wart, he playfully chastised himself. Everything was fine. Right down to the nutrient-rich fluid flowing through the life support tubes keeping her severed head alive. She was a fine addition to the collection. Fourth in a row of young women’s heads, all wired and plugged in and arranged in a neat row on his shelf.
He sighed. It had horrified him at first, the brutal nature of what he’d had to do. Oh, he’d never been cruel, of course. They’d never felt a thing. Still…it seemed so ugly. An iciness began inching its way up his spine, his stomach twisting. He stared in growing fear at his acquisitions, sweat beading on his forehead, his thin chest trembling. He tightly shut his eyes, forcing himself to think of their collective sin. Of the murderous intent they’d all shared. And he looked at them now. So innocent and angelic in their blissful ignorance, saved from sin before they could damn themselves to Hell. Before they could abort their babies.

He relaxed. These women were still alive. More than they deserved, perhaps, considering what they’d tried to do, but God was their judge, not he. A wave of relief flooded through him, all doubt washing away. He took a deep breath and gave thanks to his dear Mother and Father for having had the wisdom to have the M chip implanted into his brain when he was a child. The foolish law had prohibited the operation, but they’d done the right thing and had it done anyway. The morality program written into the chip set the parameters for every decision his brain could form. The motivational imperative his parents had paid the programmers to write into the chip was that he could never harm, or by omission of action, permit to be harmed an innocent human life. A Godsend the M chip was. A shield against the numerous temptations of a corrupt world. Mother’s little helper.
He made his way toward the center of his makeshift lab to check the bio-monitors. ALL SYSTEM FUNCTIONS NORMAL, the grating metallic voice of the central artificial intelligence intoned through the speaker system. Will looked up at the A.I. that was the brain of the entire system. A cold, black camera lens, the cyclopean ‘eye’ of the thing he’d created, stared down at him from the huge, grotesque assembly of wires, fluidic tubes, and wetware modules he’d constructed. It hung from the concrete ceiling, suspended by steel chains. At the center of the semi-spherical shell of synaptic computer relays was the living, disembodied brain of the chimpanzee that had given its life at the University lab to make all this possible. Its cerebral cortex, sufficiently enhanced by the interfaced computer system, was all it took to accommodate the basic functions of running the human body.

Will’s eyes followed the grayish fluids seeping through the many plastic tubes, down from the life-support system, into the four headless, naked human bodies that stood like huge marionettes, suspended by silvery steel wires. Like giant fetuses, they fed through artificial umbilical cords which led from endlessly droning pumps into their ripening, pregnant stomachs. It all formed a single, self-sustaining organic bio-system. As perfectly balanced as the human reproductive cycle, though safe from willful human interference.
As he was admiring his own ingenuity, Will happened to notice the tattoo on the shoulder of his most recent acquisition, Karen Peters. A red valentine heart with the word ‘Forever’ in black letters, a cupid’s arrow piercing the center, and a delicate border of lilies. Vulgar, to be sure, but touching in its way. She must have known real love at least once. But not with her baby’s father, apparently.

Will felt the sting of a tear at the corner of his eye. He rubbed it out and sniffed, shrugging off a twinge of melancholy. Poor, lost lamb. Such a waste. She might have been a wife and mother one day, had she remained faithful to the man she’d loved. But, she threw it all away. All for lust, the Devil’s most potent temptation. As he stared at the tattoo, his eye wandered from her shoulder, down the graceful curve of her perfect alabaster breast, falling at last on the round, pink nipple.

He quickly averted his gaze, deeply ashamed of the stirring in his unmentionable region. How dare he defile Life’s holy vessel with impure thoughts! His guilt screamed in his head as he winced in pain. By God’s perfect design, the female form existed to nurture life, not to tempt the soul of Man, he reminded himself angrily, clenching his fists in self-flagellation.

Letting his anger pass, he unclenched his fists and gently, reverently laid a hand on the burgeoning belly of one of his other three acquisitions. The first one he’d saved, months ago. He’d long since forgotten her name. Names were meaningless. Only the precious, innocent life stirring within mattered. His heart fluttered in ecstasy as he felt the baby kick. His eyes filled with tears of joy at the miracle of God’s infinite love.

***

It was a bright, sunny day as Will strolled merrily across the University campus, a wide smile crossing his face. Professor Darby had been so pleased with the preliminary design specs of Will’s life support system. The kind old man had shook his hand and smiled, lavishing him with praise. In the presence of the University President, no less. Such a brilliant student, he’d said. And so hard working. His job at the clinic, in addition to his course work. He was an inspiration to his fellow students. Will’s heart had swelled with pride. Mother and Father would be so pleased. He sighed, a twinge of guilt cutting into his happiness. He hated deceiving the professor. But, until the Supreme Court came to its senses, he couldn’t reveal the fact that his invention was anything more than theoretical. Someday, it would have a prominent place in the Smithsonian, of that he was sure.
As he passed the quad, a large group of students was gathered about the holographic projection that was the P.A./news display. Karen Peters’ pretty, smiling face shimmered on the boiling air. He involuntarily averted his eyes, a coldness spreading through his stomach as the announcer’s voice declared a fourth female student missing. He tried to feign disinterest, pretending to fumble with his portable computer link as he listened for any news on the ongoing police investigation. There wasn’t any progress in the case. At least, none they were willing to reveal. The crowd began to disperse as the news broadcast switched to international. He cleared his dry throat, feeling many eyes on him as he walked on. The announcer’s voice trailed after him: “The president insisted the war in Venezuela was not about oil, but about defending American values.”
He shook off the momentary doubts and fears as if they were bothersome flies. God would protect him and his holy mission, he reminded himself, the smile returning to his face.

His heart beat faster as he saw her walking towards him. Linda. She looked so beautiful. Yet, troubled. It wasn’t hard to guess why. She and Karen had been roommates. And pretty close friends, from what he could tell. He felt a bit awkward as he walked towards her. “Hello, Linda.”

She glanced up at him, distracted, rubbing her hands nervously together. He could see she’d been crying. Her pretty blue eyes, usually illuminated with flecks of gold, were red and clouded. “Hey, Will,” she said, barely above a whisper, not meeting his gaze. “Sorry. Can’t really talk now.”

Her wispy, golden-brown hair stirred in the breeze, making his heart flutter. She was like an angel. The divinity was made flesh in her. In her goodness as well as her beauty. He loved her. “Can I help?”

She seemed to hesitate a moment. “Have you heard from Karen at all since…you know, since she came to the clinic?” A desperate hope entered her eyes.

His stomach twisted with guilt at the thought he might be the cause of her pain. He forced himself to keep his eyes level with hers. “No. I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
Her face twisted in pain as she put a hand to her forehead. “The last time I saw her…she asked for help, and I was so cold…” She started to cry, and he felt terribly for her. He reached out to take her hand. “I should have been there for her. I hated what she decided to do, but…I shouldn’t have turned away from her like that. If she’s gone…If that was the last time I…” She completely broke down. He put his arms around her and held her close.

“Don’t feel guilty,” he said softly. “She was lost; on the wrong path. And you couldn’t take that path with her. Deep down, I’m sure she knew she was wrong, and that you only wanted what was right for her.” He felt her heart beating against his, and it stirred him. Not in a sinful, animal way. It was right. It was holy. “All we can do now is pray for her. Don’t be afraid. She’s in safe hands, as we all are. God has a plan for everyone.”
She stepped away and wiped away her tears. “You’re so kind, Will,” she said, managing a slight smile. “You never lose faith, do you?” She ran a slender, perfumed hand across his face. He trembled, a cloudy haze passing over his eyes. “Thanks.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and patted his arm as she walked away. “Please let me know if she calls in, okay?”

“Uh…yes, of course I will. Take care.” He felt lighter than air. A wave of joy and wonder swept through him. They were meant to be together. Of that he was certain. Deep down, he’d known it from the moment they’d met. She’d never dismissed him as a freak or a mama’s boy, as all the other students did. They were so wrapped up in their shallow, hedonistic lives that they never saw what was beneath the surface. She was special. A kind, caring soul so close to God. She understood. She loved him. Many young men on campus had expressed an interest in her, but she’d turned them all away. He turned his eyes to the bright blue sky and thanked God with all his love.

For a moment, he felt a tiny bit guilty about the surveillance device he’d planted on Linda’s jacket when he’d held her. But, he had to make certain she didn’t know anything that could possibly lead the police to him.

***

The picture was fuzzy, broken by static as Will struggled to bring the monitor screen in his lab into focus. The cluttered interior of a dorm room came into view. The jacket had been hung on the back of a chair. The vid/audio transmitter robot he’d planted on the collar was as tiny as a spider. It sprouted tiny mechanical legs, crawling over the hills and valleys of the row of silver studs along the collar’s edge. The robot slowly swiveled on its base, its micro-lenses focusing. The picture clarified.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small desk lamp. Linda stepped into the frame of view. She sat crosslegged on a pillow, setting a holo-recording pad on the floor before her. She activated it, and Karen appeared, a shimmering ghost on the dark, smoky air. He felt a little dirty invading Linda’s grief like this. But it had to be done, for the good of his mission. She would understand it all one day, once they were married.
Linda bowed her head before the hologram, as though in prayer, the multi-colored light of the flickering image playing off her white tee shirt. “Hey. Hope you can hear me. I believe you can. I’m so sorry for the way I treated you. That was weak, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t accept the choice you made, Karen. I still can’t. But I still love you. I know you loved me.” She stopped crying, then collected herself and continued with effort. “We made a promise once to stay together, no matter what. I would have taken you back, darling. Even if you’d…” She choked and threw her head back, tears running down her cheeks. “I told myself I couldn’t go on being with you after you’d done it. After you’d aborted your pregnancy. I told myself it was because of my faith. Because I believed abortion was wrong. I still believe it’s wrong, but…that’s not really what hurt the most. I could have forgiven that, I think. For you, I could have forgiven it.”

Will’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t have meant that. How could she?

“What really hurt the most was that…you didn’t want to have the baby with me. We could have raised her together, love. Our little daughter. She could have been ours. We could have been a family.”

Will’s head was reeling. He couldn’t be hearing this right. He couldn’t be!

Linda passed her hand through the hologram as though trying to touch Karen’s face and hair. “We had such plans. You were going to tell your parents about us. We were going to be married at a Quaker church in Vermont. Just you and me forever, my love. Remember?”
She adjusted the holo-pad control and the view zoomed in on the heart tattoo on Karen’s shoulder. ‘Forever.’ Will’s blood ran cold as Linda lifted the sleeve of her tee shirt, revealing the matching tattoo on her shoulder. ‘Forever.’

He screamed in blind rage, picking up the wireless monitor console and hurling it across the lab, smashing it to pieces. He ran wild, smashing everything he could get his hands on. Tools. Furniture. Everything. A working knife lay on the floor near a tool box he’d strewn open. He desperately wanted to kill himself, but the M chip prevented it. Then he wanted to kill Linda. But the chip wouldn’t allow that either. He glared hatefully at Karen’s living head, seemingly mocking him from its place on the shelf. He took a step towards it, wanting so much to rip out the life-support tubes. But, again, the chip stopped him.

He fell to his knees on the concrete floor, weeping, his fists pressing into his eyes. How could she? How? How could she have deceived him? Betrayed him? What kind of devil was in her that could…that was it! She was evil. Pure evil. Everything she was an abomination against God. She had to die.

They both had to die. He looked at Karen’s head again. And this time, he could make his legs move toward it. He could make his hands rip out the tubes and wires. Karen’s eyes snapped open in a moment of shock as he snatched the head from its perch and smashed it to a bloody pulp against the concrete wall. He laughed in mad satisfaction. The M chip wouldn’t allow murder for the sake of jealousy, but ridding the world of a sodomite didn’t count as murder. He looked down at the knife on the floor. And this time, he could make his hand reach out and grasp the handle.
He slipped the knife under his jacket and started towards the door, intent on seeing Linda one last time. Then, something occurred to him. He looked with disgust at Karen’s headless body and remembered something. The genome mapping studies conducted back in 2029 had indicated that the homosexuality gene, though usually recessive, was often inherited. He had to find out.

Accessing the A.I. via the bio-scanner, he quickly programmed a standard genetic scan on Karen’s unborn child. “Scan Fetus #4 for gene #117071.” He waited nervously as the seconds ticked by.

SCAN COMPLETE, the artificial intelligence intoned. GENE #117071 PRESENT AND DOMINANT.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt strangely relieved. Then, he knew why. He didn’t want any trace of Karen to survive. And now, he had the means to destroy her offspring. The M chip’s motivational imperative against taking innocent life had one overriding subroutine: The abominations had to be destroyed. Evil could not be allowed to exist, even in fetal form.

Smiling in wicked, animal delight, he ripped the umbilical feeding tube from Karen’s stomach. Blood and sickly gray fluid gushed from the hole in her belly.

“Die, you…”

Red lights flashed and deafening alarm klaxons sounded. He looked around, startled. SYSTEM FUNCTION INTERRUPTED, the A.I. announced, its built-in security protocol activating. SYSTEM COMPROMISED. The camera lens on the ceiling swiveled in its base and fixed on Will. EXTERNAL THREAT IDENTIFIED. NEUTRALIZE.

All four headless bodies began to move, the A.I. manipulating their limbs cybernetically through the autonomic neural relays. They surrounded him, their cold, clammy hands clutching at his throat with superhuman strength. He struggled, short of breath, as the undead things cut off his air.

He was wrestled to the floor, his arms and legs pinned. He saw one of the zombies pick up a tray of surgical instruments from the work table. His heart raced. He realized he’d never bothered to install a morality program into the A.I. Its only programmed function was to protect the unborn lives it was charged with. That was all it understood.

“Override,” he forced out of a strangled throat. “Priority Daubson!”

OVER-RIDE COMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED. DAUBSON NO LONGER VALID. INITIATE CONTINGENCY PROGRAM 1.

One of the headless drones leaned toward him with a scalpel. The last thing he saw was the heart tattoo on its shoulder. ‘Forever.’

***

Elias Weatherby, the president of Williams University, writhed in exasperation as the policeman fiddled with the magnetic security lock on the door of the abandoned basement. “Detective Brock, I really must protest this unwarranted violation of University property.”

The middle aged black woman standing beside the policeman sighed and rolled her dark eyes. “Nothing unwarranted about it, sir. Not according to Judge Madsen,” she quipped, holding up a computer pad with the warrant scrolling up the screen.

Elias scowled in irritation. “You’re building a case out of nothing and you’re generating ugly rumors about the University! Will Daubson is one of our best students. He can’t possibly be involved.” He sweated, imagining the headlines.

“We know he embezzled money from the University to rent this basement space, sir. And his email accounts indicate connections with pro-life extremist elements. That doesn’t exactly track with his taking a job at a women’s healthcare clinic, now does it?”

He loosened his tie and collar. “Look, that clinic doesn’t perform abortions. They just occasionally make referrals to other healthcare providers who…”
The security lock clicked open. “We’re in, Detective,” the policeman said.

Detective Brock drew her gun, pushed the steel door aside, and led her men into the dank basement. Elias held his nose as he reluctantly followed them in. The place stank of alcohol. He nearly fainted as he saw what was inside. A girl’s shattered head lay strewn on the floor. Three more like it, their brains exposed and wired, stood in a row on a shelf. One of the cops scanned it all with an image recorder.

“Oh, God, no,” Elias muttered, slumping against a wall and mopping his sweaty face with a kerchief. He could almost feel the alumna support slipping away. He noticed an odd sound, a strange, repeating squishing noise. On the far wall, on the other side of some shelves, he saw shadows moving in the dim electric light. Shadows of oddly-shaped bodies and quivering strings, like life-sized marionettes.

Detective Brock stepped from behind the shelves and holstered her gun, looking like she might be sick. “Fifteen years homicide, and I never…” she muttered, shaking her head. She looked up at him and beckoned him forward. “I’ll need you to have a look at this, sir.”

He trembled as he hesitantly followed her past the shelves into the next room. He froze, his jaw dropping, his eyes snapping wide.

Will Daubson’s severed head lie on the floor amid spattered splashes of his blood and his roughly discarded clothes. Three headless, naked women stood nearby. But the scene playing out just beside them, that was what finally stopped Elias’ heart. A headless male body was copulating with a headless female body. The two interlocking cadavers rocked and pumped with a repetitive, machine-like rhythm, wires and cables controlling them like puppets. Then, the motion stopped, and the other three female corpses disconnected the male corpse from the life-support system, as though he were a tool which had served its function and could now be put away.

IMPREGNATION COMPLETE, a metallic voice said. SYSTEM BALANCE RESTORED. NORMAL FUNCTION RESUMED.

Saucy

by Nate Burleigh

My razor slid through the vessels of his throat as I felt him release inside of me. The spurt of blood and his climax simultaneously brought me to orgasm. My toes curled. I screamed with voracious glee as he flopped next to me, grasping his throat with both hands. The look in his eyes sent me into overdrive and I came again. My fingers slid across my tummy, basting the blood spurting on me while I watched him struggle to stop the bleeding. Turning on my side, I placed two bloody fingers over his lips. “Shhhhhh,” I said. He gurgled one last time and stopped breathing.

Did I give a fuck who he was? No. If he had a wife and children, even better, he shouldn’t have picked up a hooker in the first place. But that’s not the worst of it. He sucked in bed.

When I stood, the rest of his man-fluid started sliding down my leg in a slow stream. Blood trickled down my belly and streamed down the other leg as if it wanted to race the other stuff to the floor. I placed my bare foot on his throat and pushed. A shudder of pleasure shot from my genitals to my heart as blood gushed from the wound. All venous now, the carotid stopped pumping when his heart stopped.

Kneeling next to him, I opened his mouth and pulled out his tongue. With a single stroke of my razor, it separated from his body. I quickly slipped it into my mouth and swallowed it whole. The feeling reminded me of how he’d caressed the back of my throat earlier with a different body part. I’d almost bitten it off then, but I like the feeling when they finish inside. No condom. I don’t like them and have never asked a John to use one. Ninety percent of the time, they agree. I’d get to that short stack of buttons a little bit later. Right at that moment, I wanted his heart.

My tools were in my purse. I’d placed it on the table in the kitchenette of the hotel. When we’d moved to the floor, he didn’t even realize there was a tarp under the blankets. He’d been too busy, I made sure of that. I pulled the small hacksaw out. I’d sharpened it the night before.

I gutted him to make room because I liked to start at the xiphoid process and cut up to the sternal notch. The saw flowed through the bone easier than I thought it would. A good sign I’d sharpened it correctly.

After I pulled his ribcage open, exposing the visceral lining over his lungs and heart, I cleared it out of the way. The mound of cardiac muscle, haplessly sunken into his chest and held tight by surrounding vessels, made my mouth water. I almost shoved my face inside and started nibbling right then, but I could wait. It didn’t take long to cut it free.

This piece of shit lying in front of me really reminded me of…him. The bastard that locked me in his basement for three days, raped me, and basically ate me inside out. His name was Eric Vandermort, a prominent physician and fucking pillar of the community. We started dating shortly after I finished college. But my morals got in the way of our relationship because I wanted to remain a virgin until I got married. It’s how my mom did it, and it’s how I wanted to do it. My goal was to wear that damn white wedding dress with pride and give myself to the lucky man on my wedding night. It garnered me the nickname, ‘Tight Teri’, in high school.

He pushed and pushed and finally I said I’d stroke him and get him off that way, but one thing led to another and soon he started forcing me to perform oral. He choked me until my gag reflex gave out completely. I guess that’s why I got so good at it. But in the end, I wouldn’t let him touch me, not even rub on top of the clothes. There’d been this girl in high school that got pregnant when the guy came on her panties during a rubbing session and I wasn’t going to get pregnant, even if it did look like Immaculate Conception.

I tried to break it off.

He offered a truce and said he’d stick with the oral. I said, “Fuck off and die.” He didn’t like that much. One minute I was in my apartment, sleeping soundly and when I woke up, I found myself strapped face down on one of those massage tables. He had my head Duct taped with my face stuffed in the donut hole. The table tilted at about a forty-five-degree angle and I knew all I had on was my night gown and panties. I couldn’t talk because of a small rubber ball he’d taped into my mouth. I could barely breathe through my nose.

I don’t remember how long I lay there, in the pitch black, before the light came on. He didn’t say anything. He slid my panties off and pulled my nighty up over my head. Tears started streaming from my eyes and it got harder to breath from the snot building up in my nose. His finger lightly floated over my genitalia and my body responded. I got a little wet. He started licking between my shoulder blades and slowly worked his way down.

He lapped at me, endlessly it seemed, and then I felt him on me. He rubbed up and down. I whimpered from that and he actually stopped. Then, without any kind of warning, he rammed it into me. I felt him tearing me inside and then he let go. I screamed as much as I could through the ball and tape. It really hurt. To my surprise he cleaned me up, put a pad in my panties, and left, turning the lights out.

The concept of time eluded me like a criminal in a subway. There weren’t any windows in the room and nothing to look at but the bare ass brick wall two feet in front of my face. I awoke when the lights came on. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. He raped me again and it hurt like a mother. He never said a word.

I stopped counting how many visits he made and figured he would just starve me to death. My throat felt like someone had lit a fire inside of it. The burning sensation seared the inside of my nasal cavity and I knew I had a sinus infection. I figured that would kill me. I blew out as much snot and blood as I could and still only had half a nostril that worked. The feeling of impending doom overwhelmed my soul.

One night, morning, whatever it was, a poke in my arm woke me and I felt a cold rush of fluid hit my veins. I actually started feeling a little better. That bastard gave me fluid and antibiotics. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t just let me...die.

I felt raw and crusty. Sometimes he would use lube, but most of the time he didn’t. He got a little inventive once and tried another hole. But I still had some muscle left and he finally gave up. Or so I thought. At some point, I think he knocked me out and then did his business back there, because when I woke up, my crack felt like someone had pried it open with a butcher knife.

The Duct tape covering my mouth finally gave out and I spit the ball to the floor. My throat hurt when I tried to breath. There wasn’t any moisture in my mouth. I licked my lips and they were covered in cold sores. I’d wriggled and squirmed for as long as I could remember and finally the tape holding my wrists gave. I slipped my right wrist out and quickly had myself unstrapped. I tried to stand, but the muscles in my legs were wasted away and my feet were numb. I fell to the floor.

When I gained some feeling back in my extremities, I found a light switch on the wall. I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep myself from screaming when I saw the items on a small table directly behind the massage bench. A plastic bin had soaking surgical instruments in it. Next to that was a one gallon bucket. I forced myself to look and when I saw the pieces of bloody flesh inside, I dry heaved several times. I didn’t know until later that he’d performed a vaginal hysterectomy.

A door slammed from somewhere up above and I quickly made my plan. Inside the basin full of soaking instruments was a surgical knife. I grabbed it and turned the lights out. The familiar bounding of his feet pounded in my brain for the last time as he came down the stairs, no doubt, feeling frisky. I stood next to the light switch. His keys rattled as he opened the door. When he turned the light on, I swung the blade like a fighter delivering an uppercut. The blade penetrated just under his jaw line and when he screamed, I saw that it had gone all the way through his mouth, lodging in the roof, probably somewhere in the nasal cavity. He vomited and reached for the knife, but I pulled it out too quickly. He stumbled backward, holding his throat. That’s when I noticed the plate on the table, with more pieces of flesh on it and a fork and knife. That son of a bitch had been eating my insides.

The bleeding wouldn’t stop, but he didn’t seem to be dying. He bolted for the door and I slashed the knife across his face, severing one of his eyes. He fell to the floor, holding his eye as vitreous fluid and blood oozed through his fingers. He screamed like a ten-year-old school girl. I leapt on top of him and just started stabbing. No telling how many times, I just let loose and when he stopped moving, I stopped stabbing. But he was still alive. His good eye moved from side to side, as if he were still plotting his escape. I made him watch while I castrated him. He gurgled and puked blood. Then, before the lights went out completely, I popped a family jewel into my mouth. Strangely, I didn’t puke when I swallowed; something else he’d trained me to be good at. He died a couple minutes later.

The only people that knew about my traumatic hysterectomy were me and my OB/GYN. But I moved away from that hellhole and found myself living in Seattle. Flashbacks of my ordeal started haunting me, day and night. In an attempt to quail the painful memories, I went to a bar. My objective was to find out if I could receive pleasure from sex. I met a rather eager middle aged man. We went back to his house. He got a little rough with me when I said I didn’t want to have intercourse. That’s when I retrieved my keepsake from my purse and slit his throat. Surprisingly, it made me orgasm. Better yet, it stopped the nightmares and flashbacks.

***

My cell rang just as I took the first bite out of the man’s heart. I looked at the name. It said, MURRAY. Fuck, my boss. “Detective Kili, here,” I said with my mouth full.

“Teri, it’s Laurie.”

“Hey chief, what’s shakin?”

“Are you getting anywhere with the case?”

“I’m still walking the beat, talking to some of the girls, but nobody seems to know anything.” I smirked as I looked at the mutilated corpse on the floor in front of me.

“Shit. You want to team up again on this one?”

I was a little jaded. “For old times’ sake?” We’d been partners for six years before she got the promotion, before all of this started happening.

“Yeah, whadda ya say?”

“No. Thanks. I like working alone. Besides, who would call and bug me…” I paused, looking at the heart lying on the plate in front of me. “…when I’m busy.”

She laughed. Told me to be careful and hung up.

After finishing my meal I threw on a pair of coveralls and rolled the corpse up in the tarp and blankets. I’d chosen a far corner room of the hotel, bottom floor, nowhere near the parking lot and lots of woods out back. Not hard to find that kind of thing on the outskirts of Seattle. I’d stash the body in the woods and dump it in the Puget Sound later. Sounded like a plan to me. Lately, there’d been sightings of some Great White sharks. I may have had something to do with that, since I was basically chumming the Sound.

The clock read two A.M. when I drove out of the parking lot in his car, my hair still sticky wet from the shower. None of the tenants were awake and the nasty guy behind the counter slept soundly with a newspaper over his face. Good thing I prepaid for the room. I was really good at covering my tracks. And it didn’t hurt that I was the lead detective hunting down the most notorious serial killer in Seattle’s history, a cannibal hooker…me.

Crankin’

by John Arthur Miller

Crank tightened the razor wire encircling his forearms until slivers of metal cut into flesh. The metal bunched thicker nearer his hands and clumped around his knuckles turning them into hellish gauntlets.

“You ready, boy?”

Crank glanced at the old man. Mickey received his nickname before the Rocky movies had come out, a perfect ringer for the boxer’s manager. Crank nodded. The steel gate swung inward and Crank entered. Blood squished between his fingers, drooling to the floor.

“One more hit, old man?”

Mickey put the crack pipe to Crank’s lips.

“Only got one rock, boy.” Mickey leaned close, reaching through the fence. “Need two?”

“I wish,” Crank spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “There isn’t time for two, pops. Light it.”

Crank inhaled the harsh smoke made metallic by the barilla pad. He inhaled deep, letting it fill his body until it accelerated with nervous twitches. He exhaled gray smoke.

“Come on, light it again, pops.”

Mickey obeyed and Crank cashed the rock out with a deep draw. He wished he could warm the sides of the pipe, melt the residue off, because that was the best shit, but there wasn’t time.

Crank felt the nanonites in his body already repairing the effects of the crack, already flushing it from his system. Part of a prison experimental program, like his opponent, they were swifter and stronger than six men, and they healed at an accelerated rate.

“Get ready, boy.” Mickey took the pipe from Crank’s trembling lips. “Your opponent has entered the ring.”

Crank exhaled and turned around, smoke stinging his eyes. The steel door behind him clanged shut, and across the octagon stood a seven-foot monster of muscle. Couldn’t be human, but there he was, fists bound with razor wire just like Crank’s. The behemoth’s bald pate glimmered in fluorescent lights, one healthy eye glaring. The giant raised his fists and squeezed until they trembled, growling like a cougar, as great splats of blood lathered the floor.

“Remember what you’re fighting for, Crank,” Mickey yelled. “Not the drug.”

Crank frowned and thought of Natasha and William, his family, held somewhere on the complex, hidden away. He hoped they were safe, secure—not dead.

I don’t do drugs anymore, he’d said two days ago, at a time when everyone called him Mack. I quit doing crack years ago. Married a beautiful woman and adopted her kid. I take care of my family now.

***

He stood on Main and Fulton Avenue, waiting for the nine o’clock bus. It had been cold, a December wind cutting through his coat, the leather one Natasha had given him last Christmas. One-Eye stared from the back of the Cadillac, his driver idling the car.

“What’s the matter, Mack? Don’t like me anymore?”

“I told you—”

“We’ve seized Natasha, Mack.” One-Eye smiled. “You have a nice boy, too.”

Mach reached through the window for One-Eye, but the driver turned around with one fluid motion and pointed a revolver at Mack’s head. The hammer clicked back.

“You were the best drug enforcer I ever had, Mack. One-Eye sighed. Practically grew up in a dojo. Your folks didn’t want you anyway, did they? And those skills you learned? Well, I need you to come back and fight. I’m in debt—can you believe it? And now…now I need the best. It’ll be just like the old days. Especially with those new nanonites the prison system injected into your system.”

“I told you—”

One-Eye pushed a button on his cell phone and held it up. “Let her speak.”

Crank heard Natasha’s whimpering voice. “D-don’t hurt my son.”

“Natasha!” Mack yelled. “Are you okay?”

“Mack,” came his wife’s electronic voice. “Mack, help! Call the police! Call—”

One-Eye shut his flip phone and said, “Don’t call the police, Mack—not if you know what’s agreeable for your family.”

Mack tensed his fist and swore if One-Eye ever hurt them… but One-Eye interrupted. “There’s only one thing that can hurt them now, Mack.”

“What’s that?”

“Being uncooperative.”

Mack hung his head. “What do I have to do?”

One-Eye grinned and handed Mack the vial of crack.

“What’s this for? I don’t do this shit anymore.”

“I need to know that I can trust you, Mack. I need Crank back.”

Two days later, Mack knew full well what was expected of him: kill or be killed. They called him Crank, like in the old days when he worked for One-Eye, when he busted legs and murdered. The drug thought for him back in those days, making him reach further and further into the darkness, until the only thing that mattered had been the high.

“Doesn’t “crank” have to do with meth?” Natasha had asked him from the drug rehabilitation clinic when they first met. “Why do they call you Crank?”

“I’m like a cranked up meth-head when I smoke, only worse, see? I become mean, and I’m capable of despicable acts. The martial arts skills I learned while growing up… well, I could still do them while high. Maybe not as clean, but I was hypersonic.”

She asked, “While on crack?”

“Yeah.”

“What about now? What about when you’re not on crack?”

He smiled and shrugged at his counselor. Natasha had told him her story: came from USSR, working for the Russian mob. A whore loaned out to the highest bidder—not for her money, but for drugs. “More of a white slave,” she’d said. “They kept us girls high twenty-four hours a day, seven days per week.”

Crank remembered her sitting behind the desk at White Oaks Inpatient, his file opened on her desk. Judge Simpson had signed the order of his admittance, the bills paid for by the State. She was his counselor.

“When you’re not on crack,” she pressed, “what are you like?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so many years since I’ve been high… I just don’t want to remember.”

***

That was five years ago. Five years of sobriety, of honest labor and a good family, separated him from the man he used to be. Except for the past two days. Crank bobbed on his feet, ready to kill his opponent.

As the steel door closed behind his opponent, he remembered his opponent yesterday, a quick little Oriental man Crank had destroyed. He refused to think of himself as Mack now, because for the sake of his family, he had become Crank, an expeditious killing machine high and capable of—

The bell rang multiple times. Tobacco and pot wafted through the underground auditorium. The crowd cheered as the announcer—outside the ring, of course—roared, “Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to Duel to the Death!”

Couldn’t they have been more original? Even in his crack-high, Crank figured he could come up with something better. Leave it to One-Eye to promote this crap.

“In this corner, we have the challenger, brought out of retirement by his promoter, One-Eye—” Crank shook his head, for he’d never fought in the Octagon. “—we have the challenger, Crank!”

The crowd booed. A beer bottle struck Crank’s shoulder, but he didn’t feel it—he was too high. Crank considered walking up to his opponent to attack. His opponent attacked instead.

“And his opponent, none other than the current reigning champion—”

Crank ducked a vicious right hook that swished air, and, from his vantage point, saw his opponent’s feet were bound in razor wire to his knees. Bloody footprints followed his opponent from where he’d entered the ring.

How’d I not notice that?

He knew why he hadn’t noticed: the crack haze.

“—undefeated for two years… one-hundred and ninety-eight fights—”

The behemoth brought his knee up, Thai style, but Crank blocked with his hands. The razor wire bit into his opponent’s knee, shredding it, but it also knocked Crank’s hands into his own face. One barbed edge stuck into Crank’s eye, but it didn’t matter because the white of the eye had been damaged, not the iris. Crank’s head flew back and be became disorientated.

“—the rending machine, the one and only, Shredder!” The announcer’s voice hung onto the last word, and Crank instinctively brought his right hand up to wipe blood from his eye, until he remembered the razor wire.

Shredder threw a roundhouse kick before Crank could recover, and it thundered into Crank’s ribs. A sudden onslaught of insanity pumped through Crank’s system; every pore opened on his dry skin, emitting a bead of sweat that hurt like needles thrusting through flesh; his mind became alert with sudden clarity until laughter bubbled up from his cracked ribs. The pain forced him into a strange, slow motion lucidity. Before Shredder could pull his foot covered in razor wire from Crank’s mangled side, Crank caught it with his left gauntlet. A razor along Shredder’s foot caught a wire winding about Crank’s fist, and suddenly Shredder was suspended, off-balance.

The crowd Ohed and Awed.

“They’re so fast I can’t hardly see ‘em move,” the announcer yelled. “Isn’t this exciting? Those nanonites in their bodies are really something!”

Shredder’s remaining foot shot up toward Crank’s chest to perform a stomp-kick. Crank ducked and threw a scraping punch along Shredder’s right leg, still caught on his left gauntlet, following through and letting his razor wire rake flesh down to the bigger man’s groin, where Crank’s right gauntlet connected with a soft thud against flesh. Shredder collapsed onto his back. A whoosh of wind escaped his lungs and dust plumed around his gargantuan body, arms sprawled out.

“He’s down,” the announcer roared. “The first time in two years, and the champion is down. But the question is: can he get back up?”

If it hurt, Shredder certainly didn’t show it. Shredder drove the knee of his free leg into Crank’s shoulder, then drug his razor-wire binding his foot across Crank’s face.

Crank didn’t even feel it, but he realized enough cuts meant blood loss and weakness. He couldn’t afford any more injuries, even with the nanonites in his bloodstream healing constantly. He pulled on his right fist, but it stuck within Shredder’s crotch. The crowd went crazy, standing to its feet.

“Looks like it’s come down to a stalemate,” the announcer said. “The challenger’s tied the champion up, but Shredder’s grinding the challenger’s flesh. There’s only so much of that any man can take.”

Shredder pulled his foot across Crank’s shoulder toward his face again. Razor-wire edged closer to Crank’s throat. Crank knew he didn’t have a chance with his carotid artery slit open, so he shrugged to protect his throat with his shoulder while screaming as he pulled. After a grunt, hefting the giant off the ground, Crank pulled free the fist that had been buried in the big man’s groin. Shredder’s trunks were flayed like his crotch, and a testicle lolled out of his boxing trunks, the cord elongated and hanging out of what was left of his scrotum. The big man howled like a wolf, but Crank didn’t let up. He struck Shredder’s inside thigh again, afraid to let his fist stick to the big man’s boys again, or catch his gauntlet’s razor wire against Shredder’s.

Over and over, he struck Shredder’s right leg, the foot still caught on Crank’s left gauntlet. Crank held Shredder’s free leg down with his knees. Crazed with crack and bloodlust, Crank pummeled until flesh dangled from Shredder’s leg in chunks. Blood didn’t splatter, it sprayed. Crank burrowed through the main artery in Shredder’s leg, striking the same spot repeatedly.

“Die, you prick, die!”

Crank thought of Natasha, of William. Somewhere in the distance of his distorted thoughts, through the crack haze, their images wafted before his bloodshot eyes; images like hallucinations, but not so strong that he couldn’t see the gristle hanging in stringy clumps from Shredder’s leg. So he continued striking, grunting with each thrust of his fist bound tight in death, to fulfill the fantasies for blood belonging to those sickos in attendance.

When a stretch of white leg bone gleamed in the fluorescent lights, and when blood stopped flowing from Shredder’s exposed wound, Crank knew the behemoth had bled out. Crank looked down and saw blood everywhere, an inch thick. Crimson covered the octagon, Crank’s shorts and legs, his arms and stomach. His sweat pushed against the coat of Shredder’s blood that had cast a wet veneer over his entire body.

“And we have a new champion,” came the announcer’s voice. “I don’t freaking believe it.”

Crank stood as the crowd roared. The gate he’d entered through opened, and Mickey rushed through. The lights in the auditorium brightened as Mickey helped steady Crank on wobbly legs after using bolt cutters to unfasten him from Shredder’s cooling body.

“I’ll bet you want to see your wife now, eh, boy?”

“Not yet.” Crank leaned on the small, elderly man and hobbled out of the octagon, as guards trained weapons on him. “First, I want six rocks in the locker room… to set my mind at ease.”

“Oh, Crank.” Mickey’s growl turned into a whine. “That shit is hard to stop once you start, eh?”

“Just do it… and order twelve instead.”

Crank and Mickey hobbled down the aisle to the locker room. Hands reached out to slap the few portions of Crank’s back where there was little blood, but Crank pushed those scum back, tried to memorize their faces so he could kill them later. A few times razor wire cut them and they yelled or screamed, but Crank just laughed. What could they do? Crank was a living weapon now, and he doubted if One-Eye allowed thugs into the spectacle with firearms. If not for the guards with M-16s pointing at his back, he’d be carving his way out of the auditorium to wife and son.

In the locker room, Crank let Mickey use bolt cutters to cut the razor wire encircling his hands and forearms. Mickey cut them, top and bottom, then sat down on the same bench Crank used.

“Finish it.”

Crank held his arms out.

“I ordered sedatives from One-Eye. The champion receives precedence—the first class stuff.”

“Fuck the prime stuff, Mickey. Remove the wire now.”

“You sure?”

“Do it! I can’t stand it on me.”

Mickey pulled on rubber gloves and used pliers to pull metal from Crank’s flesh. Razors from the wire had gouged into parts of his flesh, as if flesh and metal had welded as one, and Mickey had to press his foot against the bench, pulling hard. Once, he fell on his ass, three globs of coagulated blood flying through the air.

Crank laughed.

“Ain’t as young as you used to be, old man.”

“Fuck you, boy. When I was your age—”

“Fighters didn’t have nanonites in their bodies back in your day, Mickey.” Crank helped Mickey up with a bloodied hand, as blood still streamed from his fresh wounds. “Not like us.”

“You got that right, boy.” Mickey stood hunched over Crank and sighed. “In my day, the government experimented on their own, left us civilians—and inmates—alone.”

Crank thought about prison, before he was released on good behavior and being compliant; those experiments back at Leavenworth, the old prison reopened for experimental surgeries courtesy of the U.S. Government.

The Senate Technology Commission has discovered that there have been experiments on soldiers of the United States Marines, a gentlemen in a suit had said on the television mounted in the prison lounge. Miniature machines, or nanonites, have been introduced into the bloodstream of problem soldiers. While this behavior is intolerable and unacceptable, reports have surfaced that… well, to put it bluntly, we’re close to a medical breakthrough for super soldiers.

Crank didn’t know who the big shot was; a senator from the Hill. And he really didn’t care too much about what they did to soldiers, problem Marines or not. What he did care about was what the big shot said next:

With overcrowding such a problem in prisons, the Senate Technology Commission has decided to introduce the experimental technology on prisoners. Murderers, repeat sex offenders… those on death row. They will have to volunteer. Perhaps those who have inflicted so much harm on society can, in some small way, repay what they have taken.

A month later, Crank volunteered to be injected with experimental serums of nanonites. Why not? He didn’t have much self love. Besides, he’d just secretly killed a gang member in prison, and things weren’t too welcoming for him. He wouldn’t leave prison except in a body bag, not with the dead gang member’s posse clamoring to kill him at every opportunity. So Crank signed up. If he died, he’d consider it a slow suicide, robbing his prison enemies of their chance of revenge.

The day after he signed his name to the list, he was sent to Leavenworth. Moved him in with others in the program. His turn came up, right after they finished with a pedophile that had raped and murdered little children, which made Crank feel detestable, following a piece of shit like that.

“Sign on the dotted line,” they told him.

“What’s this for?”

“For your rights, scum. If you survive, you might just make parole someday. Based on how many injections you accept and good behavior, of course. You’ll still have to finish half your sentence for your double homicide.”

“I won’t leave prison until I’m sixty-two… well, forty-two if the sentence is halved.”

“Doesn’t matter; word is, the little machines—the nanotechnology—erodes the effects of aging. If it works right, that is. You might be forty-two when you leave, but you’ll look as young as the day you began the injections. Besides, the scientists want to see how those who survive cope in society. See if there are any long term effects, schizophrenia, so they plan to let survivors out early.”

“How early?”

“How the hell should I know every individual case? I just work here, scum.”

They strapped him down on the giant machine with built-in syringes. He hated those injections. Burned like fire, whatever flowed from those hoses and into his veins.

“Used this as a lethal injection device once,” a guard told him. “Now we’re trying to create super soldiers out of inmates.”

“And you’ll let me out if I survive? For sure?”

“That and for good behavior, yeah. If you don’t die, you’ll be free again.”

The majority expired, leaving in body bags. Crank made friends with those hardened prisoners in the beginning, watched his friends go into the injection room, only to come out with sheets covering their faces. That made him think, made everyone think.

So they talked about their chances. Discussed death and the great beyond, what awaited them. Somewhere along the way, a new inmate was introduced into the experimental program, an old codger who—on his first day—said, “I’m ready to die anyway—might as well stare death in the face and laugh.” The old man’s name was Mickey, in for fixing fights, extortion, and murdering a witness forty years ago.

“Besides waiting to see who’s gonna’ die, why don’t I train you lazy bums. Start up a boxing club?”

So the former martial artist turned drug enforcer trained under the watchful eye of Mickey, learning boxing—it came effortless. Mickey had Crank do calisthenics, pushups and sit ups, and running in place. Shadow boxing and sparring with the other inmates, he bettered his competition, a few of whom had been promising amateur boxers before thrown in the slammer. It helped Crank work the experimental shit out of his system.

“Think you’re gonna’ live, old man?”

“Crank,” the old man often said, “I’m too ornery to die.”

At the age of seventy-two, a decade earlier than his sentence, they let Mickey out. Same day as Crank. The judge sent Crank to a drug rehab clinic, to White Oaks Inpatient, just to be sure—ten years after he entered the prison system.

There he met Natasha.

The conversations about death in prison now transformed into topics of life… and love. With Natasha, that is. She’d been an addict like Crank, and she knew the temptations, but hell! She was doing something with her life and helping others in the process. Her inner strength impressed him and, before he knew it, he had a job as the janitor at the local YMCA, and there he helped Mickey train young boxers.

He began using his real name again.

Life moved around him like a positive current. Mack married Natasha and adopted her son, William, who loved Mack as if he were his real Dad. And, for the first time in his life, Mack was happy.

“You should be dead!”

Mickey’s voice broke Crank from his reverie.

Those days are gone… I’m Crank now.

They were still alone in the locker room. There was only one entrance, and that was back to the auditorium and octagon. A muffled roar from the crowd rose for some reason. Crank spread his fingers and saw his hands and forearms were almost healed, but he couldn’t stop trembling.

“Too much crack, boy.” Mickey shook his head and wiped a tear from his eye. “Did the same thing to your opponent. He was a soldier, before the STC found out about them experimenting on Marines. One-Eye pressured Shredder with crank or meth or crack—whatever tempted him into trouble in the first place—and then set ‘em in the octagon.”

“So why did One-Eye just… kidnap me? Just to fight?”

“Word is he fell into debt. This whole complex cost a bunch of out-of-pocket cash, and One-Eye likes to gamble. Sold Shredder to the competition. Lost money on fighters he thought could take down Shredder.”

“So the bastard brought me back to… pay off gambling debts?” Crank shook his head and hammered his fist into his hand. “He ruined my life and kidnapped Natasha and William… for this?”

“He’s on the shit, too, kid. Don’t matter who you are, whether you’re a dealer or user; you do the shit, it jacks you up and fills you with stupidity.”

Crank looked at the crusted razor wire littering the floor. It looked like pieces of nanotechnology that had fallen from his body. Mickey had had One-Eye send down vials of rocks. They rested on the blood splattered bench. Although Crank felt the burning need, the thought of smoking those rocks sickened him.

“Remember when we used to talk about death, Mickey? Back in prison?”

“You ain’t dying anytime soon, boy.”

“No, I ain’t worried about that.”

“What then?” Mickey looked worried. “What’s on your mind?”

“I wonder what happens to someone like us when we die.”

“Did you see your opponent in the ring, boy?” Mickey spat into the corner. “That’s what happens when we die. That nanotechnology is in our bloodstream, and once the blood bleeds out—”

“But I was told the nanonites worked their way into the flesh after a time, which was how we heal so rapidly.”

The locked door burst open. The muffled roar of the crowd went up a decibel, and a woman screamed. One-Eye ran inside with three guards brandishing M-16s.

“Lock that door,” One-Eye yelled, then ordered a guard to train his weapon on Crank.

“What—?” Crank began to say, but a loud noise at the locked door echoed.

The metal door bent inward.

“That’s either a policeman’s battering ram,” Mickey said, “or you have a pissed off Nano-Prisoner.”

That’s what the Press called them: Nano-Prisoners. Those who were no longer in prison were called Nano-Civilians.

“It’s Shredder,” One-Eye said, adjusting his eye patch. “He’s gone mad.”

“Shredder’s dead,” Crank said. “I killed him.”

The metal door burst open. Crank stood gaping at Shredder, the hole in Shredder’s leg still there, but filling in with flesh. The behemoth’s eyes were glazed. The three guards fired short bursts into Shredder’s chest. He stepped back and growled. When he took a step forward, the guards unloaded their weapons into the giant.

Shredder ran at them screaming.

“Oh, the shit’s hitting the fan now, boy,” Mickey yelled, when the M-16s ran out of ammo.

Shredder ripped the head off the first guard to cross his path, and he tore the throat from the second guard. One-Eye grabbed a fallen M-16 and pushed the third guard, screaming for him to kill Shredder. Shredder tore the guard’s body into two pieces before he could react.

Crank sucker punched Shredder from the side, then shoved Shredder’s head into the wall. Perhaps if he knocked Shredder out, he could escape through the open door.

“Come on, Mickey!”

Through the pain, Shredder crawled toward One-Eye, backing the fat man into a corner and shaking his head. Shredder grabbed One-Eye’s ankle and squeezed. Bone splintered and One-Eye dropped the M-16. It skittered across the floor where Mickey picked it up. Crank sighed with relief when Mickey walked toward him, readying the weapon with a cocky grin.

“Let’s find your family, boy.”

Crank screamed when Shredder, still decorated with hellish razor wire at his hands and feet, stood and sent his fist through Mickey’s back. When he pulled his hand out, he pulled an assortment of organs from the old man—a heart and what could have been a pale lung—and Mickey collapsed, wheezing in a hoarse voice, “Oh, crap.” He fell on his face, and Shredder glared at Crank with his one whole eye, the other an empty socket.

At that moment, Crank realized Shredder was no longer human.

Shredder moved with the grace of a rhino, but his arms and feet were weapons. Each time Crank blocked his blows, razor wire ripped through his flesh. Suddenly, he was backed against the wall, his forearms shredded down to the bone from Shredder’s relentless hammering.

Somewhere in this godforsaken shithole are Natasha and William, Mickey had told him yesterday, before he’d fought the Oriental fighter. You fight for them.

Shredder struck Crank in the abdomen, and Crank felt the razor-gauntlet penetrate his stomach. Shredder picked him up and looked him in the eye.

“I ain’t gonna’ make it, Mickey.” Crank’s voice quivered. “I’m… s-sorry.”

“Don’t let me down, boy,” came Mickey’s wavering voice.

“You’re alive?”

“Told you—too ornery to die.”

Mickey lay on his stomach, head turned to the side. The hole in his back swam with blood, but Mickey still moved, impossibly, crawling toward them, still full of fight—still alive! Crank thought of Shredder rising, of Mickey still alive, and he knew… he knew!

We can’t die!

The thought revitalized him. While hanging from Shredder’s arm—while the behemoth hesitated between attacking Mickey or finishing Crank off—Crank reached out and grabbed Shredder’s head, one hand on his chin and one on the top of his head. Nausea pulsed through him, and he would have vomited, but Shredder’s fist occupied the space where Crank’s stomach had been.

“Fuck you—” Crank screamed and twisted, snapping Shredder’s neck in two. “—and die!”

Shredder fell to the floor. Crank was still stuck to Shredder’s fist, and went down with him. He pushed up with his hands and feet, rising, feeling razor wire catch and slice along his inner organs. Searing razor-points scratched against the undercarriage of his ribs, and he dry heaved the air that blew through his open cavity like icy winds, shooting up into his esophagus. With a scream that sent globs of bloody spittle flying, he freed his stomach from the dead man’s gory gauntlet.

Crank collapsed next to Shredder who was already twitching, as nanonites in his body began to heal.

Can the nanonites make appendages grow back, Mickey? he had asked Mickey once. Like a lizard’s tail?

They can repair, but they can’t replicate tissue or regenerate blood loss.

Obviously the old man had been wrong.

“You did phenomenal, boy.”

Crank gasped for breath and rolled to his knees.

“Fuck you, old man. I ain’t done yet.”

“What’chu gonna’ do? Fuck him to death?”

Crank couldn’t catch his breath for a retort. Instead, he crawled for the bolt cutters, his intestines sliding from his body like hot noodles, but already drawing back inside. When he returned to Shredder, the behemoth was beginning to twitch his head from side-to-side.

“You gonna’ circumcise him?” Mickey wheezed.

“I’m gonna’ cut off this bastard’s head.”

Somewhere on the complex, Natasha and William were waiting to be released. That thought kept Crank functioning. That and his friend Mickey, who helped steady his hands on the bolt cutters.

They worked side-by-side, holding the big man down as he squirmed. They took turns cutting and kicking and sometimes biting. When the head came off with a loud popping noise, they stuffed it in a locker.

“Grow that back, fucker.”

Afterwards, they grabbed M-16s and searched for Mack’s family.

***

A year later, Natasha and Mack sat at a picnic table and watched Mickey playing with William in the park near a weeping willow. Mack held Natasha’s scarred hand, the one that read R.U.T.H. carved into her knuckles. Her other hand finished the word. They had tortured her while Mack fought in the octagon, and she didn’t have nanonites to mend the scars.

Natasha smiled as if she hadn’t a care, as if she hadn’t gone through hell the previous year. She always was the stronger one. Watching Mickey play with William, sitting next to her—it was almost too much.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She wiped a tear from Mack’s cheek. “I thought you were tough.”

“Pollen.”

“Bullshit.”

“You are so… ”

“Ruthless?” she interjected.

Mack flinched, but her smile set him at ease. She placed her hand on his forearm then turned to their son. Mack watched Mickey teaching William footwork in the shade of the weeping willow.

“Bob and jab, you lazy bum,” Mickey hollered.

They all laughed when William snuck one in, sending Mickey’s head back.

“Just like your old man, kid.”

Birthday Song

by Thornton Austen

Carl Hampton celebrated his sixty-fourth birthday with a dead dog. No one ever accused Hampton of being too bright, but one thing he knew to the root of his soul, he hated Scott Sutton. Carl didn’t loathe Scott. He didn’t merely despise Scott. He wanted him gone, with Scott dead if it had to be that way.

As Carl drug his burden through the thicket toward Scott’s house, he mused to himself, Maybe this trick will finally get the kid to move on.

Behind him, he dragged the carcass of Digger, Fibber McClain’s big white German shepherd, by its collar. Carl hated Digger almost as much as he hated Scott. A little antifreeze took care of the dog. Too bad it couldn’t be that simple with the boy.

The mutt’s carcass weighed a ton and snagged every stub, sapling, and brier in the thicket. Carl tired of kicking it loose every few steps. Even though frost coated the ground that morning, beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"I’m getting too old for this shit," he murmured and spat out a plume of fog that hung dead in front of his face. He gave a heavy tug and pulled the dog loose from another tangle. As Digger pulled free, Carl lost his balance and fell into a nest of waiting briers. They gnawed through his overalls and bit his flesh.

This is your last chance, kid.

Maybe Scott wouldn’t take a hint this time either. If he didn’t, Carl could just knock the boy in the head and burn the house down around his ears. Maybe instead, he’d tie Scott up along with his retard baby and they could watch what he would do with Brenda. Scott’s wife was an uppity little bitch. Carl would enjoy doing her tight ass. At the thought, he could feel Brenda’s flesh give way beneath him and felt himself stiffen. The sudden vigor surprised him, but no time for wishing now.

Closer now, he could see the house and out into Sutton’s yard. Not only did Carl hate Scott, but the house as well. Local legend said the old Banks place was haunted. He knew better than anyone else why. Thinking of the time he spent there sickened him. The first time he went as a kid, he’d looked for old Captain Murphy’s buried gold. Carl was six then. He’d put on airs just to be allowed around long enough to search. That pathetic water head, Johnny Banks, was five.

Johnny’s mother, Missy Banks, welcomed the company and thought it was good for little Johnny, but Carl despised the little freak. Johnny wallowed through life, nothing more than a snot driveling little animal. Missy Banks was just as warped and pathetic for giving that monster life. Even more so for keeping it alive.

Carl saw that nothing stirred around the house. Good. No one but that little terrier mutt of Sutton’s ought to be around. He couldn’t see the dog, but no problem. He would just wring its neck, put it with Digger, and add to the stink.

Carl towed Digger out into the yard. He’d done this before with a dead possum. That odor must not have been strong enough. The German shepherd sure ought to raise a stink under the house. The same low sinkhole below the kitchen would be the spot. Digger was getting stiff and hard to drag. He was much bigger than a possum, but the dog would still be hard to see in that hole. Scott would never find him unless he crawled under the house blind and stuck a hand in Digger’s rotting carcass.

Carl hated patiently, but even a patient hate only went so far. His patience with Scott had reached its end long ago.

***

Carl pretended to be Johnny Banks’ playmate until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He never really played with retard Johnny, but hung around to torment him when Missy wasn’t looking.

He poked Johnny with straight pins to start. He just wanted to make Johnny cry, but the boy never cried. Carl soon learned Johnny couldn’t cry. Pumpkinhead Johnny only made two sounds. He either grunted a loud buck-deer snort or he laughed. Oh, Pumpkinhead Johnny could laugh. The sound made the bile swarm inside Carl and rise in his throat. When Johnny laughed his huge, deformed head swung back and forth like a clock pendulum. His crooked mouth gaped wide showing its jagged bat teeth. The sight made Carl want to puke.

***

Finally, he made it to the back porch. Digger was too heavy to drag much further. Scott’s mutt still showed no sign of himself. Please let the mutt show. Carl would enjoy choking the life out of the furry little bastard. It would do Sutton good to know a little loss.

The gray sky opened a light drizzle. The air felt cold enough to freeze rain on the trees and power lines. Just what he wanted on his birthday, an ice storm. As Carl opened the plywood hatch to the crawlspace, a few stray pellets of sleet bounced off the faded sleeve of his canvas work coat. Ancient musty air rolled out of the hatch and squirmed around his body as he wormed his way through. As Carl’s eyes adjusted to the moonscape below the old Banks house, he remembered how many times he’d been in the rear bedroom just above that spot.

The latest time was during the Sutton’s house warming party four months ago. When he got home from work, Carl snuck through the thicket the same way he’d came today. No one at the party saw him. Everyone was too busy kissing Brenda’s pert ass. Instead of going under the house like he did now, he climbed in through the bedroom window. There, he fired up Scott’s computer and tried to delete the files for that book Scott always worked on. Scott hid the files well or he kept them on a disk, because Carl couldn’t find them. He thought about formatting the hard drive, but there wasn’t time. Any minute, some party guest might bounce through the door and catch him. The best he could do was open the word processor and type a bunch of obscenities and gibberish. Then, an idea popped into his head. He deleted his previous work and in a large fifty-point font he typed, "LEAVE WHITE TRASH LEAVE WHITE TRASH LEAVE WHITE TRASH...," until he filled the page. Carl made sure there was enough paper in the tray and ordered the computer to print 100 copies.

His work done, he climbed back out the window. As he closed the window, a breeze pulled the curtains out around him. The bedroom door swung and slammed like a gunshot. He heard a commotion inside the house and lit out. He knew that Scott, or even better, Brenda, was coming to find his poltergeist activity.

Perfect.

Carl relished the stunt he pulled that day, but some hardheaded people just couldn’t take a hint. The crawlspace spread before him about thirty feet to the sunken spot below the kitchen. It was a hard crawl for a man of his age even though working the boiler room at Tucker Paper kept him in shape. Dragging a hundred pounds of dead weight behind him didn’t help. As he towed the dog forward, he kept watch for the spiders and scorpions that loved to winter in damp dark places.

***

For years, Carl kept up his little game of tormenting Pumpkinhead Johnny. Missy never guessed what went on when she wasn’t looking. Every few days he came over and looked for the gold and silver that lay waiting. When Johnny wanted attention, Carl jabbed him with a pin. That soon grew old, so he got creative. Once he helped Johnny stick pennies up the misshapen nostrils of his pig-like snout. Three days later old Doc Simmons dug through all the jellied snot and snagged them with needle-nosed pliers.

Another time, the boys were out behind the barn. Thirteen now, he stood a head taller than Johnny. Johnny’s misshapen mouth sucked noisily at a grape Popsicle. The racket he made so annoyed Carl that he took it away and teased Johnny with it. The laughing Pumpkinhead chased him all around the old hog lot to get it back. Grunting and grabbing after the Popsicle with his stumbling lope, Johnny soon tired. Carl stopped and brought what was left of it back. For once, he thought, Pumpkinhead might just cry. Johnny stood there out of breath and reaching. He opened and closed his mitts like crab claws, while grunting his animal noises, begging for the Popsicle.

Carl taunted Johnny with the melting Popsicle once more, then rubbed grape goop all over Johnny’s bald head and threw the remains in the dust. For once, Carl thought he saw a spark of humanity in Johnny’s face as the retard looked down at the melting mess lying in the dust. Carl flew into a rage. He knew there was no way a monster like Johnny harbored a human spirit. Johnny Banks couldn’t have a soul like him, like anyone else. Trash like the Banks’ weren’t real people. They were livestock, nothing more and lived only for the pleasure of others.

But, he saw that spark in Johnny’s eyes. Damn him. Deep down it terrified Carl to think that Johnny might feel. Johnny might think that he was the same, as good as him and everyone else. He pushed Johnny down and sat on his back, holding the ogre face down in an anthill. Johnny struggled as the red swarm gnawed the flesh from his eyes and ears. Carl held him, hating him more than he ever had before. Johnny squalled like a pig in the slaughterhouse, choking on the dirt and stinging ants. He struggled, throwing dirt and hog shit in all directions.

When Johnny’s resistance faded, Carl let him up. He brushed the ants away and led Johnny to his mother. Once again, he played the dutiful, protective friend in her presence. The ants had done Johnny terrible. As Missy Banks ministered to her son, Carl realized how warm and caring she really was. She looked soft and attractive, but the widow hadn’t allowed a man around the farm for years. For the first time, Carl felt something stir deep inside.

***

He had just about given up towing the dead dog when Digger tottered over the edge and fell into the depression. Carl had tired long before as the crawlspace pressed in tight around him. He’d worked thirty years squirming into tight spaces in the mill power plant without a hint of claustrophobia. Now, the surroundings closed in on him.

Could it be bad air? Carl blinked his eyes, but saw none of the little sparklies on his retina he knew as the telltale signs of poisoned air. He smelled no gas either. Probably just his imagination, but space between the rock piers that supported the house looked smaller. The floor joists hugged closer to the ground than he remembered. He must have gained some weight in the last few weeks.

Carl knew he had taken too much time getting Digger under the house. He wormed his way around the depression until his head and shoulders pointed toward the exit hatch. Even the way out looked further from this direction. He couldn’t be more than thirty feet away, but it looked more like a hundred.

He had to get out now. His perception was out of whack and every sense skewed wildly. He wanted escape, just like the night he first found the gold.

***

Carl stayed away from the Banks place for more than a week while Johnny healed from his ant stings. Doc Simmons said he didn’t know how Johnny survived with so many bites and stings. Miracle. He used that word.

Before, Carl wouldn’t have cared. He would even have welcomed Johnny’s death, but that attitude changed after the hog lot. When he went back, Carl gave little thought to torturing Johnny, even less to treasure. He had a new fascination.

Missy Banks.

All Carl could think about was Johnny’s mother. She prowled his dreams at night and consumed his thoughts by day. Missy was in her mid thirties. She was at least twenty years older than Carl, but in his mind, that didn’t matter.

One day, while Johnny played in the hayloft, Carl spied on Missy through cracks in the siding as she hung out the wash. The evening sun shone through her simple cotton housedress revealing the silhouette of her slender shape. Autumn light set her auburn hair afire with colors that rivaled the changing leaves.

Sitting there under Missy’s spell, it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of treasure in weeks. Treasure could wait. Carl had already found the gold he wanted. He would have it, too. His fourteenth birthday was in four weeks, so he had plenty of time to plan. He would hold the only gold he cared for.

The golden hair and flesh of Missy Banks would be his own.

***

Carl stopped crawling, out of breath again. Halfway to the doorway, the hip pocket of his overalls had snagged on a nail hanging from one of the floor joists. He reached back with his left hand and wrenched it free. The nail bit into the back of his hand.

"Shit."

Blood streamed from the wound. He bit his lip and struggled forward. Splinters from the rough sawn joists tore into the back of his neck and down his back. They left his jacket in shreds.

Now Carl saw the sparklies. Bad air hid under the house after all, and it sapped his strength. He could feel the life seeping from his body. He had to hurry. There wasn’t far to crawl. When he reached the door, he would breathe.

A shadow perched in the small door opening now. Sutton’s terrier looked in at him and wagged its tail. Good. He’d wring that fuzzy little neck and toss it under here with Digger. The more stink the better.

Carl struggled forward to the door. This wasn’t his imagination. It was tighter under the house. With his hands, he scooped the dirt from in front of him, pushed it away to the side, and squeezed his way forward. He had to hurry. The kids were coming over for his birthday supper.

Now, he smelled something more than bad air. Something dead.

***

Two days before his fourteenth birthday, Carl’s family relented and gave him his present. The .22 rifle was just what he wanted. He treasured it and fondled the blued steel. That evening he took it over to Johnny’s house and proudly showed it to Missy. The deadly eye staring from the end of the muzzle impressed her so much that she did everything Carl told her to do.

First, he had her lock Johnny in the closet. Carl propped a chair against the doorknob for extra security. Then, he had Missy strip naked and tied her to the bed. He savored the sight of her soft flesh, so white and creamy. It almost glowed sky blue in the dark room except where the sun had caressed Missy’s arms and face to gold. Carl used her off and on all night.

He returned from school the next day, removed the gag from Missy’s mouth, and tried to kiss her. She responded with curses and a wicked bite instead of the affection he craved. Carl put the gag back and resumed the previous night’s game.

Before, he had been timid and cautious, but now he felt so free. He worked more confident, more brutal.

By the third night, it all began to bore him. He let Johnny out of the closet and tied him to the foot of the bed looking down at his mother. He placed a plastic bag over Johnny’s head and raped his mother again as Johnny watched and suffocated.

That chore out of the way, Carl unbagged and untied Johnny. He cleaned him up, dressed him in his pajamas, and placed Johnny in bed so people would think he died in his sleep. Then, Carl took a bath, set an alarm clock, and crawled into bed beside Missy. She lay there in shock, dehydrated, and catatonic with grief while he got a quick nap.

It was midnight when the alarm rang. Missy lay quiet beside Carl. Drugged with shock, she no longer even wept. He could tell she just didn’t care anymore. This was no fun. He untied her and held her at gunpoint as he made her bathe, fix her hair, and put on make up. Then, Carl guided her back to the bedroom and ordered her into the old black dress she wore to funerals. No underwear. No stockings. Just the dress.

Carl tied Missy’s hands again, but loose this time. He knew she wouldn’t resist even if she could. As she staggered ahead of him toward the barn, he couldn’t help appreciating her quiet beauty. He wished this could go on forever, but it couldn’t. Carl had used Missy up just like every other possession he ever had. He hated that it had to end, but now she was just another broken toy with sharp edges he had to destroy for safety’s sake.

They climbed to the hayloft and Carl ordered her to kneel. Missy obeyed and moaned the Lord’s Prayer.

"Our Father, Who art in—"

"Stop!"

The words burned in his head. She kept up in a whisper that filled the barn with a wail of deafening loudness.

"—deliver us from evil—"

The barn creaked and shuddered. It leaned as if it would fall any minute.

"Quit it!"

Missy kept praying. He noticed that, just like her son, she wouldn't cry. How touching. Carl told Missy he loved her and kissed her cheek. He placed the same plastic bag he used on Johnny over her head. She didn't struggle. She just waited and prayed in a plastic-muffled whisper. Carl held her close until she died.

After removing the bag and the rope from her wrists, Carl went to the house and tidied up. He came back to the barn, tied a grass rope noose around Missy's neck, and tied the other end to a rafter. As he shoved her body out the hayloft door, Carl smiled and sang Happy Birthday to himself.

The rope grew taut and Missy’s lifeless neck snapped. Three days passed before a neighbor found her hanging there. The whole of Lovely County thought Missy had hanged herself after finding her Johnny dead. That was fifty years ago today.

***

Sutton's little black mutt stared at Carl struggling toward the crawl space door for almost an hour. The terrier stood just out of reach. Carl struggled with each breath and sucked in only the stench of whatever was decomposing behind him. He knew it wasn't Digger, but he didn't have time to care.

With one more surge forward, he grasped the doorframe leading out of the crawl space and pulled himself forward. His face almost at the opening, Carl inhaled deep of the fresh air until his head cleared. He glanced back over his shoulder. Now, everything looked normal. The floor joists loomed with two feet of room between them and the ground. A man could crawl on his hands and knees let alone slither on his belly as he had just done.

Carl hated that place.

He pulled himself further toward the door. Scott's terrier bounced and wagged its tail, wanting to play. Carl grabbed for it, but the little dog leapt away from his grasp.

"You think you're sharp. Just wait till you see what I do to your family."

The image of Scott bound and helpless while he had his way with Brenda struck him as a most desirable outcome. He hoped they stayed. She could use a good boogerin’.

Carl felt the sudden clasp of cold hands on his ankles, jerking him backwards. He struggled and regained his grip on the doorframe. He glanced back over his shoulder. The stench of rotting flesh took his breath. The sight tore a scream from his lips, but with no wind in his lungs, he made no sound.

This couldn't be happening. Pumpkinhead Johnny Banks was alive, pulling him backwards and laughing that snot-slinging retard laugh. Carl pulled to the door as hard as he could and gained some ground. His body levitated on his strength, suspended clear of the ground between his grip on the doorframe and Johnny’s grasp on his ankles.

Carl doubled his efforts, surged toward the doorway, and felt Johnny’s grasp slip. Almost free, he would win again. Carl watched as the door to the crawlspace slammed in his face. Stars burst in his eyes. His fingers sheared away with a searing pain. Johnny dragged him backwards as he clawed at the ground with the bloody stubs of severed fingers. No use. Johnny pulled him back toward the sunken spot, laughing all the way. Carl looked back again and saw Johnny descend into the depression.

The earth swallowed him as he went. The laughter stopped as Johnny's head went under, still tugging his ankles. Carl felt a burning heat as his feet and then his legs disappeared into the earth. His flesh seared and he felt his balls boil as he struggled to free himself.

Carl stopped struggling only when he saw Missy Banks sitting, perched on the side of the hole. She wore the same black dress. Her red hair glowed aflame and her eyes burned through him. Carl’s clothes smoldered as he struggled and caught enough breath to shriek like a little girl.

Missy grabbed Carl by the hair and jerked his face close to hers. In her other hand, she held a jagged sliver of bone to his eye. She smiled and her lips rolled back to reveal the rot that lay beneath. She jerked back on Carl’s hair, tilting his head back until it almost snapped.

"What's wrong, lover? You don't want that kiss anymore?"

Carl's mouth was wide, still screaming as she pressed her lips to his and spat rotting gall down his throat.

"Happy Birthday," she said.

Missy gouged at his eyes with the bone. Carl felt the corneas resist as she pressed the splinter until it broke through the surface of the first eye, then the other. The humor flowed down his cheeks as each eye popped like a squished grape. Carl’s hair pulled out by the roots and his screams died as the earth swallowed him.

The Abortionists

by Aaron J. French

“Open your mouth,” she said, “you baby-killing bitch.”

The young girl did as she was told, gagging as the doll’s head was shoved into her mouth, propping her jaw open.

“Now you.” Karen moved to the Latina and fit the next doll head into position.
“That just leaves you, darky,” she added, stepping to the black girl, who glared as she bit down on the plastic head. Karen leaned back to admire her work: three baby-killing sluts, hands and feet bound, kneeling, half-clothed in tattered undergarments. Artfully done, she complemented herself. Let them sit there until their legs ache and their knees bruise.

Karen made a sweeping pass before the girls, heels clacking on the basement floor. She smoothed her blond hair absently, saying, “I know how much you value your comfort. Abortions, themselves, are a convenience—which is why you chose to kill your babies. You’re all smiles and giggles when it comes to spreading your legs, but when it comes to taking responsibility, well . . . that causes discomfort.

“How unglamorous it is to swell up like a cow, to give up partying for the sake of your baby. No boy will have sex with you if you’re prego. And then there’s the excruciating delivery, and feeding the child, and changing diapers. Your breasts fatten, your ass dimples, stretch marks cover your tummy. What an uncomfortable ordeal. Better to kill the child and be done, hm?”

She looked into their terrified faces stretched open by the doll heads. Their panting gasps and beseeching eyes. How pathetic. Bending toward the black girl, she twisted her partially exposed nipple. “Taking a child’s life is murder!” she yelled. “It is contrary to the wishes of God. But you—you lusting demon whore—you don’t even consider that, do you? Oh, yum, sex—boing, boing, boing—oh, a baby? Gee, I’m not ready for that. Let’s just kill it.”

She let go, righted herself, and, just for fun, struck the Latina across the face. A stream of blood leaked from her nose. The girl worked her mouth and wriggled her tongue trying to dislodge the plastic head.

“Perhaps you don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, is that it?” She stared at the blonde, whose eyes remained downcast in fear. “So I suppose it’s my job to show you they exist—which is why I collected you here: to show you a Hell in this very basement.”
Satisfied with her words, Karen switched off the light and headed upstairs to start dinner, bolting the metal door behind her and leaving the three baby-killing bitches on their knees in the darkness.

***

As the water boiled, Karen threw in the pasta and added a dash of salt, setting the timer for fifteen minutes, then she sat down at the kitchen table to read this week’s Victory Ministries newsletter.

Suddenly, her boys came barreling through the front door, shouting and pummeling each another.

“Knock it off, you two,” she said, lowering the newsletter as they came into the kitchen. She smiled. “How was practice?”

Benny shoved his younger brother and opened the refrigerator to grab a can of Coke. “It was okay. I tackled Jim Gaffers so hard he went home early. Coach said it was a topnotch hit.”

“That’s nice,” Karen said.

“I caught a touchdown pass,” Bobby added.

“I want you boys upstairs washing your hands now, please. Your father’ll be home soon, and I don’t want him waiting on supper.”

“Yes, Mom,” they said, disappearing up the stairwell.

The phone rang and Karen got up to answer it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Karen. It’s Jane Gaffers.”

Karen rolled her eyes. Jane, the constant source of contention at PTA meetings. An ex-hippie godless Democrat who always defended the books Karen was trying to have banned. She was untrustworthy: any woman who wanted her children reading Kate Chopin’s The Awakening had serious problems.

“Hi, Jane. What can I do for you?”

“First, I’d like to say that, as a mother, I respect how much interest you take in your boys. And despite our differences, I applaud you for always putting them ahead of yourself.”
“Thanks, Jane, I feel the same way about you.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree on something.” There was a pause, the sound of Jane’s breath coming across the line.

“Why did you call, again?”

A sigh. “Well . . . it’s about Benny.”

“Yes?”
“Jim’s been having some problems with him. Has Benny mentioned it?”
Typical Democrat kid, Karen thought. Always running off to tattletale instead of taking a stand. “He hasn’t spoken to me about it. Wait—he did say something about Jim leaving practice early because of a hit Benny gave him. But really, Jane, isn’t that a part of football? If Jim can’t hack it, then maybe he should consider a different after-school sport. One which requires less . . . tenacity.”

Jane’s voice intensified. “That isn’t why I’m calling, Karen—well, I mean, it is, but . . . something else has been going on.”

“And that is?”

Jane paused again before saying, “It’s been happening in the locker room after practice, and Jim says it’s gone on for some time. He says Benny’s been . . . exposing himself.”
Silence. Karen stirred the pasta. “That’s a lie, Jane.”

“I believe my son.”

“I don’t give a damn what he says. It simply isn’t true. It can’t be. Benny’s a good Christian boy with good Christian values. He knows it’s a sin to lie. I wonder, does your son know?”

“I’m not trying to start a debate with you, Karen. Jim was deathly serious when he told me about this. Frightened even. He says he’s been too scared to tell because Benny’d beat him up. I know when my son is lying, and he wasn’t lying about this. He told me Benny makes him stay till all the other kids have left the locker room, then takes him into the corner and forces him to . . . touch his penis.”

The timer dinged and Karen poured the steaming hot noodles into the strainer. “You vile woman, can’t you hear what you’re saying? I want nothing to do with this. Seems like your son tried to make a homosexual pass at Benny and Benny naturally turned him down. Perhaps this is his way of retaliating.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

Karen leaned against the countertop, drying her hands on a towel. “What do you want me to say? I know my son. I know how I raised him. And I know for a fact he would never do this. So I suggest you have a talk with Jim and tell him where liars end up when they die.”

Jane gave an exasperated sigh. “If it happens again, Karen, I’m contacting the police.”
Karen laughed. “Go right ahead—if you want to embarrass your son by exposing him as a queer.”

“Damn it, I’m serious!” she said. Then the line went dead.
Humming, Karen replaced the phone into its cradle and opened the oven to check the veal cutlets.

***

“All right, you little bitches,” she said. “If I remove the doll heads, will you behave yourselves?”

The girls nodded weakly.

“Don’t bother screaming for help; as you can see, I’ve had the entire room soundproofed. I did it myself.” She knocked the head from the black girl’s mouth. It popped and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop by the padded wall. Next she did the Latina, then finally the blonde.

“You’re gonna pay for this, you psycho,” the black girl said.

Karen jabbed two fingers, knuckles bent, right into her eyes; the girl screamed, squeezing them shut, tears falling down her cheeks.

“First rule,” Karen said, “is no one talks except me. Each time you blurt something out, I punish you for it. Understand?”

They nodded again.

“Good. Now, I know your little tummies probably hurt from the abortion. But that’s how it should be. That’s why I kidnapped you directly after the procedure—so the pain would be fresh. It’ll help remind you of your decision.”

She began pacing in front of them. “I’ll have you know that I monitored three separate clinics waiting for just the right girls. Ones who were alone, who weren’t accompanied by parents or scummy boyfriends.” She chuckled. “Needless to say, I didn’t have to wait long.”

The blonde suddenly bent forward, retched onto the floor, the smell of her vomit instantly filling the room.

“You see, that’s her body reacting to the procedure. She had her abortion just this morning, whereas you two had yours yesterday. It’s not unusual for the patient to vomit. Other side effects include bleeding, dizziness, pissing fetal matter, damage to the womb. Who knows, it’s possible that none of you can have children now.”
“That’s bullshit,” the Latina said. “Women have abortions all the time and go on to carry successfully. I researched it on the internet. I dunno where you’re getting your facts from, lady, but they’re all wrong.”

Karen grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair, yanking her up. The Latina barked, yelped, but refused to scream; it was obvious she didn’t want to give Karen the satisfaction.
“Think you can trust the internet?” she said. “Did you know the letter W, when traced to its Hebrew roots, corresponds to the number six? That means whenever you punch in a website, you’re accessing the mark of the beast—666. But yes, go ahead, believe the satanic lies, see where that gets you.”

Karen flung the girl away, laughing as her face hit the concrete floor. “And what did I tell you about speaking? Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I want you to remember that. I’m trying to save your souls, so you might learn to live in the light of Jesus Christ. Every act of sin warrants a consequence, and that’s what this is: your consequence.”
There was a knock at the metal door. Karen made a pouty face, pulled in her bottom lip. “We’re gonna have to finish this later.”

The girls began to shout and cry for help, but Karen patiently bound up their mouths with loose rags.

Cracking the door, she peeked out and saw Bobby, her youngest, standing there. “Yes?” she said.

“Daddy’s home. He said to come get you for dinner.”

“Tell him I’ll be right up.”

She made to close the door, but Bobby suddenly asked, “How are things going in there?”
She looked at him. “Fine, honey. Mommy is still working on her writing, so she needs a few minutes to finish up, okay? Please go tell your father what I said.”
“Okay.” He tromped back up the stairs, tight blond curls bouncing on his head. Karen closed the door.

The baby killers were breathing a little heavily, but she decided to keep the gags on them. They were still too volatile. She couldn’t risk anyone hearing their cries. Hiking up her skirt, she squatted and pulled aside her panties. Then she urinated into the floor drain, which had originally been installed to prevent flooding, but which now functioned as a toilet for the kidnapped whores. When she was finished, she rearranged her clothing, flipped out the light, and headed upstairs.

***

Ted was sitting at the kitchen table when she entered, wearing his suit and tie. “I’m starved,” he said. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry.” She walked over to the oven and removed the pan of veal cutlets, then removed the pot of pasta and switched off the gas.

“Still working on your romance novel?” he asked.

“Yep. Wrote two thousand words today.”

“Is that a lot? I do think it’s great you got something to keep yourself busy all day—other than your housework, of course. I know you loved that job at the lawyer’s firm, but I can tell this new hobby’s good for you.”

“You have no idea.” She placed the pasta and the veal on the table then shouted, “Bobby! Benny! Supper’s ready!”

The two boys came thundering down the stairwell, flying past Karen, falling into chairs at the table.

“Take it easy,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Ted said. “They’re just being boys. Tell me, how was football practice?”
Bobby held up a finger. “I scored a touchdown.”

His older brother swatted his hand. “That ain’t nothing. I tackled Jimmy Gaffer so hard that he had to go home. I put my whole weight on him—like this.” He got up from his chair and hooked Bobby around the neck, brought him down on the floor, and lay on top of him like a pancake.

“See?” he said. “Ain’t nobody gettin’ outa this.”

“Don’t use the word ain’t,” Karen scolded.

“Lemme go!” Bobby cried.

Laughing, Ted said, “That’s wonderful, Benny, but I think you’d better let your brother go before you squash him.”

“Yeah, you’re squashing me!” Bobby said.

Benny rolled off, got to his feet, and extended a hand to his brother.

“Sit down so we can say grace,” Karen said, coming over to the table.

They got into their chairs and the family linked hands, closing their eyes.

“Our Father,” Karen began, “who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. We thank You for Your blessings. We thank You for this meal, for this home, for our livelihood. We ask that You watch over us always, and keep us safe from harm. We’d like to say a prayer for Pastor Emerson down at Victory Ministries Church, and one for his mother, who has fallen ill. May she recover with grace.”

She sighed, then quickly added, “And Lord, we ask that You bring down your wrath upon all evildoers and hold them in contempt in Your sight. In Jesus Christ’s name we pray, amen.”

“Amen,” the family echoed.

***

“Okay, girls, here’s what I want you to do.”

Karen had removed the undergarments along with their gags, and now the girls lay naked on their stomachs, staring at the floor. She herself had changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt, had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She stood holding the rubber tube attachment to the Hoover vacuum, its round end gaping like a maw.

“I want you to pretend you are your baby. Imagine yourselves nice and snug inside the womb, suspended lovingly in your mother’s fluids. Ah, how she sacrifices a portion of her every meal to you. How she keeps you hydrated and warm. She must really love you. You can’t wait to meet her. But what’s this you see? A Planned Parenthood sign? What could that mean?”

Karen picked up the bucket of ice water and doused their naked bodies in it. The blonde girl shrieked, then started sniffling, begging to be let go. Her daddy had lots of money, she said, and would pay a hefty ransom.

Karen laughed, switching on the vacuum.

“Yo, why’d you splash us?” demanded the Latina.

“Because,” Karen replied, “your mother’s procedure has begun, and her body temperature is dropping in response. You’re not so snug and warm now, are you? But what’s going on; you’re so confused. How could Mommy do this after she nurtured you for so long?”

Kneeling before the black girl, Karen shoved the rubber tube in her face.
“Ahh!” The girl said, her cheeks getting sucked in.

“Oh my!” Karen dragged the rubber hose across her face, sucking in her nostrils, cheeks, eyelids, lips—sucking in then yanking so the flesh snapped back. “Mommy, what’s happening?”

“Get off me!” the girl cried.

Karen moved on to the Latina, tugging on her face and even the steel ring in her eyebrow. Then she did the blonde, who sobbed uncontrollably, her tears swallowed greedily by the hose.

When she was satisfied, she rolled the girls over and vacuumed between their legs, sucking at the tender young flesh and twisting, snapping it back.
Screams of pain filled the room.

She switched off the vacuum and the screams were decreased to whimpers. Blood leaked across the girls’ thighs. Picking up a spool of black trash bags, she said, “All right now, girls, it’s time to wrap up your dead babies and throw ’em in the garbage. Who wants to be first?”

***

She found Ted in the living room, dozing by the blue glow of a sports game, a longneck bottle in his hand. She kissed the side of his brow, carefully retracted his beer and set it in the sink; then she headed upstairs.

The door to the boys’ room was ajar and a yellow light streamed into the hall; she paused before entering, head cocked, listening. She could hear muffled voices.

“I hope you guys are ready for bed,” she said, opening the door. She stopped. “What are you doing up there, Benny?”

Benny was on the top bunk with his brother, halfway under the blankets; he had a strange expression on his face.

“I’m practicing my defensive plays on him,” he said coolly, punching Bobby lightly in the stomach, eliciting a breathy oof!

“Well it’s bedtime now so get into your own bunk.”

Benny swung his legs over the edge, climbed down the wood ladder, and flopped onto his mattress.

“You’ve almost outgrown your bed,” she said, stepping across the carpet, past the golden trophies, the binders of baseball cards, the posters of Derek Jeeter, John Elway, Randy Johnson.

“He’ll be thirteen next year,” Bobby said, his voice uneasy and weak. “Then he’ll get his own room.”

“That’s right,” Karen said, kissing the boy on the cheek and tucking him into the blanket.
“I don’t mind staying in this room,” Benny said.

Karen kneeled beside him. “But you’re going to be a teenager soon, Benny. You’ll want your privacy. Trust me. What happens when you want to have one of your girlfriends over?”

“I hate girls,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “All they do is complain, cry, and make noise.”
Karen laughed. “Well, I doubt you’ll feel that way much longer.”

She got up and went to the door. “You boys brushed your teeth, I hope?”

“Yes, Mom,” they said.

“All right, goodnight then, have sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight.”
She switched off the light.

***

“Time for the final act,” she said, locking the metal door behind her. The girls were huddled against the wall, naked, using each other as pillows, trying to fall sleep.
“Ah ah ah,” Karen said, “come on, get up, you can rest later. Right now we’ve got God’s work to do.”

Blinking, they did their best to assume the kneeling position. Blood-smeared handprints covered their inner thighs.

Karen slid a chair before them, its legs scratching across the floor. From the shelf she removed an object draped in cloth, which she cradled in her lap as she sat down. “I have something very special here,” she said. “Want to know what it is?”

They looked at her but said nothing, their faces showing fatigue, their eyes contempt.
“Come now,” Karen said, pouting. “You can’t be tuckered out already. I have one last thing to show you, and then tomorrow I’ll dump you behind the shopping mall—or some other awful place—and you can return to your wretched lives. Doesn’t that sound nice? I hope this experience has impacted you. And next time, perhaps you’ll think twice before opening your legs.”

This news seemed to invigorate them, to give them hope. Picking up their chins, they did their best to concentrate.

“That’s better,” Karen said, removing the piece of cloth and letting it drop to the floor.
The girls gasped, made retching noises, and the black one said, “That what I think it is?”

Karen nodded, holding up the jar. “This is an aborted human fetus. Not either of yours, of course. No, this one was scheduled for stem cell research over at the university, but luckily a friend of mine is a medical professor there and he liberated it for me. He’s always been a proud member of our church.”

She shook the container as one might shake a jar of pickles; the fetus swirled about in the amber liquid. Its underdeveloped head, tiny tummy, stumpy legs, reaching arms—so beautiful is proof of God’s existence, she thought wistfully. So beautiful is the miracle of child. Unscrewing the lid, she stuck in her nose and inhaled the chemical aroma. “Ah, the scent of budding life,” she said.

She held the jar out to the girls, but they wrinkled their noses in disgust at it. “Smell it!” she demanded. And they did.

“Now, you have to watch as I do this,” she said. “I’m serious. If any of you close your eyes, I’ll punish you, and then we’ll be forced to start over. The faster we get through this, the faster you can go home, understand? You do want to go home, don’t you? Where it’s nice, warm, and comfortable?”

They nodded.

“Good. Just remember, no shutting your eyes.”

Reaching into the container, she extracted the soggy fetus and set the jar by her feet. The misshapen wrinkled body dripped fat amber drops onto her pants. Taking a deep breath, she brought the fetus before her mouth and started to eat it.
God is great, she thought, closing her eyes and swallowing, God is good, let us thank him for our food...

Little Messiahs

by Eric Stoveken

Leonard awoke from a chloroform daze knowing that he was in trouble. Adrenalin cut the pharmaceutical fog, and Leonard took in what he could of his surroundings. The room was a minimalist tableau lit by a low watt bulb dangling from a decimated fixture in the center of the room. The floor and the ceiling had recently been painted black, the scent of the paint still filled the room, and the walls were padded with soundproof foam.

Leonard’s hands and feet were taped to the arms and legs of an old wooden chair. He had been stripped to his boxers and tie. His mouth was gagged and filled with blood, shivers wracking his body every time he bit down.

The chair was grabbed by unseen hands and flipped onto the floor. The move was not done with excessive force, but the ease with which it was executed suggested impressive strength behind it. Leonard suffered a broken nose and a split lip. The chair was returned to its proper position, and the voice of his captor came from behind Leonard's right ear.

"Do I have your full and undivided attention?" The assailant waited for the indistinct and pained mutterings that struggled to get around the gag before continuing. "I guess this is not exactly helping your communication skills." A hand crept around Leonard's head, ripped the duct tape off of his mouth and removed a large ball of aluminum foil. The sight of the gag not only explained the previous shivers down the spine but aroused several new spasms as well.

Leonard started screaming for help and was smacked hard in the back of the head. Blood rushed to the front of his skull, intensifying the throbbing in his nose and the ringing in his ears. "We will have none of that. It gives me a headache. Besides, the room is soundproof so any cries for help are just plain silly. So, now that you are able to speak, how are you feeling?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that question? And every time, it's asked as if I have a clearly defined motive. Granted, I do; but generally people who do this kind of thing do not. Furthermore, people ask as if my motive needs to relate to them specifically or be of such a nature that my revelation of it will lessen this ordeal. Neither of these is true and the question is pointless. Everything will be revealed in time. Now back to my question. How are you feeling, Leonard?"

"You know my name."

"It's amazing what you can learn from someone's wallet, Leonard. Your response does not answer my question."

"I'm scared, alright? Is that what you want to hear?"

"Excellent. Fear. We shall work from there, Leonard. Regarding your question as to whether or not that was what I wanted to hear, I will say this: the only thing I require of you during our time together is honesty. If you were sexually aroused by my treatment, I would want you to tell me so. Granted, fear will make my job easier, but so will your cooperation and candid description of what you are feeling."

Leonard had not yet seen the face of the man who held his life in his hands, but he had listened carefully. The captor had been pacing back and forth behind him. The sound of his footsteps said he was wearing dress shoes. This implied a fairly formal dress code. The shoes were certainly not the sneakers or heavy boots that Leonard expected of a psychopath.

The voice was solid, but not deep; with the scratchiness of a lifelong smoker. His tone was intelligent and world weary, though not necessarily old. "Well then. What do you say we begin?"

The light went out; Leonard could hear pieces of wooden furniture moving somewhere in front of him.

The stranger working methodically in the darkness. Eventually, the faint sound of breath placed the stranger directly in front of Leonard.

The light snapped on and Leonard's eyes readjusted and gazed upon his captor. He looked like the most average middle-aged show salesman in all the land. Leonard was taken aback by the milquetoast entity that stood before him. He had a paunch, faint traces of laugh lines etched in his cheeks and a receding hairline. He was dressed, simply, in slacks and a button down shirt of an indiscernible brand or quality.

The assailant chuckled. "Not quite what you expected, am I? Fear not. You will be far more surprised with me by the time this is all over." He paused, gauging Leonard’s response. "You’re probably wondering what I have in store for you."

"I think I have a pretty good idea."

"And you are wrong," he replied with chilling confidence. The stranger was sitting on a chair just like Leonard's. On either side of him were folding tables with boxes on them, the contents of which could not be seen from where Leonard sat.

From the pocket of his shirt, the man produced a scalpel, which he fidgeted with dexterously as he spoke. "My name is . . . Roger," he explained. Leonard noticed Roger's meaningful pause and upward gaze before giving his name, as if he were making it up. If Leonard had no chance of getting out alive, he would have been told his assailant's real name. The pseudonym meant hope. "You should be honored by your selection. Your life may yet have some value in this world."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"What a stupid question. If I am sane, I would tell you so. If I am mad, I will certainly deny it and give you the same response. You may as well ask me if I am a pathological liar.

"Enough logic games. We won't worry about the outside world or the rules and mores that define it. We are going to live in the moment, and in so doing dedicate all our energies to the task at hand." Roger took the scalpel and removed a jagged patch of skin from Leonard's left arm. The scream that followed lasted longer than Roger liked.
Annoyed with the pitiful shriek, Roger took the butt end of the scalpel and sharply struck Leonard's broken nose. The pain was minor, but snapped the prisoner into silence. "Leonard, if you start caterwauling every time I touch you, this is going to take longer than it has to.

"Now we are presented with an open wound on your arm. This is terribly inconvenient for you, because, while it is painful right now, there is potential for infection and gangrene. That much exposed flesh can lead to blood poisoning and a slow painful death. Not fun, Leonard.

"I have beside me two boxes. In one I have the makings of a modern first aid kit. There are bandages, tape, antibiotics, and topical antiseptics. Everything that I need to care for that wound in a sterile and proper manner is in that box. You like that box, Leonard. The other box is filled with other ways of treating the injury. Iodine for that 1940's style medical attention. Kosher salt and whiskey should we opt for a more civil war era approach. Then there's the Tabasco sauce and sandpaper."

The prospects sent Leonard into a fit of fighting against his bonds and screaming for help that would never come.

"Now, now. This is not the sort of thing that I am prone to rush to judgment on. Each box has its merits that need to be weighed carefully. However, if you act like a child, I will be forced to make a snap decision. I may choose box number two simply because it requires less patience than box number one."

Leonard sunk into deep silence.

"You may have noticed that I have a lot of hatred inside of me and what may be described as 'a real mean streak'. Some might even say that I have too much hatred and cruelty for one man. They would be far more correct than they could ever understand. On a related note, you will be experiencing more pain than any one man should endure. You will feel as if you have died a thousand deaths by the time this is through.

"Which brings us back to the issue of the boxes. These boxes contain more than just instruments of pain or relief. They also contain the possibilities thereof. I can be merciful or cruel; and you need to try and guess which one I will opt for. It is in your nature to try and anticipate my next move. That's a good way to drive yourself mad, attempting to crawl inside my head. So what would inspire me to take mercy on you? Quiet obedience maybe? Or do I want to see you spew invective at me like a drunken biker? What do I want from you, Leonard? I'm going to sit here for a little while and watch you think about that."

Roger leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Leonard’s look, an almost defeated pout, was more or less unchanging. Were it not for the determined defiance with which he cast his eyes downward, Roger would think that his victim had been broken far ahead of schedule. Dragging deeply, Roger decided to bide his time, waiting for Leonard to make some sort of move.

After ten minutes, Roger began removing the contents of the first aid box, silently cataloguing its contents as he set them down on the tray. When this brought no reaction, he shifted his attention to the other box; removing the bottle of hot sauce and juggling it from hand to hand. This continued for a couple minutes until he lit another cigarette and inspected Leonard. The same defiance was in his eyes, the same pout on his lips. The cut on the bridge of his nose had begun to scab, so Roger extinguished his cigarette on it, bringing Leonard back to full attention.

"I'll be right back. I warn you that this meditative bitterness bores me and I may be tempted to force some animation into you when I return. Think about what I have said and let's see if you can choose your fate." The light went out and the door opened and closed behind Leonard, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The pain had faded into a white hot noise in the back of his head. It was Roger's apparent creativity, not the immediate pain, that worried him. He did, however, expect sterile treatment of his injury. Complications could narrow the window of opportunity for Roger to do whatever he needed to do. A lukewarm comfort, if that, was all that Leonard had.
Leonard knew he was in for more pain and suffering then he had ever imagined. Moments of fleeting kindness were the best that he could hope for. He needed to do everything in his power to bring those moments about. He tried to think.

The door opened in the darkness before Leonard could come to any meaningful conclusions. Footfalls shuffled into their position in front of him. Something was placed on one of the tables. Roger's voice crept through the darkness. "So, what box do you think I'm going to use, Leonard?"

Leonard could feel something in the air inches above his open wound. Not being able to see what it was or when it was coming drove reason from him and almost sent his ability to speak with it. "I don't know! I don't care! Just do it!"

"You couldn't bring yourself to see this situation through my eyes, could you?"

Leonard could feel the invisible hand creeping closer to the wound.

"I'm very disappointed in you."

At the moment that he most anticipated the burn of cayenne and vinegar on open flesh, the lights came on revealing no hand near his arm and Roger sitting serenely in his chair. On the table next to him, a microwaveable burrito sat awaiting the hot sauce.

Before Leonard could take in this unthreatening scene, he cringed against his bonds and let out the whimper of a man beneath the dentist's drill.

Roger chuckled quietly. "A thousand deaths, my friend. Each one worse than the one before."

Leonard stared at his captor with his head still buzzing from the adrenaline and enough anger to impress him.

"Which I guess means I'll be committing a thousand murders." An odd remark, Roger's statement caused Leonard's face to drain of vengeance in exchange for curiosity. "Speak while you still can," Roger warned.

"It's odd the way you talk about all this."

"How do most people you know talk about kidnapping a man and torturing him for an extended period of time for reasons that he cannot begin to comprehend?"

The point was well taken; but in spite of his comprehension, Leonard found a bizarre reply falling out of his mouth before he could even think. "Most of the people I know call it marriage." He had made a joke. A joke cracked at a man who had broken his nose and cut a swath of skin from his arm and who had the ability to expand upon these injuries for an unspecified amount of time. Perhaps, insanity was setting in.

"Good answer. There is something that I can admire. Flippancy in the face of an uncertain future." Leonard cautiously noted that Roger had still not used the term “death” in any literal sense. Roger's amusement proved contagious and Leonard attempted a smile, trying to blend, to bond with the man who could kill him at any moment. Roger's demeanor remained cool. He pivoted sharply, glaring at his prisoner. "Now what would your wife say if she heard her husband talking like that?"

Leonard's smile vanished as abruptly as his captor's. "How the hell did you know I was married?"

"You're wearing a wedding ring, Leonard. Now answer the question. What would Christina say if she heard you talking like that?"

Leonard steeled himself. Roger was trying to rattle him by mentioning his family. "I think she would be too traumatized by this situation to even speak."

"How right you are." Again that chilling certainty. "Tell you what. Because of your humor in the face of danger, I shall attend to your wound in a compassionate and sterile manner. Fair enough?"

Leonard now feared for his family as well as himself, but he struggled to remain cordial. "Thank you."

His gratitude was laughed at. "You'll be taking that back before this is over." With nothing else, he set to work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic that, while stinging, was far kinder than anything in box number two. The wound clean, the captor laid down a couple layers of clean sterile gauze and taped the bandage securely in place, wrapping the tape around the arm, being careful not to inhibit circulation. "There. How does that feel?"

"Much better. Again, thank you."

No sooner had the word "you" been uttered then Roger pulled a night stick out of his belt, bringing it down with bone cracking speed and focus on the bandaged wound. Leonard let out a scream that was silenced when he was knocked unconscious by a sharp blow to the side of the head.

When Leonard awoke, it was to the sight of Roger donning latex surgical gloves and organizing tools on a tray. "It is time for us to begin our work in earnest, Leonard. We are little messiahs, my friend, and yet, what sacrifice have we put forth? Virtually none."

Leonard was unable to respond as the aluminum foil and duct tape were back in place. Scalpel was taken in hand and a deep painful cut made on Leonard's right arm. He reflexively bit down on the aluminum foil ball, raising goose bumps and worsening the pain of the incision as the skin tightened around it.

"You see, Leonard. I am on this Earth for this very purpose. Whether or not you were destined from birth for this is a matter of conjecture. You see, you were chosen for this. Whether it was by me or some higher force acting through my hand is a futile debate. Wouldn't you agree?" Roger picked up a surgical needle and some thread. "Now I don't want you to worry about these cuts. The needle and the thread have both been sterilized and the thread has been soaked in iodine. It will sting, but it will keep the stitches free of germs and bacteria that may cause infection."

His stitching was crude but efficient. While not trying to mutilate or damage the cuts, Roger was by no means gentle, causing Leonard to repeatedly bite down on the aluminum foil ball. "Just think of all the good that we are doing here, Leonard. You're dying a thousand deaths. Think about that."

Once the first cut was sealed, Roger quickly made another, inches from the first. This second incision went a little bit deeper and produced a trickle of blood. Leonard swooned and a low moan rumbled down in his throat.

"Before you pass out, let me tell you that I have plenty of epinephrine and thorazine. Any time you get to spend in the sweet void of unconsciousness is thanks to me." Those were the last words Leonard heard before fainting.

Consciousness came in the form of an epinephrine drip. Roger had gone on to open and close many more incisions. Leonard's arms and legs were covered in freshly sewn lesions which made themselves evident when the adrenaline kick caused his entire body to jerk to life. The muscles convulsed, the skin stretched, and the fresh lacerations were pulled taut against their iodine soaked bindings.

An attempt to scream produced the usual muffled cry. Leonard looked around the room. No sign of Roger. Then came the spray. A fine mist shot into the air above Leonard's head and gently cascaded down on the fresh cuts. The prisoner let out further pathetic attempts at screams and fought madly against his bonds, worsening the pain of his mangled skin and sending new lightning bolts of pain through his broken arm. Spraying the mist, a combination of lemon juice, vinegar, and bleach, Roger walked around to face Leonard.

"I would normally have kept you awake for all those incisions, but I felt that I could make much quicker progress if I just went ahead and cut you up without your crying. Besides, I can always make up for the pain that you missed now that you are conscious. How are you feeling?"

Leonard's eyes darted frantically around the room. His heart raced. For a moment, he felt strong enough to try and escape before the pain kicked back in. Whereas he had previously been able to use shock and detachment to look at his situation calmly, he was now too frantic to comply his way to freedom. The adrenaline and the pain and the endorphins all sang the ballad of fight or flight; but his lacerated and bruised muscles had other plans, leaving his body locked in a state of suspended animation.

"You know something? My suture job wasn’t really sufficient to seal some of those gashes." The madman walked to the back corner of the room, returning with an industrial soldering iron. The sight sent Leonard into more futile and painful fits of resistance. "I'll just have to cauterize the wounds, for safety's sake."

He first applied the iron to a cut on the right knee. The skin on the knee is relatively pain resistant. Even so, it was by far the worst pain Leonard had yet experienced. The pain is unique. There is intense heat at the actual point of contact, but the nerve endings there are quickly killed. The heat, however, is such that from the central burn emanates a spectrum of damage and subsequent pain. Skin crisping burns still torment the living nerves closest to the point of contact. Further out, secondary burns still tenderize the flesh beneath the skin. Beyond that, first degree burns, little more than a sunburn, but having appeared and blistered in seconds stings the skin. These assorted pains constitute but a fraction of the miasma of sensation flooding the victim's mind.

There is a sound, quiet in the stillness of the room but thunderous in the ears of the victim; a hissing sound of hair being singed and that first layer of skin sacrificing its moisture to the searing metal. The hissing lasts just a moment before being replaced with the sizzling of flesh, of meat cooking. And what meat cooks without giving off a scent? Roasting human flesh lets off a noxious stench made all the worse for the victim by the singed hair musk that wafts up ahead of it.

This symphony of pain was to play in its entirety for Leonard every time his captor touched metal to flesh.

"Do you understand why you are here yet?" Leonard had been reduced to choking sobs and could only shake his head. Too damaged to move, too drugged to faint, he was trapped in the chair and in the hands of his madman torturer.

"Well, you see, I'm like a sponge." Iron touched flesh, the symphony played. "I soak things up." Another pause and a third lesion was sealed. "Specifically, I absorb negativity. Do you know what that means?"

Leonard again shook his head, this time more desperately as the pain was compounding with every second.

"When I say negativity, I mean so-called bad feelings. I mean anger, hatred, bitterness, rage, envy, contempt, loathing, and cruelty. All those assorted feelings that can lead perfectly normal people to do things like this."

As Roger spouted the litany of negative emotions, he touched the iron to a wound for each feeling. Leonard swooned again, but remained trapped in a chemically forced state of hypersensitive consciousness. His mind wanted to fly to some safe and warm place away from the body, but was held back by pharmaceutical chains.

"The people who have these emotions aren’t driven to anything this severe." Sizzle and burn, another cut sealed. "Which brings me ever closer to the reason that we are here right now. You see, normally the emotions that I soak up take the form of little problems. Little crimes, little sins, and little transgressions. Sometimes they are as minuscule as cutting someone off at an intersection or being rude to a cashier. Ironically, it is usually being the recipient of such behavior that would cause a person to do such a thing. Vicious cycles are born.

"Then there are the bigger sins and bigger crimes. They come from the same place, you know. Murder is just the result of negativity, just like starting a fight, calling a name, or cheating at cards: lackadaisical expressions of negativity." As he went on, Roger continued the step by step cauterization of Leonard's legs. "Do you see what I am saying?"

Leonard could not even shake his head by then. He hung his head, eyes shut tightly with tears creeping out the corners. His chest heaved with quiet sobs. He'd known people who enjoyed pain, sexual masochists and exercise junkies. They all spoke of the epiphany; of the moment of clarity and tranquility that comes from pushing your body over the edge. He had captured a faint taste of that escape with the broken arm and the broken nose. He had begun to float, and while he hated the eerie sense of detachment when it was happening to him, he now yearned to feel it once again. The carefully regulated IV's in his arm saw that he stayed right where he was, body, mind, and soul. Roger was good. He had done this before. For the first time, the painfully real specter of imminent death reared its ugly head causing Leonard's sobs to become all the more pathetic.

Roger's fist crashed into Leonard's already damaged face with surprising force and stealth. The uppercut rocked the chair back so far that it nearly spilled backwards. His ears rang, but could not drown out his captor's screaming. "You sniveling punk! You think this is fun for me? Have you been listening at all? All those feelings, all that hatred and anger and fear and loathing and bitterness and contempt; that is not fun. At first it’s a bit of a rush. A tingle in the base of the brain, a hot flushed feeling in the arms ready to strike at the first person foolish enough to cross me. It has a strength that comes with it. That's not where it ends. It keeps building. It stockpiles itself in the crevices of my being and it makes itself at home because chances are it has been there before. It builds until I must release it. Like here. Like now. And why do I go through this? Because this is my cross to bear. Because by taking all those emotions, all those little cruelties and private murders and pouring them into this one pure, simple, and isolated act, I spare the world at large. I stop the vicious cycle and slow down the wheel of Karma. I save lives and minds and souls through this sacrifice. This is not a hobby. It is my destiny."

Leonard's eyes were wide with shock, fear, and desperation. There was also a sense of pity that felt grossly inappropriate.

"You want to know where you play into all of this?" Leonard nodded a weak affirmation. "There is a flipside to all the bile that I take upon myself. For every cruelty there is suffering. For every crime there is a victim. When someone hits another person the sting is felt, and when someone commits a murder someone else must die. That is where you come in. You are taking all that upon yourself and expelling it in this same pure act. This same ritual in which I expel what demons I can from society, you take its pain. You take its suffering and bleeding and bruising and crying and anguish. We are little messiahs, Leonard. Be proud of what you are accomplishing here today."

The terror that lurked in that moment was more intense than anything that Leonard had felt. He did not know how to feel, what to say. The pain was still lighting up his nervous system and the blood still dripped warm and sticky from some of the less carefully attended cuts. He thought that he was a broken man, but the implications of everything that had been said were such that he knew his ordeal was just coming to speed. If anything was to be a source of comfort for him it was the idea that he was helping humanity, and that his torturer was just as pained as he was. He desperately wanted to believe it all.

Roger clapped his hands together loudly. "Ah, but how I prattle." The smile that spread across his face had enough evidence of glee in it to cast a shadow of doubt upon everything that preceded it. Had all that talk been part of the game? Or had it been the truth? Roger turned off the IV drips. Perhaps he was finally getting tired. He waited for the drugs to work their way out of Leonard's system, idly passing the time drawing intricate patterns on his victim with the soldering gun.

When at last it looked as the drugs had run their course and that Leonard was ready to slip into sleep or unconsciousness or that blackness whose name does not matter, Roger sharply slapped the broken arm to bring him to attention.

"You look like you could use some rest. Good idea, Leonard, you've had a hard first day. That said…" Roger drew a large dagger and plunged it into Leonard's right cheek. It pierced the aluminum foil ball and poked through the other side of Leonard's face. Roger then punched Leonard in the jaw, knocking him out yet again.

Leonard was awoken with an ice cold glass of water to the face, a pleasantly mild shock. The puncture wounds on his face had been stitched more proficiently than the other cuts. His arms and legs were unbound and his broken arm rested in a sling. Roger looked at him with a tranquil, almost relieved expression. "You may leave now, Leonard.”

"What?"

Roger handed him a cane. His legs, while terribly burnt and in constant agony, were still functional. "You question my offer?"

Leonard took the cane. "No. Not at all." Oddly enough, he meant it. There was a change in Roger’s demeanor. It seemed that he had been purged, the ritual completed. Moreover, freedom was so much what Leonard wanted that he gladly set aside any suspicion. He hobbled his way to the door and opened it, stumbling into the light beyond the threshold.

His stomach plummeted. He died a dozen more deaths more severe than anything that Roger had forced upon him. He stood in the hallway outside his own bedroom. As his body began to collapse, he was seized from behind by his hair. Roger jerked him into the room and slammed the door shut. Leonard was on his mutilated knees, Roger's grip on his hair the only thing stopping him from going fetal on the floor. Roger leaned into Leonard's ear and growled, "You have experienced suffering and bleeding and bruising, but you have not yet begun to understand anguish."

He threw his crippled victim to the floor. "This is your bedroom, Leonard, the room where you and Christina have made love and whispered so many sweet nothings in your years of marriage. Don’t worry. She won’t be interrupting us any time soon. I’ve seen to that."

The door closed and the real torment began.

Strength

by Alec Cizak

"This is your last year of elementary school," his mother explained, "next year you'll be in middle school and surrounded by completely new people." She smiled, kissed him on his forehead and shoved him out the door, towards the school bus in the front of the house.

Matthew knew better, though. His parents insisted every year that things would be different. But they never were. It started the first day of school and didn't stop until summer break. Even then, at the pool, at the mall, if he ran into one of the popular kids, the noise continued.

"There's Yuckystall!" they would say. They would point. They would laugh.

There was nothing he could do about it. The teacher always ran down the roster first thing to learn the students' names. His was at the end, the one everyone would remember.

"Matthew," the teacher would invariably say, "ah," her eyes would narrow, attempting to decipher the rudely un-American name. "Ah, Matthew, ah," more pause.

The entire class would figure out who the only uncalled name belonged to and stare at him expectantly. Matthew refused to help the teacher. She should be able to read, he reasoned, she should be educated enough to put together the letters in a logical manner that fits the rules of English.

"Yutzenstal?" She would say it, but somehow never pronounce it correctly.

"Yutz-en-stal," he would explain, as though he were speaking to a monkey in the throes of worthless linguistic training.

This annoyed the teacher, who would then allow the students to make remarks about his name.

"Yutzenstal," they might say, "what kind of creepy name is that?"

When he was younger, he explained that it was Jewish. Few elementary students understood what that meant. One or two, however, would lay into him.

"My dad says Jews have to control everything."

"Is it true your people like to start wars?"

Moronic questions to which there were no satisfactory answers for the drooling youth of ignorance. They accused Matthew of having all the power in the world, to which he would respond, "I have nothing."

This was almost true. His father was a public defender. He made no money outside of that which he needed to keep them in a small apartment in the housing projects near 25th and Keystone. They lived on the border of the worst ghetto in Indianapolis. His mother was a medical assistant at a Clinica Medica, catering to the newly arrived Mexican and Latino population of the city. She spoke four languages. She had been offered translating work with Eli Lilly. She chose eight dollars an hour working for people who called her ‘gebacho’ behind her back.

Their apartment was filled with enough rodents and insects to start a miniature zoo. Matthew watched his father set new traps for the mice and rats every night. As the early morning hours rolled around, he could hear them going off in the kitchen.

Snap!

The sound echoed through the apartment. It woke him up every morning and he began to take a liking to it. He knew when he walked into the kitchen there would be another reminder of his family's poverty, killed during the act of trying to take what little they had.

***

Matthew got on the bus. The snickers and giggles started. He tested high on the moronic assessment check-ups the state insisted all students submit themselves to. The questions were an insult to his intelligence. Because the state was convinced he was a genius, he was bussed to a public school in Carmel, the last hold-out of white yuppie hegemony in the entire state. The other students, no matter where they were bussed from, had money. It showed in their clothes, their school supplies, their shoes, their teeth.

"You don't want to be like everyone else, do you?"

This was what his father said to convince him that wearing a nine dollar pair of sneakers made him superior to his classmates. He knew better. Even in the ghetto, the kids understood that a flashy brand name printed on the side of a shoe was a ‘get out of being picked-on’ free card. The Nike emblem was worth the price of gold in the hallways. In some neighborhoods, children actually killed each other for a pair of trendy shoes.

But Matthew was expected to ‘make do.’ His clothes were from Goodwill. The logos on his t-shirts were faded. Probably for the better. While some might find great value in an original tour shirt from a 1973 Black Sabbath concert, in elementary school, it was just another badge of economic failure. Most kids never got around to making fun of his shirts, however, since the hand-me-down pants he wore were riddled with holes, many times in the most embarrassing of places.

"You guys run out of food or something?" Jason Bugle said as Matthew sat near the back of the bus.

"What?" he asked, letting his guard down. He actually thought Jason was asking a serious question.

"Looks like you've been snacking on your jeans!" he laughed and pointed to a severe tear down the side of Matthew's pants.

As the other students howled with delight, Matthew looked away. He wasn't sure why, but he thought about the ants that had invaded his bedroom at the beginning of the summer. A line of them traveling from a hole in the wall to a piece of birthday cake he had brought back from his cousin's house.

His parents were atheists, and they often spoke of Darwin. Matthew decided to read "The Origin of Species" in the spring. He had befriended several spiders that had built their webs in the corners of his room. He named them all—Darwin, Nietzsche, Camus, and the biggest of all, Hume. When the ants arrived, he decided to run an experiment on survival. Catching a few ants in a jar, he walked over to the corner where Hume had built a massive web in, and sat down.

"Hey buddy," he said, then opened the jar of ants and dumped them into the web. They squirmed for their lives. Hume saw the offering and rushed down to go to work on the weakest. Matthew watched, with tremendous fascination, the process of paralyzing the ant and then encasing it for later ingestion. He focused on the other ones. Their struggle set off a warm sensation deep within him. He could not help but smile as the little creatures frantically tried to break their way free of the sticky web.

Long afterwards, he dreamt of the terrified ants the way a normal twelve-year old boy dreams about the girl next door. He was just as small as they were, but he was not trapped in the web. It was a show, a burlesque, almost. The ants cried for help. Matthew took pleasure in refusing. Then, Hume or Nietzsche would swoop down and begin the horrifying process of ending their lives.

These constituted Matthew Yutzenstal's first wet dreams.

"Our little boy is growing up," his mother quietly told his father in the most normal, clichéd manner possible.

"Thank God," his father said, "I was beginning to think, you know," he waved his hand in an effeminate manner, "he was, you know," he couldn't even say the word.

Matthew's mother took tremendous offense. "Not my son," she insisted, "never."

At some point in the future, Matthew's parents would look back fondly at the day they actually worried that the worst thing that could be wrong with their little boy was sexual confusion.

In the meantime, the rats had gotten wise to the steel traps in the kitchen and had stopped being fooled by them. Matthew's father switched to giant glue cards. He put peanut butter in the middle. This worked beautifully.

One night Matthew was dreaming about the ants when he heard a hideous cry come from the kitchen. It was a rat, stuck, screaming at the top of its little lungs. The sound of its fear and desperation was like music. A fantastic calm washed over Matthew. To listen to another creature suffer, he realized, is the most wondrous sensation an animal can experience. He had to go look at it, to allow his eyes the pleasure his ears enjoyed.

He crept through the hallway, into the kitchen. He turned on the light and the rat, seeing a giant human to add to its other miseries, screamed louder. It tried to wiggle itself free, arched its back and made every effort to tear itself off the glue card.

"You must be really scared," Matthew said, "you must know that very soon you will no longer exist. I envy you." He looked around. He wanted to find other ways to make the rat suffer.

Water dripped from the faucet on the kitchen sink. An idea flashed through Matthew's mind. Warmth is nice, he thought, scalding heat is torture. He grabbed a dirty pan left out on the side of the sink and turned on the hot water.

"Yes," he whispered to the rat, "things are going to get worse." Happiness had never been closer, he realized. This was what Darwin intended. These creatures, these little creatures, they had no right to exist in the same space as him.

The water was steaming. He put the pan underneath it. As it filled, he tested it with his finger. It was hot enough to make him draw back. Perfect. He turned the faucet off and carried the pan over to the corner.

When Matthew looked into the rat's black eyes, he saw, for the first time, how obvious fear is to another animal. No wonder the bigger, more popular kids had such an easy time picking on me, he realized, I must have been showing the same thing. His weakness made him angry, even a little sick.

"How about some water, scarecrow," he tilted the pan ever-so-slightly, allowing a thin stream to trickle down on the rat's head, directly into its eyes.

As soon as it hit, the rat twisted from side to side violently and ended up getting stuck right up to its chin. It was now completely helpless. Matthew increased the stream of water. The rat tried to scream again, but could barely open its mouth.

It was clear that the rat was in pain, but it could no longer express it. The process had become boring. Matthew put the pan back, then noticed a steak knife on the other side of the counter. He realized the next logical step was to cleanse his hands in the bath of another's misery. He grabbed the steak knife and walked back over to the rat.

"Would you like me to set you free?" he asked in a charming tone one might normally use to invite a pretty girl to the dance floor.

Matthew bent down, picked up the rat's tail and sliced through it with the steak knife. The material making up the tail gave way to the knife with absolutely no resistance. Again, this quickly bored him.

It did not bore the rat, which had managed to rip its head off of the glue card, leaving fur and patches of torn flesh. It shrilled in short bursts, between quick breaths, as it attempted to rationalize the sudden, violent loss of its tail.

There was a little blood, but nothing spectacular. Not according to Matthew. He brought the knife down over the rat's left hind leg and began sawing through it. Now he had something. A smile spread across his face as blood washed out around the cut he was making. There was a little resistance when he got to the bone, but he was able to force the knife through and in no time he had separated the little leg from the rat.

At this point, the rat could no longer breathe in any normal fashion. Its body heaved up and down as it struggled to maintain its life.

Matthew looked into the rat's eyes one more time. The message was clear. Death. The rodent wanted nothing else at that point. What doctors would refer to as a sadistic impulse ran through Matthew's mind. He considered leaving the rat just like that, bleeding on the glue card. It wouldn't be much different from what the glue card normally did, which was starve the animal to death.

But curiosity and a senseless rush of guilt prompted Matthew to decide to cut the rat's head off and end its misery. He brought the knife up and prepared to slice through its neck.

"What the hell are you doing?"

It was his father. The man who made sure killers and thieves who were too poor to afford the Johnny Cochran's of the world had a fighting chance in court. He was standing over his son with a terrified look on his face.

"I’m putting it out of its misery," Matthew explained in a manner that did not suggest he was lying.

"Wash your hands, thoroughly," his father directed him to the sink. "You'll get rabies playing around with rats."

This was a classic case of what those familiar with psychology would call ‘denial.’ Matthew's father had seen what his son was doing. He knew very well what it ultimately meant, and his brain had quickly sidetracked him so that he would not think too much about it.

Matthew went back to bed feeling as though he had grown a foot taller. Certainly, in his mind, he had proven to nature that he was better at surviving than a filthy little rat.

***

The bus made an unusual turn. This was not strange for a first day, but the fact that the street it rumbled down was populated by those who had even less money than Matthew's family was of note.

Out of a broken down, one-story house, a skinny fourth grader with the most stereotypical thick glasses resting on his nose walked to the bus. Everything about him was awkward and clumsy. He had, apparently, just finished breakfast, for a white mustache peppered with small chunks of cereal still stuck to his face. It looked on more than one occasion as though he might stumble over his own feet.

"Get this dork," Jason Bugle said.

The others laughed as ordered.

"He looks weirder than you, Yuckystall!" It was a girl, which made the ridicule all the more upsetting.

The new boy climbed onto the bus. He was smiling. How unaware he must be, Matthew thought, of the hell these kids are about to put him through.

"Good morning!" The new boy directed his greeting at everyone on the bus.

Tony, the driver, was a greaser who still craved the validation of the ‘cool’ kids. Being in his early thirties did not deter him from doing childish and stupid things. Ignoring friendly nerds like the new kid was one of them.

"Sit down, geek," he said.

The entire bus laughed. Several bullies looked at Matthew.

This was it, he realized, this was the ticket out of hell. He smirked and shook his head in disgust. "What a tool," he said.

The bullies were satisfied. They joined in the laughter as the new boy walked, head already sunk, to the back of the bus. He saw Matthew, recognized a fellow genius and looked for support.

Matthew turned his eyes towards the window.

"Hello," the new boy said, "I'm Brandon." He offered his hand in the most polite manner.

Matthew continued to ignore him. A rage was building inside. Why the hell do the dipshits always find me for support? He curled his lips in to keep the angry air he was breathing from escaping.

Brandon gave up and sat down in the seat just in front of him.

The bus started again. Most of the kids returned to their previous conversations about sports and shoes. Matthew looked at Brandon. He was reminded of a small cat he had played with just a few weeks earlier.

Walking through an alley near 38th and Keystone, he had come across a homeless kitten. It was white with little black spots all over it. Under its chin was a black triangle, reminding Matthew of the Tom from the Tom and Jerry cartoons made during World War II. But this cat didn't look mean like old Tom. It was cute and cuddly, despite the fact that it had obviously been abandoned. When it saw Matthew, it cried with its little lungs for love and, more than likely, food.

The dying weakling in Matthew thought to himself, what a cute little kitty. I should take it home. He got as far as thinking how he would sell the idea to his dad, who constantly had to set traps for the parade of rodents in their apartment. A cat would get rid of them all, he practiced in his mind, why the very scent would scare off the mice and rats.

He picked the kitten up and started walking towards the projects. It purred and rubbed its little head against his arms in the most endearing fashion. Matthew wondered if the kitten was smart enough to show him affection based on the supposition that he was going to feed it. He held it up in front of his eyes.

"Are you being a prostitute?" he asked the little creature.

The kitten stared back at him, occasionally looking up when cars went by, then returning Matthew's gaze once more.

Matthew's stomach began to turn. It was a physical pain, complemented by a harsh voice in his head. What a pathetic existence, he thought, a tiny, fragile little animal that has the gall to call itself a killer. He needed to illustrate just how meek the cat was.

Rummaging through a trash can at the corner of Keystone and 38th, Matthew found a sturdy plastic bag from Osco's and put the kitten inside it. He walked back to the bridge over Fall Creek and climbed over the guard rail. A concrete embankment made the journey to the side of the creek effortless. Once he was by the water, he told the kitten, "Life is only pain." He knelt down, holding the bag over the creek, "You will thank me for this, just before it's over."

He dunked the bag into the river. The cat squirmed and fought for its life as water crept into the tiny space Matthew had allotted at the top. It could not fit through the hole, just watch the deadly water pour in.

Again, Matthew decided simply killing the creature was not enough. His satisfaction, what the rest of us might refer to as an orgasm, could only be derived by the cat believing there would be a pardon, and then realizing that no, this was the day all things ended.

Pulling the bag out of the water, he let the cat poke its head through the top. The kitten scratched at the side, looked at Matthew with horror and disgust. If it physically had the capability, the boy realized, this thing would tear me from limb to limb. He shoved the cat back down into the bag and dunked it once more.

Matthew teased the cat several times before he finally dumped the bag in until he felt no more movement. Climbing high up under the bridge, he took the dead cat out and laid it across the concrete in front of him. He could feel no pity for the creature. In his mind, it had made no effort to save itself.

All that is weak, he understood, is doomed.

***

Brandon had committed a cardinal sin. In his backpack was a stack of paperback books. When Matthew saw him open it and rummage through them, he assumed they were comic novels or science fiction or something else dorky. He ignored the new kid for a moment.

Then he saw the book Brandon had decided to read: The Stranger, by Albert Camus.

This had been Matthew's favorite book since the fourth grade. Who the hell did this kid think he was?

The other students noticed and were throwing erasers at him for doing something school-like on the bus.

"Can't you wait for the first bell to ring before being such a damn dork?" Jason Bugle chuckled, and then looked at Matthew, for the first time, for a follow up.

All Matthew could think about was the fact that he was no longer the true genius of the school. This new kid was obviously just starting the fourth grade. He himself had not discovered Camus until well into the second semester. Brandon would no doubt find his way to Nietzsche's The Anti-Christ before the end of the year. Mentally, he was superior. Matthew could feel it.

"Nobody reads on the bus," he finally sneered.

"Yeah, Yuckystein," Jason laughed, "give `em hell!"

Brandon ignored them all and continued reading. Continued soaking up the truth about people and apathy and the over-arching insignificance one could attach to something as mind-boggling as murder.

Matthew could no longer take it. "Put the book down," he demanded, "or I'll shove it up your nose!"

The other kids went silent. Here was an event one might expect to hear about for years to come. Stupid, nerdy Matthew Yutzenstal lost it, the first day of sixth grade, and beat the crap out of the new dork on the block.

He stood up. "Put the book away," he said again.

Brandon looked over, realizing the situation was beyond a simple Christian turning-of-the-cheek. He protected the book.

Matthew reached over and yanked Brandon's glasses off.

"Whoa!" a collective grunt of animal approval waved across the bus.

Tony the bus driver looked into the large mirror above the windshield. Seeing Matthew Yutzenstal stand over the new kid in bully formation made him smile. "You show him who’s boss, Yuckyboy!"

Matthew dropped the glasses on the floor and stepped on them. "You gonna put the book away?"

Brandon's mind made the show of force his body could not. Squinting, he opened the book back up and continued reading.

This was too much. Matthew pulled Brandon by his hair out of his seat and threw him to floor of the bus, right on top of his broken glasses. He brought his foot down, again and again, on Brandon's face. First the nose cracked, then the blood flew.

The rest of the kids stood up and moved away. They made no noise. Tony couldn't see what was happening. He assumed it was a good-natured ass-kicking that would remind the new boy that nerds don't have it easy at Carmel Elementary #12. The bus drove on as though nothing unusual was taking place.

Brandon kicked and swung blindly, desperately trying to stop the beating. This encouraged Matthew, who picked him up and dragged him to the emergency exit.

"Here's a lesson for all of you to learn," he addressed the dropped-jaw audience he was now in total command of.

Brandon grabbed the seats around him with his bloodied hands. Matthew opened the latch on the emergency exit. The bus was rumbling at about forty-five miles an hour up Keystone. There were cars right on their tail, honking, demanding the school bus simply not exist during their dash for work.

The emergency exit swung open and the alarm went off.

Tony finally looked back to see what was going on.

Wind rushed in, making the girls on the bus scream. Matthew ignored everything else. He quickly wiped the blood out of Brandon's eyes so that he could look into them.

"If there's an afterlife, I beg you to haunt me so that I may go through the rest of mine with complete peace of mind."

And then he tossed the new kid out of the bus.

The little boy flew onto the hood of a BMW racing up behind them. His fragile frame shattered on impact with the windshield of the fancy car. He bumped the hood once more as wind, gravity, and physics yanked him to the side of the road. Brandon turned several times and died.

The bus pulled over. Nobody would stand near Matthew. As Tony called for the police and an ambulance, Matthew watched the BMW with envy as it slowed and stopped at the side of the road.

Does that beautiful, expensive machine appreciate the life it just took? he wondered. To snuff the living without so much as a single emotion, this would be bliss, he realized, and sat back down to wait for the stupid pig-eyed police and whatever mundane ritual the simple-minded masses would employ to punish him.

To attempt to punish me, he corrected himself.

The World Without Souls

by D. Krauss

Stupid civilization ended on July 31, 2012 at noon, Geneva time (6 am here, so I was sleeping) when the Director of the Large Hadron Collider announced, "We have proven God does not exist." He beamed. The six or seven equally white coated, bespectacled, and (except for the two frowzy women) bearded geeks flanking him on the facility's steps also beamed.

And they had. It was quite elegant really. See, by isolating the Higgs boson and fooling around with it a bit, they discovered nothingness had this odd tendency to fold. Mind blowing, yes, the idea of nothing that can fold, but it does and out of the folds of nothing came something they called the Light quark (as in Let There Be). And from that came all of us. Not from some guy's rib.

There were some other things they proved, too, like energy's constant wasn't and that energy did, indeed, dissipate. So, on August 15th, some other guys did this worldwide thing where they took the formulas from the collider (something along the lines of E = -M, where M is the nothingness times itself with a factor a little over 1 divided by some string left over from one of Einstein's old doodles. Hey, look, the math is baffling but the theory is simple, okay?) against several thousand near death patients and, using the new particles and their tracery, proved once and for all, when we die nothing happens. You just go phfft.

Just like the world did.

Some stupid church people stood up all offended and tried to say things about God beyond the measure of existence and the soul and its travails, blah blah blah, but come on. Proof was proof. On August 31, 2012, in the middle of one of those harangues by one of those Luddittes, some guy got up from the audience, walked on stage and pumped six bullets into the Reverend So and So's head. On television, no less. Quite entertaining. I laughed when I saw the replay, before all the power went out.

A lot of people thought that day marked the end of civilization. Or maybe it was August 15, but, uh, July 31, 2012. When you prove God does not exist, everything else is anti-climax.

Like the next morning, August 1, when Billie Saint McKinney walked into the Fairfax County Courthouse, shot the two guards on duty, calmly entered the divorce court, shot his wife, his oldest daughter, the judge, and the bailiff. He set the old biddy court reporter on fire just for the fun of it and was heading towards his car when some cop shotgunned him. His last words were, "Wot'd jew do that fer?"

See, Billy got it. Billy knew. He's my hero.

It took a little into September before everyone else got it, and then, whoa. 9/11 taught us brick and steel and mortar could really burn, and boy did it. Wall Street actually reached Dresden firestorm proportions and a lot of the droogs got sucked up and incinerated. Good. Less competition. Not that I'd go to New York, there's plenty still here in DC, but sometimes people start thinking regionally and want to extend their empires. I don't need the Great Exalted Murray of Brooklyn showing up here and throwing that All Ye who Hear My Words Tremble crap around. I mean, I got enough skulls impaled on the lawns around the White House. Yeah, the friggin' White House, cool, huh? But if those Murrays keep showing up, I may have to expand out to the Treasury lawns.

I am the King of DC, got it?

Some people don't and tell ya I'm getting a little tired of tribes happening by and seeing the skulls and getting all macho and then there I am, in the middle of another damned firefight and then here I am running out of pike room. The last time, it was some guy from Leesburgh, all decked out in bear skins, believe it or not, and I had him up on the pike and he was groaning and inching his way down and I'm thinking, ya know, I need something else, need to escalate. So I took his girlfriend (why do these idiots bring their women? Showing off?) out of the basement and strapped her face down in front of him and did her while sawing at her neck with a rusty trowel. Man, that was fun, she bucked and screamed and fought and I loved it. I took her ragged head and stuffed it down the front of Bearskin's pants. He probably didn't appreciate the extra weight, yuk yuk. Some of his minions were hiding out in Lafayette Park, trembling, so I made big movements and yelled a lot to give them full effect.

Ya gotta have a legend.

Achilles knew that. Achilles made sure he'd be sung forever. Oh not that wimpy Brad Pitt-ass Achilles in that old pussified Troy movie, the real Achilles. I've read The Iliad, probably the only one still alive who has, and that Achilles was not some brooding boy toy walking around with his lower lip in a pout, no sir. Achilles was a man, a real man, and he clanged eviscerated Trojans to the ground and stole their women and stood on piles of bodies with his sword shining hot and his throat hoarse with war.
Yeah.
Five thousand years from now, they'll remember me, too. Because, fuck it, they sure ain't gonna remember much else.

Like I had this droog, you know, another stupid Murray, and he's all trussed up and cussing and crying because, well, sharpened point of a stake going up your ass, imagine. And he was kinda young and I got curious and I said, "Who's Lincoln?" And he just stops crying and looks at me, so I ask him again, "Who's Lincoln?" And, you know, he's thinking there's some angle here, so he says, "I knew him, man, I knew him!" I just laughed, I did, and yanked the pike up straight and he screamed, "I knew him!" for the next twelve hours. Got damned irritating after awhile.

'Knew him.' What a moron. I know Lincoln. Every morning, I get up from his bed and give him a salute. A legend, took no shit off those southern crackers, kicked their fuckin' asses. And I salute Churchill, too, because that English doughboy (ha, I just realized how funny that is) was a tough fucker, kicked Hitler's ass, who was no slouch.

They'll be saluting me long after everyone's forgot Lincoln and Churchill.

"Brad the Impaler," I'm already hearing it. I think that's hilarious. Still some wags out there and if I catch whoever started that, why, hmm, you know, I just might make him my court jester. Until he pisses me off, then up he goes.

I have this little game I like to play where I put two guys on the poles real close together so they're scrambling and clawing at each other, trying to ease the pressure but all they end up doing is pushing down that much faster. It's a hoot. The minions sit around and bet on who's going to poke through first and I do my part, "Whichever of you lasts longer, gets off the pole!" I yell. Lie, of course, but they'll start going at each other like there's no tomorrow. Which, in their case, is true.

No tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. There is only now.

You know, some people, some, still push it. There was this group out of Maryland, wore all white sheets and crap and walked around moaning and proclaiming the need to restore order and society and law and all that junk. I got curious, so I went out to hear them, brought the minions for the entertainment. The guy in charge, some Jesus lookin' freak, came right up to me with his High Priests 'cause I'm pretty disarming. I am. I don't look like anything, which is the trap. I'm small and kinda soft lookin' and I got this real pleasant smile. Girls in bars used to like it. They don't so much anymore.

Anyways, Jesus walks up lookin' all towards Heaven (ain't there no mo, bud) goin' "My brother, my brother!" and the minions are behind nudging each other 'cause they know what's going to happen. And I just stand there smiling, looking interested. "These evil times! Join with me, my brother, and bring back the world, its leeks and garlic."

And I kinda nod and I put on the soft voice and I ask, "Why?"

And he blinks and has this beatific smile, "Because, brother, it is the way, it is the way of happiness."

"Happiness?" I almost laugh. "Whose happiness?"

"Of us all," and he sweeps his hand so grandly back at the sheep.

"And what," I say sweeping the hypodermic from my jacket, "is the point of that?" I jammed it in his arm and plunged. Gasoline. Not good for anything else these days and I saw in the Holocaust museum how Mengele used to inject the Jews with it to see what it would do. I like that museum.

Well, Jesus danced and screamed and made a lot of noise and I just stood there watching while the minions mowed down the sheep. Stupid sheep didn't even have weapons, just love overflowing from their hearts, going to win me over with weeping and joy and hands raised in brotherhood.

Haven't they been paying attention?

We kept a few of the sheep for awhile. Lot of women with them and that was good because women are getting a little scarce in these parts. Gettin' to the point you have to go on a full blown expedition to locate a couple, so I amused myself with the windfall. Had one bound on her knees before me with her teeth knocked out and, well, you know what that was for. The minions had a couple and were playing Guess the Sodomite when one of them started screaming, "You animals, you pigs!" and the boys started laughing and playing harder and I said, "Hold on, Myrmidons." I use that word when I want their attention. They have no idea what it means but they stop when I say it because I mean business. The first time I used it, one of 'em said. "I ain't no merman!" and got all righteous with me so I staked him. No problems since.

"Keep working this," I said to No Teeth. "Bring her here," I said to the minions and they did. Cute one. Mixed race, light skinned and exotic looking, all petulant and offended. Oh boy. I kept my face straight and the minions gathered to listen. "What'd you say?" I asked her.

"You're pigs!" she spat it, just like a 12 year old girl on the playground at the boys who yelled "Show us your tits!" Ah, memories. "He was a saint!" By this, I guessed she meant Jesus of the Gasoline Blood. "He was going to save us all!"

"Save us from what?" I had to ask.

"From all of you," and she was soooo contemptuous. A couple of the minions guffawed but I put on the interested look. See, I've found with these girls that if you play along, they'll think you're some kind of hero or something and get all hopeful and dewy-eyed. Makes the inevitable dismemberment that much more fun. "What do you mean?"

"This!" and she pointed at No Teeth, who wasn't stupid and was working it rather enthusiastically (I might have to keep her awhile), "You rapists. You shit on everything."

I tapped No Teeth on the head, "Stop now, darling," and she backed off and assumed a properly subservient position. I leaned forward, looking at Exotic, looking receptive, "Go on."

"It's like you spit on the freedom we earned," she was making a 12 year old's gestures, convinced her scorn had some kind of power. Hee hee. "We got out from under the churches and the governments and all the old chains, man. We had a chance, a real one. Nothing in the way, nothing but freedom and love. You guys," more wild hand waving, "destroyed it."

The minions busted out at that point and I waved them down, making Exotic think she was reaching me, "You mean, Saint was going to lead us to Utopia?"

"Yes!" Eyes popping out and a real attitude.

"How?"
And here she got the dewy eyes and all righteous, "With love."

At that point I lost it, busted out along with the minions, did a bit of knee slapping, even a little eye wiping. "Okay, okay, I thought that's where you were going." I settled back, the dead smile splitting my face, the one that tells the recipient I'm not the cute little nice guy I look like. She stepped back, wary, an "oh shit" look on her face. You're right, oh shit. "Let me see," I said, throwing up a palm, "if I can explain. Consider this a what, a teachable moment?" I looked around the minions and they all nodded enthusiastically. They loved teachable moments.

"See, what your saint was intending was exactly what we're all free from. Now, how was this going to happen, this Utopia, this quotes 'love' unquote," I made the requisite finger movements.

"Uh, well," she was starting to get it and looked around for an escape path. None. "He would teach us how to love."

"Ah, I see," I nodded, "so let me ask you, what could he say that hasn't already been said by the Pope or Billy Graham," look of puzzlement there, "or Jesus Himself? Don't answer, don't answer," and I waved down her bubbling words, "I'll save you the trouble. Here's what," I paused dramatically. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"In fact," and here I raised a teaching finger, "wouldn't have been too long he'd have to use Catholic church methods, you know, ceremonies and punishments and heresies and things like that, to keep you all in line. I mean, how many of you were there, a thousand, two thousand?" She nodded slightly. "Sheesh," I shook my head sadly, "you probably had fifty or so guys right there who wanted to be the saint and would knock him off and proclaim some new kind of doctrine that was the One Truth and then someone would knock him off and then you'd all be fighting each other. Really, I did you a service. Because," another teaching finger, "you can't have more than ten or twelve in a tribe." I swept a hand at the minions, "More than that, someone gets ambitious. Right fellas?" And they all nodded enthusiastically and slapped hands and one of them, Karl, shouted, "Amen, brother!" What a card.

"See, they're a bunch of happy fellows," she turned to look, genuine fright on her face at all the dead eyes staring back at her, "because they can indulge their true natures. Nothing in the way. Especially," air quotes again, "love." I looked at her and she blanched and her knees started to shake. Oh yes, baby. "You believe in evolution, right?"

"Yes."

"So," I bore down on her, "why are you so fucking inconsistent?"

She furrowed her brow. That's the point with arrogant bitches like her; they still gotta assert themselves, even when they're about to be chopped up. "Don't look at me like that!" I roared her back a step or two. "You're fucking inconsistent. All those millions of years, whose genes got passed along, huh, bitch? Huh?" Her knees could no longer support her and she went down to them. I smiled. "I'll tell you who. The rapists, the murderers, the ones who stole the eggs out of nests and put in their own and ate," here I clicked my teeth, "the loving and the sweet. Umm umm umm."

I sat back, steepling my hands. She was panting hard, her eyes wide with terror, but still wanting to say something. "I know, I know," I was actually getting bored with the conversation, "Michelangelo, Titian, the Declaration of Independence, yeah, yeah, yeah. Back before. Back when we thought there was Something Beyoooond," I waggled my fingers and used my spooky voice, which really cracked up the minions, "all that was cool. But," now was the point of the lesson, "there ain't Something Beyond. All there is is you. And if you're not spending every moment you got here doing everything you feel like, building your legend, then you're wasting it." I raised both of my arms Heaven… er, skyward, "Praise Billy."

"Praise him!" the minions replied and they grabbed Exotic and threw her screaming to the ground. Karl decided to go for a little extra shtup while I was going over the options and I took my time, let him finish up. "Well?" Sandy asked, big goofy West Virginia gap-toothed grin on his face. "Let's play..." and I stroked my chin as if pondering Life's Mystery, "...Assyrian."

"Assyrian!" they all cheered and dragged Exotic off a bit, kicking and shrieking, and pounded the stakes and leather-bound her to them, spread eagled. Shame, really, she was nice. The minions played rockpaperscissors and Sandy won. He pulled out his Bowie, tested its edge, and started at the right wrist. That's the rule. The one who can carve off the longest piece of skin without breaking it or causing too much bleeding or killing her, wins. Takes awhile, if done right, and my guys were good at it. Sandy might even win, the slow careful way he was proceeding down the forearm.

I looked at No Teeth. "You wanna get back to it, or do you wanna play Assyrian, too?" She scooted right up and resumed, much more enthusiastic. Nothing focuses the mind like the prospect...ha ha. God, she's good. I think I will keep her. Have kids. They're so delicious.

I sat back and looked at the stars. Even they won't last. The exotic's screams rose to them, a pleasure in God's nostrils? No. Another line in my Legend.

Praise Billy.

Little Blenny Bunting

by Airika Sneve

A stalk-limbed, doughnut-mouthed supermodel pouted vacantly for traffic from a billboard on the side of a bus stop shelter. Large block letters proclaiming "Chanel!" floated across her waist. On the sidewalk below the supermodel's billboard, crumpled McDonald's cups and bags skittered about like paper rats. Busses, taxis, and cars hurried along the slushy winter streets that surrounded the concrete island of fast food joints and liquor stores on whose face the bus stop rested.

A young man in a pylon-orange coat sat on a bench inside the shelter. He was the only ember of color in the day's otherwise neutral palette of metal, ice, and smoke, seeming to glow, almost, amidst the smoke-silver early evening that swirled around the shelter in chilly shades of November.

The young man wiled the minutes away by blowing his breath out in cold air rings (much like his neighbor Gertrude did while puffing away on her endless train of Tourneys). Occasionally, he would stop to dispense friendly hellos to passersby. With his snaggle-toothed smile and heavily-hooded hazel eyes, he had an innocence and air of openness about him that made him seem far younger than his twenty-four years.
The technical term for his condition was 'Down syndrome'—however, what he may have lacked in IQ and autonomy, he easily made up for in personality; his friendly innocence quickly charmed both people and animals alike. As was typical of him, he waved to passersby, eliciting smiles from even the sourest pedestrians as he sat on his bench and beamed.

All of a sudden, mid-hello, the boy heard a commotion flare up on the street corner just yards away from the shelter. He turned to look. Next to the stoplights, a tall, wiry black man with wild serpentine dreadlocks dressed in swathes of loose rags, stood facing a police officer.

"Come on, man," said the officer, a not-so-subtle tone of exasperation in his voice. "You soliciting again? Can't you see me standin' here? You out of your mind?" Only it came out, "You outta yo mahnd?"

The dreadlocked man's skin was such a dark, rich shade of chocolate that the whites of his eyes seemed to glow from their sockets like twin moons at midnight. He shook his head, his dreadlocks quivering like a willow tree in a fierce breeze.

"Show some sympathy for a brother, man," he said. "I ain't had my fix since last week! I'm a-startin' to shake!" Thick lips crinkled back from huge white teeth in a mischievous grin. He rattled the coins in his Styrofoam cup at the cop.

The officer threw up his hands, more out of incredulity then anger. He couldn't believe these brickheads. It didn't do any good to toss them in a cell for a night or two, oh no. That was no deterrent. Once they were out, they'd get right back to their business of irritating the public and wasting his time, no lesson learned, only valuable time lost. Easier to send them packing with a threat and a headshake.

"Get a move on," said the officer. "If I catch yo solicitin' ass out here again, I'm takin' you for a free ride down to the station. Now put an egg in yo shoe, and beat it."
"Shi-it." The man gave the officer an injured look, then headed toward the boy in orange.

"Hi, my name is Blenny, spelled B-L-E-N-N-Y," said the young man to the dreadlocked fellow seated next to him. "I've been working at Shop-Rite since last week. I'm new. What's your name?" The man stank like garbage laced with cigarettes, but Blenny didn't say anything. That would be rude.

"My name is Cyrus, but you can call me Fate," the man answered in a raspy baritone. He tossed his head back and howled, huge bear trap jaws open wide, mirthful eyes squeezed shut.

Blenny was unfazed. "Hi, Cyrus, nice to meet you. My dad works at the post office. His name is Bill. Does your dad know my dad?"

Cyrus did a double take. "I don't know! I don't even know who my daddy is, man, never mind yours!"

"Oh. Do you know my girlfriend, Caroline? Jessica was my girlfriend before, but Caroline's my girlfriend now. She's pretty." (Caroline was the sweet blond volunteer who worked in the cafeteria at Alder Park Assisted Living, where Blenny now resided). His mother had been hesitant to let him leave home, but, after much imploring from Blenny, had eventually relented. He'd been living at Alder Park for six months now, and was very proud of this accomplishment.

"I don't know Caroline neither, kid, but I'll tell you what I do know."
He leaned in toward Blenny, suddenly grave. He kept his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead, talking to Blenny almost out of the side of his mouth. His voice lost its gravel, and became soft and smooth.

"You gonna have one biiiiig adventure today, kid. I guarantee it."
Blenny leaned away from Cyrus, wishing, for maybe the first time ever, that he had heeded his mother's instructions never to talk to strangers. The tone of this man's voice was starting to scare him.

"I'm not a kid, I'm twenty-four." Blenny hugged his arms against his chest. "I'm going to Shop-Rite. I bag groceries there. I'm new."

Cyrus leaned in even closer, keeping his eyes on traffic. He aspirated warm, fetid gusts into Blenny's face with each word. It smelled like a corpse's asshole stuffed to the rim with moldering tuna, like some unhallowed Thanksgiving offering in Sheol. This time, Blenny did not refrain from covering his nose.

Cyrus whispered his next words so softly, his voice was almost lost to the wind.

"Little Blenny Bunting."

Blenny recoiled.

Little Blenny Bunting—that was his nickname, known only to his parents and his best friend, Petey, at Alder Park. How did this scary stranger know his nickname?
"W-w-wha—"
"Be very quiet, Blenny. If you so much as blink, I'll tell that nice new boss of yours you've been stealing candy bars from the stock room, and he'll fire yo ass reeeal quick. Shit, you might even get kicked out of your little halfway house, how'd you like that?"
Blenny stared, shocked. He had never stolen anything from anyone, not since his mother caught him stealing a pack of gum from the store when he was six. Stealing was
a bad, bad thing to do, his mom said, and he would especially never steal from his new boss, nice Mr. Fairweather.

"I never!"

"Be quiet!" Cyrus snarled, whipping his head around to face Blenny with a wild-eyed stare. Blenny jumped. He couldn't speak; he was too terrified.
Cyrus smiled, satisfied. He nodded. "All you need to know," he said, his eyes once more back on traffic, "is that you got a big surprise comin' up today, and we need to keep you on schedule. Your surprise be comin' up real quick."

Now Cyrus' voice rose to the raucous, gravelly shout Blenny had first heard. "You goin' on a wild ride today, boy, yes indeed!" He doubled over with lunatic laughter.
Terrified, Blenny sat and stared rigidly ahead. The faintly surfacing stars seemed to be peeking at him, leering at him, from behind gray translucent cloud drifts in the rapidly blackening silver sky. Pedestrians hurrying by seemed far away, far on the opposite side of a glass winter world Blenny was unable to reach.

His tongue darted madly in his open mouth. He wanted to shout for help, but what if Cyrus told Mr. Fairweather lies about him? He might lose his job, his new home; it was too much to risk.

On the sidewalk in front of them, a hurrying man with gold spectacles and a long duster gave the chortling Cyrus a dirty look, and shouted "Quiet down! This is a public place." Blenny's heart leaped—maybe the man would come over and make this nightmare stop!
"Hey, fuck off, man!" Cyrus shouted, giving the man the same one-fingered signal Blenny's mom had told him was "A BIG NO-NO."

The man furrowed his brow and shook his head, but—worst of all—kept on walking. Helpless, Blenny watched his retreating back until it disappeared into the Hollywood Video on the next block. He wanted to yell, "Help! Come back, mister, please!" but knew he wasn't allowed to. Now he was all alone.

Cyrus whipped his crazed, grinning face toward Blenny. "Get ready for your surprise, Blenny! It's-a gonna be a doozy!"

Blenny burrowed into his coat as far as he could, squinched his eyes shut, and pleaded with Jesus: if He made the bus appear this very instant, and/or made Cyrus disappear, he would wash dishes at Alder Park for a whole month, and he would do it with a smile.

Cyrus hooted and cackled on.

A few minutes later the bus did pull up, looming over the shelter like an enormous metal caterpillar on wheels. Blenny heaved a shuddering sigh of relief.

The bus' doors accordioned open with their customary metallic wheeze. Blenny started up the steps, then halted. Strangely, the driver grinning down from the driver's seat was not Clifford, the jolly Irishman who had captained Route 6 for as far back as Blenny could remember. In his stead sat a pallid, skeletal shadowslip of a man with round glasses and thin, greasy blond hair tied back in a ponytail under a blue conductor's cap.

"All aboard, Blenny!" said the driver, tipping his cap. His voice was high, feminine.
Blenny gawped at the strange driver, then flicked a glance toward Cyrus, who waved at him from the bus stop. Blenny shuddered. "You know me too?" he asked warily.
The driver winked. He blew a greasy strand of hair off one sharp cheekbone, and said, "I suppose you could say that. You'd better hop on quick though, Blenny, before our good friend Cyrus there decides to board the ol' Route 6 dragon himself." He gestured toward Cyrus, who blew a kiss at Blenny from the bus stop.

A saucer-eyed Blenny threw himself up the bus' steps. He knocked his shins a good one, but hardly noticed. With shaking hands, he dropped his quarters into the coin box, then plunked down into one of the bus's brown plastic seats.

"I need to go to Shop-Rite, Mister. I work there. I'm new."

The driver smiled; the bus lurched forward.

Today there would be no animated conversation with Clifford (nor anyone else), for Blenny recognized neither of the other two passengers on board. He sat, silent, engulfed in an alien emotion that wouldn't quite show itself to his conscious mind. It twisted and shifted beneath the deep waters of awareness, a dark serpentine shape that undulated just beyond the periphery of vision. Blenny sighed and stared blankly out the window.
A pair of watchful eyes beneath a blue conductor's cap glanced at Blenny from the rearview mirror, corners creased in a mirthful smile.

The bus coasted onward.

Of the other two passengers, one was an obese, mustachioed man with shaggy blondish hair and cracked bifocals who sat clutching a walker. He dozed in and out of a snore-filled, drooling sleep, jerking awake when the bus hit a pothole only to stare blankly ahead until dozing off again. The other passenger, a stooped old lady in a violet polyester coat with rows of huge cloth buttons, continually startled Blenny and the mustachioed man with loud, random exclamations wondering where "the kitty" was.
Blenny had almost fallen asleep when the driver belted out, "Oh, we are getting so much closer!" shouting the last word so loud Blenny jumped in his seat.
At the volume spike of the word 'closer,' the fat man opened his eyes and glared at the driver, clearly irritated out of his slumber. The old lady cast him her own gimlet glare.

"Where's the kitty?" she snapped. "Is he hiding near the planter? For God's sake, Albert, I told you to close the door!"

Blenny pooched his lip out. "For crying out loud! There's no kitty here!"

Blenny looked over at the obese man, and noticed a wetness spreading around his crotch. The guy noticed him staring. He smiled in return, exposing broken rows of jaundiced pegs.

"Stop! That man peed his pants!" yelled Blenny, pointing.

The fat man just uttered a phlegmy gurgle deep in his chest.

The old lady chimed in. "Where's the kitty? For God's sake, Albert, did you leave the door open again?"

"There’s no kitty!" yelled Blenny. He knew his mother would never tolerate him yelling at a stranger, but after the weird, stressful day he'd endured, he felt like he was going to explode. "There’s no surprise! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Seized by panic, he yanked his hood over his face, grimacing. For crying out loud, what was this? Where was Clifford? Why was this happening? He had to get off this bus.

The harsh neon overhead lights began to blink; the rearview mirror reflected a pair of watchful eyes under a blue conductor's cap and a slowly widening grin.
Blenny was so distressed, he failed to notice that a huge black spider with a body like an arthritic knuckle had lowered itself onto his shoulder. When its furry black shape finally caught his eye, he leaped up and began jumping up and down screaming bloody murder.
"Icky bug, icky bug!" he yelled, beating at his coat.

The obese man stared, smiling a vacant, demented smile. The old lady joined in the fracas, screaming "Get the kitty! Albert, get the kitty! Blenny! Albert! Get the kitty!"
It was too much for Blenny to handle. He bellowed out one final "Uuuuhhh," then fainted dead away in his seat.

***

Blenny awoke on the side of a residential street that he had never before seen in his life. The lampposts glowing like torches in the dark told him that some time had passed; how much, he didn't know, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. All he knew was that his hands and ears felt like the ice block turkeys his mom stored in the freezer for their dinners, and his head ached something fierce. He scrambled for his mittens, then looked around.

Slowly and arduously, he squinted his eyes and sounded out a signpost: Bleak Street, it read. Fear as bright and lethal as blood slithered down his spine. Where was he? Did Cyrus put him here? For crying out loud, he'd never get to Shop-Rite now.

He buried his face in the orange cotton of his coat to escape the bitter wind. It was nighttime now: the stars gleamed like needle tips in a very dark, very cold winter sky. Mr. Fairweather would be very concerned by now, and would probably even have called his parents. He'd better hurry up and find someone to help him out of here.

On the left side of the road was a blacktopped parking lot in front of a two-story brown building. No lights shone in any of its many rows of windows. It radiated an aura like a haunted beehive; Blenny knew there was no one there to help him.

On the other side of the road was a small baseball diamond lit by a few tall streetlights. In the distance, a high stand of pines shivered and huddled as if clutching each other desperately for warmth. There was not a single person in sight.

Being alone like this was scary, but not as scary as being on the bus with those crazy people, or being with Cyrus. He thought of Cyrus' lunatic laughter, and uttered a quiet, "Uuuhh."

Apparently, there was no living creature near this wasted street, except...

Blenny jumped as an emaciated black dog seemed to materialize in the middle of the street.

Its eyes were rolled back in its head. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, spraying foamy spittle. Patches of its fur were missing. It possessed only stumps for hind legs, so it dragged its hindquarters along the ground, jerking its head spasmodically from side to side as it heaved along toward him.

Ordinarily, Blenny loved dogs, but this was not a dog he wanted to pet.

"Icky dog, icky dog!" he yelled, and ran down the road and across the baseball diamond, feeling like a bug about to be squashed by an enormous fly swatter descending from above. He could feel danger crackling in every direction. His thoughts were jumbled, as if the airwaves in his mind had been inundated by a barrage of criss-crossing radio signals.

Icky dog! Icky bug!

Where is everyone? Where are all the cars?

(Wild ride today...Surprise!)

Scattered lines of small, vacant houses flew past him as he ran, conjuring images of a broken Christmas miniature village on a haunted mantelpiece. His sides ached, and the November draft stung his cheeks and seared his lungs, but still he pressed on—until, what seemed like hours later, Blenny rounded the pine stand and stumbled upon a village.

He breathed hard, looking wildly around for someone, anyone. Something seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

Ghosts.
Blenny rapped balled fists on his head, clenching his eyes shut. "Sh-sh-shut up," he muttered. There's no such thing as ghosts. Dad said so. He tried to sing over the bad thoughts.
"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."
Ghosts...Not Real!

"...all through the town."

The village was like a trailer court, only instead of trailers, there were about twenty busses lying on their sides and roofs in an overgrown lot surrounded by pines. Wheels spun lackadaisically in the wind. Some busses were half-buried in the snow. Many of their windows were broken, and all looked like felled dinosaurs being slowly devoured by the elements.

A hum vibrated throughout the lot. It sounded like something mechanical, electrical...
There must be someone here!

Blenny stepped uncertainly forward. "H-hello? Hello? S-somebody, please help! I'm lost!"

No answer.

Suddenly, he heard a thud. He jumped, looking around wildly; nothing...then, a voice: "Over here, Blenny. Come, now." The voice was an old lady's thin, papery cackle. A light popped on in one of the busses.

Shaking, Blenny trudged toward it. He didn't want to go on that icky dead bus, but what choice did he have? He couldn't stand around freezing to death in the cold. He
proceeded on, hands clutching his forearms and singing a monotone, tuneless song:
"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."

The lighted bus was sunken a few feet into the snow. Blenny mounted its two visible steps.

Before he could even raise his hand to knock, the doors opened, presenting a woman so old she reminded Blenny of a scarecrow. He looked down to where she sat in her wheelchair. She was bald and wore white petticoats with a stained but elaborate-looking poplin dress. Her eyes were gray discs hovering above a red-rimmed horizon.
"Come in," she croaked. "I am Iris Pubefant."

The butterflies in Blenny's stomach flared up anew, beating mad wings upon tight prison walls. This was a bad, bad place, and that old lady was bad too.

But he needed help him finding his way home. Mom and Dad must be beside themselves by now, and he knew that Mr. Fairweather would be, too.

Iris backed her wheelchair down the aisle. With one brittle white hand, she gestured Blenny in. Immediately, the nostril-choke of cat piss assaulted Blenny's nose. His mouth hung ajar. He was so petrified he didn't even think to spell his name out for Iris in his customary introduction.

The second thing Blenny noticed was a glass fruit bowl sitting lamely on the driver's seat. Rummage sale yellows and faded purples proclaimed the knick-knack's antiquity with melancholy layers of dust. The spirit of the entire bus village seemed contained within this one object.

Blenny looked beyond the fruit dish, and gasped.

The bus was filled with dolls.

Hundreds of them lined the seats. They stared back at Blenny with faded glass eyes that looked as though they had witnessed centuries elapse. Most were cracked so badly, Blenny thought they would crumble to dust if he dared to put even one finger to their ancient porcelain cheeks.

Wordless images filled Blenny's mind. The dolls—so old, so melancholy, so brittle—had survived centuries only to become the lonely relics of dead children. Although the children (the dolls had belonged to) had long ago lived, died, and long lay in their graves, he knew that the dolls themselves were very much alive.

Blenny goggled. There was an army of dolls here—they could easily converge upon him and tear the skin off his bones with their dull porcelain teeth, if they so desired. He knew that they would laugh with the voices of dead children as they did.
Sh-sh-shut up, not real.

Iris wheeled up to Blenny, cutting off his frightful daydreams. "It's almost time for your surprise, Blenny," she said. "This is certainly a very special mission that only one special boy could accomplish. Are you excited to discover what it is?"

Blenny cringed. Up close, he saw that Iris' dentures were wooden. Cracked and ancient, she looked very much like one of her dolls.

"Can you—c-c-can you—"

Suddenly, something moved. At the rear of the bus, one doll stood out from the rest.
Her wide cornflower-blue eyes stared brightly beneath wispy black lashes. She smiled at Blenny with fissured apple cheeks and fading, delicately painted freckles. She wore a frilly blue dress with a white apron, frilly white socks, and black patent leather shoes. Her auburn pigtails shook. She was gyrating rapidly.

At first, Blenny's eyes did not register the horror of what they were witnessing—however, it took only seconds for horrid comprehension to dawn.

The doll was masturbating with a toy shovel.

For the second time that day, everything. Went. Black.

***

The bus blurred back into vision some time later. Blenny raised his head and saw Iris Pubefant rocking back and forth in her wheelchair. She was smiling in an empty way that, to a wiser observer, would have indicated an imminent walk through dementia's doors. Her hands were folded neatly over a pig-tailed doll on her lap.

"Do you like my collection?" she inquired.

"I g-gotta go now. Gotta go home. B-bye." Blenny jumped up.

"But you haven't yet received your surprise, Blenny. You can't possibly return home with unfinished business." Blenny watched, horridly mesmerized, as she plucked hairs out of the pig-tailed doll on her lap. "It simply isn't done, you know." Pluck. "Not in polite society." Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.

The lascivious doll in the back of the bus stared glassily into space, completely motionless. Blenny stumbled toward the door. "For crying out loud!" he brayed. "This is a bad, bad place, and I'm going home right now!"

Iris stopped rocking. This time she was not smiling. She spoke quietly. "I object."

Blenny froze. An invisible force stayed him. He tried with all his might to run, but to no avail. He yelled.

Iris resumed rocking, this time furiously. "When I was a little girl, disobedience was punishable by forty whacks from a wooden ruler. We were taught to have manners, you filthy little ingrate. Manners!" She made a hawking sound, and pointed at him. "And you, you spoiled creature, you have the presence of mind to be an ungrateful guest!"

Blenny was wailing now. "Leave me alone, for crying out loud!" He tried to shake free of his invisible bonds, but couldn’t. "I'm getting out of here!"

"Did Cyrus not inform you of your surprise, Blenny?"

He blubbered.

Iris stopped rocking.

"Blenny."

Blenny felt himself walking backwards, being pulled inexorably toward the mottled scarecrow in the wheelchair. His will was limp. Struggling invisibly, he was pulled backward to stand before the witch.

"I can't move! I can't move!"

Iris grinned nefariously. "Did you know that one can often tell a person's age by the rings around their rectum?" she cackled. "How old am I, Blenny?"

Blenny found himself tearing mindlessly at Iris' petticoats. "S-s-s-stop, stop!" he yelled. "Help! P-Police!"

He hoisted Iris up and rolled her onto her stomach on the floor with a strength he didn't know he had. Her bones emitted an almost flatulent creak as he did so. He whimpered.

"Tie me to my wheelchair, sugarpubes!" Iris cried, cackling with horrific glee.

He lowered her bloomers and gagged as her old-lady queefstench corrupted the air. Screaming, Blenny peeled Iris' runneled butt-loaves aside, revealing a sphincter that was winking and blinking in gelatinous anticipation. The grotesque Cyclops winked at him obscenely. He filled his pants.

"No, you little nitwit!" shrieked Iris. "Turn me over the other way! Other Way!"

Blenny tried with all his might to resist, but to no avail. His will was hers.

He flipped her over. A huge puff of elderly gray muff bushed up at his face; it sprang in kinky tufts around something that looked like a hanged worm.

The surrounding dolls were now tittering like insane cicadas. In a horrible moment of insight, Blenny realized that they were the source of the humming he'd heard in the village.

Iris lifted her petticoats higher. Her breasts oozed over the sides of her ribcage. An oozing, gaping stoma smiled out at him from her chest. It pulsed and throbbed, opening its lips wide to receive.

Iris screamed "You little bastard! Listen here!"

Blenny felt another contraction-like, invisible pull—the strongest yet. Shouting and bawling, he unzipped his corduroys and plunged his manbit into the scabrous stoma.

Ruptured pustules bled burning sputum into his urethra. Blenny heaved, and then vomited hard. The afternoon's half-digested corndogs ran down Iris' back.

She grunted like a farm hog in heat. The stoma held an iron grip on Blenny's member, gulping him in further as he beat at Iris' face with his free hand. Fragile bones crunched beneath rotted pumpkin skin, yet Iris' invisible hold on him was relentless.

Suddenly, Blenny felt a shocking coldness around his disappearing member. He looked down. Incredibly, the stoma had expanded to reveal a set of metallic jaws yawning around his shaft. Before he could scream, the jaws grinned wide, expanded, and snapped shut around him.

"Uuuuhhhh!"
The windows were spackled crimson. Limb by limb, the poor Down syndrome man's body was chewed into the vortex of the glittering stomatic bear trap. Bone, gristle, and orange cotton fibers flew. The dolls were gone; in their place sat tiny skeletons chattering madly in the bus seats.

"Surprise, Blenny!" Iris keened.

When all was screamed and bled, Mrs. Iris Pubefant dragged herself back to her wheelchair and rested: her work here was done. She rocked serenely, croaking softly to
herself.
"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."

***

Somewhere in a distant, obscene pocket of the universe called Bleak Street, Iris Pubefant's sphincter dilated and contracted spasmodically. Near the Route 6 bus stop, a
midnight man in dreadlocks and rags startled a passing officer with loud, unwarranted screams of laughter.

Also on Bleak Street, in a graveyard of abandoned busses lying like felled whales beneath a stand of quivering pine trees, an obese mustachioed man was dragged along in a wheelchair by a slobbering, legless black dog. In a neighboring bus, an old lady asked the nothingness where the kitty' went.

All was fine and well in this corner of the universe...at least until the next surprise.

About the Authors

John Mcnee

An unemployed journalism graduate living on the west coast of Scotland. He writes solely to distract himself from the crushing boredom.

Daniel Fabiani

A 22 year old kid from NYC with the accent to prove it! He loves all things horror and works in a hospital, witnessing horrific things and getting paid for it. He is a fanatic for cooking and romance languages and is also a wine lover. He writes existential horror and feels it is sewed to his soul. He is a self-proclaimed bookworm and is not afraid to show it.

Lucas Pederson

The undisputible Dark Lord of Earth and at this very moment he's sending his minions into children's closets, stuffing them under beds, and filling every dark shadow in every corner of every room. He will kill you if you so much as utter his name and—

—he's also the published author of over fifteen short stories in various anthologies and ezines.

He lives in Iowa with his beautiful wife and three wonderful daughters...

...or does he...?

Danny Hill

Your Tender Loving Touch was one of those fun stories that took an impossibly short short time to write. Once I had the germ of the idea the writing process took only a few hours. It was only once I'd read back the first draft that I suddenly realized just how... wrong it was, just how terribly sick and disturbed. Even my mother read it. She hasn't called for a while. I had one of those "Give yourself a little talking to" moments and resolved that no publisher's gonna touch this with an eleven foot pole.
Or will they?

Jessy Marie Roberts

Jessy Marie Roberts lives in a "haunted" house in Western Nebraska, though she grew up in Morgan Hill, California. She writes in an office where a doctor put a bullet through his brain about 100 years ago. The west basement of the house has a morbid history of people hanged from the rafters whereas the east basement was once lined with deep freezers stuffed full of dead cats stored in plastic baggies.

Shane McKenzie

He has no idea what’s going on. Who are you people? He lives in Austin, TX where he writes down what the voices tell him to, then runs and hides under his bed. The voices have published over twenty short stories in various ezines and anthologies. Their hungry for more.

Jared Donald Blair

I am twenty years old and currently in my junior year at The Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. My mind is constantly running off with ridiculous and fanciful ‘what ifs’, most of which usually include quite a lot of blood. So I have decided to put my imagination to work, taking these macabre scenarios as far as my words will allow. My main intention is to make my readers squirm and writhe, laughing as they go. I hope to describe brutality and gore as both beautiful and surreal; and prove that the happy ending is not always the right one.

Lesley Conner

A closet serial killer, plucking victims from her imagination and eviscerating them on the page....well, when's she not too busy raising two kids (and a husband) anyway. It is this double life which has kept the authorities in Maryland (where she lives) off of her trail, for now anyway. Which victim will be her last?? For
details, visit www.lesleyconner.com.

David Bernstein

When David, A.K.A. MacabreZombie, isn’t writing horror, he can be found reading or watching it. He won the prestigious Macabre Zombie award for best horror fiction in 2009 and believes he’ll win it again in 2010. He’s been published in Blah-Blah, and the awesome Yada, Yada, Yada Magazine of bullshit. He loves chocolate ice-cream loaded with other chocolate goodies, but finds it’s like a tasty boogeyman that lurks around the corner and is always stalking him, wanting to envelope his tongue and invade his stomach. He lives in the NYC area and believes car horns should be banned while within city limits.

A.J. Brown

He was sworn to secrecy by a muse with dark hair, dark eyes and a wickedly delightfuly whip. For each accepted story he receives twenty lashes... For each rejection, well, that's where the secrecy comes in. Some of his beatings have occurred at SNM Horror Magazine, Liquid Imagination, and Static Movement among others.

Tom Olbert

I come from a great family. My dad is a physicist who emigrated to the states from eastern Poland where he served with the resistance during WWII. My mom's a great lady he met here. (She keeps us all on our toes.)

My sister Elizabeth is a fascinating individual. She marched against the Vietnam war back in the day. She's an artist whose had a number of gallery shows in New York City. She now teaches art at a college in Maine and lives on a farm with three horses, all of whom she loves dearly.

My family and I are all die-hard democrats. Me, I volunteer with local organizations hoping to advance the causes of clean energy and affordable healthcare. I'm also concerned about human rights, including a woman's right to choose. I tried to illustrate that theme in my story "Mother's Little Helper."

Nate Burleigh

Nate is the father of 3 fantastic children. He's been married for 14 wonderful years to his best friend and number one fan. Since becoming a father, the conglomerated stories in his mind have come to fruition in the form of bedtime stories, but the inner horror writer in him has reared its ugly head.

He’s only been writing prose for two years. But, he just completed his first book "Sustenance" and has had many of his short stories publish in various online magazines such as Horror Bound Magazine and SNM Horror Magazine. He also has a children’s story published at bedtime.com, (shhhhh, don’t tell anyone.)
Telling stories is something he loves to do, putting them on paper for the masses to devour—his dream. Be forewarned, he spent many nights as a child sitting on his Mother's lap watching horror movies. They may have rubbed off a little.

John Arthur Miller

John Arthur Miller, known as “JAM” to friends and fans, eviscerates his mind with anathema and borrowed nightmares from the criminally insane. This has delivered over to him over sixty publishing credits, an online magazine garnering around a thousand internet hits per day, and an abundant supply of bodies in the basement. Because he enjoys murder, he would rather promote others more than himself at his ezine, so that he remains beneath police radar. Find out more at www.Liquid-Imagination.com.

Thornton Austen

A retired political writer and avid treasure hunter, Thornton Austen lives deep in Southern Arkansas on Swamp Music farm with his wife, daughter, and an ill-tempered Basset Hound. There, Austen enjoys playing his fiddle on the front porch while contemplating the deeper mysteries of life at the end of the power line. His latest novel, Blood Knowing, will be available in April 2010 from Arkansas Traveller Publishing.

Aaron J. French

Aaron J. French lives in a deep dark hole somewhere in the American Southwest, from which he occasionally emerges to splatter his unconscious demons across various small press publications. He can be summoned at AaronFrench1@gmail.com

Eric Stoveken

Eric Stoveken is a writer of strange and unusual tales. He occasional entertains very dark thoughts. This is usually done with a blood-drenched puppet show.

Alec Cizak

Alec Cizak is a writer from Indianapolis. In his spare time, he collects roadkill off of I-65 and I-74, skins and prepares the meat and freezes it in packages he mails to starving children around the world. In a smug manner, he encourages the rest of us to be so generous.

D. Krauss

I'm an old guy, in my fifties, did shadowy things for shadowy agencies and lived to tell the tale (and not telling the tale keeps me alive). I live near DC, too near, and spend my days laughing at all the sincerity. We are just one temper tantrum away from the Dark Ages and the only real progress is in cell phone apps, each one making us a little more stupid. I am a cheerful person.

Airika Sneve

Airika Sneve is a writer and musician from Minnesota who is currently pursuing a B.A. in psychology. Readers often cite a compulsive need to shower after reading her stories, as well as Tourette’s-like symptoms and violent language regarding the fate of many of her characters. When she's not inflicting her poetically disgusting brand of “Ick-Lit” upon readers, Airika can usually be found rocking out with her band at Myspace.com/Midria.

Table of Contents

Ruthles: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection