Author: Jack Ketchum; Robert Devereaux; David Quinn; Monica J. O'Rourke; Shane McKenzie; Daniel I. Russell; Raymond Little; Laura J. Campbell; Calie Voorhis; Thomas Pluck; Ken MacGregor; Kristopher Triana; J. S. Reinhardt; Harper Hull; Joshua Dobson; Wol-Vriey
Date: 2013-07-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Anthologies
Description: "Make sure your health insurance covers psychiatric counseling before reading this book, because you're gonna need it. The experience of this collection may be likened to getting run over by a 666-car locomotive engineered by Lucifer. This is the cream of grotesquerie's crop, a Whitman's Sampler of the heinous, and an absolutely gut-wrenching celebration of the furthest extremities of the scatological, the taboo, the unconscionable, and the blasphemous." -Edward Lee, author of THE HAUNTER OF THE THRESHOLD and THE DUNWICH ROMANCE If you thought Volume One was intense, you ain't seen nothing yet
Publisher: Blood Bound Books

D.O.A. II

Extreme Horror Collection

Edited by David C. Hayes & Jack Burton

Copyright © 2013 by Blood Bound Books

All stories in this book have been published by the author’s permission. All stories are copyright by their author.

“If Memory Serves” reprinted with permission – first appearance Darkside: Horror for the Next Millenium, 1996.

“One Flesh: A Cautionary Tale” reprinted with permission –first appearance Iniquities 3, 1991

Artwork by Andrej Bartulovic.

ISBN: 978-0-9849782-7-4

First Edition

Visit us on the web at:

www.bloodboundbooks.net

Available now from Blood Bound Books:

Blood Rites: An Invitation to Horror

Night Terrors II: An Anthology of Horror

D.O.A.: Extreme Horror Collection

Steamy Screams: Erotic Horror Anthology

Rock ‘N’ Roll is Dead: Dark Tales Inspired by Music

Novels available now from Blood Bound Books:

Exit Reality by Robert S. Wilson

The River Through The Trees by David Peak

Dolls by KJ Moore

At The End of All Things by Stony Graves

The Sinner by K. Trap Jones

Loveless by Dev Jarrett

The Blood Bound Staff:

Marc Ciccarone

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Theresa Dillon

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David C. Hayes

THE DEVOURING

IF MEMORY SERVES

SCREAM AND I’LL COME TO YOU

REAL DINO SHIT

FINGER CUFFS

ANOINTED

HOME

ROAD KILL

A SCALENE LOVE TRIANGLE

BORDERTOWN

ONE FLESH: A CAUTIONARY TALE

TELESCOPIC

SEXY

THREADS

BURN THE WITCHES

UNDER THE PRETEXT OF PROPENSITY

EVERY DROP OF BLOOD HAS A SOUL

A Tale of Faust

DR. SCABS AND THE HAGS OF EL CAJON

STD

FAT BOY

THE PUBIC HAIR TUMBLEWEED

THE PROUD MOTHER

GAME OF GOLF

SLICE OF LIFE

STUD SERVICE

GIVE ME SOMETHING GOOD TO EAT

LINGER

SKUNK JR.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

THE DEVOURING

Kristopher Triana

“The first time I had sex,” she said, “I was nineteen.”

“That’s not too scandalous.”

“Well,” she admitted, coyly, her faint British accent adding to her exoticism, “it was with me uncle.”

Violet had insisted that a game of truth or dare could show people whether they would be compatible or not on a first date, as long as the game was straightforward. So, we’d started with a few truths. She asked me intense questions: what was my most painful memory, who was the most prominent person in my masturbation fantasies, if I was to murder someone which weapon would I use? I had answered as honestly as I could: losing my mother, Madeline Smith, and a hatchet. She didn’t ask for explanations, just answers. My questions to her had been timid at first, but given the nature of her own questions, I decided that I shouldn’t bore her, so I asked about her first sexual experience and now she’d answered.

“He’d always eyed me,” she said, “and there was a manliness to him that I’d never found in the boys at school. It wasn’t rape. In fact, I advanced on him.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“Now, it’s my turn,” she said. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” I said, though I was curious about a dare.

“How’d you lose your finger?”

I looked down at my left hand. Only half of the pinkie was there, severed at the knuckle.

“Dare,” I said.

She didn’t object to the change, but I could sense her curiosity build. It spun in her wide eyes and curled in the corners of her mouth.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Is that the whole dare?”

“Close them and let me show you something.”

I did and felt her scoot closer to me on the couch. She breathed into my ear. At first, I thought she was going to kiss me, being as forward as she was, but instead she licked my earlobe. I soon felt her head resting in my lap. She made no effort to undo my slacks, but she found the bulge of my erection and put her mouth on the shaft. She bit it. Not hard or fiercely, but enough to apply pressure. Good, sweet pain. She held me there in her jaws for a moment, like a dog with a rubber newspaper. Then she released me and sat up.

“You like that?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“So did me uncle.”

This was the nature of Violet, the Violet I grew to know. But I think I’ve gotten ahead of myself with this. For, to truly understand Violet—and myself for that matter—I should explain how we met.

~

“You have a nice collection,” she said, gazing through my boxes of imports, out-of-prints and rare bootlegs.

I’d seen her wandering about that afternoon at HorrorCon, a convention for horror enthusiasts. I made a living with obscure DVD sales. While not everyone is interested in films like Subconscious Cruelty, Meet the Feebles, Santa Sangre, or Invasion of the Blood Farmers, there is a minority out there who hunger for such gore-smeared flicks.

She’d been noticed by just about everyone there. She was tall but wore high heels anyway, accentuating her unusual height. Her dress inflamed the senses as it molded to her body like wet tissue, her nipples hardened by the chill. Her hair was so blonde it looked nearly white, and it framed her pallid face like a sickle. But it was her eyes that stunned me most; those harrowing eyes. They reminded me of Barbara Steele’s in Bava’s classic Black Sunday; wide and possessed.

“Well, well,” she said, coyly, holding up a DVD. “Antropophagus?”

“Indeed,” I replied. “The 1980 classic.”

“I was disappointed with The Grim Reaper. What a rip-off.”

A little known fact in the fanboy world is that the film Antropophagus was released on DVD in America with the alternate title The Grim Reaper. The film was also edited to pieces, eliminating all of the grisly scenes which gave it its notoriety, including the infamous scene where a fetus is expunged from a pregnant mother and consumed, as well as my personal favorite part: the finale of self-cannibalism.

“My inventory is entirely censorship free,” I told her.

“I lived in England during the madness over all the video nasties, when Thatcher’s censorship was in full bloom. As a teen getting to see a bootlegged copy of The Last House on the Left was just about the most exciting thing in the world.”

“I read about that—”

“Any porno?”

She was staring at me with those eyes, menacing like Medusa’s before her snakes turned men to stone.

“Not here, just soft-core horror stuff. Misty Mundae, that sort of thing.”

“How droll.”

“Vampire erotica not your thing?”

“Well, the oldies are not without their charm. Lena Lomay writhing around naked for an hour and a half, dyking out and drinking blood. But these new soft-core, goth pictures are such a bore. The sex is fake and the horror elements are gormless kitsch. I mean, do me a favor.”

“You prefer something more intense?”

“Internet’s the way to go, but you have to be careful.”

“Yeah, there’re a lot of sickos out there.”

“It’s not the crazies I worry about; it’s the filth…by which I mean the police. So many rules and regulations. So many people monitoring what you look at. It’s bloody intrusive.”

I wondered just what sort of porn sparked her interest. I remained timid on the outside, even though my insides pulsed. And so it was she who led me.

“I like some of the real dirt,” she said. “Humiliation, consensual torture.”

I swallowed heavily at the reality of her being like my most filthy dream made flesh.

“People frown on it all, though,” she said. “Just as they frown on all these bloody pictures of yours. But really, what’s the problem with a rape fantasy, as long as it’s fantasy, right?”

~

To my joy she’d accepted my invitation to the screening of Doorway to Goreday and I’d gone to her apartment to pick her up. We’d engaged in our round of truth or dare, where her quick nibbling of my cock was as far as we’d gone physically, but psychologically we had expunged much from one another’s exposed souls.

After the film we went to a late diner where our conversation escalated.

“What’s the most intense film you’ve seen?” she asked.

“That depends.”

“Come off it. In your line of work? There must be one that stands out at the forefront of your head.”

She was right of course. I had immediately thought of the forty minute short entitled Bloody Bathroom. I’d only received a copy under the most secretive of circumstances. I’d never shown it to anyone or spoken of it in a manner that might suggest that I had a VHS copy stashed away in my safe at home.

“It really depends. Faces of Death contains real animal deaths and fake human deaths. The Japanese Guinea Pig series is splendidly brutal, as is the Angel Guts rape-movie series. Cannibal Holocaust—”

“About a week ago I saw a real pisser,” she interrupted. “Two blokes pussy-pound this silly cunt for twenty minutes. They spank her arse with belts making it glow like Christmas. Then they tie her to the end of the bed. The one bloke fucks her mouth till she’s choking and her mascara is running from tears.”

Violet laughed as she reflected.

“Then,” she continued, “they pull out this vice. They put it into her mouth and it forces her mouth to stay open, the brackets pushing her jaw down as far as it will go. They start jerking themselves in her face, and it’s funny ’cause it reminded me of that carny game with the water pistols and the clown heads; finally, they shot their fun all over her face, trying to get as much of it in her mouth as possible, like it was a contest.”

She laughed heartily.

“That was a bloody good show,” she said, “but I’ve seen better. You’ve seen better too, I’m sure.”

~

An hour later, back at my place, we sat watching rare documentary footage shot in Polynesia. The footage was of tribes preparing human flesh for ritual cannibalism. Violet was engrossed in these images that I had viewed numerous times. But I was still excited by the real-life devouring of people by people. When we came to the footage of the Binderwurs of central India consuming the severed limbs of their dead, Violet spread out upon the couch with her legs toward me. Her bare feet dug into my crotch. She separated her knees and slid her skirt up around her waist. She wore no panties and was freshly shaven. The flesh of her legs was even paler than the doll-like skin of her face, but here, on her inner thighs, the flesh was covered in razor scars. She placed her hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head down into the moist, warm, welcoming darkness of her opening.

Her eyes never left the screen.

I knew I was falling in love with her.

~

The belt was tight enough around her neck to give her the full effect of throttling. Her face was pink and growing redder, heading toward the bliss. She lay on her stomach on the bed, and I straddled her, my erection buried deep inside her. On the television, a bad bondage porno played. We were one week into our relationship and the passion was psychotic; a bloodlust-fueled marathon of sexual mania.

As her eyes rolled into her skull, she passed out and I came.

I loosened the belt and pulled out. I rolled her over and immediately tended to her with the smelling salts, snapping her awake in seconds. Drool fell from her swollen lips as she gasped, her breasts heaving as her lungs went into overdrive.

“Darling,” she said once her breathing steadied, “that’s the fuck I’ve been gagging for.”

She turned her head toward the flicker of the screen. An old woman was smacking a redhead’s ass.

“What a waste this is,” Violet complained. “This old tart whipping this silly twit.”

I exited the bathroom, my eyes on the safe in the corner. By now we’d ventured into some truly taboo places. We’d beaten and bruised each other and when it had brought us to the edge of suffering, we’d pushed on. She’d given me almost as much as I’d ever dreamed. I figured I shouldn’t hold out on her.

“I have a present for you,” I said.

Her eyes seemed to glow with anticipation even though I’d never told her about the movie. Somehow she just knew what was coming, and that she had earned the viewing.

“I must have been a very good girl,” she said as I opened up the safe and pulled out the cassette.

“Better,” I corrected, “you’ve been a very bad one.”

I scooted back onto the bed and we got comfortable. She clung to me in a combination of heightened excitement, sexual tension, and even a little bit of fear. The screen faded in. The words Bloody Bathroom were written on a page in marker. The paper was lowered, revealing a filthy bathroom. An overweight man came on screen, nude except for a pair of boots, rubber gloves, and a leather gimp mask with motorcycle goggles covering his eyes. He grunted and two other men came on screen in similar dress. One was boney and hairless with yellowish skin and the other was muscular and well hung. They carried a medical examiner’s body bag that was writhing. Muted screams came from within it.

I felt Violet’s hand close around my arm.

We watched as the fat man ordered the others to lower the bag. The boney man ran toward the camera and picked it up, zooming in on the bag. It was unzipped to reveal a young woman, fully nude, with a ball gag in her mouth. There was no mistaking the fear in her face. This was real. The man pulled her out of the bag and dropped her onto the floor. She was bound and unable to break her fall. The men immediately went to work on her, raping her for the next twenty minutes; degrading her, beating her and torturing her in the most vile ways fathomable.

Violet watched, silent and enthralled.

She flinched when the fat man went off screen only to come back with a butcher knife. The muscular man was sodomizing the victim at this point. He quickly finished and spun her over for the facial. The fat man held her head for him, and as he climaxed the fat man stabbed her.

Violet gasped and we watched the second half of the film. It was a bloodbath of violent snuff. The victim was killed and eviscerated while the villains played with her insides. The screen went black and the tape abruptly ended.

As always, the film left me with the same mixed feelings of terror and shameful, joyous voyeurism. But I was curious about how Violet felt. She’d been quiet throughout the picture, never objecting, never turning away, but I had not been able to see her face. Her head had been resting on my chest.

With the film over, the room fell black.

“My God,” she whispered. “It was brilliant.”

She went into the bathroom and vomited.

~

“There’re many different forms of fame, Alex,” she said the next day. “You have the mega-fame: the movie stars and TV cunts. But then there’s the glory of underground fame; the names whispered in darkest corners. Names like Bloody Bathroom.”

“You really think it’s art?”

“It’s bloody trash, it’s vile and wrong, but it’s art nonetheless. It affected me more deeply than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s just shock value though, ’cause it’s real.”

“It’s more than that, Alex. It’s not just sick curiosity or even subconscious sadism. It’s the hunger for stimulation; the endless desire for the new and bold. It’s not just the rape and the gore and the reality of it all. It’s easy to understand that there is a small group of loonies out there who do this sort of thing. The brilliance of it is that people who don’t do this sort of thing, who wouldn’t ever have the balls to or perhaps not even the desire to, still want to see it. Whether people admit it or not, there is a side to everyone that wants to witness things that are almost impossible to imagine, let alone see. The genius of snuff is not its existence but rather its universal appeal. While totally repugnant, it is still more enticing than the filthiest porn.”

“I suppose you’re right there.”

“It’s a more wonderful form of praise, isn’t it? All those Hollywood cunts make these shitbath pictures. They make trophies for each other and it’s all just a good show. But on the streets, on the lips of every one, pervert or priest, are the names of the nasties, the bloody snuffs. That’s fuckin’ glory there.”

~

We were at her apartment, in the shower so we wouldn’t get blood on her bed sheets. I’d punctured her neck and I was feasting on her like a vampire while she caressed my testicles, sinking her nails into the sack. I was using her favorite of my fingers on her: the nub.

“Truth,” I said, her blood on my lips.

She opened her eyes, confused.

“What’s that then?”

“Truth,” I repeated, giving her a telling stare.

Now she understood. She knew the question we’d left off on, back when our relationship was just starting.

“Right then,” she moaned, “how’d you lose the finger?”

“I chopped it off with a hatchet.”

She began grinding her pelvis into my hand.

“You see,” I continued, “there are all kinds of fetishes. I’d heard about one that makes it so some people can’t have an orgasm unless something is being amputated. I don’t have this problem, as you well know. But I was curious about the condition.”

“So you went for it. That’s so ballsy, baby.”

“That’s not the whole story,” I said. “It took a lot for me to build up the nerve to do it. But I was alone. I had no sexual partner for months. My movies and my masturbation were all I had. You already know about my boyhood fixation on Madeline Smith.”

“Oh yes, the Bond-girl.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, my obsession with her never left me, only escalated. During those lonely months, I grew sick over her. I pulled a Van Gogh, you might say. I chopped off the finger as a tribute. I’d planned to mail it to her for Valentine’s Day.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“But why?” she asked as if heartbroken.

“After the excitement of hacking it off, I began to think more clearly. Most women would panic if they received a finger in the mail. The police would be notified. It might all lead back to me.”

“So do you still have the finger?”

“Well, I knew I couldn’t preserve it for long, and I was too embarrassed by the idea of rushing to the emergency room to have it reattached. Besides, it had been a profound moment in my life and I wanted it to stay severed, the nub being a reminder of the madness I’d reached. But I didn’t want to just toss the finger. I wanted to keep it, but not frozen or something stupid like that. So, that night, I ate it.”

For a moment we both fell silent. She stared at me.

“What was it like to do that?”

“While I felt like I’d hit rock bottom, at the same time I felt liberated.”

“Just like watching snuff.”

“Exactly, only better because I was involved.”

We fell silent again as she stared at me with those animal eyes. It was then that I realized that she had fallen in love with me as well.

“Alex, darling.”

“Yes?”

“I want to make a movie with you.”

~

We watched the video together while she soaked her foot in ice. She’d taken a few painkillers and was doing fine. The video had come out good, Violet doing an excellent job filming. Her hand didn’t even shake much as I’d severed her toe, even though she screamed. Watching myself eat it made me feel about the same as I’d felt earlier while actually eating it. I was into it, but it wasn’t the same as when I had eaten my finger. Something was lacking, flaccid.

“We’re off to a great start,” Violet said. “But it needs more. A little cannibalism goes a long way, but we need to get things in perspective.”

“I’ve been trying to come up with ideas but nothing’s struck me, you know? Rape, torture, murder; it’s all been done.”

We sat there thinking as we watched. And just like that, something came to me.

“You’ve given a toe,” I said. “Now it’s my turn.”

“All right, but no more toes,” she said, “we don’t want to be redundant.”

~

From my point of view, I filmed her on her knees before me, performing fellatio. We got typically kinky with it, the deep-throating and cheek smacking. Then up came the dagger. She teased me, scraping the shaft. Then, she ever so slowly began to cut away a small section of my erection’s flesh, not anything like a castration, just shaving a section of skin. She did this and then sucked on it in a frenzy before chewing the striped flesh.

I exploded in her face as she ate me, and it was the most intense orgasm of my life.

I knew then what had been missing when I had devoured her toe. It wasn’t so much the eating of human flesh that excited me: it was having my own flesh eaten. Eating myself was nauseating bliss, but being devoured by a beautiful woman was the sweetest fetish of all.

And Valentine’s Day was drawing nearer.

After I’d been bandaged and we’d watched the tape with fervor, I told Violet my epiphany of the ultimate gesture of love.

“Snuff is redundant because it’s all murder,” I said. “What if, instead of a victim, there was a willing participant?”

“Holy hell,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

“It would add levels of depravity, horror and fetishism the likes of which the world has never seen. Think of it: a film where someone willingly dies, and even enjoys it. Better yet, instead of a pretty woman being snuffed by insane men, we have an insane man being snuffed by a pretty woman. The man is not just killed, but eaten alive. Not just by the woman, but by himself too.”

~

Strapped to the slab, I lay beneath Violet who rides me, films me, shreds me. The agony and ecstasy are one, an insufferable heaven. I am in thrall, but my most erotic nightmare has come true, so I am free. The feel of her fingers twisting in my abdomen is as wonderful as the feeling of my erection that now spews inside her. This is the masterpiece we give to the world, our blessing of sickness bestowed upon the already infected.

Violet agreed with my final wishes and is going to complete the film on her own. The porno-snuff footage we’ve shot will be put together in a montage of our best moments then the film will build up to this scene where I am willingly eaten alive. The remainder of the film will be Violet first having whatever sex she can with my corpse, then a thorough dismemberment, and finally, the cooking and eating of my remains. She will then edit a rough final cut and send free copies to all of the people I have listed on my hard drive, my records of all the customers I’ve had for my horror and porno films: the nasties. Once completed, close to a thousand people will have an authentic snuff film and, as anyone in the underground film business knows, the circulation won’t stop there.

Violet’s face appears on the film, and I’ve suggested she blur it, but she insisted on leaving it in for the integrity of the film. She doesn’t care if its release might put her in prison. The trial would see more exposure than the O.J. Simpson case. It would all just hype the movie up even more.

I can feel death tightening as Violet pushes my intestines into my mouth. As everything goes black I taste a flavor that is the true so-called nectar of the gods; I chew with what little energy I have left.

She bends down and her mouth drips blood as she whispers into my ear: “I love you, darling. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

This is the proudest achievement of our lives.

This is the outcome of our desires.

This is the very pinnacle of our art.

IF MEMORY SERVES

Jack Ketchum

Patricia sat relaxed in the armchair across the room.

The metronome on the table in front of her had done its work in record time.

“I’d like to speak with Leslie,” Hooker said.

The woman looked at him, sighed, and shook her head.

“God!  Leslie again. I don’t get it. What the hell’s wrong with speaking to me once in a while?”

Hooker shrugged. “You lie. You evade. You try to confuse things. If you didn’t lie so much, Susan, maybe I’d want to talk to you more often. Nothing personal.”

She pouted, leaned back in the chair and folded her arms across her breasts.

“I’m only trying to cover my butt, y’know,” she said.

“I know. And I understand. It just doesn’t help matters much at this juncture. Let me talk to Leslie, okay?”

The eyelids fluttered. The woman threw back her head and howled. Then gave him a meek bright sidelong glance and began to whimper.

“Leslie. Not Katie.”

Katie was a dog.

Only the second such dog ever recorded in the history of MPD—Multiple Personality Disorder. Hooker had written about her extensively in the article he’d done for the Journal of Psychiatric Medicine. Speculation mostly and observation of the physical aspects. Crawling, snuffling, howls. Katie’s connection to the other personalities had seemed vague at the time. Now, knowing what he did, it was clearer.

“Hi, Doctor Hooker.”

“Hi, Leslie.”

“I guess you want to talk some more.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Why?”

“Patricia doesn’t want me to.”

“I think she does want you to, Leslie.”

“She’s scared.”

“Scared of what?”

She shifted uncomfortably in the seat, a typical teenage girl wrestling with a problem. Like all the personalities who had emerged so far other than the dog Katie and Lynette, who was only five years old, Leslie had come into the world at sixteen and sixteen she remained.

“They said they’d hurt her, remember? If she talked. They said they’d kill her.”

“I remember.”

“So?”

“So that was quite a long time ago, wasn’t it.”

Twenty-two years to be exact. The woman sitting in front of him was thirty-eight and the mother of two, both girls, ages eight and ten. Until her divorce a year and a half ago she had been a successful editor for a large paperback book company and then a chronic alcoholic who finally had sought therapy when she found herself having beaten her oldest child with a soup ladle across the face and head without remembering having done so. Four months into treatment the first personality—little Lynette—had emerged.

“I don’t know about this, doctor.”

“You’ve done fine so far, Leslie. Why stop now?”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t. Believe me, it’s going to help Patricia enormously in the long run. Enormously.”

She thought for a moment and then sighed.

“Okay. I guess I owe her that.”

He allowed himself to relax. It was a crucial point. Had she balked here it might have been weeks before she allowed herself to address all this again. It had happened before.

And today, finally, he had Patricia’s permission to record their sessions.

“You were talking last time about how they—the Gannets—‘passed her around’ I think you said.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you were talking sexually passed around, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me who her mom and dad were giving her to?”

“Lots of people. That whole group they had there. Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, Judge Blackburn, Mr. and Mrs. Siddons, Mr. Hayes, Doctor Scott and Mrs. Scott, Mr. Seymour, Miss Naylor…”

“The schoolteacher.”

“Right. And Mr. Harley. There were others. But those were the main ones.”

“Her mom and dad, did these people pay them for this?”

“No. They just allowed it. It was just okay by them.”

“And this was when Patricia was how old?”

“Three. Maybe four.”

He suspected it was five. Lynette’s age.

The age she’d begun hiding.

“So then what would these people do to her again?”

This was all familiar territory but he needed it for the tape.

“Well, she would be naked pretty much always and they would put their fingers in her, in her bum, in her vagina, and some of the men would put their penises in and sometimes make her put their penises in her mouth, and they would spank her real hard and Doctor Scott, he liked to put these long needles in her…”

“Acupuncture needles?”

“I don’t know. Just big long needles.”

“Go on.”

“He’d put them in her, stick them everywhere. And Mrs. Scott always wanted her to lick her vagina.”

It was a hallmark of Leslie’s personality that none of this seemed to embarrass her in the slightest. She treated this catalogue of childhood horrors with a detachment that was almost clinical. Admirable, he thought, were it not so sad and frightening.

“Mrs. Siddons liked to twist her nipples until she cried. And Miss Naylor always wanted to have her breasts sucked like Patricia was a little baby and she was her mommy. Mr. Hayes would put her in the tub and pee on her and one time he shit on her too. On her belly. Sort of stood over her and bent his legs a little.”

“And there were other kids involved, right?”

She nodded. “Danny Scott, Ritchie Siddons, and the Dennison twins.”

“Did Patricia ever try to resist at all? Ever try to run away?”

“A couple times she tried. But she was too little to go anywhere. The Gannets beat her bad for it. So she didn’t try anymore.”

She stopped. Tears were rolling down her cheeks in a sudden stream.

“Leslie?”

Her chin trembled and the large brown eyes were doe’s eyes, liquid, innocent.

“Lynette? Is that you?”

“They hurt me!  Mommy and daddy…”

“I know. It’s all right, Lynette. Mommy and daddy won’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I swear.”

That was true enough. Mommy and daddy were dead in a car accident nearly ten years before. He was drunk. The telephone pole unforgiving. As far as Hooker was concerned, good riddance.

“They hurt me!”

“I know they did, Lynette. But that’s all over now. Mommy and daddy can never hurt you again. You understand?”

She sniffled. The tears abated.

“Are you okay now?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Good. If it’s all right then, can you let me talk to Leslie again?”

“Oh for chrissakes, fuck Leslie!”

The voice was deep and husky.

Sadie.

Only the third time she’d appeared.

The first two times were trouble. He could see this was not going to be an exception. She was up and out of her chair and striding over.

“You want to talk sex, honey? You feel like a turn-on? Is that it? Then you better talk to me.”

He was halfway up out of his own chair when she reached down and pushed him back again.

Then lifted her skirt and straddled him.

“Sadie…”

“I know. We been through this before. ‘It’s inappropriate for a patient and therapist’ blah blah blah. Loosen up, will ya?”  She shrugged off her jacket.

“Get off me, Sadie.”

“Loosen up. You know you want little Sadie.”

“What I want is to talk to...”

“Yeah, Leslie. I know. But will Leslie do this for you, Doc?”

She pulled the sweater off over her head. Underneath it her breasts were naked. They were lovely breasts, full and firm for her age and the fact that she’d born two children—and judging by the size and shape of the nipples, breastfed at least one of them.

Lovely but for the scars.

Small puckered burn-scars. Over a dozen on the breasts alone. Many more on her stomach, neck and shoulders.

He could still make out the swastika carved just above her navel.

He had never seen the evidence first-hand before.

“You want to talk about those, Sadie?”

She laughed. “Talk about what? My tits?”

“Those burns. The swastika.”

She pushed off him angrily and scooped up the sweater and walked to the window. Slipped the sweater on. Walked back to her chair and dug in her purse for a pack of Winston Lights.

Sadie smoked. The others didn’t.

“I don’t allow cigarettes. You know that, Sadie.”

She gave him a look, disgusted, and tossed the pack back into her purse. Sadie would rebel but only so far. Then, like all the others, she was forced to obey.

“Oh, fuck you, doc. Talk to your precious Leslie. Have a wonderful time. You asshole.”

She dropped into the chair and looked at him. The eyes softened. Her face went slowly neutral.

Leslie again.

Now if he could just keep her here for the duration.

The session was running long. He could see that already. The clock on the wall above and behind her read two-fifty. But this was all much too productive to quit in ten minutes. He had a first-time patient who was probably already outside there in the waiting room—his three o’clock appointment. It wasn’t the best way to start a doctor-patient relationship but the man would have to hold on awhile.

It wasn’t just Patricia who had something on the line here.

This case was going to make his reputation, no doubt about it. The first article, published six months ago, had gone a long way toward doing that already. AP had picked up on it. My god, the New York
Times. For Warhol’s classic fifteen minutes, he and his unnamed patient were famous.

Soon they’d be more so. His first paper was only the beginning.

“Leslie.”

“Hi. Hello again.”

“We were talking about all the sexual things they did to Patricia. But there were other things too, weren’t there.”

She nodded.

“Would you mind going over them for me again?”

“There were all the witchy things,” she said.

“Like what?”

“They taught her all these chants and stuff, and they would all dress in black and sometimes they’d visit graveyards at night and sometimes dig up bodies and do stuff with the bones and the dead guy’s clothes, make up devil potions for the Feast of the Beast or Candlemas and calling up spirits and...”

“What do you mean, ‘devil potions’?”

“Pee. And wine. And blood.”

“Whose blood?”

“Theirs. Anybody’s.”

“Go on.”

“Well, most of the time though, they were in the basement of the Gannets’ house. They had a really big basement there. And everybody would be naked. And everybody would have to kiss Mr. Gannet’s penis before things started, like all in a line, and then there’d be chanting and people would eat and drink a lot and then they’d bring in the sacrifice.”

“What was the sacrifice?”

“Chickens. Cats. Mostly it was dogs.”

Dogs like Katie.

It was amazing and highly unusual. Patricia had created this personality in total identification with the dead or soon-to-be dead.

The dead taken inside her, made one with her.

A remarkable exercise in compassion.

“And then there was that one time,” she said. “You know. Her initiation.”

The voice was small and not nearly so matter-of-fact as before. Unsure. Almost frightened.

He knew that tone.

Because it was at this point that Leslie’s information had almost always stopped in the past, here or only slightly further. Something about the initiation had been highly traumatic. Hooker knew from sessions past that Patricia had been sixteen years old at the time, the age at which most of the personalities erupted out of her all at once, guardians at the gate of her sanity. He knew that the initiation had occurred in her parents’ basement. And that was about all he knew.

He looked at the clock. Three o’clock exactly.

To hell with the time. He needed to try.

“Leslie, in the past you haven’t wanted to tell me about this, I know. And I understand that it’s difficult for you. But this time’s going to be different. I’ll tell you how and why it’s different. You see the tape recorder on the desk there beside you?”

She looked and nodded.

“What’s different is that this time I’m taping this. And next session I’ll play the tape back for Patricia. When I do, Patricia will know and understand what they did to her. She’ll understand why she’s this way, why all of you are this way. And can you guess what happens then?”

She shook her head.

“The pain stops. A little more time, a little more therapy, and it stops.”

He looked at her, gave it a moment. He thought, trust me.

“Tell me about it, Leslie,” he said.

For a moment he thought it wouldn’t happen. Then she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes and when she opened them again she was remembering.

“There was a boy,” she said. “I don’t know where he came from. Not one of the usual boys, I mean. Not one of theirs. Spanish, I think, Cuban or Mexican, about Patricia’s age. Patricia had a lot of some kind of drug and so had the boy and they both were naked and they put her down on the table, the alter, with the boy standing over her, everybody chanting while he put his penis in and started doing it. He was doing it a long while and it was hurting. And then Mr. Gannet reached over with this knife he had, this sacrificial knife which was very, very sharp, and he cut the boy…you know the place, right between the…the balls and the asshole? That skin there?”

Hooker nodded.

“And there was blood running out of him, all this blood, running down his legs and dripping off the alter but I guess because of the drugs or because it was doing it, I don’t know, he didn’t know it at first, he just kept doing it to her but Patricia knew, she could feel it pooling up under her real warm and wet and finally the boy got it too, he started screaming and went to pull out of her but by then Mr. Gannet was around the side of him and cut him across his throat with the knife and Patricia was screaming and the boy was coughing blood, it was all over the place, all over her, she tasted it, and all the others were around them catching the blood with bowls, drinking the blood from his neck and from between his legs and she could smell his shit and they were catching that in bowls too and smearing it across their faces, across their mouths, and instead of coming inside her he just released it, you know? He pissed inside her.”

“Well, then the boy fell on top of her, he was dead, and Mr. Gannet handed Patricia the knife and told her to stab him in the name of Lord Satan and she was so scared and so mad at the boy—it was weird—so really completely furious at him,  that she did. Stabbed him over and over and over.”

She stopped, puzzled.

“I wonder why she was so angry at him? And not at them.”

He let her consider it a moment. There wasn’t time to get into it now though he knew perfectly well where the anger of one victim toward another usually came from. Another session.

“What happened then?”

She shrugged. “They ate the boy’s heart. They smeared her with his blood. Then they did it to her one at a time. Then they let her go upstairs to shower and then they let her sleep.”

Ten minutes after three. They’d got through it. It was over.

He felt shaken. Elated too. He couldn’t believe what he had here.

“I’m going to count to five, Leslie,” he said. “When I get to five I’ll be speaking to Patricia again and she’ll be awake, rested, relaxed and comfortable and she’ll remember none of this. You did very well. Thank you.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Patricia’s scared again.”

“She needn’t be.”

“She knows I told. That I told you everything.”

“Patricia’s going to be fine, believe me. I’m going to count to five now, all right? Close your eyes.”

He counted.

Patricia opened her eyes and smiled.

“Well, how’d we do?” she said.

“You did beautifully.”  He returned her smile. “I want to go over this with you as soon as possible. But I’ve got another patient outside right now.”

He consulted his book.

“How is three o’clock Wednesday—day after tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

“We’ve made a breakthrough here, Patricia. You should know that.”

“Really? Then can’t you…?”

“No. I’m afraid not. Not right now. This is going to take some time. I’m scheduling you for two hours again Wednesday, all right?”

“All right.”

He handed her up the jacket on the floor in front of him. She didn’t even ask how it got there. She was practically an old pro at this by now. She gathered up her coat and purse and stood to leave. Hesitated and then turned back to him.

“Should I be worried?” she said.

“Worried about what?”

“I don’t know. Just…worried.”

“No. Not at all. We’re already through the worst of it. There are some very difficult issues to face, I won’t deny that for a moment, but now at least we know what we’re dealing with. We know for sure. It’s going to take some time. But you’re going to have a life, Patricia. A full, integrated life. Without hiding. Without fear.”

She smiled. “I’ll see you Wednesday, then, doctor. And I guess...well, I guess we’ll just see.”

She stepped through the door to the waiting room and closed it gently behind her. He walked to the table beside her empty chair and turned off the recorder. Pushed the rewind button and heard the sibilant hiss of tape which was her voice and his so that he knew it hadn’t failed him and then heard it click back into the start position. He unplugged the recorder, walked to his desk, opened the top drawer and slipped it away.

In the waiting room outside he heard a chair thump against the wall. His three o’clock was probably impatient as hell right now, would probably need some soothing of feathers. That was all right. At the moment he felt up to anything. He walked across the room and opened the door.

The man crouched over her, a big man all in black—jacket, shoes, trousers—crouched over her so that Hooker could see her lifeless eyes and open mouth and the back of his head moving side to side just below her chin. There was blood all over the walls and the landscape paintings hung there to set his patients at ease, blood still pulsing up from out of her neck over and around both sides of the man’s head, drenching his long black greasy hair and he looked up at Hooker and grinned, his face a thin bright mask of red, teeth dripping paler blood, thinned with saliva. Hooker saw the knife in his left hand and the bloodstained silver pentagram around his neck.

“Session’s over,” hissed the man. “Patient’s cured.”

He stepped back through the doorway to his office as though somebody had shoved him. Tried to slam the door. The bloody left hand shot out against it with a crack and thrust him back into the room.

The man stood on the threshold.

For a moment as he approached him, Hooker thought of all the people, all the structure, all the wealth of  invention and will to survive that had just died out there in the waiting room and the only solace was that the tape would outlive them, the man would not know about the tape, his work would go on in a way, and in a way so would she go on, despite and not because of his ambitions for them both though it was not enough, not nearly enough for either of them or for her children. He thought publish or perish or both because of course that was what had done it to them and then heard the whimper of a dog which was his whimper as the knife came down and down.

SCREAM AND I’LL COME TO YOU

Raymond Little

“Now, it’s your turn.” Beth Mackenzie popped the barrel from the revolver and let the bullets drop into her palm before passing the gun to her eight-year-old daughter.

“When am I going to learn how to shoot it?”

Beth glanced down from the porch at the long shadows cutting stripes across the dirt driveway. “Tomorrow. Don’t forget the safety catch. Always check.”

“I know.” Megan ran a finger over the button, the way her mother had shown her a hundred times. “Safety on.” She loaded the bullets one by one, the big revolver dipping under its own weight in her small hands.

“That’s good. Now, where do we always keep it, until the day we might need it?”

“In the pot under the sink.”

“That’s right.” Beth forced a smile for her daughter and wondered once again how it could have come to this. “Come on, honey,” she said, “let’s go and make something to eat.”

Supper was simple—eggs on toast using the bread she’d baked when they’d come to the farm—and they dined by candlelight.

“Are we going to live here forever?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“But how will Daddy find us?”

Beth looked away. She knew the odds of Phil still being alive somewhere out there were more than remote. “He’ll find a way if he can, sweetheart. Until then we’ll just have to look out for each other.”

~

Three came that night, in a dirty blue mini-bus. The screaming had woken Beth long before the hum of the approaching engine, enough warning for her to be ready. “Stay here,” she told Megan as she led her to the back bedroom. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it for anyone else, no matter what they say.”

The bus slowed and stopped ten feet short of where she stood, her pistol held out in both hands. The headlights blinked and faded as the motor switched off and the driver, lit silver by the full moon, stepped out.

“I suggest you get back in your van, sir, and drive back the way you came.” She had to shout to be heard over the screaming coming from the back of the mini-bus, which helped to keep the tremble from her voice.

“Please,” the man called. “I’ve been driving for hours, I need help.” He stepped forward.

“Stay right where you are!” Beth fingered the safety.

“Please.” The man’s voice cracked. Big shoulders jerked up and down while he held his face in his hands, trying to cover the tears and snot that fell freely.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for you. You may be infected. You have to go.”

The man took a few moments to compose himself before wiping his sleeve across his face. “Let me have your gun, then. I’ll take them away and...” He broke down crying.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“But they’re suffering. You can’t just turn us away!”

“I have to.”

“Do it for me, then. Shoot them and I’ll go. I promise.”

“Who are they?”

“My wife. And my son.”

Beth shook her head. “Don’t ask me to do that.” At the same time she thought of the pact she’d made with her daughter, the training she’d given the child in how exactly to shoot her own mother should the worst happen—and realized the hypocrisy of her answer to this poor man’s request. Was she really incapable of doing to strangers what she intended to do to Megan if she became infected?

“Get back in the van and turn the engine on. Keep facing front and don’t watch. When it’s done, drive away. Don’t ever come back, and don’t tell anyone else about this place.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and placed it over her nose and mouth as the man took his place behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. The electric window slid down as she approached and, no longer muffled, the screaming became unbearable. Beth looked in the back seat, illuminated by the dull, yellow internal light, and saw the man’s wife slumped against the door, her face contorted with agony, fear and exhaustion. She turned her gaze on Beth, her eyes bulging, and screamed at the top of her lungs. Vomit and dried spittle caked the woman’s chin and Beth gagged into her handkerchief at the rancid odor of excrement, urine, and something worse, like rotting meat.

“Anne started screaming yesterday morning,” the man said without turning. “Jack’s had it for four days.”

She looked at the boy in the far seat. His expression matched his mother’s but no sound came from his wide open mouth; his vocal chords had been destroyed by his own exertions. He was near the end, his lips cracked and blistered from dehydration, his gasps shallow between the silent screams. He was emaciated, the skin stretched so thin across his cheekbones it had begun to split. Beth saw his eyes and looked away, ashamed at her own revulsion. His eyeballs, deep red from blown blood vessels, protruded from their sunken sockets so that they were barely held in place. Crimson tear-drops seeped from the corners in mourning for his ruinous state.

“Do it,” the man said. “Please, just do it.”

Beth glanced at the farmhouse and prayed that Megan hadn’t been tempted to leave the room at the back to see what was going on. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she said to the woman as she raised the gun.

A change of expression, almost imperceptible, crossed the doomed woman’s eyes. Later, as Beth replayed the scene over and over, she would tell herself it was gratitude.

“Make it quick,” the man said over his shoulder.

Beth obeyed, and when it was done the man thanked her for killing his family.

~

No sleep would come that night.

“What did they want?” Megan asked as Beth settled her into the bed they shared.

“They wanted to stay here.”

Megan clutched the sheets under her chin. “Did you shoot them?”

“They’re gone now, honey. You don’t have to worry about them.”

“I heard two gunshots.” Her voice trembled. “I was scared. I thought they might have had a gun. But the screaming stopped and I knew you were okay.”

Beth felt her eyes begin to water as she fought away the vision of gore and brains spattered across the rear interior of the vehicle. She’d taken their lives and surrendered her humanity; it seemed an unfair deal on both sides.

“I’m glad you shot them, Mummy.” She lifted one arm from beneath her bedding and clutched her mother’s hand. “They were in pain. I wouldn’t want to suffer like that. I’ve been thinking, though. Maybe we can’t catch the screams. A man on the telly said that some people were maroon.”

“I think immune is what he said.” Beth wiped a cuff across her damp cheeks and smiled.

“I miss the telly. Do you think it will come back?”

“One day, maybe. If there are people out there who know how to get the electricity back on.” Even as she said it, though, Beth doubted her own words. Getting any kind of power grid back in use would be a massive undertaking. From what she’d seen before they’d come to the farm she didn’t believe there would be anywhere near enough survivors to organize such a task. “There are plenty of books, though.”

“Will you read to me for a while?”

“Of course I will. I’ll make us a hot drink.”

~

Beth hugged her dressing gown around her shoulders as she waited down in the kitchen for the water to boil on the old wood stove. So much had changed in such a short time, but they’d coped. It was just three months since the first victim of the screams had been reported in the media. Not a long time for society to collapse.

That first case, a young man in France, had perplexed the doctors. Their initial diagnosis of a psychological condition had been crushed within days as similar cases broke out across Europe, then the world. All victims had the same single symptom, to suddenly start screaming for no apparent reason. The treatment of intravenous food and liquids—it was impossible to eat or drink—could not keep up with the rising number of cases. An untreated screamer could expect to survive no more than five or six days of the unbearable agony their condition brought. Their vocal chords would perish within two days—becoming useless, severed folds of bloody flesh—though the person would still put all their effort into the silent scream that would now only escape their gaping mouths in a low, wet hiss. Exhaustion, dehydration and organ failure followed.

The first screamer Beth had seen, three days into the outbreak, was a teenage girl working at the local supermarket checkout. One moment she was scanning a tin of soup and making polite conversation, the next screaming as loud as she possibly could, her bulging eyeballs rolling from side to side in fear and confusion, searching the faces of her line of shoppers for some kind of help. The store emptied within seconds, the customers running into the street for fear of contamination. By the end of that week the shops had begun to shut and board up as the emergency ration system began, the army and police patrolling the high streets for looters. Wearing a uniform held no immunity though, and as the forces’ numbers were depleted, the streets began to resemble a battlefield. The real riots began in earnest by the third week, kick-started by the shocking leaked internet footage of the President strapped down and screaming in a hospital bed.

Phil went missing just after that. Beth had begged him to stay in the house—they still had enough food and drink for another week—but he wouldn’t listen, told her if he didn’t get some supplies now they might not get another chance. And that was that. Beth knew when he didn’t return that night that one of two things had happened; he’d become a victim of the street violence or he’d caught the screams. Either way, Beth didn’t expect to see him again.

So she stayed at the house, managing to eke the supplies out for another fifteen days for her and Megan, in which time all government collapsed, media and power supplies crumbled, and the majority of the population became screamers. When at last she did venture out, it was quite safe. The town was quiet, the pavements and roads strewn with bodies and burnt out vehicles. Another week at the house and two more trips into town for supplies was enough for Beth to make her mind up. She would pack the car and head south into the countryside, away from the cloying stench of death. And so they came to the farm.

She lifted the old kettle from the wood stove and poured the drinks. Three months. She didn’t dare let herself believe it, but maybe Megan was right. Maybe they were immune after all.

~

“Good girl, Daisy.” Beth patted the cow and placed the half-full pail on the bench just inside the open barn door. “Come on girl,” she said. “It’s a lovely morning outside.” Daisy flapped her tail but made no effort to leave the shady enclosure. “In your own time, then.”

She stepped into the sunlight and glanced across at the farmhouse, wondering if Megan was out of bed. It was the first time her daughter had missed milking the cows since Beth had taught her how. She’d been withdrawn, quieter than usual since the mini-bus incident two nights before. Maybe it was one trauma too many after everything else. Or maybe, Beth thought, it was knowing that her mother had killed in cold blood.

No, Megan was sensible, mature for her age. She’d even said she was glad Beth had put those poor souls out of their misery. “That’s right,” Beth muttered to herself as she crossed the yard. “You’re a real sister of mercy.”

~

Beth found Megan in the kitchen, sitting at the table. “You missed the milking, honey.”

Megan shrugged her shoulders.

“Never mind.” She took the seat opposite her daughter. “There’s always tomorrow. I think Daisy missed you. She wouldn’t go outside.”

“Have we got any photos?”

Beth frowned. “Photos?”

“Yes. Of Dad. Of all of us, together.”

She reached across the table top and gripped Megan’s hand. “Of course we have. I brought them all. They’re in a box, upstairs.”

“That’s good.” She raised her gaze. “We’re never going to see Daddy again, are we?”

Beth considered lying, saying there was a chance Megan’s father had somehow survived, but she couldn’t. Her daughter deserved more than that. She shook her head.

“He must be dead. If he was alive, he would have come home that night. Daddy would never have left us on our own.”

“That’s right, darling. He loved us very much. If there had been any way of getting back home, he would have.”

Megan slipped her hand from her mother’s. “I’ll fetch the milk.”

Beth watched her leave the room and felt her shoulders slump. Megan had been through so much, and remained so strong. Maybe the acceptance of her father’s death was the final hurdle. It wouldn’t be easy, would take time, but they could move on now there were no more words left unsaid between them.

With a sigh, Beth stood and began to cross to the window. The scream stopped her dead. She allowed herself no time to think, grabbing the gun and the bullets from beneath the sink. Loading them with trembling fingers just as she’d rehearsed so many times, she strode out into the yard.

The barn was dark as she passed from the sunlight, but she quickly picked out her daughter’s shape from the direction of her screams. She raised the gun in both hands. “I love you, Megan. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked on that last word as she began to squeeze the trigger, but something was wrong, the scream was changing into words and Megan had one hand held out, aiming a finger at a point somewhere to the left of Beth.

“Mummy, no!”

Beth swung her arms, but her finger’s pressure on the trigger was beyond return and the gunshot flashed in the dimness, its crack echoing in the confines of the barn. The rat, balancing on the rim of the milk pail, exploded against the wall. Beth dropped the smoking pistol to the floor and looked over at her daughter, silent now. “I... I almost...” She stepped backward into the yard.

“It’s okay,” Megan said, “I’m all right. It was the rat, it scared me.”

“All right,” Beth said, her voice flat. “You’re all right.” She felt sick, and horrified, and something else, something rising from deep inside, a rushing wave of unbearable terror, and she just had time to think: Is this it? Is this how it feels? Before opening her mouth wide and doing the only thing she could.

Megan stepped forward and picked up the pistol, checking there were at least two bullets in the barrel. “It’s okay Mummy,” she said. “I know what to do.”

REAL DINO SHIT

Wol-vriey

1.

There was a zombie in Mo’s toilet. Her name was Mary. She was immensely fat and a redhead and had been in there for three days now.

For two reasons.

Firstly, because she was stuck, wedged tight between the toilet walls, and couldn’t free herself, and, secondly, because whatever she was trying to shit out was stuck inside her.

Mo knew the second to be true because Mary was unable to swallow the rotting baby hand in her mouth. It had been wedged there since she’d invaded his apartment, like she was stuffed with food and couldn’t get anymore inside her unless she emptied her ass first.

That, however, meant she was harmless, i.e. she couldn’t eat Mo’s brains, so he didn’t bother her. He just kept the loo door locked and imagined Mary wasn’t there. He’d also resorted to using the toilet on the lower landing.

2.

Mo called Judy.

Judy Punkette was a punk girl, with a green mohawk, green lipstick and nail varnish, and leather clothes covered in badges and chains connecting everywhere to everywhere else.

Judy lived in the apartment above Mo’s. She was pretty and perky and fun to be around; one just had to get used to the way she spit on everything.

Judy and Mo had fucked once. She’d spit on him so much he couldn’t cum.

~

Mary was naked in the toilet. Mo was one of the few who realized how odd that was—the idea of a naked zombie. None of the many a-pre-calypse zombie flicks he’d watched had naked zombies in them. But a-post-calypse, i.e. now, they were everywhere. There was even a government department concerned with covering them up. Particularly since a lot of the undead men had hard-ons.

No one liked seeing hard, undead cocks.

~

Judy stared at Mo intently after seeing Mary grunting in slow-motion on his toilet seat. She shut the toilet door. “She’s really fat. I thought you liked us slim chicks. You know you can contract pussy rot . . . cock gangrene . . . if you fuck a zombie without a condom, right? Your cock’ll rot away an inch a day.”

Mo glared at her. “I’m not screwing Mary.”

The punk girl shrugged. “Your loss. Billie says they’re great in bed, better than us still-living even.”

Billie was the skinny woman upstairs, in the flat opposite Judy’s. Mo wondered how Billie, who was straight, could possibly know that zombie women were good screws.

“Mary?” Judy asked. “That’s her name?” She waved the air away from her nose. “She stinks.”

“It’s the hand in her mouth—it’s rotting. Toilet hasn’t been used yet.”

Judy nodded. “Smells worse than shit, even.”

She looked at Mo curiously, still unconvinced he wasn’t fucking the fat zombie chick wedged in the toilet like a pack of cornflakes stuck between the fridge and the kitchen wall. She was disappointed he wasn’t—she wanted Mo to be fucking the zombie so he could share the experience with her later.

She spat green phlegm on the floor. “Why’d she come here anyway?” she asked. “Lots of other places she could have gone—most zombies crap out in the street.”

“She’s a cousin of mine.” Mo looked earnestly at Judy. “What on earth do I do, Jude? She’s got to go.”

“Go, as in poop?”

“Go, go.”

“Call the fuzz.”

“Already did, their lines have been jammed for the past three days.”

Judy opened the toilet door again, studied the fat zombie girl slow-motion gurning on the seat.

Brain-dead Mary stared back, bug-eyed. She’d managed to get the baby arm half down her throat because she’d broken its forearm bone with her molars while chewing it. It was, however, now wedged awkwardly in her neck, unable to slide either up or down.

Judy considered a moment, then grimaced. “I’ll be right back,” she said, getting to her feet and heading for the door. “Billie might know what to do.”

3.

Judy returned with Billie, who was holding a large hunting knife.

Billie was tall and thin, with long, black lifeless hair which always looked like it had been washed and not permitted to dry.

She lived with her retired dad, who’d been a government registered hunter. His love of blood-sport had transferred itself to his daughter, though most dinosaurs were simply too humongous to go after with old-school weapons.

Mo gaped at the knife Billie was holding. “What do you intend doing with that?” When Judy winked, he held up his arms in protest. “Oh oh no no no you don’t. I already told you, Mary’s my cousin. You’re not hacking her to bits. Pick on one of the zombies outside.”

Billie laughed. “We’re just going to open her up and empty her belly,” she said. “Then we’ll be able to pull her out of the toilet.”

“She’ll be doubly grateful afterward,” Judy added. “She’s so fat she needs to shed some weight anyway.”

Mo looked from one to the other. He nodded. “Okay, so long as she stays in one piece. I don’t want to have to make any explanations to her mother. You’ve no idea what Aunt Mildred’s like.”

~

Billie opened the toilet door and got to work on Mary. She slit the obese zombie’s belly open with the knife and stuck a hand inside her. Mary was so fat that Billie couldn’t pull the sides of her stomach aside; they slid closed over her hand no matter what she did.

She immediately felt the obstruction. It wasn’t intestines or bones but smooth stacked bricks. It felt like the zombie had a wall inside her.

Then she felt the wall twitch.

Billie frantically ran her hand up and down the wall, quickly understanding that what she was feeling were scales, not bricks. Then she felt a pair of taloned claws touching her hand. She next felt breath and teeth.

Mary paid no attention to either Billie’s ripping of her body open, or her explorations inside. She was hard at work trying to shit, shit, shit.

~

“So, is there anything in there?” Mo asked.

Billie yanked her hand out of Mary’s belly and stared at the slit she’d made in it, horrified.

Mo and Judy stared in equal horror at the blood dripping from her hand, along with the semi-circle of teeth marks.

“Something’s in there all right,” Billie said. “If my reflexes were slower it would have bitten my hand off.”

Judy spat. “Has to be what’s preventing her from shitting,” she said, brow creased in thought.

Billie nodded. “It’s definitely what’s blocking her ass all right. She doesn’t have any intestines or anything else inside there.”

“You’re saying whatever’s inside her has eaten up her insides?” Mo asked.

Billie nodded. “Has to be.”

“You have any idea what it is? How big? I mean—you felt it, didn’t you?” Judy asked.

Billie was about to retort regarding how dumb this question was when a thought struck her. She studied the bite marks on her hand. The distance between the points where the teeth indentations curved backwards on either side was four inches. She concluded its head was about the size of a big dog’s.

“Its head’s little, but the body felt quite big,” she said.

“How big?” Judy persisted, primping up her green mohawk. For emphasis, she spat on Mo’s floor again.

Billie spread her hands. “Like so—bulldog sized.”

Judy’s brow creased with her thoughts. “Maybe that’s why she’s so fat,” she said finally.

“We’re in luck,” Mo said. “Despite how overweight Mary is, she’s still basically human-sized. It’s not like you could fit a whole T-Rex inside her.”

~

They held a quick council of war.

“Now that we’ve made the hole in her belly, whatever is in her is sooner or later going to attempt coming out,” Billie said. “And we already know it’s a carnivore.”

“How about if we tempt it out?” Mo said.

“Yeah,” Judy added. “Spread meat on the floor, then wait for it with weapons.” She pointed at the door. “There’s an old fire-ax out on the landing. And I’ve some liver in the fridge.”

“I’ll get my dad’s gun,” Billie said.

4.

Billie carefully laid out the liver trail. Placing the meat on Mo’s abraded old rug, she was overwhelmingly conscious of the slit in Mary’s belly, her body tensed to duck out of harm’s way immediately if she noticed the slightest widening of the opening. Now that they were actually doing this, she didn’t feel brave any more. She was scared. The bite marks on her hand hurt badly now and she was worried about them becoming infected.

Mo sensed her fear. “Hurry and get out of the way, will ya?” he said.

He was positioned by the apartment door, Billie’s dad’s antique shotgun in hand. The shotgun was a double-magazine pump action model, loading sixteen cartridges, and she’d also found two boxes of elephant shot. “The fucker could burst out any moment now,” he added. “You’ll be food if it does—I can’t shoot it through you.”

“Almost done,” Billie said. She looked at Judy, standing white-faced by the toilet door, fireman’s ax raised overhead.

“Can’t do this last one,” Billie whispered, nodding nervously at Mary’s bulging gut. She spat a huge gob of fear-spit. “Sorry, but I’m not going into that hole again.”

Judy nodded. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

Relief scrawled all over Billie’s face, she handed the last chunk of liver to Judy, took the ax from her, and assumed a chop-ready stance by the toilet door.

Judy carefully poked the slice of liver into the hole in Mary’s belly. Like Billie, she imagined she could feel the monster breathing inside, waiting to leap out at any moment and rend her to shreds. Above her, Brain-dead Mary had finally realized something was happening to her. The zombie stared across the room at Mo, wondering where she’d seen him before.

Judy waggled the liver slice left and right twice then pulled it out again. She repeated the action, waggling the meat in the hole then withdrawing it. Her hand shook with fear. She found it unnerving, waiting for something to burst from the belly hole.

One more time, she thought, then I’ll get my ass well away from here. She poked the meat in, shook it, then found she couldn’t pull it out again. She abandoned it, watched it get yanked fully into the hole, then fled to stand by the window.

“Bait’s taken,” she said. “Expect whatever the hell that is to arrive in our world shortly.”

She looked at Billie. Her friend’s thin face was taut with fear and strain. Sweat streamed down her neck into her cleavage, and her arms shook beneath the fire-ax they held. Mo wasn’t much better:  he had the look of one who’d woken in the middle of the night to a loud unending scratching on his bedroom door.

“Where is it?” Mo gasped. “This waiting is killing me.”

“Me too,” Billie said.

Judy pouted, and patted her Mohawk. “Let’s be patient here,” she said. “It’ll show soon.”

They waited another thirty seconds.

Billie lowered the ax. “My arms ache,” she said.

Mo lowered the shotgun so it pointed at a hole in the threadbare carpet. He looked at Judy. “That didn’t work. We’ll have to think of another way of luring—”

“Ssssshhhh!” Judy cautioned. She’d noticed the edges of the hole twitching.

Billie hadn’t noticed. She bent and picked up a bit of liver and threw it into the hole.

There was a moment when nothing happened, then the hole yawned like a cunt that a huge cock had just pulled out of, and the creature burst from it.

It was a dinosaur. Big and red and covered with spikes. It was much larger than Mary’s body could logically contain.

Moving like a bullet, the creature headed straight for Mo, who was directly opposite the toilet. He had no time to raise the shotgun again before disappearing beneath it in a shower of blood.

Chunks of Mo’s flesh spurted up into the air like there was a meat fountain under the dinosaur. Blood splattered the door frame and ran out in red rivers from beneath the creature into the room, into the corridor. Mo’s bare feet kicked and kicked, then twitched, then splayed out in defeat, as their owner was forced out of his life.

Done with killing Mo, the dinosaur raised its bloodstained muzzle and turned to face the two women. It looked from one to the other, wondering which to attack first.

Most of its bulk was its head. It had four eyes arranged in a diamond above its mouth. Judy now understood how they’d been so wrong about its size—from almost angular snout-tips, its jaws expanded backward, till, at its body, they framed the foot wide chasm Mo’s head had vanished into.

“It ate his head, it ate his head!” Billie screamed, pointing at Mo’s destroyed body, the remnant of his lungs piled atop his ripped-open chest.

Billie’s terror proved a magnet for the monster; its gaze settled on her. As though decapitating Mo had soothed its immediate blood lust, it trod slowly towards her, its footsteps thumping like hammer hits.

“Use the ax!” Judy yelled at Billie.

Billie, however, couldn’t move. The knowledge of her impending death held her transfixed. She peed herself as the dinosaur’s huge jaws dropped over her like nightfall and engulfed her head. She felt the chomp of them coming together in the middle of her chest, teeth boring through her flesh to meet themselves in the middle, then the horrible wrench of separation from herself. Swallowed down into her killer, Billie began the horrible countdown to blackness, as her brain slowly ran out of the oxygen it needed to consider her alive.

Judy didn’t watch Billie’s death. Close to panic, she raced across to Mo’s corpse and grabbed up the blood-coated shotgun. Careful not to slip on his spilt blood, she headed back to the window and frantically tried to work it.

Shit. The damn thing’s broken. The damn dino stomped its barrel. Fuck!

(Down in the streets below, naked zombies staggered to and fro seeking brains to eat, while government workers ran after them with plastic zip-up one-piece clothes, covering them up.)

Horrified, Judy dropped the shotgun. She looked up again, saw that the dinosaur was halfway across the room to her. Billie’s half-eaten corpse sat opposite, propped against a wall.

The dinosaur lunged at Judy.

She momentarily remembered she was in front of a window. In that split second she understood her single chance of escape and took it.

She threw herself flat to the floor.

The dinosaur sailed over Judy, crashed into the window, and became stuck in its frame.

Judy rolled out from beneath it. She jumped up and ran behind the creature. As the dinosaur fought to unstick itself and climb back into the room, Judy began kicking its scaly ass with her hobnailed punk boots.

Kick Kick Kick Kick. Each hard thump on the dino’s rump pushed it further out through the window frame. She kicked its ass like it was a skinhead chick she was feuding with.

Realizing it was overbalancing, the dinosaur made a final desperate attempt to re-enter the room.

“Oh no, you motherfucking don’t,” Judy growled. She braced herself beneath its ass, and, ignoring the white reptile shit pumping out over her mohawk, heaved mightily.

Squealing in reptile fear, the dinosaur spurted out through the window. It flailed end-over-end down six floors of airspace and exploded into bloody pulp on the sidewalk below.

Her heart beating like it would explode, sucking air in rapid gasps, Judy remained at the window, watching street zombies walk around the crashed dinosaur like it had always been there.

She spat and spat and spat down on the zombies below.

Then Judy heard the shambling behind her, and spun round in a flash.

Shit again.

She’d forgotten about brain-dead Mary, the original catalyst of this crap explosion. Freed from the obstruction blocking her from swallowing the baby’s arm, Mary had done so, and was now out of the toilet and shambling towards Judy, arms outstretched, jaws agape with brain-eating intent.

“Braaainnssss!” Mary hissed.

Judy thought a moment. She really didn’t have time for this crap now, let the government workers downstairs handle it. Besides, with Mo fucking dead, she didn’t have to worry about what his Aunt Mildred would think any longer.

She waited until Mary was almost on her, then ducked behind her and pushed the zombie out through the window after the dinosaur.

Judy Punkette didn’t bother waiting to watch Mary smash into the sidewalk and break every bone in her undead body. After spitting a huge gob of green satisfaction-spit on the carpet, she walked over to the toilet, turned on both taps in the washbasin and began cleaning the stinking dinosaur shit out of her mohawk.

FINGER CUFFS

Matt Kurtz

Wedged behind the wheel of his van, Gene trolled the farm roads for some fresh meat, scouring anywhere a child might play. It wasn’t like in the city where the bright yellow “Children Crossing” signs advertised their whereabouts. Out here in the sticks, he had to search a little harder for all those country mice.

Driving down the rural highway, he spotted a gas station with a sign out front that read: Girl Scout Cookies. He hooted, more excited over the tiny cookies doing the selling than the ones being sold.

The van pulled into the parking lot alongside the gas pumps and his eyes zeroed in on the station’s front door, hoping to spot the little ladies sitting behind a folding table covered with Thin Mints and Caramel Delights.

But the doorway was empty.

Gene tapped the steering wheel, debating whether to go in for a look-see. Then his eyes froze on the review mirror, which reflected an image of a brown and white sedan with red and blue lights on top.

The sheriff’s cruiser sat idling, inches from his back bumper.

Just relax. You’re blocking the gas pumps, stupid. Just get outta the way so Smokey can fill ’er up.

As the van coasted forward, the cruiser followed.

Okay then. Get outta his way. Back on the road. Slowly. Carefully. But not too slow and careful.

The van eased back onto the rural highway. The cruiser did the same.

It was following him.

Gene broke into a sweat from the sudden onset of near-crippling shit cramps. He knew the sheriff was probably itching to pull over an out-of-towner. And, dear God, if Smokey were to do a vehicular search and discover the large black box in the back that contained all the goodies he used…

No! Kiddie diddlers didn’t survive in prison. If they weren’t just outright killed, they became the cell block bitch and eventually had to wear diapers because their shitters were so stretched out.

With trembling hands, Gene fought to breathe and kept the van straight and steady. About a half-mile down, he spotted a turn off that appeared to lead deeper into the sticks.

Okay, this is it. If ya turn and the cop still follows ya… then he’s lookin’ to get ya.

Gene navigated the van off the highway, turning onto the single lane road. Once he straightened out, he held his breath and stared into the mirror.

The cruiser was still behind him.

Gene groaned, hot panic spread across his chest.

Please God, if ya get me outta this one I swear I’ll stop, I’ll get some help, I know I’m sick  and I’ve done wrong I swear I’ll change just please don’t let me get pulled over! Please. Please!

He checked his rearview mirror again. With all his blubbering, Gene hadn’t noticed that the cruiser stopped on the side of the road about a half-mile back.

All at once the air rushed from his lungs, fogging the windshield’s interior. He wiped his sweaty, tear-stained face with the back of his forearm and continued down the road, following its twists and turns, paying more attention to the rearview mirror than to the road ahead.

Ten minutes later, he realized he was completely lost. Unable to backtrack, Gene pulled over and looked around. He slammed the gearshift into park, killed the engine, and stepped out. The gravel road crunched under his beefy weight. He closed his eyes and listened for traffic in the distance, hoping it would guide him out of there, but heard nothing.

He grumbled then noticed the wooden sign leaning against a withered oak on the shoulder of the road: Ice Cold Lemenade. Spelling and handwriting clearly a child’s. An arrow below the words pointed up the road.

Gene glanced in its direction then his eyes slid back to the sign. He grinned, suddenly feeling not as queasy.

The van pulled back onto the road, heading in the arrow’s direction.

Quickly forgetting his promise to the Big Guy Upstairs, Gene remembered his original plan.

Be careful. That cop might’ve got your license plate. If a kid goes missing out here, that could be the end of—

Any rationality flew right out the window when he spotted the two little girls on the side of the road. One blonde, the other brunette. Both sat behind an old crate, using it as a make-shift table for their lemonade stand.

The little girls were all alone.

Gene kept the van moving at a snail’s pace. The girls waved as he crawled past. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the road and eyed them in his rearview mirror. They waved for him to come back, enticing him like Sirens. He turned around, glanced at his black box of fun, and smiled.

Think ya can handle two of ’em, big guy?

Making a three point turn on the narrow dirt road, Gene returned and pulled over. He climbed out and slowly approached the girls, giving them a friendly wave.

“What ya sellin’?” he asked, ignoring the obvious.

The blonde, no more than eight years old, proudly displayed the pitcher of golden refreshment. “Ice cold lemonade, silly!”

The brunette—a year or two older—eyed Gene up and down. Did she sense something? Or was it that she couldn’t believe how stupid the fat man was since there was a big sign right in front of him clearly announcing what they were selling?

“Ice cold lemonade?” Gene repeated, mimicking the little blonde’s enthusiasm. “Sure sounds good to a thirsty fella such as myself. Did your Mommy and Daddy make it?”

“No. We did,” the brunette flatly stated.

“We have to earn our keep,” the blonde added. “That’s what Grammie says. She’s the one that put us out here.”

“Earn your keep, huh? Well, your Grammie sounds like a wise lady.” He was absolutely falling in love with the golden-haired one. The other wasn’t doing much for him, but apparently they were a package deal. “So are you two sisters?”

The blonde quickly nodded. “I’m Bridgette. And this is Nora.”

“Hush!” Nora snapped, shooting her little sister a look. Bridgette immediately glanced down.

Gene hid a smile. Now that he knew their names, he could use it to his advantage. “Sisters, huh?”

Just keeps gettin’ better and better.

He scoped out the road. “Kinda isolated place to be setting up a stand, don’t ya think? Did ya pick this spot because ya live close by?”

Bridgette nodded. “Yep. We live just over—”

“Mister?” Nora interrupted. “Are you gonna buy some lemonade or what?”

He gave an overly exaggerated look of surprise. “Why sure, Miss Nora. How much for a glass?”

“One dollar,” Nora said.

“Hmmmmmmm…” Gene playfully stared at them, jutting out his lower lip. “Is it really good lemonade?”

Bridgette adamantly nodded her head.

“Well, then…I guess that sounds like a fair price if Bridgette says it’s really good.” Gene pulled out his wallet and fished for a single, handing it over to his golden favorite as the older sister poured a glass. Right at the exchange of payment, Gene stuck his index finger out, quickly rubbing it over the back of Bridgette’s hand. He just wanted a little preview of her tender flesh.

Bridgette giggled and pulled back. Gene gave her a wink. Nora shot her sister another look then offered the glass to Gene.

“Why thank you, Nora.” He held it up to them, smiling. “Cheers.” He swallowed it down. “Ummmm, that’s good. How ’bout another?”

“One dollar,” Nora demanded.

The little brunette was already getting on his nerves. He’d make it extra painful for her later. “Then one dollar it is.”

They exchanged items and Gene gulped it down. After returning the glass, he glanced up and down the road again. It was deserted. The entire time he had been dividing his attention between flirting with the children and listening for any noise in the distance, warning him of someone’s approach. But all was silent.

“Well, Miss Nora and Miss Bridgette, I kindly thank ya and hope business booms so ya can make your Grammie mighty proud.” He nodded and headed back to his van.

The little girls looked at one another then stepped out from behind the booth, curiously watching Gene walk away.

He paused in mid-step and spun around. “Ya know, I was thinkin’…”

The girls scurried behind the stand as he returned.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a glass of regular ol’ water, would ya?”

Both girls shook their heads in unison.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, hitching his thumb back to the van. “ ’Cause Bubba could really use some water.”

Both girls looked past him, toward the vehicle.

“Who’s Bubba?” Nora asked.

“Oh, he’s my little puppy dog. Got ’em right there in the back of the van.”

“Is he fluffy?” Bridgette asked, wide-eyed.

“Like a lil’ bunny rabbit,” Gene said, performing a final perimeter check. “Say, would you little ladies like to see him?”

“I do! I do!” Bridgette squealed and ran out from behind the booth.

“Bridgette!” Nora snapped. “Grammie won’t like this. We gotta job to do.”

Bridgette ignored her sister and skipped toward the vehicle.

Gene’s heart raced. He felt the sweat of excitement dripping down his plump body. Stumbling, he turned back to Nora. His head spun. Maybe he was getting a little too excited. “Don’t ya wanna…take a look also, sweetie? He’s a real cute little fella.”

Nora stood frozen, watching him.

The little cunt knows. “C’mon, Nora. I’m sure your Grammie won’t mind if ya leave the stand for just a moment. Bubba will be real excited to see ya. He’s been cooped up in the…” Gene swallowed hard. His tongue felt as swollen as a marshmallow. “…cooped up… all day,” he muttered.

He turned back to the van where little Bridgette was trying to peek through the tinted windows. “Bubba? Hey, Bubba?” she called.

The horizon seemed to tilt. Gene’s left leg slid out from under him. He stumbled into the road.

Bridgette noticed and slowly approached as he crumbled to his knees.

Nora came up behind him. “You okay, mister?”

He nodded, a strand of drool stretched from his lower lip. “Yeah…just…a little…dizz—” Gene fell flat on his ass. After floundering a bit, he went still.

“Yes! We did it!” Bridgette squealed.

“I’ll stay here with him,” Nora told her younger sister. “You go get Pa and tell him we got one.”

~

Lying on the table, Gene felt like his head was cracked open. He groaned and slowly opened his eyes.

“Howdy,” a gruff voice said.

Gene’s lids fluttered until he was able to focus on the man standing above. The stranger appeared to be in his late-forties, gaunt, and haggard. An old woman stood at Gene’s feet, studying him with dark, beady eyes.

Gene attempted to bolt up but his arms snapped back to the wood surface as if his tendons were made of taut rubber bands. He tried to swing his legs off the table, but they were cemented in place. He was pinned on his back, spread eagle, with nylon rope binding his wrists and ankles.

“Where… am… I?”

“Our house,” the man said.

Gene needed a little more than that. He struggled against his restraints, attempting to sit up again. The man planted a calloused palm on Gene’s chest.

“Whoa. Just relax. I’ll explain the need for the ropes in a bit.”

Gene looked around the bare room in confusion and saw a series of tables—partially covered in a plastic drop cloth.

“Ya see, hoss, after I found ya lying in the road, I brought ya here so Mamma could take a look at ya. She used to be a nurse, so you’ve been in real good hands this whole time.”

“How long—”

“Oh, only a couple hours. Just about the time it takes for the drug to wear off.”

“D-d-drug…?”

The man smiled. “The tartness of the lemonade hides it pretty good, huh? Anyhow, I hope ya don’t mind that I fetched your van. Figured ya didn’t want it left out.”

Although Gene was gravely concerned about these people, he was relieved to have his van off the road before anyone discovered what was in back. “Yeah… thank you.”

“No problem, hoss. I hope ya don’t mind that I rooted around and found this.” The man nodded at Mamma.

She stepped aside, revealing his black box sitting on the counter. Its lid was open.

Gene felt white-hot panic electrify his body. “Look... please… I can explain what all that stuff—”

The man held up his hand. “No need. I saw them pictures in there. Some of them kids can’t be any older than my two angels. Ya know, those lil’ girls running the lemonade stand?”

Gene felt his stomach collapse. He fought for breath. “Are you—are you gonna call the cops?”

The couple fought back a smile. “Nah,” the man said. “Don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Thank—thank you,” Gene stammered, silently questioning whether he should really be grateful to the pair.

“But I must say that fate’s a funny thing,” the man said. “’Cause outta all the people we’re forced to do this to…” He stepped forward and leaned down in Gene’s face, studying him like a pinned insect. “None deserve it more than you.”

Before Gene could ask ‘Do what to?’ the man patted Gene on the shoulder. “Now you relax while we start preparing ya.”

Mamma approached with a syringe. Gene fought to break free from his restraints. The man clamped his fingers around Gene’s beefy neck to steady him.

“No!” the crone hissed. “Not the throat!!”

The man immediately released his grip and nodded.

Gasping for breath, Gene winced when Mamma pulled the hypodermic from his arm, not realizing that she had already injected him during the struggle.

He felt a soothing warmth flow up and over his chest. His lids fluttered. Before all went black, the man leaned closer again.

“Sleep tight, ya sick fuck. We’ll get ya all ready in no time.”

~

Dreams.

As a boy, standing in the garage of his childhood home. Father working at his cluttered workbench.

The squeal of the power tool. The smell of electricity, burning saw dust, and sweat. All lingered in the stagnate air.

Father turned, asking if he wanted to try. Gene stared at the sandblaster in his father’s hands. It looked dangerous. Mommy wouldn’t like that.

Terrified, he shook his head.

Father shot him a look of disgust then glanced down to the sandblaster. A sadistic smile rose.

“Well, if you’re gonna be scared of it, boy,” he said. “Then I might as well give ya a good reason to be that way.” Father revved the sandblaster and moved close to his cowering seven-year-old son.

Drenched in sweat, Gene snapped awake. Realizing that he wasn’t in the safety of his own bed, the fear from the nightmare remained. And the sandblaster’s squeal wasn’t stopping.

His head rose, struggling to look in the direction of the God-awful, nerve-shattering sound. He locked eyes with the man at the foot of the table—the man cloaked in plastic, holding a wailing buzz saw, spitting up blood and chunks of gristle from around Gene’s legs.

The man killed the power tool. “Mamma! He’s awake!”

A handful of cotton gauze clamped over Gene’s mouth from above. The coppery tang of blood in his throat was quickly replaced by a chemical taste burning his windpipe and Gene’s terror melted away.

~

Covered by a sheet, Gene awoke to find the cute little blonde from the lemonade stand studying him. Her two hands clutched the edge of the table, her chin resting on top. She eyed his freshly shaved pate and the plastic surgical tubing that ran out from behind the white medical tape stuck to his skull.

“Does it hurt?”

Gene shrugged, numb from the drugs pumping through his body to even know that there was a large intravenous needle piercing his scalp.

“You’ve been asleep for a long time,” she said.

Recalling the vivid nightmare of his legs being butchered, Gene wiggled his digits to verify that all limbs were still rightfully intact. He felt straps across his chest, but nothing restraining his arms or legs. Had they not expected him to wake up so soon?

Gene moved his lips.

Bridgette leaned in. “What?”

Gene continued his inaudible whisper. The girl inched closer.

Just a bit more, ya little cunt. If he could get his hands around her tiny throat, he’d take her hostage and free himself from this den of insanity.

Bridgette hovered inches away.

Gene threw his hands up to throttle her neck.

But the sheet didn’t move.

He tried again, hissing between clenched teeth.

She giggled at his funny face.

Gene kicked, his legs flailing wildly, and his arms lashed out.

The sheet remained frozen.

“My arms…?”

“They’re okay, silly,” Bridgette said, pointing across the room. “They’re right over there.”

Gene froze, praying that the little girl was playing a twisted game.

“And so are your legs.”

He stared at the bloody countertop for a moment… until the stumps of meat came into focus.

“Oh Christ Oh Christ Oh Christ…” Gene knew the severed limbs couldn’t be his, he felt his fingers and toes moving. But, for God’s sake, there were indeed somebody’s severed limbs sitting on the counter across from him.

“Pa had to remove them because It don’t like—”

“Bridgette!” a girl’s voice yelled from over Gene’s shoulder, startling him. “Get away from there.”

Gene saw the brunette from the lemonade stand wearing an oversized, brown cowboy hat tilted up.

Nora glanced at Gene. “Pa! He’s awake!”

Heavy footsteps clunked on the ceiling then descended a set of creaky stairs around the corner.

“Why did you drug me?”

“We already told ya,” Nora said. “Grammie wants us to earn our keep.”

“But why?” he shouted with all the strength he could muster.

“’Cause we gotta do our part to catch ya. So It can have you instead of us.”

Bridgette rapidly flicked her finger over the sole of the bare foot on one of the severed legs. “Tickle, tickle, tickle.” She giggled at Gene.

Nora smacked her hand. “Stop playing!”

“Feelin’ better, are we?”

Gene jumped and looked up at the man, now dressed in a sheriff’s uniform—minus one cowboy hat.  “You? You’re the—?”

“Sure am,” the man said, plucking the hat off his daughter’s head and crowning his own with it. When he straightened the brim, the gold star on front came into view.

“You—lured me here?!”

“Nah, I just nudge people in a certain direction. If it’s God’s will, you’ll find yer way here. After all, only the ones that really got something to hide go outta their way to slink away from the police. Am I right?”

“I never did anything to you!” Gene blurted in desperation. “Never touched your girls!”

“Nope. But you have touched others.” He nodded to the severed appendages on the counter. “But not anymore.”

“Those things are NOT mine! I feel my arms and legs just fine!”

“Phantom limb syndrome. I assure you that’s them over yonder. Here, lemme show ya.” The man ripped back the sheet, revealing Gene’s new makeover. He was completely naked. The four areas where his limbs used to be attached were smoothed over and stitched up like the ends of four baked hams. His genitals were grossly missing. As only a head and torso, he now resembled something like a misshapen center piece to a human jigsaw puzzle.

Gene struggled to take in his mutilated body.

“And since ya ain’t got no need for your nuts and pecker, we fed ’em to the dog,” the man said. “Hope ya don’t mind?”

Gene wailed in horror.

Mamma entered, whipping a rectal thermometer through the air.

The man loosened the straps and shifted Gene on his side. “We gotta make sure ya ain’t running a fever before puttin’ ya out back.”

The woman plugged the thermometer between his ass cheeks.

Gene’s blubbering was cut short with a grimace of pain.

“Oh, c’mon, hoss,” the man said. “Hope for yer sake yer tougher than that.”

Gene locked eyes with the little girls then looked away, mortified. He had never felt so vulnerable in all his life.

“Ninety-eight point seven,” the crone said.

“Alrighty! You’re good to go.”

“Please! Whatever you’re gonna do to me, please—for the love of God—don’t!”

Nora and Bridgette left the kitchen. Mamma handed the man a knotted handkerchief. “Sorry about this,” the man said, “but we can’t have ya biting us.”

By the time the girls returned with the wheelbarrow, Gene had been gagged and wrapped in a sheet. The man lifted him off the table as the old woman gathered the IV bag—its other end attached to a tube plugged into the thin skin of Gene’s pate. The tubing pulled taut and Gene’s scalp stretched, nearly ripping the needle out. He hissed in pain until the woman rushed forward to make up the slack.

Using the wheelbarrow, Gene was rolled out of the house and onto the porch, where a thick sheet of plywood was placed over the steps, providing a makeshift ramp down to the yard.

The man turned to his daughters, who were curiously looking into the woods out back. “Go back inside, girls. Ain’t nothing else to see.”

Gene stared wide-eyed into the vast wooded yard, desperately trying to figure out his fate. The area was desolate, not a neighboring house anywhere in sight.

As he was rolled down the ramp and pushed along the dirt trail snaking through the trees, the old woman clutched the raised IV bag and silently marched beside the wheelbarrow as if taking part in a funeral procession.

They approached a mound of dirt next to a large pit. The wheelbarrow stopped and the man walked over to the edge of the hole, solemnly staring down.

Gene shook his head, snot and tears streamed over the gag.

The man noticed Gene gawking at the hole. “What? Ya think you’re goin’ in there?” He returned to the wheelbarrow, lifting its handles. “You’d be so lucky,” he calmly stated.

They started rolling again.

“No, that was supposed be our new drinking well.” He exhaled and gave the old woman a glance. “Biggest mistake, that was. Should’ve just been happy with that hard mineral water we was drinkin’ beforehand.”

The old woman nodded in agreement.

“Ya see, hoss. That’s where It came from. Out of all these acres of land for It to be sleepin’ under all this time, we had to go and choose the exact spot above it to dig a new well.”

The old woman guffawed.

“Got my wife first,” the man continued, voice slightly trembling. “The girls were the ones that found what was left of her after she went missin’. When they came back to the house cryin’ hysterically, I went out there alone to investigate. And that’s when it showed itself.” Both he and the old woman shuddered in unison.

Gene’s bloodshot eyes shifted back and forth, partially trying to figure out where they were taking him, but mostly searching for someone in the woods that might rescue him from this madness.

“It told me what it needed. How to do it. And that if I refused, it’d get my girls. Even no matter where we went, it’d find them and do something much worse than what it did to their mother.”

They rounded the bend of the wooded trail and a large, two-story dilapidated barn came into sight. Gene felt a chill snake up his spine. The place simply looked evil.

“Yep, so that’s why we bring folks here,” the man said, nodding to the barn. “Oh, I know you’re probably wondering how I can do such things after taking a solemn oath to uphold the law. Well, some things are greater than any man-made laws.” He inhaled sharply. “And doing whatever it takes to protect your family is one of ’em.”

They stopped at a large sliding door secured with three padlocks. The man took the IV bag from the old woman, freeing her hands so she could unlock the barn.

“Ya know, let’s be honest for a minute here. Meeting you and finding out what ya intended to do with my baby girls…” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m finally able to take some pleasure in doing something that usually strains my conscience.”

As the barn door slid back, a gut wrenching wave of rotting meat and feces attacked Gene’s nostrils.

The barn was dark, except for a single shaft of light from a missing board in the roof. It shone down, like a spotlight, illuminating a large wooden table. Gene was pushed to the slab, leather straps and a blood-stained pillow adorned the wooden altar. The tabletop was stained with practically all the major bodily fluids: shit, piss, puke, and blood. Flies buzzed everywhere.

Lifted from the wheelbarrow, Gene’s head swung from side to side, searching the shadowy barn. Was there movement in the far corner? Gene was spun around and lost track of where he thought he saw something extremely large crouching in the darkness. He was dropped on the sticky table and rolled onto his stomach. The man unfolded the sheet from around Gene’s torso, leaving him naked like a newborn on a changing table. The pillow was wedged under his hips, forcing his bare ass up into the air.

While the man strapped Gene face-down, the old woman hooked the IV on the metal pole beside the table and made sure the tubing stayed clear of its tainted surface.

“Ya ever play with one of them Chinese finger cuffs?” the man whispered in Gene’s ear.

Gene didn’t respond. He was way too occupied with the surrounding darkness and what lurked within it.

“Ya know how it has one hole in each end that ya stick a finger into? Once they get plugged, your fingers get stuck, and ya pull back and watch the thing stretch? Well, that’s kinda what’s gonna happen here.” He untied the gag and pulled it out of Gene’s mouth. “Face down, ass up. Two openings. That’s what it needs. Anything more just gets ripped off.” He nodded to Gene’s mutilated body. “Hence the little nip tuck job. We can’t have ya bleedin’ out before it’s done with ya.”

“P-P-Please! Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything. Anything you want!”

“Ya already are,” the crone grumbled.

The man stepped back and pointed at the IV bag. “Now the stuff we got pumping through ya will only take the edge off for a bit. But once it’s gone, you’re just gonna have to tough it out.”

An inhuman snarl sounded from the shadows. All three looked in its direction, staring into the blackness.

The man spun back to Gene and patted his shoulder. “Whoop. Gotta go. We’re overstayin’ our welcome.” He and the crone scurried toward the exit.

“Please! No! Don’t leave me!”

The barn door slammed shut, allowing the darkness to jump closer to the table.

A guttural growl sounded behind him, somewhere low on the floor.

Gene froze. He heard something large crawling across the dirt toward him and his naked, upturned ass.

The front of the table suddenly flew up. Gene yelped and shifted downwards. But the straps caught  hold of him, locking him in place.

The table slammed back to the ground, kicking up dust. Gene whimpered. He knew whatever was down there was trying to tip the table, slide him off, and get him to the floor, but—thank God—the straps were holding him steady.

If he could just stay on top, maybe that thing below wouldn’t be able to reach him and—

A set of large, pale taloned hands planted themselves on the wood tabletop beside Gene’s bare shoulders. A hot breath cascaded over his nape. Warm drool dripped onto his back.

Gene shuddered in terror.

The thing wasn’t trying to tip him off the table; it was climbing on top of it. And now it was straddling his backside.

Something warm and flaccid flopped onto the small of his back. As the appendage slid down to his ass crack, it grew rigid, secreting a warm, sticky trail of fluid. Then the beast sounded a deafening roar as something hard, warm, and extremely large penetrated Gene’s upturned ass. The throbbing phallus snaked up his rectum and through his small and large intestine, searching for the best place to deposit its eggs. Gene squealed in agony and tried to scream for help.

It never sounded. His mouth was immediately plugged with another warm, fleshy rod that traveled down his esophagus until finally stopping in the pit of his stomach to fertilize the eggs that were now being planted through his ass.

With his belly ballooning, Gene choked and gagged, praying that he’d somehow be saved from this atrocity before it was too late. But any divine intervention had already occurred earlier that day, delivering Gene to a fate that he rightfully deserved: a place where children—once freshly hatched—would be the aggressor and take great delight in preying upon his weak and defenseless state.

ANOINTED

D. Lynn Smith

The Apprentice

The sins of ordinary people aren’t that big a deal. Maybe you steal a pen from work, or cheat on a test, or lie to your mom and dad. Even fornication isn’t that bad all by itself, though, if you ask my dad about it, you’ll get an hour-long lecture that doesn’t really make any sense. He’s got this God thing going on. The kind where he goes to church and then mixes up all the stuff the preacher says so it fits his own agenda.

Anyway, sins aren’t so bad taken individually. But roll up all those little sins into a ball and what you end up with is one huge sticky glob of sin. That’s bad stuff. You get slimed with that and, well, you saw the pictures, right?

My dad could have warned me, you know? None of this would have happened if he’d just told me why he didn’t want to plumb that drain and why it took a Specialist. But he’s always withholding information. Like, he’s afraid I might turn out to be a better plumber than he is. And I could be, too. He didn’t even make it through high school. I have an AA degree in business. I have some great ideas on how to make his business run more efficiently, but he’s always making out like I’m the idiot; like he took me on as an apprentice because I couldn’t cut it anyplace else.

I wouldn’t put up with it except I really like plumbing and I want to learn the business from the bottom up. There’s this feeling of accomplishment when you clear a drain. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve pulled out of people’s pipes. Once we had this job where a man tried to flush his wife’s snake down the toilet. It was a six-foot long king snake and it got stuck half in and half out of the trap. When we got there, the back half of that snake was slapping around the bowl and the woman was crying and yelling and trying to grab it. I guess she thought she could just yank it back out. When we finally pulled the toilet, that snake shot out of there like it had a jet-assist. We didn’t stick around to find out if they ever caught it.

Most drains get plugged up by ordinary things like hair or tree roots or those feminine products that are supposed to be flushable but aren’t. Whatever it is, it’s just a matter of stuff building up in the pipes. Then I show up with my bag of tricks and do my thing. Weird as it may be, when I hear that water gurgling through the drain, clear as can be, it makes me want to sing. I get such a feeling of joy in my heart.

Anyway, I went to the church thinking this job was no different.

The Plumber

So while a shrink talks to my son, you guys question me. I watch those cop shows on TV; I know you’re just trying to see if our stories match up. And they will, because what I have to tell you is the God’s honest truth.

We got this call to clear a clogged drain out at that church on Main. You know, the one with that big colored window in the front and the steeple that reaches right up to heaven. That is some church, I’ll tell you what. You just know God is going to be listening when you go inside that church. Not that I think God really cares about where a person prays. No siree, Bob. You could be kneeling at an altar or sitting on the pot and he’d hear your prayers, believe you me.

When we got there the secretary told me the problem was with the baptismal font instead of the kitchen or toilet like I thought. Well, no plumber in his right mind takes on a clogged baptismal drain. That takes the Specialist. We all know who to call, but you won’t find the number in any yellow pages.

So I says to that secretary that I have to get a Specialist to come out and she gets real upset. Said they were having a private baptism that afternoon. I say, ‘Sorry, lady, no can do.’

Okay, so I walk out to my truck to dial up the Specialist. But, like I find out later, this secretary goes to work on my son. Now she was young and cute as a button so of course my idiot son decides that’s a good enough reason to take on the job. I know he was hoping to impress her, maybe score a date. Unfortunately, I didn’t figure out what the halfwit was up to until it was too late. When I heard him scream, I just knew by the sound of it he’d tried to clear that damn drain his self.

I about crapped my shorts right there. I went running into the sanctuary but he was gone. Oh Lord, if we’d only known how far gone. The Lord and I had quite a session that night, I’ll tell you, quite a session.

The Specialist is the one to blame for all the horrible things that happened after that. There’s supposed to be a regular servicing of baptismal drains. They’re not supposed to get clogged up like that. It’s the Specialist’s God-given responsibility to make sure of that. Yeah, sometimes baptismal pools and fonts get clogged up between cleanings—you got some truly sinful people out there. But for my son to do what he did, well, there just had to be a shit-load, pardon my French, of sins in that drain. I bet if you talk to that cute secretary you’ll find out that drain hadn’t been cleared in months—years even. You go and ask her.

The Specialist

Yes, I know I am beginning to sound like them. But then I have to live among them, talk to them, make them understand me. I realize the song of my voice is not what it once was. You can hear it, the misery and desperation of these creatures with which I share my exile has begun to color the otherwise glorious tones of my vocalizations. You are blessed to stay in the heavenly realms where your voice does not get polluted by the constant whining and bickering.

But I digress. More to the point, I shall never comprehend why the Glorious Almighty thought it prudent to allow humans to wash away their sins. I contend that they are no better than the beasts of the field. Yes, they ostensibly know right from wrong, but do they ever choose the right over the wrong? No. And that, my dearest friend, makes them worse than the beasts.

Yes, I understand that this kind of attitude is what got me exiled to this forsaken place. That is another thing I cannot comprehend. True, I did not join with the others in support of the Almighty and his pet humans but neither did I join Lucifer. I, like other of my brethren, stayed neutral. And still the Most Holy of Holies exposes us to the viscous sludge humans cast off in their baptismal contraptions. I ask you, is this the optimal way to persuade us that we were wrong in our assessment of his most favored of creations? I think not.

You probably have no concept of how difficult it is adjusting to linear time when the infinite universe was once yours. Very often I neglect to turn the calendar pages or to note the passage of time. I believe that is the very reason the drain had not been serviced as often as it might have been. If you interview my brethren, you will find this to be a common problem, one that the Almighty failed to consider when he meted out our punishment.

The Apprentice

I don’t remember much about what happened at the church. I know I went home and showered. I rubbed my skin raw trying to get all that sin off of me. My dad came to my apartment looking for me, but I slipped out the bedroom window. I just didn't want to hear another lecture from him.

I was walking down the street when this pretty woman walked by. She glanced over at me and as our eyes met, I suddenly had a vision of her tied to a bed, her breasts bare, nipples staring up at me. I went hard right then and there. I was shocked. I mean, I’m not a virgin or anything, but I'd never imagined anything like that before. That really shook me, but after that, I couldn’t look at a woman without being pummeled by one wicked vision or another.

Surfin’ the net, hitting all the porn sites, came next. You get some really bizarre pop-ups when you do that, and I somehow wound up at this anthropologist’s site reading about this tribe in New Guinea. The natives there practiced this thing called dermal penetration. For them it was a rite of passage, an initiation into manhood. One of the men of the tribe would make a small cut in the abdomen of a boy who was a candidate for manhood and then insert his penis into the boy’s abdomen. Then he’d do his thing until he got off into the cut. Weird, huh? I guess the semen is supposed to transform the kid into a man or something.

After that, the visions became really intense. That woman I imagined tied to the bed would have tape over her mouth. I’d rub my cock all over that tape leaving a sticky, wet smear. That’s sick, huh? But they were only thoughts and thoughts can’t hurt anyone. Right?

Anyway, that’s what I told myself as I washed all that blood off in the shower.

The Plumber

My son ain’t no pervert. The wife and I raised him to be a good Christian boy. He don’t always listen to his elders the way he should, but he’s not bad; never had any trouble with you guys before. Look up his record. You’ll see he’s clean.

That’s how I know he ain’t responsible for those women, no matter what kind of DNA evidence you have. DNA don’t mean squat in this case.

Now I know that God has forgiven him these murders. Especially since he was under the influence, you know—the influence of all that sin. But you guys, you don’t forgive. That’s our legal system, unforgiving. And most of the time I agree with it. Hell, I believe in the death penalty. If they’re guilty, hang the bastards. Even if it’s not turning the other cheek like Christ taught us.

But then he also said to obey the law. That’s right there in the Bible. Obey the law. My son was raised to do just that.

You should be checking out the members of that congregation. I mean there must have been some pretty bad sinnin’ going on for all this to have happened.

The Specialist

When I arrived at the place of worship, the son, a young male, was gone. The older male, the father, was in a confused state of fear. It manifested as anger. He seemed willing to believe that I was in some small measure responsible for the events that transpired. The young female simply wanted the mess in the sanctuary to be cleaned up.

I examined the residue that had leaked out onto the floor and knew we had a severe problem. It reeked of fermenting evil. Since you have not had the dubious pleasure of dwelling here among these beasts you will have never smelled such a thing. Even with my extensive experience, I had never smelled anything as wrong as this.

You may want to look into the members of this congregation. Admittedly, the drain had not been cleared in a while, but this residue was extraordinary. The Holy of Holies should rethink His policy on this one.

As it was, I negated the immediate danger and then began my search for the young male. I believed I could simply follow that odor of evil, but the task turned out to be much more difficult.

The Apprentice

When I look at those pictures now, and I’ve looked at them a lot, I can’t believe I did those things. The memories are more like a dream, or like a show I watched on television.

That first cut into the abdomen was like the best kind of tease. There’s a smell inside us, you know. Well, you probably don’t, but there is. It doesn’t smell like anything else in the world. And when I made that first deep slice, that smell would come rushing out and I’d almost faint from how good it made me feel.

The women’s eyes would go all wild with fear, their faces crinkled up around the tape as they tried to scream, their tears leaking down their cheeks leaving black streaks of mascara behind. Man, that was hot.

When I was done, I’d slice their throats. Cool thing about that is when their throats were laid open, every one of them made a gurgling sound that was just like a drain clearing.

The Plumber

My boy never had much in the way of girlfriends. Matter of fact I was afraid he was a little light in his loafers, if you know what I mean. And that’s against God’s word. I did my best to beat it out of him. Then his mother found these girlie magazines hidden under his mattress. She got her panties all twisted in a knot, but I was relieved. I laid off him a bit after that.

My point is, my son couldn’t pick up a girl to save his soul. And yet somehow he got all these women to go someplace private with him. I’d be proud if it weren’t for what happened when he got ’em there. But of course, I couldn’t really be proud because fornicating is a sin too. Not as bad a sin as murder, but a sin all the same.

So I’m telling you that something else was controlling him. Like mind control or body control; like that movie where the pod people take over that town. Only it was a blob of sin that got my boy instead of the pods.

I hate to admit it but my son isn’t man enough to have done these things. Have you seen him now? Have you talked to him? Do you really think that boy is clever enough to kill thirteen women and not get caught? Do you think he’s someone who could get those women—I’m talking good girls not whores or nothing—to up and go with him? No way in hell.

The Specialist

My examination of the site of the first female mutilation yielded little information. I expected to pick up the young beast’s trail there. But there was a startling absence of the odor of sin, absolutely no evidence of the slime having been at the scene. There was literally no scent trail, no dribble of sludge anywhere in the room. That was my first indication this was not a normal case.

Usually the sin would ride the boy like one of Lucifer’s demons. And since this is a ball of cast off sin, pieces of it are flung off wherever a person goes. Have you ever seen a snail trail? Of course you haven’t.

My point is the trail of slime and the reek of evil is usually quite easy to follow. But the sin wasn’t riding outside this boy. It had settled deep inside him so that it left no trail. It was as if he had been an empty vessel just waiting to be filled, and the sin from that clogged drain was happy to oblige.

The Apprentice

After that first cut, that first magnificent scent of their insides, I’d stick my fingers inside the cut. Every one of those girls was so wet and hot in there. There wasn’t a dry one in the bunch. Some of them would scream, some would whimper, some would moan. It didn’t matter, it all sounded good.

There’s nothing like the feel of a woman’s blood. And when I knew I was getting close, that’s when I entered them through that slice in their abdomen.

They took the whole of me. They bucked and twisted on the bed and screamed and moaned and I humped them with everything I had until I couldn’t hold it any longer and exploded inside them.

But now that I think about it, I never used a condom. Maybe I should get an AIDS test or something.

The Plumber

Look, I’d really like to see my son. He’s a screw-up, but he’s still my boy, you know. I guess I love him, though I never really thought about it that way before. I’d hate to see him in prison or worse, some mental hospital. The Specialist baptized him again and did those absolutions and all that sin got washed off him. So he’s no longer a danger to society. Isn’t that what you cops care about: if a person is a danger to society?

What do you mean he disappeared? I thought he was talking to a shrink?

The Specialist

I found him due to Divine Intervention. His voice came to me as in a dream and told me the young man I sought would be at the local mall in one hour, trolling for his next victim.

An odd thing occurred as I approached my prey that evening. He recognized me for what I was. He saw me.

He didn’t run away. He simply accompanied me to St. Catherine’s next door and allowed me to baptize him. The sin, however, didn’t wash away as it was so deep within him. Remember, I said he had become a vessel. I think he knew a baptism wasn’t going to work because he looked at me then and smiled this beastly, mocking smile.

These beasts aren't getting any better—they're devolving. Every last one of them is becoming a vessel for sin and corruption. To have to live among them, to pretend to be one of them, is too harsh a punishment.

Still, it is my cross to bear. So I forced Holy Water down his throat while chanting a litany of absolutions. He tried to resist, but then a mere human is no match for the likes of us.

He fell onto the floor, a writhing, choking mess until a great stench issued forth from every orifice on his body. Then he began to ooze the sin-slime through his pores.

I took some of the priest’s vestments from the sacristy and ripped them into strips. I also grabbed a chalice and splashed the baptismal water all over the boy as he writhed and screamed. The slime tried to slither away from him as I did this but I caught it and wiped it up with the pieces of holy garments that were powerful enough to capture, hold and neutralize it. I continued this until he was washed clean.

The Apprentice

One of the priests at St. Catherine’s found me lying on the floor and called the paramedics. When we got to the hospital the cops were waiting for me.

I told the cops the whole sin in the drain thing. They don't believe me. But as my dad would say, it's the God's honest truth.

The part nobody knows is that the Specialist is pretty damn mad at God. He and a few others of his kind have had it—they are so tired of cleaning up our sins. And why shouldn't they be? They think of humans as nothing more than beasts.

You know, Doc, you’re real pretty, even with your mascara running down your face. I bet your insides are wet and hot and smell so good. We'll find out soon enough. We're still in the foreplay stage.

When the Specialist baptized me and realized that it didn't take, he sat back and just stared. He told me then that he wasn't alone in believing that Hell couldn't be any worse than being forced to live among us. He said he learned to lie from us. Then he reached out and touched my forehead and everything went black. The next thing I knew I was in the hospital surrounded by cops.

But I can tell you’re dying to know how we got here, no pun intended. Just blink twice if I guessed right. Yes? Well let’s just say, when you’ve got a Specialist on your side, it's easy to give the cops the slip. Even when you're a maximum security prisoner like me.

This is going to hurt just a little, but you can take it, can't you, Doc? I mean you're a strong, independent woman—a professional. Just think, you're getting a firsthand understanding of sin that none of your colleagues may ever get. But you never know, I've got a feeling there's going to be a rash of plugged baptismal drains going round.

HOME

J. F. Gonzalez

“Gina, it’s time.”

Gina Peck sighed and picked up her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder. With a sense of trepidation, she rose from the kitchen table and turned to face her father, who was standing in the living room.

Dad was wearing that old robe grandma had bought him—how many years ago was that now? Three? Five? The robe hung on his bony shoulders, covering his frame like a blanket. His stringy hair dangled in his face and he brushed it away. Despite the severity of their situation, he smiled at her. And, like always, when Dad smiled at her, it made her world. “That’s my girl.”

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Gina asked.

Dad nodded. “We need you to, Gina.” Dad turned to look back at the living room where her mother lay on the threadbare sofa, a blue wool blanket pulled over her. The TV screen flickered in the background, the sound muted. Mom wasn’t watching. She had slipped back into one of her dozes again.

Gina felt a lump in her throat as she looked at her mother. “I wish I didn’t have to.”

“I know, honey,” Dad said, his voice soothing. He shuffled into the kitchen, not looking at her. “But you know it’s the only way. You’ve got a gift. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be worse off than we are now. I can’t do what you do—the people out there, they ignore folks my age even if I hang pictures of your mother around my neck with signed affidavits from her medical team. But when they see her daughter, a little girl...” He shook his head. His eyes sad, haunted. “Well, that’s the game changer. They’ll help a kid. Even after all the shit that’s gone down, they’ll still find it within their rotten hearts to help a kid.”

Gina fingered the backpack. She felt uncertain. Nervous.

“I used to go out there and beg,” Dad said. “You know that. And look where it got us.”

Gina nodded. “I know.” She hung her head. The last time Mom and Dad had gone out to the streets to beg, the police had rousted the homeless camp they’d set up in and beaten them. Mom’s condition had worsened as a result of the beating. Gina didn’t even remember why they were released from jail—overcrowding, maybe? Regardless, that had proven to be the last time Mom and Dad had taken to the streets to beg. That had been the year Gina turned ten. Now she was twelve; in a few months, she would turn thirteen. Dad said you wouldn’t know it to look at her.

“Your mother is out of medicine.” Dad leaned against the worn kitchen counter and sighed. “We have very little in the way of food. Rent is due in three days. And winter will be coming in a month. We should have packed up and moved west when we could’ve, but that’s out of the question now. We’re stuck here in this godforsaken part of the country. We’re going to need money for heat or we’re going to freeze.”

“How much do we need?” Gina asked.

Dad shrugged. “By the end of the week? A thousand dollars or so to keep us in this shit hole for another month. With colder weather coming in a few weeks, we’re going to need lots more. How much more is hard to say with oil costs rising through the roof.”

“I can usually only get a hundred on a good day,” Gina said.

“Better than what I used to get.”

Gina looked at her father, the question at the back of her mind for the thousandth time: Why can’t you get a job? Of course, she knew the answer to that. Her father was unemployable. Gina remembered Dad worked at an office a long time ago, when she was really little, like three or four. Her Mom worked in an office, too. Gina went to a day care center that was run by the company Mom worked for; later, she went to kindergarten and first grade at the elementary school downtown, and then took the bus to the day care center when school was let out. At night they would all go home together and have dinner, then play games, watch TV, and read storybooks. On weekends they would go to the park or to the waterfront and eat hot dogs and take long walks. They would take Gina to Chuck E. Cheeze, even though Mom didn’t like their pizza and couldn’t abide the crowds (Dad liked it, though; Dad liked everything). They would go to the movies on the weekends Dad’s paycheck was a little fatter, when all the bills were paid and there was a little extra left over. On weekends it wasn’t, they would make do with what they had. And they had everything, despite not having much in the way of riches. They had each other.

But then the Bad Times came.

First, Dad lost his job. He called it Getting Laid Off. For a while he was at home a lot, but he tried getting a new job. The problem, he told Mom on those occasions when they were in the kitchen and Gina was watching cartoons (but listening to their side of the conversation), was that Dad was over-qualified for the kind of jobs that were out there, and there were no more of the kind of jobs he used to have. Gina didn’t understand this, but it all made sense in a way. The parents of her friends at school were going through similar bouts of bad luck—Lindy Young said her father called it “the effects of the global recession” (whatever that was). It all meant that there were no jobs to be had. And with no jobs, there was no money.

Mom lost her job six months after Dad.

Then she got cancer.

A bout of coughing startled Gina out of her thoughts and she and Dad looked back into the living room at Mom, who had woken up from a sound sleep and was hacking something fierce. Dad hustled over and picked up the bedpan that had been placed at the foot of the sofa. He brought it up and put his arm around Mom, supporting her as she coughed endlessly, at times gagging, and it all became too much for Gina. She called out, “I’m going. I’ll be back with the money.”

“Be careful!” Dad called back.

Gina waved, said she would, then darted out.

The side door locked firmly as she shut it behind her.

Gina stood on the stoop of the landing for a moment, looking down at the small courtyard below. A breeze picked up, lifting her hair and blowing it around. She pulled her baseball cap lower on her head to keep her hair in place, and pulled the denim coat over her thin frame to keep warm. Dad was right. Winter was coming. They needed money to pay the oil bill for heating. And they needed money for other things too. Anti-nausea and pain medication for her Mom. Medicine cost an arm and a leg now, and with no Medicaid around to help pay for it, they were on their own. Gina didn’t understand why medicine had to cost so much money—there was so much about the grownup world she didn’t understand. Gina ran her fingers along the thin material of her backpack. Satisfied she had everything, she went down the stairs to start her day.

~

It took her a good thirty minutes to get to the heart of downtown.

She made the trek in silence, always watching, always observing. Traffic didn’t seem any different despite what Dad and his friends usually said (“there’s less and less traffic heading downtown these days,” “Well, of course there is, Jack. Goddamn companies are laying everybody off, so nobody is driving downtown to work”). There were the usual taxicabs and delivery trucks, the sleek cars with tinted windows that sped by, the occasional limousine. And of course there were the police. The police seemed to be everywhere these days. After the demonstrations and rallies that had ended in riots last summer, the police presence in the city seemed to double. Gina didn’t understand why there had to be more police. Why have more police when there were no more riots?

Gina had gone downtown during the four weeks the demonstrations were occurring. She’d gone there to beg for money and panhandle because, quite simply, the downtown square was the best place for it. The square was at the heart of what Dad called the “financial district,” and he said that even though millions of people like him were out of work, there were still lots of other people that had been lucky enough to keep their jobs. A lot of those people worked in the high-rise buildings that comprised the financial district. Dad had told her to panhandle there. “A lot of those people are just getting by too, honey, but a lot of others are doing really well. And despite what you might hear from the Goddamn news media, not all of them are greedy, heartless bastards. They’ll help. Trust me.”

Gina headed to her favorite spot. When she arrived she saw only a few of the homeless—a middle-aged man dressed in brown pants and a heavy brown overcoat was sitting on a bench. A young man and a woman were hanging around near the fountain that stood in front of the First National Bank building. To her left, somebody lay on the grass, dressed in dirty clothing, apparently asleep. Gina stood there for a moment, taking it all in. There weren’t many regular people out—the few she saw appeared to be scurrying between the buildings; delivery people, office clerks, men and women dressed in suits and business attire. They ignored the homeless as they went about their business. Gina looked around for cops. There were none in sight.

Luckily, her favorite bench was unoccupied. Gina drifted over to it and sat down. She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the sign, which she’d created herself with a piece of cardboard and crayons. The sign read: PLEASE HELP! I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD, HUNGRY, AND HOMELESS. ANY LITTLE BIT WILL HELP. THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS.

She positioned herself on the bench and got to work.

She held up the sign.

As usual when Gina begged in the financial district, time seemed to slow to a crawl. She sat on the bench, watching people out of the corner of her eye while looking pathetic and forlorn. The homeless barely noticed her. When the non-homeless walked by, she held the sign up and looked at them, hoping her expression would be enough to get one of them to stop. Today, it wasn’t enough. The non-homeless ignored her, too. Some cast disinterested looks her way; others glanced at her then quickly looked away, as if embarrassed. A few times, Gina tried to engage them as they walked by. “Hello, sir, can you please help me?” By the time she got to “help me,” they were already walking past, ignoring her completely.

She kept this up for three hours.

Three long, agonizing hours.

Through it all, Gina remained at her spot on the bench. Occasionally, she would get up to alleviate the cramps in her legs. She would stay near her backpack and pace back and forth, still holding the sign, watching out for the police or the homeless. Once, her backpack had been snatched by an old woman, who’d tried to get away on hobbled feet. Gina had given chase and managed to get the backpack away from the woman, but only after a fierce tug-of-war with her. The woman had smelled like a sewer and had cried the entire time, rivers of snot running down her nose to cake with the dried mucus that had settled along her upper lip. She’d also babbled something Gina couldn’t understand. Gina thought she was saying something about a person named Eric. Gina had finally gotten the upper hand and given a violent tug on the shoulder strap. The homeless woman was caught off balance and fell.

Gina had told the old woman she was sorry, and walked back to the bench. By the time she returned, someone had stolen her sign. Now she always kept a more watchful eye on her backpack when she got up off the bench. And she never strayed that far from it—always staying within a few feet.

Morning eventually bled into noon, and as people exited the buildings on their lunch breaks, Gina put things into overdrive. She asked; she begged; she pleaded. Only once did she receive anything for her efforts—a middle-aged blonde woman, probably a secretary, had given Gina a twenty dollar bill. Gina had thanked the woman and tucked the bill into her front pocket. That might buy food for them for one night. They would need a lot more than twenty dollars.

As the lunch hour ended, and people headed back to their office, the donations increased. A five-dollar bill here, loose change there, a few dollar bills from an office clerk; every little bit helped. Gina didn’t put as much into her begging routine as she normally would because of the competition—the young couple near the fountain were working the non-homeless too; so were some other homeless. They were all getting handouts. If Gina really put on the charm, she could outdraw them in donations. She’d done it before. And that was dangerous. That could make her a target for the homeless. She couldn’t have that. And neither could Mom and Dad.

So she kept her routine as toned down as possible. Yes, she needed the help, but not enough to wind up with her neck broken in some alley. She’d heard what could happen to girls like her in the city—she wasn’t immune from the bad things that happened out there. Dad had warned her. And she’d heeded his wisdom. Besides, this was all part of her act. She always made out. This was all part of the plan.

When lunch was over and the non-homeless were back in their buildings, the cops began to show up. Gina saw the first one out of the corner of her eye, a squad car on the corner of First and Lexington. She looked in the opposite direction on Fifth Street and State Street. Two cop cars there. Right on schedule. They always showed up after the lunch rush. And by three, if the homeless were still congregating in this section of the Financial District, they would move in and began rousting them to move on. Sometimes that could turn ugly.

Gina shoved the sign in the backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed toward Lincoln Avenue.

When she reached Lincoln she glanced back. One of the squad cars had pulled up in front of the brick path that wound through the financial district and pretty soon another would join it. Most of the homeless had scattered, but the young man and woman were still hanging out in front of the fountain, seemingly defiant toward the police presence. Gina muttered under her breath. “Come on, get out of there. Don’t be stupid about this. They’ll just beat you up and that’ll bring more of them and then that part of the district will be off limits.”

She crossed the street and paused when she reached the other side. The homeless couple had started moving away, leaving the First National Bank building, toward West Street. Three cops were strolling casually down the thoroughfare. The area was completely empty of the homeless now.

Gina sighed, feeling relieved. Good.

Gina shouldered her backpack and rummaged through her front pocket for the money she’d received today. Forty bucks. Her stomach rumbled. A dozen feet from where she stood was a cheap take-out place. A sign that read PIZZA, SUBS, SALAD was propped in the window. Gina smelled fresh marinara sauce. She glanced at the wristwatch she wore on her left wrist. Almost one-thirty. Plenty of time.

Gina headed to the restaurant and shut out the world outside and, while she was inside the warmth of the shabby interior, she felt a semblance of peace.

~

The area was completely devoid of people by four o’clock when she returned to her bench.

Gina sat down, pulled her sign out, and set her backpack beside her. She glanced around casually. No homeless. The non-homeless had already left for the day and traffic had died down. Gina had watched things from the booth in that seedy little restaurant where she’d had a chicken Cesar salad and an Italian sub sandwich for lunch. She’d eaten half of each, then requested a box for the leftovers, which she’d placed in the largest compartment of her backpack. The food would stay fresh for a while. Her parents would be pleased.

She’d watched as people began to stream out of the offices to go home for the day. Traffic grew heavier and became clogged in places. The police were out in full force—she could tell by the more frequent patrols on foot and squad car. Watching the city come alive, she wondered how things might have been if her mother wasn’t so deathly ill, if her father actually had a job. Would he be here now, hurrying to get home to his family like all these other people? She’d like to think he would. After all, he used to have a job. He used to be just like these people. But now he and so many millions were out of work. Why were so many out of work, unable to support their families, while so few people were able to keep their jobs?

It wasn’t fair!

It was at times like these that she felt like crying. It shouldn’t be like this, she thought. I should be doing my homework in a cozy house while Mom and Dad fix dinner and talk about the folks at the office. Gina remembered feeling secure and happy, and she wanted that life back again. Now it was a struggle to survive. Dad had tried everything to get work—he’d even done what he called “under the table jobs,” but had stopped when the police found out and threatened to arrest him. It had something to do with a new law regarding unregulated work. And in the meantime, Mom got sicker.

Gina wiped the tears from her cheeks and gripped her sign. A wind picked up, blowing scraps of paper around. She glanced at the setting sun. It was closing in on five p.m. She hoped she could get at least another forty bucks before she had to head home.

And there was always the chance she could get lucky like last time.

Movement out of the corner of her eye attracted her attention and she glanced casually to her right. A lone businessman was heading down the path toward her, briefcase in his hand. Gina took a deep breath, trying to will the nerves down.

As the man drew closer, Gina held her sign up and went into character. “Excuse me, sir? Can you help me?”

The man glanced at her and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. He kept going.

“Please!” Gina put a sense of anguish in her voice, and it was real; heartfelt. If she didn’t get what she needed from this man, she would be coming home with less than thirty dollars. A death sentence for her mother if she didn’t have her pain medication. A death sentence for all of them if they didn’t have money for heat in a few months. Unbidden, Gina started to sob. “Please, mister, I’m really hungry and I don’t know what else to do!”

That stopped the man. He looked back at her, clutching his briefcase. Gina couldn’t tell what he looked like—her eyes really were blurred with tears now—but she imagined his features bore a mixture of sadness and embarrassment. “Please, I’m hungry and I’m scared and...I just want some money for some food. Please.” She looked up at him. “Will you help me?”

“You want money for food?” The man asked.

Gina nodded. “Please?”

“I can’t give you money. I don’t have any.”

“But...”

“I work, but I’m just getting by, too. I’m sorry.” The man turned away.

Gina shot off the bench. “No! Wait!”

The man stopped and looked at her curiously.

“Just a few dollars…anything for a meal. Please?”

The man hesitated. It was obvious to her that he was telling her the truth. His suit coat was old and frayed, but still fit him well. His shoes were scuffed but still business-like. She noticed that his hair was slightly unkempt and the bangs fell about his forehead. He reminded her of her second-grade teacher, Mr. Mays. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. But I have a wife...a son...”

“Just a few dollars?” Gina let a sob escape her. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”

“Where do you live?”

“I don’t live anywhere.”

“You’re homeless?”

Gina nodded.

“Where’re your parents?”

“My mother’s sick. She has cancer.” She let the next sentence come out in a sob. “She’s dying.”

That did the trick. “Come with me.”

Gina looked up at him. “Where?”

“You have to come with me if you want me to help you.” He had taken a step away, back down the path he was treading. He gestured with a tilt of his head. “Come. We have to hurry. My car is in the parking garage on Seventh Street.”

Gina gave the area a quick glance—nobody around, not even a cop—and got to her feet. She shoved the sign into her backpack and slung it over her shoulders and followed him.

She kept calm as he led her to the end of the path and made a right, heading toward Seventh Street. She kept a good five feet behind him. He didn’t try to get her to walk with him, nor did he try to talk to her, but she knew that he was aware she was following him. She tried to hang back as much as possible, to be less conspicuous, but nobody seemed to be paying attention to them. The man didn’t seem to care.

They entered the parking garage and Gina followed him up the stairs to the fourth level. There were no people in the parking garage, but there were plenty of cars. The man approached a tan sedan that had seen better days. He disengaged the alarm system and opened the driver’s side door. Gina glanced around—nobody there, no security cameras anywhere—and approached the passenger side door.

The man looked over at her from over the roof of the car. “Go ahead and get in,” he said.

“Why?”

“You need help. I’ll take you to my house, make sure you get fed. We have enough tonight for supper.”

Gina nodded, heart pounding, and opened the driver’s side door and climbed in.

Once inside the car, the man stowed the briefcase in the backseat. He sat behind the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, and pulled out his smart phone and keys. Gina felt an adrenaline surge at the sight of the smart phone. It was what she was hoping for. She brought her backpack up and her right hand darted into the right side pocket for the butterfly knife. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.” The man handed the phone over.

Gina took the phone and quickly thumbed through the apps. She found what she was looking for—the app to the man’s bank account. She tapped it, then brought the butterfly knife out and handed the phone back to him. “Type in your password,” she said, her voice and demeanor quickly changing as she held the butterfly knife against his stomach. “And do it now!”

The look on the man’s face was one of stunned shock. “But...I thought...”

Gina pressed the tip of the blade against the man’s stomach. He squealed, fumbled for the door, almost dropping the cell phone.

“Drop that cell phone and I’ll gut you,” Gina said, her voice pure venom. She leaned toward the man, all semblance of the helpless twelve-year-old begging for money so she could buy food completely gone. “Put in the password for your bank.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said, the panic making his voice squeak. “Just...don’t hurt me.” He quickly typed the password in and offered the phone back. “I don’t...I don’t have any money in my bank account, though.”

“Set the phone down on the console and don’t move,” Gina said. She continued to hold the knife at the man’s belly. The man set the phone down on the center console of the sedan and remained in the front driver’s seat, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

Gina picked up the phone. Once she had access to the account, she would transfer the money to a temporary dummy account she’d set up for this purpose. Tonight she would make another transfer to a cash center near the house and close the temporary account. In the morning, she would go to the cash center with the verification number and pick up the cash, minus their thirty percent. She’d done it before, and she’d never been caught.

Keeping the man held at bay with the knife, she quickly glanced at the balance in the man’s bank account. She looked up at the man, fighting to keep the panic off her face. “You...”

“I told you, I have nothing!”

“But—” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The bank account showed a balance of only ten dollars and some pocket change. That was combined checking and savings, too. She looked at the man again. “You came out of the First National Bank building. Nobody can get in there except employees. You work there. They won’t let people who have low bank balances work at companies anymore. I should know. That’s one of the reasons they won’t let my Dad work anymore. So how...”

“I’m just like everybody else,” the man said. He was fighting to stay calm. His eyes darted from the knife to Gina’s face. “I’m unemployed…just like your dad.”

“But how...”

“I faked my way into that building. Under an assumed name, a fake bank balance.” He looked desperate. Scared. “I’m just trying to survive like everyone else. Please...”

The panic hit Gina like waves crashing on the shore. She felt anxious; cheated. She was at her wits end; Mom had run out of medicine, rent was due in three days and they were almost out of food. She could feel herself begin to lose it. “I need that money,” she said, her hand gripping the handle of the butterfly knife. A sense of murderous rage swept over her. “You son-of-a-bitch! You lied to me!”

“I’m just as desperate to survive as you!” the man said. He tried to back up against the driver’s side window but couldn’t go anywhere. Gina kept the point of the knife blade at his stomach. “Please,” he begged, sweat beading on his forehead. “My wife and son…we haven’t eaten in three days. I...I can help us both! I—”

“How the hell did you fake a bank account?” she screamed.

“I used to be a web programmer!” the man stammered. “I wrote this program...it spoofs the layout of bank websites. It even has a little database that runs in the background. I...I populated the database with fake dollar figures...gave it a transaction history. That’s what they saw.” He motioned toward the cluster of buildings in the Financial District. “I’ve only been working there for two days,” he said. “They’re going to find out that everything I showed them is fake, so I worked fast. Go ahead...” He motioned toward the backseat, where the briefcase lay. “Open the briefcase.”

Gina’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You get it.” She moved the knife up to his throat. The blade made a dimple in the skin. “Reach slowly...”

Teeth clenching, the man reached into the backseat of the car and grabbed the briefcase. He brought it to the front seat and set it on his lap. Gina kept the blade on him the entire time. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the briefcase. “Open it.”

The man fumbled with the combination, his fingers shaking. Gina’s heart pounded. If he was lying—

The locks snapped and the man opened the briefcase. He turned it toward her. “See? All unmarked bills. They don’t even know I have it. I gained access to their vault this afternoon.”

One glance told Gina all she needed to know.

Nestled in the briefcase were stacks of bills. She didn’t know what denomination they were. What mattered was that there were stacks of bills in that briefcase, all bound together neatly. There could be twenty thousand dollars in there, a hundred thousand, a quarter of a million. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was money. Cold hard cash. And it was more money than she and her parents could ever hope for.

“See, I was going to take this money, get my wife and son and leave,” the man said, his voice fast clipped, nervous. His eyes were wide. “I was going to head out of state, maybe go down south. Southwest actually. California, if I can. Marlene and Tony, they don’t know yet. I was just going to head home, get them, get a few things, then leave. Get some food once we cross the state line. Then just keep driving till we reach the west coast.” His right hand darted into the briefcase, fingers resting on the stacks of bills. “I can give you some of this. I know you’re desperate, that your parents are probably worrying for you. If...if you don’t live far, I can take you all with us. I’m just like you...just trying to survive. We can leave together and you can have half. You can—”

The knife flashed and the blade sank into the man’s stomach. Gina pulled it out as the man gasped, eyes flying open in shock. The lid to the briefcase slammed shut. The blade flashed again, sinking into his throat. When she pulled it out, blood gushed, splashing the lid of the briefcase in spatters. The man gurgled blood then slumped forward until he was hanging by his seatbelt.

Heart pounding, Gina returned the blade to her backpack and grabbed the briefcase. She opened it quickly, ran her hands over the stacks of bills as if to confirm it was real. A sense of satisfaction swept through her, followed by a sense of relief. Finally! They would be okay. There was now enough money for not only food and heat, but maybe enough to get them out of their apartment, maybe even enough to get them west, to a better life.

Gina closed the briefcase and latched it. Then she got out of the car. She closed the door gently, looked around. Still nobody. She had to get out of there, and she had to do it fast, before security showed up.

Five minutes later, Gina headed up Seventh Street to catch the seven-thirty bus back to her apartment.

~

When she entered the apartment thirty minutes later, she was elated. “Dad! Dad!” she called out. She closed the kitchen door behind her and locked it. The apartment was dark and she fumbled for the light switch as her Dad entered through the living room. “Dad! Look what I got!” She held the briefcase up.

Dad looked hopeful as he took a step into the kitchen. Gina set the briefcase on the rickety kitchen table, flipped the locks up and opened it. “Look!”

Dad looked in the briefcase for a long time, his features one of dawning amazement. He glanced at her. “Is that...is it real?”

Gina nodded, tears of joy streaming down her face. “Yes, Dad. It’s real. I don’t know how much it is but...”

“Gina?” Her mother stepped into the kitchen, looking curious. She was wearing her green bathrobe. While her complexion was still an unhealthy gray, she seemed strangely more animated. And she was walking, which was something Mom never did. Mom spent all of her time lying on the sofa—that’s how sick she was.

“Mom!”

Her mother stepped further into the kitchen and the smile on her face dwindled. Her eyes roamed over Gina. “My God, Gina,” she said.

Now her father was looking at her with that same expression. He took a step back. “No, Gina,” he said. “Not again!”

“What?” Gina looked at her parents, confused. “What’s wrong?” The feeling of elation, of relief, now suddenly turned into one of dread. Her stomach felt hollow, empty.

“What’s wrong?” Dad said. “Just look at you! Didn’t you notice you had blood on your clothes?”

Gina looked down at herself. Her shirt and jacket were stained with the blood from the man she had stabbed. She looked at her parents. “I can explain...”

“You can explain?” Dad said. “How can you explain this? We told you to go beg for money. We didn’t—”

“But I only did what you wanted me to do!” Gina protested.

“We didn’t want you to kill anybody! My God, Gina...begging is one thing, but this...”

“But you said to get the money by any means possible,” Gina said, her voice coming in fast clips. “You said the men that caused this, they deserve to die, they’re killing you, killing Mom, killing us, that we need the money more than they do, and so I did. I got plenty of money, way more than last time! In fact—”

“Honey...” Mom approached her. Was that a look of disappointment in her eyes? “This...this isn’t what we wanted. It’s like your father said...begging is one thing, but this...”

“And to do it again?” Dad shook his head. Now he looked disappointed.

“But you told me to do it!” she screamed. “You told me to do anything it takes to survive and I did! I went out there and I saw my chance and I took it! Don’t you understand? It was either me or him! Me or him!”

The shrillness of her voice snapped everything back and she started, blinking. She stood in the kitchen with bloodstained clothes, the briefcase open on the kitchen table. The light from the kitchen penetrated into the living room beyond where her mother lay shrouded in shadows. Gina blinked again. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, her voice trembling. “Wasn’t your fault you couldn’t help me. I’m just...just trying to survive. I have to survive...please...don’t be mad at me...”

Gina began to cry. The enormity of her emotions crashed into the girl and her knees buckled. She grasped for the table, which broke her fall. She sobbed; tears of rage and frustration and loss welled out of her, eclipsing all other emotions. She was just trying to survive! She was just doing what they’d told her to do. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?

The wind picked up outside, whistling around the eaves of the old apartment building. The sound of its shrieking cut through the din of her sorrow, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She was alone in the kitchen. Mom was still lying on the sofa, in the same position as always. She hadn’t moved. And Dad was in the bedroom. None of this had happened, except for the briefcase. That had happened. Gina looked at her hands, at the dried blood that stained them.

“I was only doing what you told me,” she said. She rubbed her hands on her dirty clothes, not even looking at the shriveled-up form of her mother on the sofa where she’d lain for the last three years. The wind shrieked again and Gina shivered. It was going to get cold tonight. But now she had money to pay the heating bill. She would be okay. She knew that now. Her parents had taught her well.

Taking a deep breath, her emotions under control, Gina exited the kitchen, went through the living room past her mother, and entered the hallway. She went to her room, not even pausing to look in on Dad. There was no need. He looked worse than Mom. Last summer hadn’t worked out so well for him. At least the elements had been in favor for Mom; she’d mummified quite nicely.

“We’ll use this money to stock up on some food,” Gina said as she peeled out of the dirty, bloodied clothes. “Then maybe we can head west, to California. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Dad?”

The wind whistled around the eaves in answer. Gina paused, listening. She smiled. “Of course! We’ll leave tomorrow. You, me, and Mom. Just like old times.”

Then, chatting happily with her father, Gina dressed, cleaned herself up, and prepared to hunker down for the night.

ROAD KILL

Monica J. O’Rourke

Bubba Junior Junior stuck a long grimy finger deep into his nose and dug like he was trawling for worms. He speared a large juicy booger, glistening and thick with mucus. The long stringy gobs draped over his fingers. Parts of it were puke green, parts jaundice-yellow, all of it enticing. Staring at the glossy mess was a fascinating and time-consuming process for Bubba Junior Junior. He squeezed the sludgy trail between his fingers and examined the small chunks that had mysteriously appeared in his snot.

“When the hail did I have corn, Uncle Daddy?” He went to wipe it on his overalls, and Bubba Junior grabbed the boy’s hand.

“What the hell you doin, boy?” He grabbed the boy’s hand. “I said what the hell you doin’? Was you gonna waste that?” He chomped down on Bubba Junior Junior’s finger, taking the pulsing snotball and the tip of Bubba Junior Junior’s finger into his mouth. Not too much damage was done, however, since Bubba Junior only had one tooth.

He rolled the booger around in his mouth like it was a cherry Lifesaver, waiting for it to melt on his tongue, prodding the wet squishiness against his gums. Soft and salty and sweet. The best kind of booger.

“Yummm!” Bubba Junior cried. “Never waste yer protein, boy! Now let’s go.”

Bubba Junior peered through the field glasses he picked up at Woolworth’s right before they went bankrupt. “Hooo weee, boy! We got one!”

“Lemme see!” Bubba Junior Junior said, jumping up and down. He peered through the glasses. “Ain’t much left. Looks like stew tonight.”

Bubba Junior nodded. And he’d really been hoping for steaks.

They bumped and slid down the hill on their asses, slipping through the mud from the last downpour. Once they reached the road, Bubba Junior Junior stared at the smear on the pavement. “Holy sheeeit, what the hell was it? Ain’t hardly enough ta scrape on a cracker!”

“That thar was a wummin.”

“You shur?”

“Yup. Lookit them titties. There’s one—over thar. Hey, c’mere, son. Take a look over here.”

“Comin’, Uncle Daddy!”

Up the road a piece was the upper half of the road kill.

Bubba Junior lifted the corpse’s arms and dragged it across the asphalt to the side of the road, chunks of flesh sticking to the scattered pebbles, the woman’s freckles smearing across the tar.

She was intact from the belly up. Sort of. One arm was bent in a permanent wave, splintered bone jutting from the forearm, congealed blood coating the skin like warpaint. Her skull had apparently lost the fight with the concrete and was smashed in from numerous bounces on the road. Her jaw rested below her ear, a puffy purple tongue sticking out like a spoiled child’s.

“Lookit, Uncle Daddy!” Bubba Junior Junior cried. “She wantsta French kiss!” Using his grubby mitts, he lifted her head, and with a nauseating sucking sound, wrenched it free of her neck. Squishy spongy tissue slipped off the ripped flesh, and desperate flies fought Bubba Junior Junior for possession. He slipped her tongue into his mouth and sucked on it. The bloated appendage popped, leaking ichor into his mouth and down his lips. One strong bite too many, and with a wet slurp the tongue severed from her mouth. He pulled it all the way into his, chewing on the sticky and salty tongue like a piece of saltwater taffy.

“Goddammit, boy! That’s our dinner yer kissin’!”

Bubba Junior Junior pulled the tongue out of his mouth and stuck it in his pocket. “Where the rest a her?”

Bubba Junior looked around. “I think I see’d her bike go off the road up there.”

Bubba Junior Junior dropped the woman’s head and it rolled off like a gutter ball, bumping against a tree with little wet crunches, leaving a trail of bloody brainy bits on the pavement.

The two Bubbas ran up the road and peered into a ditch.

“Yup, there’s the rest a her,” Bubba Junior said. They climbed down into the ditch.

The woman’s legs were still wrapped around the motorcycle. Her pants were shredded, the flesh cleaved from the thighs and calves, white-red bone glistening like dew.

Thunder rumbled in the sky. Bubba Junior looked up. “Rains is comin’ fer sure, Junior Junior. Ain’t no time to scrape this up.”

“Nothin’ much there anyway,” Bubba Junior Junior said, hand inside his underwear, picking at his asshole.

“Gotta learn to impervase, boy. No time for gatherin’, ain’t no time fer cookin’. Gotta learn to eat it raw like them richun’s in New Yawk and Ohier. They calls it tarter.”

Bubba Junior carved into her stripped thighs with a shank, strings of marbled muscle and gristle dangling from his hands like a field of hot rancid cheese, bits of the fresh kill steaming in the cooling air.

They stuffed the flesh into their mouths, blood dribbling down their chins. Bubba Junior Junior grinned, shoving the chunks of thigh into his mouth as fast as his hands would move. “Tastes like piggy!” he snorted, choking on the gob of woman hanging out of his teeth and throat.

“Goddammit, boy,” Bubba Junior said, pounding on his nephew-son’s neck, trying to dislodge the thighmeat. He fished his slabby fingers down Bubba Junior Junior’s throat and pulled out the half-chewed, half-digested soft reddish cheese-ball of fat and saliva. He examined it and popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He pulled open Bubba Junior Junior’s mouth and let it all slide back in.

“Chew better next time, ya thick-headed moron.”

“Thanks, Uncle Daddy!”

“You ever had fried twat, boy? I think we can take some with us.” Bubba Junior began carving out the woman’s vagina from between the bloody stumps of the leg/motorcycle amalgam. “Tastes better’n possum!” He reached into her twat and pulled at the string dangling out of the hole.

“Oh sheeeeit …” Bubba Junior said, fishing out the surprise. “Come sit on my lap, boy,” he slurred, dropping his drawers, dangling the tampon dripping thick, black blood. He smiled real big. “I gots you a lollipop.”

A SCALENE LOVE TRIANGLE

Kerry G.S. Lipp

There are some basic rules to life. That’s obvious. Then, there are different types of rules for different types of people. And, currently, Emma was breaking some very, very important ones.

Rule #1: A teacher shouldn’t sleep with students.

Broken.

Rule #2: If you are in any kind of serious relationship, you have to remain faithful.

Broken.

Rule #3: If you ever break rule 1 or 2, you better not get caught.

Unbroken.

So far.

Thoughts of rules should not be running through her head. Not now, not while Randy is inside of her. But they are and no matter how awesome the sex felt—that was really the only reason the affair was still going on—Emma couldn’t kick the lingering notion of how wrong this is. I’m cheating on my fiancé with a student. It probably didn’t help that her fiancé, Charlie, is the jealous type, either. Shit.
How did this happen? The cause isn’t important, the effect is. Paranoia grips Emma at the worst moment causing her to squeeze her fingers into Randy’s back. She knows she can’t get caught, she’s got way too much to lose.

“Emma?” Randy asks as his thrusting slows and finally stops. He’s still inside Emma, faces almost touching. Emma’s never been good at masking her emotions and Randy sees right through. “Are you ok? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says, forcing a smile. “Just a little lost in my own thoughts.”

“That bad, huh?” Randy asks with an exaggerated frown.

Emma smacks him in the side and laughs. “No! I guess I’m just thinking too much.”

“This again? You’ve got nothing to worry about. You know me; you know I’ll keep quiet. It’s fine.”

“I know but—”

He flashes a cocky smile and says, “As long as you give me an A that is.”

Emma smacks him in the side again, her flat palm smacking against his muscled flesh, and they both burst into teenage giggles. The sex resumes.

At least one of the two men I’m sleeping with isn’t the jealous type.
But what am I doing? Emma constantly questions herself and never comes up with a solid answer. She knows she likes Randy, he’s cool and cute and they have that crackle of electric attraction, but she’s also in love with Charlie, and has been for a long time.

Variety, she decides. She’s not exactly bored with Charlie, but she’s also only been in a couple serious relationships and never really had a good time flinging around with guys for pure fun, pure pleasure, without the dependency or the prospect of building a future. Emma is not that needy. This is something most men don’t understand. Sure, occasionally a woman can be a psychotic cat boiler, but, in most cases, men are more clingy and needy than women, and in Charlie’s case, jealous. But at this point, Charlie has every right to be. Emma thinks Charlie’s jealousy is probably what drove her to stray in the first place, even though she loves him. So, she stumbled onto, or maybe seduced, Randy and she enjoys the non-serious fun that they share together. But it needs to stop.

Emma forces the thoughts out for now, this feels too good to keep running bad thoughts around like moist laundry in the dryer. She moans and grabs Randy’s shoulders, stopping him. He gives her a look and she gives him a big seductive smile before wrestling him around, winding up on top of him, back arched, breasts perked and fingers tangled in her own hair.

“Nice moves,” he says, a slice of moonlight highlighting his dark features. Emma throws her head back, hair flying and rides him before going in for a kiss. He grabs her head, kisses her neck and holds her close as they grind harder and harder against one another.

This is the seventh time together, and even though the sex is playfully passionate, it stops there. Emma and Randy have a quirky, mutually unspoken agreement that the passion stops at the sex.

He releases her, and, with his strong arms, flips her over and enters from behind. As always, she can feel his eyes boring into the tattoo on her back, a simple, yet provocative, equilateral triangle. Emma’s favorite shape. And even though he can’t see it, she smiles. An extra special assignment from his math professor. He speeds up and, sensing what’s on the brink, Emma excessively moans and talks dirty. Most girls do this when a guy is about to blow, whether she is going to cum or not. The moments leading up to the male climax become all about him, from both perspectives. Men are needy and are usually oblivious to even the worst acting if it gives them validation. Her words are nasty and sexy. He’s got two big handfuls of her disheveled hair, ad hoc pigtails that he jerks as he finishes. Head raised, she screams. It feels amazing. Emma hasn’t gotten off, but she knows it’s her own fault, and she scolds herself for being so distracted the whole time.

He crashes down next to her, both of them breathing hard, laughing and staring at one another. Sometimes, Emma wonders just exactly how Randy feels about her.

This is the last time, Emma decides. She prays she doesn’t end up breaking Randy’s heart. On top of the guilt, he’s got enough ammo to cut her in half.

“Jesus,” he starts, “that was amazing. Our best yet.” He frowns. “Wait, did you umm, you know?”

Laughing at how he approaches the subject Emma answers, “No, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fucking good. It’s my own fault. I got paranoid.”

“Yeah, that sucks. I’ll go down on you, we can keep it even.”

“I can smell burning rubber all the way up here, don’t even think about it. It’s fine really.”

“Yeah, you’re right, you’re gross,” he says, same cocky smile. Works every time.

I really need to end this.

“I’m shaking, I need to move around. You stay right here, I’m going to bring you a present,” Emma says.

Walking out of the room naked, she can feel his eyes on her ass and tattoo. It’s not often that the student lands the teacher. She takes a left out of the bedroom and heads to the kitchen, keeping the lights off.

The tile freezes her feet as she pads into the kitchen. Full moonlight subtly illuminates the room, and she does a little shiver dance, feeling sexy and flooded with gleeful just-got-fucked satisfaction. Half of Emma wonders why she doesn’t feel more guilty. And the other half wonders if the taboo of breaking so many rules increases the pleasure. It probably does.

Over at the counter Emma opens a drawer and grabs a good sized kitchen knife. She holds it up, watching it glint softly in the moonlight. The ever present math teacher in her studies the shape of the knife; a scalene triangle. A triangle with the measure of the sides and angles completely out of whack. Holding it close to her eyes, she struggles to look at her reflection. Even though I’m a cheater, I’m better than a cheater. This is the last time.

The refrigerator air is even colder than the tile. Her nipples stiffen and the liquid streaks on her thighs conduct a kind of cold electricity. Leaning in, she grabs two bottles of Corona and the half lime wedge wrapped in cellophane.

After uncapping the bottles, she uses the knife to split the remaining lime in half, then mashes each wedge in that sweet spot so that it straddles the lip at the top of the bottle neck. She sucks the lime juice off one of her fingers. Drops of water collect on the sides of the bottle, making them cool and slippery, chilling her hands as she walks back to the bedroom.

“Close your eyes,” Emma orders, just before entering.

“And miss that front? No way.”

“Now. Or no surprise, mister.”

“I doubt whatever you’ve got is worth it.”

“Shut ’em.”

She walks in and sets the bottles on the nightstand. Standing in front of them, she says, “Open.”

His eyes open and he stares up at her. First, at her face, then quickly jumping to the rest.

“Your mouth, you dork, haven’t you played this game before?”

“So demanding,” he says opening his mouth.

“Eyes,” she orders again and they go shut.

Emma sticks a lime juice-covered finger into his mouth and he flinches a little at the sour sweetness. His eyes open again and he looks confused as she hands him his beer.

“You are brilliant,” he says scooting over, making room. They pile some pillows against the wall so they can sit up together. After clinking bottles, they both take a long drink.

“What time is it anyway?”  Emma asks, holding the bottle with one hand and searching the nightstand with the other.

“What you looking for? Another condom?” He grabs his phone, opens it and the light splashes on his face, just like the moonlight. And, again, she’s filled with that animal lust. He’s beautiful and I can’t explain it, can’t fight it, can’t do much but give in to the reptilian brain. Attraction isn’t much of a choice.

“So funny. I’m looking for my phone to see what time it is. Where the hell is it?”

“It’s time to go again.”

“I’m serious, where is my fucking phone?”

“Okay, okay, chill, Em. Let me call it.”

After he pushes the send button, Emma’s phone rings and vibrates. It’s somewhere on the bed. Emma rustles the sheets and blankets and pillows around, looking. Finally, she sees the light and grabs it.  Emma opens it and says, “Hello.”

“Well, hello there, sexy,” Randy says, his voice coming from both sides of her  head.

“So mature.”

“You answered it.” He had a point.

Randy slips an arm around her and she relaxes into him, the whole time her brain screams this is not okay. They drink their beers in comfortable silence, while Emma tries to think of a way to bring up the idea that they cannot continue to see each other. In an effort to avoid this turn in conversation, she distracts herself with the phone.

And every single system in Emma’s body stops. Blood stops pumping, air goes stagnant in her  lungs, mouth and vagina race to go dry. She sees a sent call in the last thirty-one minutes. To Charlie. It lasted seventeen minutes. She blinks. It’s still there. She closes the phone and opens it again. Still there.

I think I just broke rule 3.

~

Charlie is already on his way to Emma’s house. To surprise her. He’s close. He knows she’s been a little distant lately and he thinks that she misses him and she might be a little depressed. While he’s on the way to surprise her, she calls him. He stares at his phone for one ring, two, three. He really doesn’t want to spoil the surprise. Four. He loves this girl, he can’t resist. He flips open his phone and says, “Hey, you.”

Instead of her honey voice saying “Hey, babe, I miss you,” he hears silence. Then sounds. Voices he can’t really make out, music he can’t quite hear. It sounds like she’s at a party. Even before he knows what she’s actually doing, he’s jealous that she’s having a good time without him.

Then the voices change a little bit. They become clearer. He makes out some of the words. He hears heavy breathing and moaning that he associates with the dance floor at a party or a bar. But next he clearly hears “Fuck me harder,” and “Yeah right there, don’t stop, oooooh yeah, oh fuck.” And it is clearly Emma’s voice. His fiancée. His love.

Charlie is about an hour away and listens closely—against every instinct he has—to the rest. It lasts another ten minutes. Anger and jealousy increase with every frantic moan and filthy word he hears. When the call goes dead, he’s about thirty minutes away. He decides not to call her back.

~

“Jesus Christ,” Emma says staring at her phone, and then glancing at the dumbfounded expression on Randy’s face. The fucker is trying not to laugh.

He looks at her with his strong smirk, sips his beer and says, “Is what just happened what I think just happened?” He’s not at all hiding the fact that he thinks this is hilarious. And why wouldn’t he? He’s anonymous, I’m the one who’s ass is about to get deep-fried.

“You’ve got to get out of here.”

“Doesn’t he live in Toledo? That’s like two hours away,” Randy counters.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I need to think about this.”

“Well, let me help you de-stress your mind, hot stuff,” he grins.

Emma’s conflicting halves once again come into play. Half of her wants to shatter the Corona bottle on the top of his head, but sadly, the uncontrollable other half wants to fuck him again. And he’s right. It probably will help clear her mind. Even if Charlie is on his way, she knows he won’t be here for a while. Plus, she planned on ending this tonight anyway, and together they can do it one last time.

“Relax, Emma,” he says and pulls her close to him, kissing both of her breasts then mouth.

“This is my fucking fiancé,” she shouts at him. “This shit is not cool.”

“I know,” he says. “Let’s do this one more time and then we’ll figure it out. It was a cell phone call, he probably didn’t even hear anything.”

Part of her thinks he is right, but that notion isn’t enough to untwist her guts. This is not good. What kind of person gets horny at a time like this? What kind of person am I anyway?

Emma remembers a time when she broke up with a serious boyfriend for no real reason and before the break-up phone call ended or her eyes dried, her vagina was dripping wet. Then she went out and fucked a stranger. It made no sense to her then, it doesn’t now. Apparently, it’s impossible to explain the wiring between brain, heart, logic, happiness, and sex organs. Shit just happens.

Somehow thinking about how much trouble she may be in and looking at Randy drinking that Corona with the water droplets running down the side of the bottle and not getting off earlier has Emma on fire and she tells herself that if she’s already caught, it doesn’t really matter; and if she’s not caught, this was going to be the last night with Randy anyway so they might as well fuck for the fences one more time. Randy smiles and slides in; occasionally he hits the sweet spot and that’s all Emma needs. It doesn’t make any sense, but she cums hard this time. Almost immediately, and it never entirely stops. The irony hits her as she thinks: last time I was paranoid for no tangible reason and couldn’t get off. This time I’m paranoid for a very good reason and I got off real hard.

~

Charlie is watching from the window. His face up against the glass. He holds a small knife in one hand; the other jerks his cock, eventually draining it against the side of the house. He’s never experienced any kind of voyeurism before. Something about watching his girlfriend getting fucked while holding a pocketknife got him raging, set him off. Jealousy is a weird, but potent, aphrodisiac. Subconsciously he twists the experience into something that Emma was doing for his benefit, like one of those live webcam streams on the internet. A special show just for him.

Half of him screams to smash through the window and kill the cheating bitch, but the stronger half of him argues in favor of playing this out. He was glad it was dark out and that there was a slat missing from her blinds. Emma and her golden boy are rapt, completely oblivious to his presence. Charlie wonders how they will react when he kicks in the front door.

He moves away from the window and finds the door has been left unlocked. Charlie creeps in quietly. He sneaks into the kitchen but doesn’t open the refrigerator, doesn’t grab a Corona. Instead, he grabs the biggest knife from the block.

He stalks to Emma’s bedroom door. Even though it’s only a couple minutes later, he gets hard all over again. He listens. He looks at the knife and gets harder.

~

Randy and Emma get loud and come at the same time. Droplets of his sweat land on her face and Emma can’t decide if it’s endearing or disgusting.

They flop to the bed, sharing a pillow, sharing a blanket, sharing post ecstasy, sharing everything but love, arms and legs still tangled, breathing, drifting back to life. Trying to muster the courage to face the inevitable truth that’s looming in the background like a cinderblock knockout punch. It’s not love, but it’s something strong enough to make this difficult.

“So what happens next, miss?”

“You get out of my bed and I try to figure out what to do.”

“He probably didn’t even hear anything; I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Oh yeah, nothing. Did you hear any of those things that were coming out of my mouth? I just really hope he didn’t hear them.”

“I really think you’re overreacting.”

“You’ve got to go. I need to think. You’re great, but this is the last time. Ahhhhh fuck. I’ve got to take care of this.”

“It’s okay, Emma,” Randy says. “Just know that on my end you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you,” she says and kisses him hard, one last time. “This never should’ve happened, but it did, and it was good, but it has to stop. Know it’s been good. Real good.”

Randy is getting dressed. “Yeah,” he agrees. “For a lot of reasons. Thank you, too, Miss Emma, and good luck with Chester.”

“Charlie,” she corrects, a fleeting fraction of doubt in her voice and her eyes. She recovers. “Before you leave, prove to me you’ve learned something from me. Tell me about triangles.”

“Are you serious?”

She nods and looks at him, stone-faced

“Well,” he says, “you’ve got a sexy one on your back.”

Her eyes shoot poison into his.

“Okay. Okay,” he says. “Well, there is equilateral, where all sides and angles are equal. It’s a lot like the love a family has for itself. The parents and the children all love each other equally.”

“That’s one,” Emma confirms, looking at him, beginning to dislike and resist him and his charm more and more by the second. But she knows the anger is unjustified and she’s more upset with herself for biting than at him for tossing the bait. “What else?”

“Really?” he asks. “Then there is isosceles, that is where two equal lines extend from a shorter base. I guess you could say that your pussy is at the tip of an isosceles triangle. One of the best triangles I’ve ever known.”

“And what’s the last one?” Emma fights a smile and tries to ask coldly.

“A scalene triangle—”

Charlie kicks the door in. Randy and Emma freeze. Charlie gives both their eyes a good two second stare, before examining Emma’s naked body.

“A scalene triangle is a little like this,” Charlie says. He’s holding a kitchen knife. A big one. He’s naked, he’s hard. Randy has his socks on while Emma is naked, watching them both.

“Charlie—”

“Shut up. Let’s talk about triangles.” He points the knife first at Emma, then at Randy. “Looks like we’ve got quite a triangle right here. Look at this knife,” he says. “It’s so sharp, and it comes to this point, but look at this base, and the length and angles are all different.

“I guess you could call this,” Charlie continues, shooting a quick glance at the two of them and then putting the point right in Randy’s face, “a serrated, stainless steel scalene triangle.”

Randy trembles but answers, “Yeah. All the angles and lengths are different right?”

“Exactly,” Charlie says, poking the knife closer to Randy’s face. “Let’s see how smart you are. A scalene triangle is pretty hard to spot or explain. You’ve got eleven seconds.”

Randy hiccups and hesitates, knifepoint to his throat. His mind is blank. He racks his brain and comes up with a single abstract example.

Randy looks at the point of the knife. It’s so close to that his eyes go crossed. “Pull that shit back a second and I’ll lay it out for you.”

Charlie brings the knife back six inches. “Seven seconds,” he says, voice unwavering, icy as a glacier.

“Okay, look, I’m gonna give you an example but you’re not gonna like it. Cool?” Charlie moves the knife a couple inches closer.

“Stop. Okay. It’s like this. Here’s your scalene triangle,” Randy starts, looking between the three of them. “You love Emma right?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Charlie says.

“How much do you love her?” Randy asks.

“Charlie,” Emma starts.

“Shut up,” they both say at the same time.

“See, Charlie, for a second there we were part of an isosceles.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“How much do you love her?” Randy asks again.

“Before tonight?” Charlie asks himself. “Before tonight, a lot. More than anything.”

“That’s a lot,” Randy answers.

“Yeah. It was.”

“You think Emma loves you that much?”

“I thought so. I don’t know anymore,” Charlie says, seeing it begin to take shape.

Emma makes a defeated, caught noise. She’s crying now. Her attempts at words come out in nothing more than horrified sobs.

“Emma can’t answer, so I’m not going to ask her yet,” Randy says.

Charlie takes a step toward him, white-knuckling the knife.

“I’ll tell you the truth, just chill with that fucking thing,” Randy says.

Charlie holds it steady. Right at Randy’s throat.

“I’ll tell you the truth if you promise not to stick me in the throat.”

“I promise,” Charlie grins, lowers the knife, inches from Randy’s guts. Charlie sticks it in his skin. A small blood droplet rolls.

“Okay. So you love her?” Charlie asks. And even with a knife point stuck in his stomach Randy doesn’t waver, cool as said knife blade.

“I don’t,” Randy says. “And she doesn’t love me.” The knife jabs a little deeper. He winces.

“I don’t love her, but I’m attracted to her. We’re attracted to each other. It’s a weird angle that doesn’t really make sense. We get on together, we like each other and we have great sex.” Knife goes deeper. “Easy,” Randy says. “I told you that you weren’t going to like it.”  Thicker streams of blood run.

“But that’s it. Not love. I just I don’t know what else to call it but strong attraction.”

Charlie looks uncertain. He looks at Randy, looks at Emma.

“So…” Randy starts.

“Stop,” Charlie commands, they both look at the knife point, then lock eyes. “How is it that I’m the fucking crazy guy here?” Randy and Emma look at each other. Charlie isn’t sure what he sees, he’s having trouble comprehending the whole situation. He slides the knife down Randy’s skin.

“How long?” Charlie asks.

“A couple months,” Randy answers.

Charlie stabs him with the knife. “Not time, I mean how fucking long?”

“Stop it,” Emma wails.

Charlie shakes his head, a sad smile crosses his lips. “I really can’t believe this, Emma.”

Emma sobs.

“Get on the bed,” Charlie tells Randy, prodding him along with the knife. Randy resists. “Get on the fucking bed or I’ll fucking gut you where you stand.” Randy climbs on next to Emma.

“Since I’m not enough for you, let’s make it worth it. This one time you can have it. Your love and your attraction,” Charlie says. “Suck his dick.”

Emma is sobbing, tears running down her cheeks, hair in wet, sweaty tangles. She’s staring at Randy kneeling in front of her, his penis erect, inches from her mouth.

“Suck it,” Charlie says, holding the knife up. “I can’t imagine it being that hard for you.”

She does. She sucks it on all fours, and then Charlie kneels behind her. Charlie, who has somehow become the bad guy, the good guy who comes to surprise his fiancé, is now at the shit eye of the hurricane, licks his fingers and rubs her. She doesn’t even need it. She’s wet at both ends for her student boytoy and her loving fiancée. A scalene love triangle.

Knife still in hand Charlie stares at Randy, looks him in the eye. It feels good. For all of them. Really good. Charlie’s heard stories about men who pay other men to have sex with their girlfriends or wives, but he never understood the appeal until tonight. He can’t explain it, but something about holding the knife in his hand while he fucks his fiancé while she’s sucking a dick is overpowering. Celestial.

He stares at Randy, who receives the blowjob in horrified ecstasy. Charlie moves the knife to his neck. He doesn’t need words, the gesture is enough. Charlie pushes into Emma harder, and harder, her cries of terror or pleasure muffled by the choking sounds she makes on Randy‘s dick.

“This what you wanted?” Charlie asks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you.”

Charlie knows how to get Emma off from behind, his fingers snaking around down her belly playing just above the slick spot. Works every time. Even easier and faster this time. She squirms, writhes, moans, and Charlie feels a sick satisfaction as he dictates her pleasure. As she begins to slither with orgasm, he has his own and he raises the knife high and watches Randy’s gaping eyes scream in protest. A horrified noise squirts from Randy’s mouth as Charlie brings the knife down, burying it to the hilt in the tattoo just above the base of Emma’s spine. A triangle, severing a triangle; severing a triangle.

It makes an awful sound.

Charlie watches Randy’s eyes shriek, not with pleasure, but with pain as Emma’s mouth clamps down on his dick. Charlie looks into Randy’s eyes, then looks lower and smiles at the pain and blood, still entranced in his own orgasm. Emma falls flat, spine severed, dead or crippled, and Randy’s eyes bulge as her jaw locks onto his cock.

Flailing in pain, Randy takes a healthy swing and nails Charlie right in his smirking mouth. Blind with pleasure, Charlie doesn’t see the punch coming. It hits and splits his lips. Charlie swings back, still slipping around inside of Emma but Randy dodges, his jerky movements finishing the job; ripping his dick off between Emma’s clenched teeth. The skin stretches and snaps and sprays chunks and blood. Paralyzed, Emma slowly chokes to death on the leftovers, her other half full of Charlie’s dying sperm. Charlie pulls out, stands up, puts one foot on her ass and pulls the knife out, jiggling the sharp edge through the maze of her spine and tailbone. It makes a grinding sound. Pulling it out is like riding the rumblestrip on the interstate. The sword from the stone.

Dickless and bleeding, hopeless and pleading, Randy hunkers up against the headboard. One arm crossed over his face, his other searches for anything. He finds a Corona bottle on the nightstand. He swings with all he’s got left and the base of the bottle shatters against Charlie’s head leaving a jagged glass claw in Randy’s fist. When the bottle bursts, Charlie sees stars but doesn’t lose focus on Randy and as he falls he sticks Randy deep in the neck with the knife, splitting the jugular vein. While bleeding out, with no motive but vengeance, Randy jabs Charlie’s passed out body with the broken bottle. He aims at his groin. He stabs and doesn’t stop until he passes out. One of the stabs slits Charlie’s femoral artery.

There are standing pools of blood on the bed. Red blood on black satin sheets. The bodies, dead and dying, cling and murmur to each other. All fearing death, the murderous and treacherous actions are forgotten as they seek any shard of comfort even between themselves. Later, rigor mortis sets into their entwining limbs. The blood coagulates, becomes a kind of glue and bonds the three of them even tighter. The sickest type of fusion. Emma, Randy and Charlie fused by limb and blood into a shape that resembles a triangle, the kind that is hardest to explain.

BORDERTOWN

Laura J. Campbell

Dr. Anna Zidek pulled the cord on the bus, requesting the next stop.

The man next to her eyed her suspiciously. He had a scar across his forehead and the fingers of his left hand were missing. “You’re going to Dew.”

“Yes.”

“You got a reason to go to a place like that?”

“I’m a doctor,” Anna said.

“Doing the Lord’s work might not help in a town like Dew.”

“I’m a renal specialist. An old friend of mine offered me a position.”

“You’ll be at Dew Central Hospital then,” the man said. “Where they do most of the emergency work. Mind you, I don’t recommend Dew to anyone, for any reason.”

“Why?”

“Cures can be worse than the diseases, sometimes.”

What a thing to say, Anna thought. “I’ve heard that Dew is special.” Her old mentor, August Parker, told her that Dew had unusually low rates of many common diseases. No cancer in Dew. No tuberculosis in decades. Things got cured in Dew that couldn’t be cured elsewhere. Or so he’d said. He’d also told her to keep that information quiet, subject to a non-disclosure agreement that helped form part of her employment contract.

The old man just stared at her intently.

“My friend is a research oncologist there,” she continued. “He was one the one who convinced me to come to Dew. He also does some hematology—treats diseases of the blood.”

“Dew’s secrets should stay secret,” the old man said. “Don’t let the numbers fool you. It’s not a healthy place to be.”

He turned his eyes away, and Anna didn’t pay him further attention. She was looking at over two hundred thousand dollars in medical school loans; when August had offered her a job, she jumped at the opportunity. They need doctors in rural and underserved communities, he had told her. With no family left alive, and only a few friends scattered around the country, Anna saw no reason not to go to Dew. She packed her things the very next day.

The bus stopped and Anna stepped off onto deserted pavement. It was getting dark, and she was getting very hungry. Her eyes started to look for a place to eat.

The bus disappeared into the night.

~

It was ten blocks to her temporary housing, according to the map August had drawn up for her. She hoped she could find a place to eat on her way. There were no people about; the stores were closed. The only restaurant she saw was likewise closed for the evening.

There were little alleyways to her right as she walked, unlit and damp. There was a peculiar greasy smell in the air, like rotting fish and sun-tanning lotion. The scent seemed out-of-place since Dew was far away from any ocean. In the darkness, the unfamiliar distances took on a sense of extra length. Rustling noises echoed off the cold bricks of the buildings, devoid of their lives.

Anna picked up her step, as if a determined gait would make everything all right. She sensed somebody near her.

A man stepped out in front of her, wearing a loose covering around his face. He moved silently towards her, his heavy work boots making plodding sounds against the sidewalk.

She backed up instinctively, inadvertently entering one of the dark, little alleys.

As she moved back into the realm of darkness, more shadows reached out to grab her.

A thick hand covered her mouth, stout fingers digging into her arms. Suddenly she was pulled back into the alleyway, the stench of coconut oil and decaying fish swirling around her.

~

Anna had not anticipated being a patient at the hospital before she had the opportunity to report there for work. She sat on the edge of the bed. The thin hospital gown made her feel exposed; it did not ease the sensations following violation of her body. She longed to shower.

“We’re all done, Dr. Zidek,” the attending nurse said. “The police have the rape kit you ordered all squared away.”

Anna remembered the awkward swabs, the irritating scrapings. The samples seemed plucked rudely from her. Parts of her were now evidence, placed inside plastic bags. In the end, everything went into a large paper bag sealed with yellow evidence tape.

“Can I shower now?”

The nurse nodded; her bright blue eyes had a searing gaze. She left Anna alone.

Anna went into the bathroom, carefully closing the door. The room seemed overly impersonal. The clinical and sterilized atmosphere offered no comfort.

She looked at her reflection, analyzing her bruised face and dirty hair. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t that late. It wasn’t that dark. That part of town looked fine. No one warned me.

She showered thoroughly, the soap lather and warm water washing some of her discomfort away. I will feel worse before I feel better. She had studied her symptoms in medical school, passing exams on emergency treatment of rape victims and how to counsel them. That knowledge was now a painful thing. It was one thing to intellectually know the medical facts; it was another to live them.

Anna dressed herself, muscles aching from being restrained as she had struggled. Awful images flashed through her short-term memory. She tried to let them go, hoping that if they escaped now she would be spared their permanent residency in her mind.

Anna picked up a cup of water, looking out of the hospital window. She was five floors up, and could see the vast, flat arid land laying low in the wintry grayness. The sunlight was a pearly iridescence in the sky.

Below her she saw two policemen talking, one carrying the paper bag filled with her evidence. Little pieces of her, little pieces of her attackers, neatly cataloged inside. It seemed perversely unkind that so much pain could be organized so neatly. A municipal garbage truck pulled up, stopping in front of them. The policeman with her evidence bag paused, and casually threw it into the dirty green compacter. Then he and his partner climbed into their patrol car and pulled away.

Anna gasped, watching the garbage truck roll off. She bolted toward the door.

An old woman stood in the doorway.

Anna tried to push past her. The old woman backed her up into the room.

Anna’s newly tender skin ached not to touch anyone else. She backed down.

“You’re the new doctor,” the old woman said.

“What?” Anna tried to figure out a way around the woman.

“You should be treated very kindly now; we need to make some amends.”

Anna was opening her mouth to speak, when the heavy sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention.

Fear knotted up inside her. The woman turned and left.

A moment later, a familiar face appeared in the doorway. “Anna?” he asked.

“August!” she exclaimed. Her mentor was a welcome sight.

“I was in clinic,” he said. “I got here as soon as I heard.” With his presence, August brought a hint of normalcy to her shattered perceptions.

“I’m just so happy to see a familiar face.”

Even with her bruises aching, she imagined the sunlight seemed a little brighter.

~

Anna immersed herself in work, its anesthetic properties numbing her to the pain inside. Days had passed and she was feeling a little better. She even began volunteer work at a library to help ease her pain with a feeling that she was giving, and therefore strong enough to give.

She had related her experiences to August, who had taken up the investigation of her attack and the apparent disposal of her evidence.

He caught up with her in the hallway. “Anna,” he greeted, watching her face, as if trying to read her emotions.

“August. I thought you had clinic today.”

“I do, but I figured I would swing by on my way to make sure you were still doing okay.”

“I’m doing as well as can be expected. Isn’t your clinic the other direction?”

“I lied. I came by just to say hello, and then I have to race back to my patients. How are yours?”

“Okay, mainly.” She was relieved he was talking about work. It was the one thing she wanted to think about. “I wish we had better equipment. I’m used to having everything state of the art and tons of disposables to work with. Here we apparently have to stretch things out.”

“It’s still medicine.”

“At least every one here seems very genuine. It’s weird to see no patients in some areas, but still a normally expected population in others.”

“Dew is a complicated town to practice medicine in. They simply lack many of the diseases the rest of the world still has to contend with.” August changed subjects. “We have a common patient, by the way. Mr. Jordan.”

“I saw your name on the chart. I thought there was no cancer in Dew.”

“There isn’t.” August said. “Mr. Jordan did have cancer when he moved back here last year. He was born in Dew, and grew up here. He moved away a few years ago, thinking he could retire someplace else. Then he got Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He fled back to the cradle pretty quick. Now he is disease free, but his kidneys are messed up from renal toxicity. Side-effect of the chemo drugs he was on before he returned to us.”

“How is it possible that cancer doesn’t flourish here?”

“We’re working off the theory that the population has somehow selected themselves out of neoplastic events. That there is some underlying genetic explanation to the phenomenon.”

Anna wondered why he was being so evasive with his answer. “But that wouldn’t explain Mr. Jordan’s cure.”

“True. And that’s why we keep the statistics quiet. Dew doesn’t go blabbing about things it doesn’t understand. You take that advice, too, and you’ll go far here, learn a lot.”

“When I was in undergrad, I took a job at a nature center,” Anna said. “Word was going around that an alligator at a local pond was eating the ducks. It was idle chatter, the sort of thing we gossiped about in the gift shop. One day I was working the phones, and a reporter called wanting me to confirm the story about the duck-eating alligator. It showed me the power of loose lips.”

“They really do sink ships,” August said. “Mr. Jordan is a mess, by the way, and not the easiest patient to deal with. He’s not doing well. He’s not a good candidate for transplant, either. I don’t think he has long. Unless we find a miracle cure.” He checked his watch. “I have to get to clinic, now. Hey—I’ll buy you dinner sometime soon. Make up for the inimical introduction the town gave you.”

“Sure,” she said, watching him wave goodbye. “Let’s do that.”

~

As the months passed, Anna lost herself almost completely in her work. She saw patients and dutifully filled out paperwork. At first she found it difficult to walk alone outside; now she was at least guardedly comfortable in most parts of Dew.

Today she felt she had finally garnered the courage to walk the street she had been assaulted on. It was a sunny morning; there were people around. That offered a sense of security.

People seemed to look at her curiously as she walked swiftly past the entrance to the alleyway.

The police had never really investigated. They seemed happy to let the case freeze, and she was too ashamed to find out why. She tried to talk herself out of the emotion, but the futility of ever solving her case seemed to make a part of it lodged deep inside of her only more humiliating. August’s attempts to find out more information had yielded no more answers.

She stopped in a coffee shop; happy she had at least walked by the alleyway. It would be a very long time—perhaps never—before she stepped into it again.

“Coffee, and one of those,” she said, sitting at the counter and pointing to a filled doughnut. The clerk handed the pastry over, filling a white Styrofoam cup with coffee.

Anna pulled out a debit card to pay.

The clerk shook her head. “You’re the doctor. The one they attacked, a few months ago?”

Anna nodded her head. “I guess you saw my picture in the paper.” It was an unenviable call to celebrity.

“Coffee and doughnut are on the house,” the woman said. “Least we can do.”

Anna sat back, not commenting on the disproportionate exchange.

She left a tip, anyway.

As she exited the store, she saw the woman put the coins into a plastic box set up on the counter to collect money for a local charity.

It was not the first time it had happened. Whenever she caught a glimpse of recognition in their eyes, people declined making her pay for anything. They seemed in awe of her, neither really afraid nor embarrassed, but something else, something she could not identify.

As Anna walked toward the hospital, she thought she saw the old woman. The one who had kept her in the room the day the police threw away the evidence bag. Anna now felt almost as violated by the wasted swabbing and probing details of her interview as by the events that preceded them.

The woman was a short distance ahead; she did not see Anna.

Anna stopped, making sure of the identification. It was the same old woman.

Anna followed, curiously drawn to her. She sensed that something she wanted to know was locked up in the old woman’s gray head. The woman disappeared into a church, located on a corner lot. Its limestone blocks were covered in a veil of marshy mold. The stained glass windows were covered in pollen.

Anna slipped quietly into the church, hiding in the shadow of statues position near the front. Votive candles flickered in the corner, beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary. The old statue of St. Jude Thaddeus scarcely had any candles lit beneath it.

Far ahead, the old woman sat down in a pew already occupied by a policeman—the same one who had discarded her evidence bag—and August.

Anna couldn’t hear what they were saying; her confusion mounted by the presence of August, who seemed to be friends with the officer.

“I know you from the bus,” a man whispered behind her.

Anna turned around very quickly; she nearly let out a noise, but checked herself just in time. The old man from the bus was there. The scar on his forehead and the missing digits on his left hand served to identify him.

“Follow me,” he said, motioning her on. “Before they see you.” He lowered his head. “I mean you no harm. Please trust me.”

“You were the one who told me not to come here,” she whispered.

“Can anything good come from Dew?” he asked.

She remained silent.

He motioned to a small space hidden by a confessional. It was enough room to hide them both; the spot also offered a sufficient view to see through woven mesh. But it wasn’t close enough to hear everything the trio was saying.

“It’s coming up to the spring healing season,” the old woman said loudly. “We have work to do.”

“The timeframes need to be extended, doc,” the policeman said to August. “The current cure for Borna has to be done every six months. That’s gonna raise questions.”

August nodded. But his words weren’t loud enough for Anna to hear. She leaned into the mesh of the confessional, trying to hear, hoping to understand why they were discussing hospital matters in a church…and with a police officer.

The old woman and the policemen pulled up the sleeves from their right forearms. Each bore a little semi-circular wound, about an inch long. The wounds looked chronic, as if they kept them open intentionally.

The officer raised his voice again. “My little girl has been normal for three years. I insist. It’s personal, doc.” He tapped the wound on his arm and rolled his sleeve back down over the mark.

The old woman smiled sourly. “Jimmy says there are two new holes down at the Golden Horseshoe Gentlemen’s Club; Bob reports ten crack addicts in his house. And Fat P over at probation and parole says there are a few candidates desperate for paying work—but we need longer intervals. Our PD can only keep things so quiet.”

“We need to get the whole team together,” August said. “To discuss planning, priorities.”

Nods went around the group, a few last quiet exchanges, and then each one left the church’s sanctuary.

Anna looked at the man with the scar, hoping he had an explanation.

“Go to the cemetery, the one at the edge of town,” he told her. “Go in the evening, as if you were taking a walk and just got curious as you were passing by. I’ll wait for you by the large statue of Our Lady of Sorrows.” His eyes looked pained as he spoke.

“Okay,” she said.

“Good. Dew isn’t exactly a healing town for me. I need to get out as soon as I can.” He put his hand, the one missing all its fingers, gently on her arm. “I’ll show you everything,” he whispered.

~

Anna checked Mr. Jordan’s condition in the afternoon.

He teetered on the edge of death, his body struggling with the rising levels of toxins dialysis could no longer effectively extract from his bloodstream.

“Anna?”

She jumped back, startled by the voice.

August stood immediately behind her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I guess I’m still a little jumpy.”

“I was following up on those dinner plans.”

She put the chart down, gently pulling the hospital blanket up around Mr. Jordan. “We’d have to coordinate schedules.”

“How about Friday night?” August said. “Do you like Thai? Believe it or not, this town has incredible Thai food.”

“That sounds great,” she said. “I’ll have to diet a little before then. I’ve been putting on a few pounds. I guess all my nervous eating is catching up to me.”

“Make sure it’s not the start of a body perception disorder or a symptom of some underlying psychological response to your attack,” he said.

August never liked to say anything concisely that he could say—what was the word he used?—prolixly, she remembered. At least that much was still familiar about him. She wondered what he had been doing with the old woman and the policeman.

“I walk,” she told him. “To help clear my mind. I find myself analyzing my own progress too much. Having too much knowledge.”

“Ah, the curse of propaedeatics,” he grinned. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Sure,” she said.

She was happy when he left to attend to his own duties.

It left her in the comfortable company of the dying.

~

Anna walked quickly, to warm herself up. She had expected milder weather this time of year, but as the wind blew from the north, it was clear that winter was refusing to leave.

Anna arrived at the cemetery and walked toward its center. A large, gray marble statue of the bereaved Virgin Mary stood watch over a family plot. Anna sat down on the memorial bench.

The man with the scar joined her moments later, his broken hands cradling a cup of coffee.

“In Dew,” he said, looking over the cemetery, “you can find those who should be dead among the living. You find those who should be living among the dead.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“This city has no cancer, no influenza. It is answering every diseased call with a curative reply.”

“I have colleagues here trying to figure out why. If we can figure out what makes you all so special, perhaps we can cure illness elsewhere.”

He looked oddly haunted and hunted at the same time, as if he expected the shadows to engulf him and pull him into the ground if he spoke much more.

“You know something,” she sensed. “Tell me.”

“Once upon a time, tuberculosis had a stronghold here. You died of it, or at least they sent you away to not infect everyone else.”

“We have cures for that now. Rifampin. Other drugs.”

“Yes. You have real cures. Things you make out of chemicals and plants. Things that are right with the world. But Dew found another way to cure tuberculosis. Before the medications.”

“Such as?”

“There was a bride. Elissa Gruber. She was dying of TB. She was a beautiful woman, with long silken hair the color of the sunrise. She had just gotten married to Stephan Gruber. He was heartbroken to know she was in their honeymoon bed, dying.”

Anna pulled her jacket around her; the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

“She died on a beautiful spring day. A few days later, while he was chopping wood, Stephen accidentally cut four of his fingers clean off.” The old man nodded sadly. “The next day, everyone in town with TB got better. Stephen Gruber was the first Dew cure.”

“What are you saying?” Anna asked.

“There are superstitions, outside of your big institutions,” the old man said. “And some superstitions need to be left where they live—not become part of the rest of the world. Let the Devil tempt us in our own places, Doctor Anna, so we know his mark.”

She glanced at his hand. “Did you do that to yourself?” His fingers were chopped, almost as he described Stephen Gruber’s injuries.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “See, the next year, people started getting sick again. So someone thought about the connection between Stephen Gruber losing his fingers and everyone being cured of the consumption. Sympathetic magic, I think you call it. But this was sympathetic magic that worked. There’s nothing more frightening than that.” The man paused, looking at the horizon. “Some townsfolk chopped off the fingers of a Mr. Wall, an attorney. They cut them off his left hand, figuring he would do alright in his profession, him being right handed and not having to do any manual labor for his living.”

“What happened?” Anna asked.

“The TB vanished again.” The man looked far away, into time more than space. “The year after, the same thing. At about twelve months, people began to get sick again. So they cut the fingers off of a farmer who had retired to make moonshine. The TB went away yet again. It set the pattern. Chop the fingers off of a Dew man, and TB goes away for twelve months.”

“And your hand?”

“I was a punk kid here in Dew. Drank too much, did too little. Spent my evenings watching women dance topless, spent my days swindling people out of money in the pool hall. They figured my left hand wasn’t worth much either when they came for me. That brought relief for the whole year of 1952.”

“You need to see someone,” she said comfortingly. “Come by the hospital. I can make a referral. You’ve been carrying too much of something for far too long.”

“You don’t believe me,” the old man smiled. “That’s okay. But look around the cemetery, Doctor. Read the tombstones and do the math. No one dies young here in Dew…except for those who serve as vehicles for the cures.” He stood up and walked to the edge of the cemetery, where the paupers’ graves were. Each bore a simple wooden marker, written on in an indelible ink marker. Some were tiny graves, barely big enough for a baby. Little popsicle sticks marked the spots, but there were no names; just a gender sign and a date. Anna knew of dear departed dogs that had better graves.

He pointed. “Here are the runaways, the drug addicts, the homeless, the prisoners, the prostitutes, the aborted, the too poor, the euthanized, the rebels, the nameless, the hopeless, and the forgotten. The unpopular. Dew pays its blood money in what it considers worthless. That’s what keeps it healthy.”

“You’re saying they actually kill people…that’s what the town thinks is keeping them healthy?”

“Not every cure requires a life. Most, but not all. Cancer, for example.”

“Cancer?”

“Cancer requires a doctor to be brutalized every two years. Don’t ask me how they determine the cures—it takes your friend and his cronies a bit of trying to figure out what cures what and for how long. That alone should make you piss your pants. Dew isn’t healthy for everybody.”

“Something strange is definitely going on here. I’ll figure it out, but what you’re say…well, that’s just crazy—”

“Crazy is problematic. They haven’t found many cures for mental or emotional illness. Some convoluted cure for an animal virus keeps bipolar away. That’s about it. Maybe the problem with mental, emotional, and spiritual illnesses is that the healers are so sick with those themselves.”

She started to back away.

“Look at the graves,” he said. His voice was deep and serious.

She looked. It was not just the extraordinarily large number of paupers’ graves, but something else that stood out about this part of the cemetery. It was already prepared for multitudes of more dead—there were pre-dug graves, each with very specific dimensions, in very specific places, as if the size and placement of the future dead was already known. Further beyond the dug graves, there were additional plots already marked out, little orange flags giving directions on the next set of graves to be prepared after the dug ones had been filled. The section went on beyond the cemetery trees for acres, the flags changing color, as if each season’s graves were already known. Orange flags gave way to green, to pink, to purple, to blue. That was as far as she could see. She sensed they went on for a hideous distance.

“Well?” he said.

“Magic doesn’t cure,” she said bluntly. “Science does.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. But what were you promised to come here? And who did the promising? Would you have ever come to Dew without a trusted friend enticing you with a unique opportunity?”

She didn’t reply.

“If you don’t owe it to yourself, maybe you can see fit to owe it to these,” he waved his hand over the filled graves. “And if they do not cry out from beyond their graves, then perhaps those already marked to fill the earth can inspire you. Get out of Dew as fast as you can, Anna. You should never have come here.”

~

Anna was at the hospital early the next morning. She had trouble sleeping and wanted sane thoughts to take the place of the old man’s wild conjecturing.

The hospital was still sleepy, the late shift finishing up paperwork before the morning shift arrived. August caught up to her as she entered the hospital through the emergency room doors. “You’re an early bird,” he said.

“I have some very sick patients.”

“Mr. Jordan?”

“He’s probably not going to make it through today. I plan on staying late, to see if I can do anything to help his family.”

“Good bedside manner,” August noted. “What about our date tonight?”

“I may have to reschedule. Apologies.”

“Well, we’ll see,” August replied. “I won’t cancel our restaurant reservations yet.”

~

Anna stepped by the window to look out over the small city. She could see the cemetery from her vantage point, the trees hiding the multitude of pre-plotted graves.

An ambulance pulled up to the hospital, its lights quiet. August and an emergency department physician, Dr. Sillas, walked outside together.

The paramedics moved a gurney from the truck. The body was covered with a dirty cloth, very unsanitary. August, Dr. Sillas, and the paramedics exchanged nods. The left hand of the body dropped from beneath the sheet, exposed. Anna knew the hand; all of the fingers were missing.

She gasped.

Dr. Sillas flung back the sheet, August watching intently.

The old man from the bus and the cemetery laid on the gurney. He had been beaten, odd circular wounds arranged neatly in a line from his skull to the base of his spine. His wrists appeared heavily bruised.

Anna left, quickly climbing the stairs to her own floor. Her mind filled with panic. She was probably the last person to have seen the old man alive. Suddenly knowing of his life seemed more fraught with peril than knowing of his death.

She longed for work and obligation to help clear her thoughts and place the recent events into a logical design. She went straight to Mr. Jordan’s room. There was surely some safety in being around people.

The floor nurse greeted her warmly as she arrived.

“Good news, Dr. Zidek.”

“What good news?”

The nurse beamed. “Mr. Jordan is almost all better!”

“What?” Anna asked incredulously. “He’s a terminal patient. He’s on palliative care.”

“No, no. His blood work is almost normal, and he’s regaining kidney function. It’s a miracle. A Dew miracle.” She put her hand on Anna’s forearm. “We are so blessed to have August here. He’s a miracle worker.”

Anna rushed to the man’s room.

Mr. Jordan sat up in his bed, alert. His color was good, his features relaxed.

“Top of the morning to you,” Mr. Jordan said to her. “They found a cure, just in time.”

“Well, Anna, looks like we’re still on for tonight.” August said, suddenly arriving behind her. “Good news travels fast.” He winked. “It looks like kidney problems may be declining in Dew soon. We’re already working on cures for Alzheimer’s, depression, and diabetes. Maybe you want to change specialties?”

“Cures?” she asked.

He ignored her.

“I’ll pick you up at seven, and I’ll order the best bottle of champagne they have. Mr. Jordan is on the way to a complete recovery. I think that’s cause for celebration. Seven. Don’t be late. We have a lot to talk about, Anna.”

“August…Anna,” Dr. Sillas said, entering the room. He was the ER physician on duty. He capped a tube of hand lotion, pocketing it in his scrubs as he addressed August. “Do you have a moment, Dr. Parker?”

August nodded. “Of course.” He smiled at Anna. “And I’ll see you at seven o’ clock.”

Anna barely heard him. All her body sensed was the smell of suntan lotion and decaying fish.

“It’s good to be back home, in Dew,” Mr. Jordan said to the nurse who was finishing his discharge papers. “You should never leave, Dr. Anna,” he called over to her. “You’ll never be healthy anyplace else. Believe me—I know!”

She turned to look at him, not quite sure if she should be happy for his recovery or repulsed. The smell of Dr. Sillas’s hand lotion moved like shadows in her mind.

~

Anna ate in silence, managing to maintain as normal a countenance as she could. August cajoled and spoke, keeping to very mundane topics. They shared a buffet at a Thai restaurant, Anna careful of how much August was enticing her to drink. The bottles of crisp white wine and champagne never seemed to slow down. He paid when they were finished, and they got into his new Lexus. There was that lingering smell again: suntan oil and bad fish.

August opened up her door and let her in. He placed a small bag into the back of the car, moving a lab coat. The name on it read “Dr. Sillas.” He had been in the car recently. Anna knew his hand lotion all too well.

August drove, ending up at the cemetery. “This is as good a place as any to talk,” he said, motioning her out of the car.

She got out, feeling watched. Scared, but excited to finally talk about what mattered.

They walked to the paupers’ graves.

“What did the old man tell you?” August asked.

“A bunch of crazy stuff. About how Dew got so pristine and disease-free.”

“Grems always said too much,” August said. “We knew he would come to a bad end.”

“You killed him.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“But somebody did. Those marks weren’t self-inflicted.”

“You see too much,” August said. “Perhaps that’s why Grems took a liking to you. He spoke too much, you see too much.”

“I don’t believe him.”

“Yes, you do,” August said. “Crazy as it is, you do believe him.” He spread his hands out across the graves waiting to be filled. “This bothers you. You feel in your gut that the old man was telling the truth.”

“I believe that he believed he was telling the truth,” she said. “That’s different.”

“You looking to leave Dew?’

“I think I should. It’s a little weird here for me.”

“Ah, but there’s a problem,” August told her. “You know what’s going on. We can’t just let you leave. Sooner or later you’ll tell somebody who will listen, just like Grems did with you. Dew chooses its own wisely. You self-select if you are cured or cure. Free will at its purest.”

She started to walk away. “I’m out of here,” she said. “I’ll mail in a letter of resignation. There is something very wrong in the water here.”

“Stop,” he commanded.

She halted.

“You know, the cancer thing just requires that a doctor get gang-banged every two years,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which gender. Trust me on that one.” His voice had enough empathy that she paused, realizing what he was inferring.

“Why did you stay, August?”

He almost laughed. “I have Ebola, Anna. A very virulent strain.”

“I don’t understand. And Ebola is a very quick disease, frequently fatal.”

“Especially my strain.”

“You know what, August—I don’t want to understand,” she said, starting to walk again.

“If you do not hear me out, at least, you will not make it out of this graveyard alive. Convenient, as we won’t have to drag your body far. We need a cure for Borna—an animal disease, but associated with bipolar disorder. Every six months we grab a worthless excuse for titties and pussy—a whore, a stripper, a snide little tease—and gut her open. We stuff her intestines in her mouth until she chokes on them. That cures Borna—we have lab animals we monitor with. That also takes care of bipolar disease in our human population. Thing is, unlike a lot of our cures, the candidate pool of cures for Borna is more open—any female will do.”

“You’re a doctor!” she yelled. “What the Hell happened to you, August!”

“The cure for Ebola is very benign here,” he replied, surreal in his calmness. “Do you know how those of us infected with the disease survive it? The Dew cure? Another person maintains a small wound on your behalf, case for case, and the virus is held in check. The wound is usually on the right forearm, so it can be shown by proxy to principal. A sign of trust. Both Doctor Sillas and I are infected. Most everybody in the hospital is. We each have proxies. As long as the proxy keeps their wound open, we stay alive. If they fail to maintain the wound, we die. You will have a proxy, just as we do. It will keep you alive. As long as you obey the rules, the proxy will honor you.”

“The rules being?” She was plotting an escape route out of the cemetery. She had brought a long, thin knife from the operating room with her to serve as a weapon, if needed. It was hidden beneath her coat.

“You stay in Dew most of the time,” he answered. “We get passes for vacations once we have deemed ourselves trustworthy. You keep your mouth shut to outsiders, and you work on finding new cures. Think about it—you may find more benign answers to Dew’s problems, Anna, reduce the suffering. You can achieve your goals—curing, bettering the community”

“You can’t even control your cure,” she said. “What if you wanted to die? As long as that proxy maintains their wound, they force you to live with this sickness.”

“Nobody wants to die,” August replied.

“You aren’t living,” Anna stated. “You’re a prisoner. An exalted one, but a prisoner just the same. I can’t even watch those shows about prisons on television. I can’t buy a cup of coffee in this town. Now you want me—what? Infected with one the worst diseases ever? Knowing that my life really boils down to the whim of another?”

She saw the cemetery was filling with people: police officers, the old woman, nurses, Doctor Sillas.

“The deal is simple,” August said. “You take on your infection; Mindy Leher—the nurse who attended to you after the rape—has agreed to be your proxy. She felt so much for you then. She considers it an honor to be your proxy.”

She sensed the small crowd beginning to surround her.

“It’s an easy thing to do,” August told her. “Let go of your preconceptions. You have an emotional objection—think about it logically. You work on curing people. And they get cured. Look at Mr. Jordan. He was going to die. Now he’s cured. How much more satisfying is that then watching patients die day after day?”

“It isn’t about me,” Anna said.

“Exactly. It’s about the patients.”

“And what about those sacrificed as the cures?”

“They defined themselves.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The crowd was getting closer, now bold in their presence. The nurse with the bright blue eyes stepped forward, pulling up the sleeve of her jacket over her forearm, readying herself to receive her proxy wound.

August pulled out a needle and syringe. Doctor Sillas came up behind her. She could smell his dead fish-and-suntan oil smell. He reached out to grab her.

Anna had been grabbed by him before, violently penetrated, and forced into Dew’s service. She found her victory conditions taking a drastic shape; she would not be a victim again.

She grabbed the thin knife from underneath her coat. “I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m not being violated again. I’m not having every day be a violation, wondering if somebody is bored with being my proxy or what happens if she dies. Seeing decent people carved up so that the few may enjoy a few more years of their wretched, subjugated lives. Really? What are you all doing with this life and health? You’re just spending your time figuring out how to kill and maim more people. That’s not life; that’s not healthy. That’s the ultimate in sickness.”

August was beginning to look desperate. “They will do awful things to you, Anna,” he said, his eyes glancing at his compatriots. “Worse than has already be done. You can’t get out of here. We have this location surrounded. I’m sorry I brought you here. But it was for the greater good.”

“Bullshit. It was for your own good. You were entrusted with great privilege in hopes that you would understand your obligation to do the right thing. You failed. You brought yourself here, and you sold yourself to your tormentors. How pathetically weak.”

They were moving closer. It was clear there was no way out. Sillas had backed off. A police officer had handcuffs out, ready for her. There would be no fighting back.

“No way out,” August said. “Take the offer. Be a survivor. Take the cure.”

Anna knew the femoral artery was the probably the fastest way to bleed out. And hopefully the least painful. She took the knife and slashed into her own leg. The artery gave way quickly beneath the surgical blade. She stumbled. The blood gushed out of her.

The crowd was at her now.

“Do something!” the old woman demanded. “We need her alive.”

August exchanged glances with Sillas. “There is nothing we can do,” August said. “Not here. Not in time.”

August rushed forward, cradling her head in his lap. “Fuck, Anna! What are you doing?” He tried to stave off the flow of blood, knowing the effort was futile.

“I’m dying,” she whispered. “But I’m better off than you. You’re already dead.”

The blood poured out of her. She was pleased at how clean the cut had been. It would take a minute more and she would be out of Dew.

“We haven’t had a suicide in Dew for over seventy-five years!” the old woman said, agitation in her voice. “What does a suicide do to us? What consequence will this have?” Her eyes burned into August and Sillas.

“We don’t know,” Sillas said. “Maybe nothing.”

“No blood is spilled in Dew without it meaning something,” the old woman snapped back.

Anna didn’t have the strength to say anything. She didn’t know what her death would mean, either, except that she was escaping Dew. And that somehow Dew would never get over that.

ONE FLESH: A CAUTIONARY TALE

Robert Devereaux

We admit it. There’s a right way and a wrong way to bring one’s loving lady into conformity with the image of womanly perfection that burns bright in every man’s heart. Dad and me, we went about it the wrong way. That’s clear to us now, after all the grief that came pelting down into our lives when half the Sacramento police force jackbooted their way through our front door and kept us from further satisfying our desires, modest as they were, on the naked limbs of our composite wife.

But it’s our feeling that before the state—that vast motherless bastion of rectitude and righteousness—unlocks our cell to dead-march us along its sexless corridor, then to mumble piety into us from the mercy-thin pages of its Holy Bible, cinch us down snug and secure, and hiss open its gas jets to pack us off to the next life, we owe it to the rest of you idolatrous cockwielders out there to pass on the lesson we learned. Does that sound agreeable to you, Dad? Dad, I’m talking to you! He says it does.

It began with a birth, nearly nineteen years ago, on the night of February 15th, 1970. My dear wife Rhonda was all of twenty-one then, amber of eye and huge of breast, vivacious, fun-loving, ever faithful to me in spite of my shortcomings and the handful of cunt-hungry mongrels that always seemed to be sniffing about her skirts. Rhonda was lovely as life itself, and carrying our son.

My folks came down from Chico in mid-January to help with last-minute preparations; they were radiant with love for us both and just itching to be grandparents. Rhonda’s mother, Wilma Flannery, flew in from Iowa to be with “her precious baby” in her finest hour. She was one eccentric biddy, my mother-in-law, old and wizened at fifty. Her husband had left her soon after Rhonda was born, never to be heard from again. That didn’t surprise me and I don’t think it surprised Rhonda either. Although I wished Wilma had stayed in Oskaloosa, I did my level best to ignore her high-pitched demands and irritating ways and focused all my attention on Rhonda.

My wife’s projected delivery date was Washington’s Birthday, and around a quiet dinner one night at Mario’s, my mom and especially my dad—Oh come off it, Dad, you know you did!—teased us about it, threatening to call their grandchild George or Georgina in honor of the man on the dollar. Rhonda’s mother sat hunched over her plate, wolfing down tortellini. Good food always seemed to shut dear old Wilma up for a while.

As it happened, the baby arrived ahead of schedule. On the afternoon of the 15th, Rhonda and the two older women, wanting some girl-time alone, talked me and Dad into a night on the town. Before they booted us out into the light drizzle that had begun to come down, I pinned a hastily scrawled itinerary on the kitchen corkboard, just in case: dinner and drinks at California Fats, then a late-night showing of Psycho at the Tower. Dad and I were fond of Hitchcock movies back then. And after the accident that brought us together, we loved them even more.

The call came halfway through dinner. We’d done more drinking than eating, a lot more. Three swallows of wine to every forkful of food, I’d guess. Ordinarily we’d have thought twice about taking to the highway with that much alcohol in our veins. But I was determined to be right there by Rhonda’s side when my baby was born, and judging from Mom’s babbling over the phone from the hospital, we had no time to waste thinking about what was safe and what wasn’t. So we threw some bills on the table, staggered together to my VW van, ramped up onto Highway 50, and five minutes later—in a passing maneuver that would have meant certain death at high noon on a bone-dry road with a teetotaling priest behind the wheel—we rammed into the back end of a screeching Raley’s truck and felt for one mercifully brief instant the twin agonies of metal-mangled flesh and bone from the front and the whomp and sizzle of a fireball engulfing us from the rear.

If the notations of the hospital staff present at my son’s delivery were correct, our precise time of death was 7:41 p.m. There was tightness everywhere and a painful sliding and then suddenly the chill of freedom. We were somehow nakedly intertwined, my dad and I. When the shock of the cold was blanketed away and sweet warm milk filled our mouth and soothed our belly, we bleared open our eyes and were astounded to see a gigantic Rhonda-face beaming down at us. We tried to call out to her, but our mouth was full of nipple and our body throbbed and the blankets felt so warm and cozy around us that we soon drifted off. When we awoke, nothing but baby sounds came out of us, no matter how carefully we tried to speak. When Dad saw his wife Arlene (my mom) smiling down at us, I couldn’t help but feel his sadness and his frustration, and we wailed with our whole being and balled our tiny fists and did our best to squeeze every cubic inch of air out of our little lungs with each scream. But just when we thought merciful death might reclaim us, the air rushed back in and the cruel joke continued.

Our name was Jason. I’d picked it out myself, not because it was popular—the J-names were only starting to catch on back then—but from a love of Greek mythology. It hadn’t been high on Rhonda’s list, but she relented in exchange for my agreeing to the name Amy Lou if it was a daughter. Yes, Dad, I know, you’ve told me many times how glad you are we weren’t born female.

The newspapers call us Jason Cooper, of course. But Dad and I kept up the use of our old names with each other while we endured the long frustration of babyhood, waiting for my son’s body to develop the motor skills to support intelligible speech. For the record, my name is Richard and his is Clarence. The state can believe it’s gassing somebody named Jason if it wants to, but I’m telling you there never was any such person, leastways not one with an identity separate and distinct from me and my father. We suspect most reincarnates, being singletons, forget who they were and simply fall for the new identity their mom and dad foist upon them. But we, as doubles, were able to keep Richard and Clarence alive inside the putative Jason we might otherwise have become.

After word of the accident reached them, Arlene stayed on longer than she’d planned with Rhonda. The two women comforted each other in mourning our deaths, but their joy in Jason’s upbringing brought his mother and grandmother even closer. Arlene eventually sold her home in Chico and moved in with Rhonda. Wilma, on the other hand, was spooked by death. She gave her daughter a motherly thump on the brow, glared down at baby Jason, shuddered, crossed herself, and boarded the first plane back to the Midwest.

We’re telling you all this because there’s no way you can understand why we did what we did unless you know who we are and what it was like growing up this way. But for our own peace of mind, we’ll spare you those details. Suffice it to say that we did not like being dictated to by the women we loved. By the time we were able to talk, we realized that no one was going to believe our story and that even if they did, some agency would take us away from Arlene and Rhonda for a lifetime of cold scrutiny. So we kept mum—and thereby kept Mom and Grandmom too, if you’ll pardon our humor. Our greatest challenge was chasing away erectile manfriends, but a bit of strategic mayhem beyond our years and one or two well-calculated glances from hell kept the motherfucking to a minimum.

Our infancy and toddlerdom and childhood weren’t the worst of it by any means. When puberty struck, we nearly went crazy. We’d both forgotten—given the sleep of the hairless genital in childhood—what it feels like when the hormones surge up for the first time, raging and roaring like typhoons through an adolescent body. And it was even worse for us because we understood from the outset what it all meant. As for girls our own age, our grown-up manner fascinated adults but kept our peers ever adversarial; besides which we neither of us felt much propensity toward pedophilia. So their chests filled out and their thighs went soft and curvy and they got that self-conscious wary look about their tender faces, but Dad and I paid them no mind. Understand our dilemma: The women we loved we’d already married. They lived right down the hall from us, growing no younger as the clock stole away moment after moment. And our enthusiastic young cock—sprouting thick curls of brown hair all around and popping up far fatter and longer, we were pleased to note, than either of us had been in our truck-crushed, fire-whomped bodies—took to them like a compass needle takes to magnetic north.

It was touch and go for a while, learning to feel okay about jacking Jason off. I’d hidden that sort of thing from Dad, and he never talked to me about the ins and outs of lovemaking and the rest of it except when I reached ten and he muttered something about “sex rearing its ugly head” and tossed some bland vaguely Presbyterian book of cautions and platitudes in my lap. And we were father and son after all, engaging in what felt, the first couple of times, uncomfortably like homosexuality. But we made the necessary adjustments in our thinking—one always does to get what one’s body craves—and relaxed into it like the old hands we were.

But ever and always, Arlene and Rhonda moved through the house, and we had to be on our guard not to be caught leering at them and not to demonstrate anything more than filial and grandfilial affection. We buried ourselves in bookishness, skipping over the stuff we recalled from our previous schooling and delving into new areas of knowledge with a depth that astounded our teachers and made us the loathed bespectacled pariah of the class of ’88. With our stratospheric SAT scores and the enthusiastic support of the Hiram Johnson faculty, we wowed our way into Berkeley and began work toward a degree in 20th century history—we had, after all, lived through most of it, and current affairs had always been our strong suit.

It was in American History that we met Lorelei Meeks, she of the owl eyes and large glasses, breastless, thin as a rail, blank of face, and devoid of personality. Lorelei was a non-entity, a vacuum of need, a woman who faded into every background. Her body begged to be written upon and we, with our fat fountain-pen full of sperm, scribbled all over her. Whatever struck our fancy to do with her she gave in to. Dad and I divvied up her holes. Every pinch of flesh was ours to caress and lubricate and shackle up and slap until it blushed or bruised or bled. And in the morning, after a shower, she’d be wiped clean again like a newly sponged chalkboard, empty as Orphan Annie’s eyes and yearning to be used anew. Our grades suffered, for which we made Lorelei pay in welts and cigarette burns, and in enemas of ice-cold Coors.

At Thanksgiving we brought her home.

We thought we could divert our river of rage onto our wispy girlfriend. We thought that having a receptacle we could empty our lust into any time we liked would lessen our desire for our former spouses or at least allow us to keep it under control. But we were wrong, as wrong as a Biblethumper. We found out just how wrong when the front door swung open and our two beloved soulmates, all smiles, welcomed Jason and his dear Lorelei into the home Rhonda and I had built in the spring of ’71.

While we sat in the living room, going through the maddening ritual of “introducing the girlfriend to the family,” all sorts of bells and whistles were going off inside our head. My dad stole glances at Arlene, her hair gone white now, dignified lines of age making more lovely the face he hadn’t caressed as a lover for nearly twenty years. She seemed genuinely spritely in her deep blue dress and her pearls, and her short white hair hugged her head just so. But I was in agony over Rhonda, looking sexier than ever at forty, stylish in her washed-out jeans and bulky breast-defining sweater. Her hair tumbled long and blond down her back, soft and springy and natural in a way that brought to mind her blond pubic softness and the sweet pink labia so long denied to me. Thank God they ignored Jason, choosing instead to pour their endearments into the smiling nullity that sat, legs crossed, nervously beside him on the couch.

But inside us, an idea was gathering bits of itself together. The location of rope and tools in the garage, of clean dust rags in the closet, of scissors and carving knives in the kitchen, suddenly took on grave importance. It was as if the house itself was shoving Dad and me into some inevitable sequence of bloody dance steps.

We heard Jason’s thin voice fielding inane questions. From the way they received his answers, it seemed that our facade of calm was somehow being maintained. And when we moved into the dining room, watching the maddening thighs of our proper wives sway this way and that, we heard Jason announce that he had a special surprise for his three most favorite women in the world. You’d think the odds against one man subduing three women would be pretty high. And in most cases you’d be right. But people become surprisingly compliant when they’re in a festive mood and someone they trust—a son or grandson for example—sets down the rules of playful bondage they must submit to in order to receive an unexpected gift. In no time they were blindfolded with their hands tied tight behind them, a predicament our dear Lorelei was used to.

Not so Arlene and Rhonda. They complained, playfully at first, then more vociferously, about the chafing of the ropes. But their protests really began in earnest when we tied their ankles to the chair legs—right to right, left to left—and removed their shoes. People tend to be funny that way about their feet.

We let them sit there complaining into unresponsive air while we lowered the blinds and gathered tools. Some of the things our hands lifted off the garage pegboard or dug out of the drawers in the kitchen astonished us at the time, made us worry we’d gone off the deep end, though on hindsight they all made perfect sense. Once we had them laid out on the rug, our first order of business was the unclothing of our women. Because garments are not easily stripped from bound limbs, we used Rhonda’s pinking shears for most of it. Arlene freaked when we scissored away her stockings, maybe from the feel of the cold metal moving up along her thighs, I can’t be sure. Her shrieks spiked out into these absurd high-pitched bursts that sounded like a jackal in a trap. So hard were they on the ears that we decided to remove her blindfold and gag her with it. We did our best to ignore the look in her eyes; it was too painful to dwell on for any length of time. Dad was a little bit ashamed of her, weren’t you, Dad? I mean at that point we hadn’t so much as broken skin, we hadn’t even hinted at where things were headed, yet already Arlene was huffing and going all red in the face like McMurphy being electroshocked in Cuckoo’s Nest.

Rhonda was a lot cooler about things, asking her son what he was doing, keeping her voice as calm and soothing as she could. When we felt like answering her, which was seldom, we kept our responses brief and noncommittal. We preferred letting our Fiskars do the talking for us. We liked their unrelenting ways, the steady rise and fall of the alligator mouth, the steel bite of perfectly zigzagged teeth, the falling away of fabric, and the slow, hypnotic unveiling of forbidden flesh. From the look of Rhonda’s private parts, a bit puffy and vaguely gleaming, we half suspected our perversity was turning her on.

You can imagine the effect all this snipping away of blouses and bras and panties was having on us. But mixed in with the arousal was a sadness, a bitter sorrow at the ravages of time on human flesh. Here, emerging one sharp snip at a time, were the beloved bodies of our dear wives, hidden away for nearly twenty years. Our idle fantasies at childhood’s end, our torrid love affair with onanism in adolescence, our imagined substitutions of these two women when we squeezed shut our eyes and eased into Lorelei—all of that had been erected on memories two decades old. We were ill-prepared to witness the accumulated assaults of age on their flesh: the sag, the flab, the withdrawal of vibrancy and resilience and muscle tone.

We dimmed the lights.

When we finished denuding our women, we took Rhonda’s suggestion and turned up the thermostat. I was able to convince Dad, despite his initial resistance, that we too ought to disrobe. His preference was to unzip, reach into our shorts, and bring out into the open Jason’s erection only; but I argued that we were, after all, going to be doing more than simply fucking the odd vagina and that it would be far easier to shower blood off our skin than to remove it from our best suit, and he, inordinately fond of that suit (his taste, not mine), could only agree. So we removed Rhonda’s and Lorelei’s blindfolds, not wanting to limit our display to Arlene only, and slow-stripped for our three naked mates. It’s fair to say we surprised ourselves—Wouldn’t you agree, Dad?—with our prowess as ecdysiasts. I sincerely believe we turned the ladies on, even Arlene gasping behind her gag; I can testify that we surely turned ourselves on.

Not to put too fine a point on it, we pleasured them, our wives and the vapidity they flanked. If they played at resistance, which one or two of them did, we read their coyness as a come on, and came on. At one point, Rhonda, acting the castrating bitch, snapped at our penis, but we had matters well in hand and snatched it free of her cruel jaws, backhanding her for her naughtiness and clamping our own choppers on her left nipple until she screamed out an apology profuse enough to satisfy us. Even so, we steered clear of her mouth thereafter, though memories of my lusty young spouse feasting at my groin during our married life drew me back to her lips again and again, and Dad had to intervene several times for the sake of our manhood.

Finally, when we’d gotten as close to our women as we were going to get without breaking skin, Dad and I began our failed—albeit noble—experiment. Looking back, it astounds us that we never once questioned the fundamental wisdom of what we were doing. But in this short, sorry life, one moment often leads to the next without time to entertain consequences. There seemed an inevitability in operation at the time, a passionate surging forth which no attempt at mere reason stood a chance against. Maybe all of our synapses weren’t firing properly that day, or maybe something inside of us snapped. Whatever the reason, we forged ahead.

From the way Arlene and Rhonda were behaving, it was clear they would never consent to the group marriage idea that had occurred to us first. The very gathering of the tools—the saws, the screwdrivers, the staple gun—was surely our subliminal recognition that the marriage scenario was not about to play itself out. To our unsettled minds, that left but one option: the scavenging of our wives’ bodies and the bold reconstitution of what we liberated from those hallowed grounds into as near perfection as we could get on the blank canvas of Lorelei’s body.

We began with the teeth. To our surprise, Lorelei resisted. But a small clamp at either corner of her jaws rendered her struggles pointless. Although our first extractions were bumbling and amateurish, before long we were uprooting her stubborn molars with all the élan of any D.D.S. out there. When only gums remained, we found some cotton balls in the medicine cabinet to plug our ears with. Lorelei’s gurgled screams were no joy to listen to, and we suspected that Arlene and Rhonda, once we began on them, would be no less merciless in their protests.

I hated what came next. Each of us, as you might imagine, was partial to his own wife’s dentition, so we decided, after heated debate, to alternate extractions, taking the odd-numbered teeth from Arlene and the evens from Rhonda. To keep them in their proper sequence, and to counter our worries that teeth, like seedlings, might require immediate transplant to remain viable, we followed each tooth’s removal with its immediate insertion into Lorelei’s gums, tapping them in as gently as possible so as not to injure their roots. What I hated about all of this were the heartrending screams of my wife and mother. I wasn’t prepared for the way their distant cries tore through my innards, making my brain beat with pain.

It grew worse when we began on the fingernails. Dad cursed me for a coward but I hung back and let him perform the slicing, and pliering, and supergluing on his own. I felt bruised and blistered everywhere inside.

Still shaken, I joined Dad in shaving Lorelei’s head, removing her ears, and stitching Arlene’s on. But when it came time to scalp my dear sweet Rhonda, I couldn’t bring myself—in spite of my lust for her lovely blond hair—to help him grasp and guide the X-Acto knife and the scraping tools. Instead, I tried, over the static of my father’s anger, to soothe Rhonda’s torments. I assured her, though I’d begun to doubt it myself, that once she left her own body and moved into Lorelei’s with Arlene, she’d come to appreciate the diligence with which we had harvested her hair and understand that the agonies we were putting her through were worth the final result. She did nothing but scream bloody murder and strain her abraded limbs against her bonds.

I wept openly then, while Dad bent, grim-faced, to his bloody task and pressed the blond skullcap down onto Lorelei’s bare, glue-smeared scalp.

Next came the mammaries. There was little point in giving our lovely new bride long tumbling blond tresses if what they tumbled down onto was a couple of flat nubs rather than the breathtaking swell of two hefty kissable lickable squeezable suckable breasts. Dad and I were used to that kind of pleasure, given the endowments of our old wives. But we found ourselves once again at loggerheads, and it was worse now because Dad had by this time lost all patience with me. Rhonda and Arlene both sported superb knockers and we were not about to break up a set by taking one from each woman. Yet Lorelei barely had room on her chest for two decent-sized tits, let alone four. In the end we decided to fasten one pair to her front and another to her back. I lost the coin toss, but I don’t think it’s sour grapes to say that I got the better of the bargain, because our first mastectomy came off rather badly and in my opinion—you just keep still, Dad!—in my opinion, we botched Arlene’s breasts badly. When it came to Rhonda, who was pleading like a little girl at this point, I was ready to refuse the carving knife again, but Dad jammed an awl into my left arm. Then he gave me a powerful talking to, really chewing me out good—‘The next time it’s your balls, boy!’, that sort of thing. I know you meant it, Dad; just shut your yap. Anyway, partly because of what Dad said and partly because I wanted the job done right, I helped with the second operation, which I believe we carried out with a greater sense of professionalism and pride. What did I care about having to go behind our new woman’s back to get to Rhonda’s breasts as long as they retained their full loveliness?

We were in the midst of the arduous task of making a vulval triptych across Lorelei’s stretched inner thighs, parenthesizing Lorelei’s pussy with the harvested quims of our wives, when there came a distant pounding at the door, and a trio of faces filling one windowpane briefly with ugliness, and then a loud intrusive sound like crunching wood. One pair of arms grabbed us from behind and another handcuffed us, and the rest of the night was nothing but sirens and naked rides and cold baths and damp blankets and question after question after question. You know the rest. Aside from discounting our reincarnation story and sensationalizing out of all proportion what we did, the Bee and the Union did a fair job of reporting the truth.

What did we learn from all this?

We learned that happiness can’t be forced. It’s not something that yields to a desperate scheme and a crosscut saw. It’s not something you can construct. We tried to piece it together bit by bit and we failed. Those of you out there whose minds may be starting to warp the same way ours did, take my advice and forget it. If kind words and gentle persuasion don’t get you what you want, then cheese graters and electric drills and large knives with serrated edges aren’t going to do it either. We tried. We failed. And we’re going to pay for it. Next time, whoever’s body we end up in, we’re not even going to think about doing anything like this again.

At least I won’t.

Dad tells me he’s planning to major in pre-med.

TELESCOPIC

Harper Hull

It had been another rough week in a decade of rough weeks for William Sopher.

He pulled slowly into his driveway contemplating the evening that awaited him. At some point that night he’d reach a stage of solitary alcoholic abuse down in his basement den and finally his mind would snap shut; a man-trap wetly triggered to kill reality, or at least break its ankle for a few hours until he woke up covered in his own drool with an ax-in-the-head hangover to ignore. It was the getting to that state which had William sighing in dread. Some shitty food in a plastic tub from the fridge reheated in the microwave would start the evening’s proceedings. Stilted attempts at banal conversation with the wife that would end with her silently slinking off to bed, sighing and shaking her head like all cop’s wives eventually did, would be the crushing finale. They were a living cliché and he didn't even really care; that was the saddest part of the whole thing.

All this time and she still didn’t get it; revisiting the hideous tableaus of desperation, cruelty and hate that were created in apartment buildings, warehouses and desolate parking lots across the city made it hard for William to feign outrage at the latest power bill hikes or what the President had said on the news about the middle class. Safely down in his basement, away from her disappointment, a twelve-pack of beer and several fingers of bourbon would follow. A pack and a half of Marlboro Reds would create a town of scorched little watch towers in the dirty glass ashtray. He’d drink and smoke until his mind detuned itself to an electric backdrop of grey-speckled black noise. Anything to be done with that ghastly cavalcade of white, blue and red faces that haunted his weary brain, all swinging in his subconscious with their dead j’accuse expressions and pointy, bony fingers as if he himself was creeping up behind them with a screwdriver, a tie or a bread knife gripped in each hand. William sighed heavily and stepped out of his car. Megan wasn’t home yet, her Jeep wasn’t taking up the driveway; maybe he could sneak a quick drink before she got back and rolled out the welcome mat for the inevitable Friday lack of communication fest. He caught his own reflection in the driver’s window of the car; grey suit, striped shirt, red tie. Still a good head of hair, bit fluffy around the waist. Whatever.

Fumbling with his keys he spotted a small piece of white paper taped to the front door. It read BACK GARDEN in large, curved black letters. He pulled the paper from the door, flipped it over, turned it back, read it again and headed around the side of the house. Strange, he thought, looks familiar but it’s not Megan’s writing. Rounding the corner of the house he spotted it straight away, but it took a second to register in his storm clouded mind exactly what he was looking at.

It was a telescope, just sitting in the middle of his back garden on a tripod pointing toward the city like it was the most normal thing in the world. William approached it, confused, and saw another piece of paper taped to the stand below the eyepiece. It read STOP HIM in the same familiar big bold letters that the first note had displayed. William looked around his garden and saw nothing else out of the ordinary; same old ill-tended scrap of grass and sad looking bushes. Placing his hands against his upper legs he bent forward and put his eye gently to the telescope sight without moving it. It was zoomed in on a window far off in the city, the top floor of a large office building. Sitting in the window was what seemed to be another telescope. William carefully adjusted the focus and got the sharpest view he could. Nothing else was visible, just the telescope and a triangle of white ceiling hanging behind it. He slowly scanned along the building, counting how many windows in from the edge the telescope was. The building was one he knew, a distinctive banking office tower, and he figured he could be there within fifteen minutes. Something long-gone yet familiar shouted out from the dungeons of William’s mind, the place he kept all the bad thoughts—it didn’t hit and he rubbed his temple, urging the flash of recollection back. It didn’t reverb or repeat.

Thirteen minutes later William entered the Chi-Trust Bank offices and flashed his badge to the receptionist, explaining there’d been a complaint from the top floor. The receptionist looked startled and even perhaps a little scared but told William the top floor was being renovated and no one should be up there at this time. William thanked her and made for the elevators. As he walked away the receptionist stared wide-eyed at the back of his head and suddenly found herself engrossed in the objects on her desk. William pressed the button for floor 45 and ascended, one hand instinctively moving to the butt of his department issued Glock 9mm pistol, the other scratching at his throat. Something smelled real funny about this and—oh yeah—the Crossword Killer. He’d loved his games. The man had traveled the country slicing up young women and letting the cops know where the body was through crossword clues in various regional papers that he’d mail in. Jessica Alves had been the first, pretty brunette studying dance, wild animals in the apple was her clue and NYPD had found her body scattered around the Bronx Zoo. Crossword had eventually made his way through Chicago, some dozen murders later, and by now he had become cocky and was sending out the clues before the killing. After the fire, still standing tall, William. Sopher was on the task force that had been dispatched to the Chicago Water Tower, built by architect William Boyington and mistakenly referred to by non-Chicagoans as the only building to survive the great fire of 1871. The clue had seemed personal to Sopher, mentioning his first name like it did, and when they saw a small man with a large suitcase acting suspiciously outside the tower Sopher suffered a moment of panic and shot him in the shoulder. He survived—Jacob Reed was his name, a risk management consultant based out of Houston—and they found almost all of a girl named Andrea Kelly inside the suitcase. Surprisingly, her head was missing. It was as if Reed knew he was going to be apprehended this time and dropped the head off somewhere else as some sick insurance policy he felt he could cash in later. In the end it didn’t matter; Reed was shivved in prison when the guards looked the other way and died slowly in his own cell after several prisoners pulled his intestines through the small, ragged hole in his stomach.

~

It was silent on the top floor; William padded along the corridor looking into doors and counting windows until he reached the room he wanted. The smell of paint and drywall mud was strong and stilts leaned against the wall. He opened the door with one swift motion and looked around the room. Andrea Kelly’s head was not sitting on a pedestal waiting for him. Nothing except the telescope, the exact same model as the one in his garden. It was aimed downward. After scanning the room for other exits and large cupboards William placed his right eye next to the telescope eyepiece and, groaning, saw another window, another telescope waiting for him. Turning the focuser a little and gently moving the scope he sharpened the image and tried to work out where this next building was. It was a house, three stories with a tin roof that gleamed with a distinctive green tint. The siding was off-white and there were black shutters fanning the windows. In the front garden he could see a children’s swing set, a tarnished silver frame with faded red seats. By looking around for a few moments, scanning in and out from the house, William recognized the neighborhood as one not too far from his own. He had lived there before getting married and knew it well. Some of his best memories were made in that part of town, back when he was a single man and his career hadn’t crushed him yet. It was probably about twenty minutes away, if he made haste. He sprinted back to the elevators, strangely trepidatious but now full of adrenaline for this mysterious event. Jacob Reed was dead, he reminded himself, found laying in his own congealed blood and gore with an expression on his face like a dead cat. Still, the perma-cop in his brain wondered if he should call this in, but the regular, stupider William took charge and decided that there wasn’t anything criminal going on, apart from a trespass in his back garden, and for all he knew it was the shitty local kids playing an admittedly elaborate prank. Maybe even a work colleague. He laughed for the first time that day, imagining the joke he was hurrying to be the butt of. Were his buddies from the precinct waiting in that house? Heya, Bill! they’d yell. We got you good! William hoped this evening ended in a session at the bar and a bit of laughter, he’d take that. He also realized he didn’t have his cell phone on him. Something else to piss him off.

~

Twenty-four minutes later William pulled up in front of the green-roofed house. His head was throbbing and his face felt hot. An annoying pressure ran across his hairline and a sticky wetness caked his flesh beneath his shirt. The wave of excitement and bubbling anticipation had seriously receded during the short drive. Jacob Reed may be dead but what about the other evil bastards Sopher had crossed paths with that fit this thing in some obscure way? He’d been speaking them out loud on the way over, panicking suddenly, a fast, high-pitched vocal scramble through a catalog of names and methods.

Pickett Boozer, tortured and killed farm animals, carved what we later learned was a self portrait of his own smiling face into their flesh. Jason Floyd, recorded women through the windows of their homes and left packages on their doorsteps containing his own bodily fluids and pig hearts. Dieter Schwartz, killed his entire family with a hammer and turned himself in immediately at the local station with his dead daughter wrapped up in his arms. Matty Waterhouse who raped old women in nursing homes, Derry Reardon the Midway ax man, Kris Allen the kiddy poisoner, shit, there were so many crazies, so many.

Approaching the front door he again let his hand move to his pistol. He rapped on the wood and called out “Police!”

No answer. William pushed on the handle and the door clicked open. He immediately saw the mess inside and unbuttoned his pistol, drew it to chest height. Stepping inside he closed the front door and shouted out again; still no answer. Picking his way through the boxes, broken furniture and debris on the floor, William headed toward the staircase and started to move up to the third floor without clearing the rooms. He knew that the house was deserted and abandoned, looking around would be a waste of time and he wanted to get to that telescope. It went against all his training and experience but that fucking thing was calling to him like a siren.

The second floor was like the first. Still no sign of life, as he had anticipated. Upon reaching the third floor William’s heart started to beat faster. He stepped briskly down the hall to the front-facing room he had clocked from the bank building, walked in and saw the third telescope. The rest of the room was bare.

Placing his eye against the viewer, William let out a startled grunt and fell backwards on his heels. He shook his head and looked into the telescope again. There was someone looking back at him through their own telescope. They were wearing some kind of mask, animal looking. He saw a dark suit, white shirt and a flash of scarlet tie before the mask wearer waved and moved out of view.

William felt his knees give slightly. He was looking into his own bedroom window, the wallpaper was distinctive as was the painting above the bed, and lying on his bed—their bed—he could see his wife, naked and red and weird-faced. Her legs were bent apart at a horrible angle. Blood covered her from throat to crotch. Beside her on the bed it looked like a telephone, the screen lit up in a strangely familiar orange glow. His heart beating out of his chest William moved his hands to the telescope, realized they were slick and shaking too much and pulled them away again, not wanting to lose the viewpoint. The masked person jumped back into shot, obscuring his wife’s body, and William realized he was staring at a plastic pig face, caught in a permanent cartoonish smile, splattered in what he assumed was Megan’s blood. The pig-person raised hands to face and made crying gestures for a moment before wiping fingers down over their white shirt leaving wet, red trails that gave the appearance of stripes. He pushed the mask back over his head leaving the elastic string taut across his forehead and the revealed face of the killer stared down the body of the telescope.

SEXY

Wrath James White

My life was a model of moderation until I saw her that day. There was almost nothing sexy about her to my tastes, yet almost everything about her was dripping with raw, carnal, sexuality. She was riding a motorcycle in a red latex mini-skirt. The skirt was hiked up so high on her thick thighs, I could see the wonderful results of a recent Brazilian wax. Almost immediately, the self discipline I’d worked so hard to cultivate began to slip.

Some might have called my myriad paranoias a fear of the unknown, of new experiences. Many would have just called me a pussy. In truth, I was terrified of losing control, afraid to find myself carried away by passions I could not bend to my will and master with reason. It was one of the main reasons I had remained a bachelor for so long. Women found me boring. I didn’t drink or use drugs or play videogames or hang out in nightclubs. I wasn’t very experimental in the bedroom. My last girlfriend jokingly referred to me as “The Missionary Man” because of my reluctance to try new sexual positions.

I didn’t even drink coffee or smoke cigarettes because of my overwhelming fear of addictions. I panicked if I had an energy drink two days in a row, afraid that I was growing addicted to fructose and guarana. I had never even watched a pornographic movie, having heard of people succumbing to the lure of internet porn and wasting hours in front of the computer screen, jacking off until their cocks bled. Addictions led to dangerous excesses. People lost jobs, stole, and got themselves incarcerated, shunned and scorned by polite society because of excesses. But, from the moment I spotted the girl in the mini-skirt, I knew I would follow her down the road to excess. Everything about her screamed wantonness and overindulgence.

She straddled the custom motorcycle like a lover. A coy smile teased the corners of her lips as she throttled the engine and the bike roared between her thighs. It was a Harley Davidson, wide and low with tall handlebars like a chopper and a large seat. It was painted black, purple, and red with skulls and flames and chrome pipes that looked like bones. I only glanced at the bike briefly. My attention was quickly torn away by the voluptuous woman who rode it.

My underwear felt uncomfortably tight as I stared into my side mirror and straight up her skirt. She seemed to spread her legs wider, inviting my eyes into the dark place between them. I was so transfixed by that hairless cleft, I didn’t see the light change until the cars behind me began to honk and she cruised past me and winked.

I couldn’t tell you what it was about her I found so attractive, besides her obvious lack of shame. She was large everywhere. Not just fat, though she was obviously carrying quite a bit of excess adipose tissue. She was over six feet tall and had wide shoulders and muscular arms like a body builder. Her triceps flexed and rippled as she worked the throttle. Her legs were titanic. Her calves bulged like biceps and her quadriceps like the rest of her, were an intimidating combination of fat and muscle. She had breasts that stuck out two feet off her chests, but barely jiggled thanks to a brazier reinforced with steel mesh. She had a large stomach but her breasts stuck out twice as far as her gut, which effectively hid it unless you were obsessed with such things, which I usually was.

I had never been into large women. Fat people actually disgusted me a little. Obesity had always seemed to me like the living epitome of excess, greed, lack of willpower and control, laziness. I preferred thin or athletic women. But her thick muscular frame challenged all my prejudices. The muscles in her arms and legs made it clear that she was not lazy. You didn’t get triceps like that sitting on a couch eating ice cream. It took willpower and discipline. Still, she definitely was not missing any meals.

Looking at the large woman’s sexually extravagant proportions, I felt the most powerful, overwhelming lust I’d felt since puberty. It startled and frightened me more than a little. I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. My erection jabbed at my stomach, bent backwards by my tighty-whities.

The woman had beautiful red hair that hung down her back and blew in the wind as she rode. Her eyes were a fiery emerald green and her lips were full and plump, painted a brazen red, and I knew her. I was certain of it. I had gone to high school with her back in Philadelphia. Her name was Katrina.

What the hell was she doing in San Francisco?

In high school she had been one of those tragically pretty fat girls that skinny girls teased  mercilessly who either became a slut, a fag-hag, or a suicidal introvert. As I recalled, she had been the latter. She used to wear dark clothes and white makeup with black lipstick, eye shadow, and nail polish, and would sit in the hallways reading Anne Rice, Henry Miller, and Anais Nin, quoting Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, and listening to The Cure and Depeche Mode. I barely noticed her then. I had my own problems. She was a social outcast, and though I was not exactly part of the “In crowd,” I could have been. If my interests did not tend toward the nerdy. Chess club, Dungeons and Dragons, Tolkien, Isaac Asimov, Stephen King, and Douglass Adams novels were my life then. I worked out incessantly and had the hard body and chiseled good looks that girls went for, but I was too conservative and introverted even then. Girls found me weird. There were rumors that I was a homosexual. The rumors were how I met Jason, who quickly became my best friend. He was gay and had tried to pick me up one day after school. I was too embarrassed to tell him I wasn’t gay and I let him kiss me. The next day he came up to me in the hallway between classes.

“You’re not gay are you?”

I shook my head.

“Then why’d you let me kiss you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

He laughed and we started hanging out and the teasing increased.

Jason was the one who encouraged me to join the chess team and the Creative Writing Club and introduced me to his D&D group. I was still fending off aggressive recruitment from the football and basketball coaches. I told them I’d never even watched organized sports and found them boring and barbaric. I only worked out because I lived in a bad neighborhood and having big muscles was an easier way to avoid becoming a crime victim then carrying a gun or joining a gang. Finally, they stopped bothering me about it. They would pass me in the halls and give me looks of pity and disgust. Their expressions said: “What a waste.”  I knew they were right, but I liked what I liked and that was Jason and D&D and my chess club buddies.

Throughout high school I avoided the wild parties because there were drugs and alcohol there and I hated the smell of cigarette smoke and weed. I was known as Lionel Burger, the good-looking geek. That put me one rung above Katrina McClory, the emo devil slut, on the school social ladder.

She rode along next to me for several blocks. I wondered what she would have thought of me now, thirty-four and single, driving a Toyota Prius and working as an editor at a weekly newspaper. She had blossomed into some sort of bad-ass, body-building, she-devil, while I remained the good-looking geek.

She turned the corner from Market Street onto Haight Street and I found myself turning the corner to follow her. I hadn’t decided to do it. I was on autopilot. I followed her as she drove up Haight Street to the Lower Haight and parked in front of a coffee shop on the corner of Haight and Church. I parked directly in front of the place and watched her as she sat down and drank some sort of coffee that was covered in whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate. She was reading a magazine that seemed to be about latex fetishes with a cover that was almost pornographic. Somehow, despite her outfit and salacious choice in periodicals, she did not appear brazen or shameless so much as free. She looked completely free. I envied her.

I sat there, watching her, for more than an hour. I watched her snatch up her smartphone when it had apparently rang or received a text message or an alert or something. She pressed a few buttons, smiled, then snatched up her things and hurried out of the shop. Curious, I followed her.

She left her bike parked in front of the coffee shop and hurried down the street, staring at her smartphone like it was receiving some sort of signal and she was following it. I had read about smartphone apps that would alert you when someone you knew was nearby. There were even dating apps that told you if another single user who was compatible with you was in the vicinity. She reached an unmarked storefront with blacked out windows, rang the doorbell, then ducked inside. My curiosity was now on overdrive.

I climbed out from behind the wheel of the Prius and followed her. There was a little silver plaque, about the size of a credit card, just above the doorbell. The plaque said “Halloween’s.” I rang the doorbell. A man covered in tattoos opened the door.

“You by yourself?”

I nodded.

“Then it’s thirty bucks.”

I paid the thirty bucks, not knowing what I’d just purchased. A service? Some sort of experience? Tentatively, I stepped inside a dark room that reeked of a strong disinfectant that was still not quite strong enough to mask the smell of blood and semen. Every instinct within me, primal flight or fight reflexes reacting to the smell of violence, told me to “Run! Flee! Save yourself before it’s too late!” Then I spotted Katrina walking down a long hallway with black walls and I followed. There were closed doors on either side of the hallway. Loud music blared from the speakers with bass so heavy it made my chest hurt. It had a driving techno beat and was full of moans and screams. It took me a moment to realize the moans and screams were not coming from the speakers. They were coming from all around me.

What the hell is this place?

Ahead of me, still staring at her cell phone, Katrina disappeared into one of the rooms. I crept tentatively toward the open doorway and paused, trembling. I took several deep breaths, looked back down the hallway at the door I’d just come through, closed my eyes, and prayed for guidance. As always, God, the cosmos, the life force, or whatever it was that people prayed to, was silent. I didn’t expect anything more. Praying was more of a habit left over from my devout Baptist parents. I tended to believe  in the empirically verifiable. The chills racing up and down my spine and the trembling in my legs decided the matter for me. I turned to walk back the way I’d come. Then I heard Katrina’s voice. It sounded angry. Then another voice, deep and husky, moaning. I turned back to the door, which was still slightly cracked, as if she had known I was following and was inviting me to join her. I peered inside.

I don’t know what I expected to see, some sort of orgy, an S&M scene, male prostitutes, whatever expectations I had before peering through that crack in the door shattered like a pane of glass in a hurricane when I saw the massive man, larger and more muscular even then Katrina, lying face down on a metal operating table with his wrists and ankles shackled to each corner, while Katrina knelt above him, anally raping him with a strap-on dildo that looked more like an elephant tusk than a phallus. It was curved and pointy, the length and girth of a child’s arm, at least two-feet long, and appeared to have been fashioned from ivory. The man had a leather hood over his head and Katrina had apparently put duct tape over the tiny zippered mouth-slit and the two nose holes. The husky moans I’d heard from outside, were his muffled screams. He was suffocating even as Katrina made a ruin of his lower intestines. Blood and lacerated hemorrhoidal tissue now covered the dildo/tusk. Katrina was thrusting with all her might, sweating profusely from the exertion. She drove her hips and pelvis down into the man’s muscular gluteus maximus, pile-driving the lethal sex-toy deep into the helpless bodybuilder, obliterating his rectum, coring it out with a hideous ripping, squishing sound, like someone juicing an orange. When she finally withdrew the ivory phallus from the bleeding ruin that was once an anus, half the man’s intestinal track appeared to come with it, along with an avalanche of blood and feces, erupting from his asshole like a volcano. My stomach revolted. I fell to my knees, vomiting uncontrollably.

Katrina watched me, smiling with amusement while she unstrapped the dildo. She pulled out some wet naps and wiped smears of blood and feces from her thighs, doing the same to the dildo before tucking the thing back inside a huge purse she carried with her. I was still doubled over in the hallway. She stepped over me, slammed the door behind her, then knelt and lifted me to my feet with all the effort one might use to heft a Chihuahua into a Prada handbag.

“Let’s go, Lionel,” she whispered and hurried me toward the front door. The guy who’d let me in and took my money was stomping down the hall toward us in long purposeful strides. She knew my name, knew who I was. How?

“Did you just fucking throw up in here? Is that your vomit on my fucking floor? Jesus Christ! That smells terrible! You expect me to clean that shit up for you?”

What he was smelling was likely what had boiled up out of the deadman’s rectum rather than the pound of liquified vegan offal I had just regurgitated. Together, we raced out of the door, past my little blue Prius, and hopped onto her tricked-out Harley.

“How did you know my name? Where are we going?”

I know. It was weird that those were the first questions to come to mind after watching her murder some guy built like a pro-wrestler by sodomizing him with a strap-on straight out of Lair of The White Worm. But I was afraid to ask about that. I was trying to put the whole thing out of my mind, trying to dismiss the possibility that I might be next. Because I still wanted to know her. More now than ever. I was terrified, mortally afraid, but the thought of never knowing why she’d done what she did, what else she was capable of, how she knew my name, and, most importantly, who this beautiful, seductive, Zaftig, murderess was, that would have been unbearable.

She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled as she gunned the engine. The smile held the promise of pleasure, the threat of pain.

“Hold on.”

I pulled her close. She smelled like jasmine and roses and beer and cigarettes and sweat and sex and blood.

“How do you know my name?”

“I remember you, Lionel. I never forgot you. I never forgot any of you.”

She turned the corner, leaving Haight Street and shot down Church Street, headed toward the Castro District.

“Where are we going?”

She laughed.

“Lionel?”

“Y-yes?”

“You still haven’t asked me why I killed that guy back there.”

“I-I figured that was your own personal business. I mean, it-it’s none of my business.”

“Well, if you’re going to be hanging with me, then my business is your business, right?”

I didn’t know what to say. Katrina was grinding her sizeable ass against my crotch, which was responding with an erection that felt like it had drained half the blood from my brain.

“So, what-what’s your business? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I kill people.”

All the saliva dried up in my mouth. She said it so callously, so cavalierly, without the slightest hint of remorse.

“For money?”

“Sometimes.”

“Was that for money? I mean, what you did to that guy. Did someone pay you for that?”

“Yeah. He did.”

That made my mind spin. Someone paid her to fuck them to death with a dildo made out of a rhinoceros horn?

“Why would he...why would anyone pay for something like that?”

“It was his fantasy,” she replied with a shrug. “He had a fetish for dildos.”

And that explained it for her. That was all she needed to know in order to rip a man’s guts out through his asshole.

“You heard about that guy in Germany who met a man on the internet and let the guy eat him alive?”

I nodded.

“And that guy who killed himself by letting himself get fucked in the ass by a horse? He filmed the whole thing. I have a copy of it. It’s pretty sick.”

I nodded. Of course she had a copy of it. Still, I could not imagine getting ass-raped by a Clydesdale being any sicker than having your insides ruptured by a twenty-four inch piece of ivory.

“So, where are we going now?”

“To see another client.”

“How do you find them? I mean, how do they find you?”

She handed me her cellphone. There were pictures of men and woman from age twenty to ninety complete with phone numbers, email and physical addresses. Above it were the words “Fuck Me To Death.”

“It’s a new app.”

“What’s it called?”

“Eros Morte.”

“Sex Death?”

She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled.

“And this app does what? It finds people who want to be fucked to death?”

She nodded. The whole thing sounded completely insane. I had a lot of questions, a lot of fears. I wanted to hop off the bike and run for my life, the same way I felt standing out in that hallway, listening to that big guy grunt and moan while Katrina rode him. But I was curious. This was so much more than the horrors I had imagined I would find in drugs or internet porn. This was completely over-the-rainbow.

“Why would anyone want to die like that?” I asked. My voice had a desperate squeak like the timid voice of a bullied child.

This time she didn’t turn around. She shouted her reply into the wind, over the ferocious roar of the Harley’s 1,340cc v-twin engine and it blew back into my face like the flaming ash and embers from a forest fire, yet instead of burning my eyes, her words burned away at the last sane notions of morality and humanity I was clinging to.

“Most people live unremarkable lives. At the end, they want a remarkable death. If no one remembers anything else about ’em, they’ll fucking remember what I did to ’em.”
It made sense to me somehow and that was the most terrifying thing of all.

“What does this next client want you to do to him?”

“Her. And you’ll see. You wouldn’t want me to ruin the surprise would you?”

Even with her back to me, I could hear the smile in her voice.

We pulled up outside an apartment building overlooking Market Street. Market Street was packed, as it always was. Well-groomed, athletically built men in tight blue jeans and tight, plain, white t-shirts paraded up and down the street amid the businessmen in shirt and tie, middle-aged men in brightly-colored polo shirts, hipsters, hip-hoppers, and leathermen. Similarly dressed women were interspersed with the men along with several large women in work-boots, overalls and wife-beaters. I had always avoided this part of town with its elicit bars and nightclubs and men in assless chaps. Now, I was excited by it. I knew Katrina was about to show me a side of the Castro I would have never been able to discover on my own, maybe a side I would one day wish I had never discovered.

Knowing Katrina’s next “client” was a woman sent my mind down dark paths, imagining acts of horrific debauchery I would never have let myself entertain had I not seen what I’d seen in Halloween’s. Was she going to use that ivory dildo on a woman? I was surprised that the thought excited me as much as it horrified, but then, I was imagining a woman built like a supermodel, not the aging mass of plastic surgery scars that greeted us on the top floor of the apartment building.

Despite what must have been a dozen different plastic surgeries, her face clearly marked her age as somewhere in her sixties, but her body had been remarkably well-preserved. She had huge fake breasts and an ass that had obviously undergone a Brazilian butt lift. It would have been lovely taken on its own, but attached to those over-tanned, wrinkled, emaciated thighs, they looked like the bags of silicone they were, as did her enormous mammaries.

She was completely nude when she opened the door. Her face was so tanned it was a burnt orange, like fried bologna. And her lips had so much collagen in them they resembled two fat, red, slugs slithering across her mouth. Numerous facelifts had pulled her eyebrows nearly up to her hairline and her nose was almost non-existent, just two slits in her face. I stifled a scream, horrified by the hideousness of it all. With all the work she’d had done, I guessed she was probably closer to eighty than sixty.

The woman regarded me casually, then turned and walked back into the apartment, heading for her bedroom. We followed, closing the front door behind us. The apartment was like nothing I could ever have imagined. Granite counter tops and marble tiles in a kitchen stocked with over-sized, stainless steel appliances, and dark cherry, raised-panel cabinets, dark cherry hardwood floors covered everywhere else in the apartment. All the light fixtures and door hardware were a dark, oil-rubbed bronze that matched the cherry wood floors. There were huge paintings on the walls lit with track lighting, clearly originals, though I couldn’t place the artist. Abstract swirls of red, pink, and tan reminiscent of Francis Bacon yet more lascivious. I could make out a breast, an ass, a vagina, a penis, and teeth in the splashes of red dripping down the canvas. The signature on the bottom of the piece nearest me said “Joseph Miles.” The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I had barely passed my art history course in college. I had only taken it because I thought it would be easier than World History.

I was so preoccupied with the painting and the overall beauty of the woman’s apartment, that I didn’t notice the large zippered pouch Katrina withdrew from the big handbag she carried. Not until I followed her into the bedroom where she opened it up and laid its contents out on the floor beside the bed: knives, scalpels, pliers, and bone saws. I looked from Katrina to the woman who lay on the king-sized bed atop a sheet of 10 mil. plastic. She was in the process of self-medicating, jabbing a hypodermic needle into one of the thick, blue veins in her thighs. Her eyes rolled skyward almost immediately, the eyelids drooped. Every muscle in her body visibly relaxed and a smile crossed her face. Heroin, or something very much like it, I imagined. Though all I knew of such drugs was what I’d read in books or seen in movies. I had never witnessed anyone get high before.

“I’m ready,” she said.

And Katrina went to work.

I watched in horror as the massive woman took a scalpel to the old lady’s lips, slowly slicing them off her face, leaving only her brilliantly white teeth (obviously capped) beaming out from that burnt orange face. But Katrina didn’t leave her those either. She picked up the pliers and plucked the woman’s teeth, one by one, from her mouth. The woman moaned and grunted, but never screamed. Even when Katrina picked up one of the knives, straddled the woman’s chest, and began carving on her face, the old woman never screamed. I watched in horror as she lopped off the old lady’s ludicrously small nose.

Katrina reached out and rubbed the woman’s over-sized breasts, tweaking the nipples a bit. Then she leaned down and sucked each one until the nipples were fully erect. She snaked her hand down the old woman’s lyposuctioned abs, down between her blue-veined thighs, and eased one finger then another and another into the woman’s hairless snatch. With her thumb, she rubbed the old woman’s clitoris.

Katrina was remarkably deft in the art of pleasure, easily as talented in this skill as she was at torture and murder. What little I knew about female anatomy told me orgasm should have been impossible for the old woman at this point, yet the woman’s body began to respond, despite the immense pain she must have been in.

“Fuck her, Lionel.”

“Wh-what? Did you just say, fuck her?”

“Yeah. I can’t get her off and cut her tit off at the same time. I need help and since you’re here. You’re going to pitch in. Take your cock out and stick it in her. It’ll make the cutting hurt less. Unless you want to take the knife?”

“What? N-no. But I can’t—I can’t fuck her with half her face missing.”

“Sure you can.”

She stood up and I took an involuntary step back. She sensed my fear and placed the knife back on the floor as she walked over to me. I relaxed only slightly. She reached out and grabbed a hold of my cock, which hardened in her grasp. She stroked it through my jeans and it had been so long since a woman had touched me like that, I nearly ejaculated in my shorts. She unzipped my pants, reached inside, pulled my underwear down and my penis out and continued to stroke it, licking her palm and rubbing it over the head.

“Fuck her, Lionel.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Fuck her, Lionel.”

I shook my head.

She knelt down and licked the head of my cock then sucked the whole thing down her throat. I felt like I would explode. I’d never felt anything like what her tongue was doing, swirling around my tumescent flesh, even as her lips were buried in my pubic hair with my cock pressing against her tonsils. She pulled my cock out of her mouth slowly, teasing the underside of it with her tongue as it inched out of her throat.

“Do you want to fuck me, Lionel?”

I nodded enthusiastically, emphatically. Yes, I wanted to fuck her. More than I could ever remember wanting anything or anyone in my life, I wanted to mount this crazy, homicidal, obese woman with breasts larger than my head. I wanted to know all the dark and terrible erotic secrets she knew.

“Then fuck her first, Lionel. Pleeeease?”

I nodded my ascent and Katrina led me over to the bed by my cock, still stroking it to keep it erect. The woman was surprisingly moist. She was aroused despite her injuries.

“Fuck her hard, Lionel! Fuck her like you want to fuck me!”

I closed my eyes and imagined Katrina’s titanic thighs wrapped around my back instead of this bleeding septuagenarian with half a face. I pounded my throbbing erection deep into the old crone’s withered cooze, fucking her violently, the way Katrina had fucked the muscular guy at Halloween’s. I kept my eyes closed, even when the screaming and that wet, ripping, tearing sound started, as Katrina sawed the woman’s breasts off her ribcage.

“Wait. I need to flip her over.”

I pulled out and tried to keep my eyes shut tight as Katrina dumped the woman’s breasts into a bucket beside the bed.

“Did you cum?”

I shook my head.

“I still need to cut her ass off, but you can fuck me, while I do it if you want? I’d hate to leave you all blue-balled.”

I waved her off.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. Is it okay if I use the shower?”

Katrina chuckled, probably realizing my eyes were still shut.

“Sure. The bathroom is behind you.”

I walked into the bathroom, still thinking about what Katrina’d done to the old woman, what I’d done. I’d been close to orgasm when Katrina told me to stop so she could turn the old woman over. If not for that, I’d have came in that half dead old bag while Katrina unmade her. My erection never diminished even as I scrubbed myself vigorously, trying to wash the smell of sex off along with the memory of it. But the memory was not unpleasant. No matter how much I scolded myself for it, no matter how loudly my Christian moral conscience protested, I had enjoyed it, immensely.

I stepped out of the shower and walked naked, back into the bedroom. Katrina was naked, waiting for me beside the ruined corpse of the old woman. Her enormous breasts flopped down over an equally enormous belly with pink nipples the size of 9mm bullets. Katrina’s thick muscular thighs were spread wide and she was fingering a clitoris, swollen to the size of a small grape with one hand and finger fucking the old woman with the other. The woman was face down and her ass was gone, her coccyx and pelvic bone showed through where her buttocks had been. Katrina had undone all the work the surgeons had done over the years. It was then that I realized the woman was still alive. Katrina smiled as she noted my erection.

“I always thought you were hot, Lionel. Even back in high school. Do you think I’m sexy, Lionel?”

I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her rolls of naked flesh, taking it all in.

“You are so very sexy!” I said.

“You ready to fuck me now?”

I was practically drooling on myself. My cock was so hard it felt like the skin was about to rip. I wanted to lick, suck, fuck, and cum on every inch of her.

“Do you have anything left for her? She is paying for this. Don’t you think she deserves one last good fuck?”

I nodded again, then walked over and Katrina licked the head of my cock once more, lubricating it before guiding me onto the old woman. I fucked that ancient, half-dead crone in the ass. My hips struck naked, blood-spattered bone with each thrust as I pounded into the old woman’s rectum. I spent the night alternating between fucking the old woman and fucking Katrina. One moment I was fucking the old woman in the ass, the next sliding my cock between Katrina’s mammoth tits. I fucked the old woman’s toothless mouth as Katrina rimmed my asshole with her tongue. The old woman perished, drowning in my semen, but she remained part of our threesome. Katrina cut off the woman’s head and urged me to fuck it while she fisted me. Katrina licked the decapitated woman’s pussy while I fucked the leather and latex-clad murderess in her rotund posterior. I came again and again. Five orgasms in all before we left the dead woman’s apartment.

I felt like my life had ended. I had descended into Hell. I had entered the inferno and mated with demons. I felt as disconnected from the rest of humanity as man was to a spider monkey. How could I face anyone after seeing the things I’d seen, doing what I had done? Katrina drove me back to my car. I held her tight and wept onto her back. She was the only one who would ever understand me now.

“Will I ever see you again?” I asked, sounding like a lost puppy.

Katrina smiled and ran her fingers through my hair, placing a long bloody kiss on my lips.

“You will if you want to. Do you know how you want to die?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Something sexy.”

“I’ll think of something,” she said and winked.

THREADS

Calie Voorhis

Stephanie scratches at the boil on her arm, a tiny red volcano with a thread buried at its cone. Her ragged fingernails grip the tip and she pulls. The pain is eye-blurring. She wrinkles her forehead, wipes the blood away, and yanks again. Like popping a submerged pimple, there will be a strange satisfaction when she pulls the thread free.

The large room, with showerheads lining the walls in rows, is empty of the other girls although she can hear them changing in the locker room.

The red thread extends. Careful not to snap the fiber, she pries the thin filament loose, pulling it from deep inside. If she can get rid of the threads, she’ll be normal, not tormented with these feelings. Tiles press against her ass and she shivers, although not because it’s cold. The empty room steams. The other girls never use the showers, would not see her even if they did, she’s so far beneath them.

The thread pulls free. She shakes with release. She discards the bloody, almost invisible, fiber, watching it creep away on the tiles. Like ants, or worms in a single-file line, the thread joins its multi-colored fellows, wiggling out of the shower, through the locker room, heading off to class.

Who will they find, she wonders? Perhaps Kevin? “Do you even need a training bra?” he’d asked on the bus this morning, then settled back in his seat, high-fiving the others while Stephanie’s face burned red. Maybe Melanie, whom Stephanie had yet to face today. She knew Melanie would be waiting in the lunchroom, a tigress settled on a bench, crouched to pounce.

She sets to work on the next protrusion, scratching open the sore, letting the hot water wash the blood away to reveal a blue thread.

Her legs ache, the water stings the open wounds, but she’s almost done. For today. All the threads are pulled and she can’t wait to find out what happens with the parts of her she’s set free.

In the locker room, Corina chatters on, the sound blending with the spray of water until she sounds like a babbling bird of paradise, untouchable, unreachable, and as unfathomable as the purity of a far off Eden. She leaves, and there’s silence.

Discarded relics litter the locker room floor: an empty tampon box, a barrette with a silver butterfly perched on top in sparkling rhinestones, a used roll of deodorant under the polished wood bench sitting between the rows of gray lockers.

Stephanie opens the cap and sniffs Corina’s deodorant. Powder, roses, all girl. She can still smell the musk of Corina’s sweat on the top layer. She rubs some on her finger, then transfers the scent to under her nose where the fragrance will comfort her, tantalize her the rest of the long day sitting in the back of algebra and English, Spanish and science, long sleeves pulled down to hide her scars, long skirt and tights.

Corina rises above the sea of teenage filth, she glows like an angel among the others. But she will never be Stephanie’s. Stephanie will remain this shaking, starving, picking creature in the gym showers. In the hierarchy of junior high, such things are not done, and the closest she will get is the smell of Corina’s sweat on her upper lip.

~

Lunch is pale, watery. Gray turkey perches on top of what is purported to be stuffing, also gray, contrasted by the bright, artificial red of the jellied cranberry lump. She wishes she had the money to buy lunch from the vending machines.

Melanie bumps her as she maneuvers the tray through the crowd. The mass hits the floor, splatters on her legs.

The gang laughs. “Oops,” Melanie says, her smile bright and wide, like a hyena. “My bad.”

Stephanie doesn’t say anything, she never, ever does. Saying aggravates the situation, she’s learned. Instead, she hates, sitting at her table, smelling like turkey gravy, surrounded by the rest of the brace-laden, glasses-wearing rejects. The nerds eat quickly, shoving forkfuls into their maws, eager to go to the library where they will spend the rest of the lunch period playing Dungeons and Dragons.

The geeks just sit. There’s no hope for them, they know it. They don’t speak about it, or to each other; they just wait. Tom eats his lunch, packed every day by his mother, a vegan sandwich and a salad. She knows she should tell him he’s got a piece of lettuce stuck in his teeth. She mimes checking his teeth. He doesn’t pay her any attention.

Corina walks by. Tiny hips sway in her white mini-skirt, her dark hair bounces on her shoulders, and she greets her friends in rapid-fire Spanish, white teeth glowing.

Stephanie sniffs. Wipes her finger under her nose again to refresh the smell. Her eyes follow Corina all the way across the lunch-room, now strangely silent, as though everyone has stopped to watch a goddess pass through their midst, a rare creature too delicate, too pure for this junior high lunchroom, this incarnation of Hell. Demons shrivel away, only the angel remains.

Until the scream. Until, she notes with pleasure, her hands tightening into fists, forcing the bumps on her forearm to press against her sweater, causing the newly-forming threads to itch with the urge to be born, Melanie, the whore, stands up, arms thrust away from her, screaming.

The noise is high-pitched to start with and then rises up octaves. The sound could shatter glass. Everyone backs away, all the popular girls, the cheerleader girls, the in-betweens.

“Worms,” she shrieks. “Everywhere!”  She tears at her arm, leaving bright red trails of blood where her polished fingernails rip the skin. Over and over again, she rakes at her flesh. Blood spatters the yellow linoleum floor.

A jolt pierces Stephanie, almost like the rush she felt in her stomach, or perhaps lower, when Corina walked by.

Mr. Roberts rushes forward from the teacher’s table, hidden behind a screen at the back of the cafeteria, his comb-over falling loose. Mrs. Brockton joins him, thick thighs rubbing against her denim skirt. Together they carry Melanie past Stephanie, and out the door.

Tom gapes. “Wow.”

Stephanie doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look at Melanie, afraid her naked triumph will show on her face, will give her away. This is the best revenge yet, better than the mole that had appeared on Jennifer’s nose, a thick black hair sticking out of it, in the middle of Biology. Two dermatologists have been unable to remove it, the mole keeps returning.

Better than Jerry’s mustache, better than. . .

Melanie’s sobs echo through the lunch-room. The bell rings. After a moment, the students file out, dumping cafeteria trays into the overflowing beige garbage can and whispering.

She whistles on the way down the hallway to English. Taking her seat at the back of the class, early, so she can watch for Corina.

Stephanie hates this class, almost as much as she hates Spanish. Sometimes, Corina will meet her eyes, and shake her head, confusion in the crinkles of her forehead.

Today is different. Mr. Roberts doesn’t come. The clock ticks on, five minutes, then seven minutes past one o’ clock, and still no figure with a comb-over and nubby brown suit appears. No substitute either.

The class grows more unruly. Corina jabbers in Spanish with her friends, the nerds read their science fiction, and Stephanie struggles not to scratch her arms or her thighs, wishing the threads away along with her lust. Spitballs splatter on her desk. One hits her on her left cheekbone and slides down her face. Outside, just audible through the closed windows, an ambulance screams.

Finally, the sirens wail into silence. Mr. Roberts bustles into the room, two ruddy spots high on his cheekbones.

There’re dark dots all over his white shirt, and flakes of red on his hands. He looks down and struggles to close his jacket. He wipes his hands on his pants, but they’re still there. Flecks of crimson blood.

Something in the expression on his face, the way his mouth twists, or the beads of moisture in his eyes, or perhaps the sheen of his forehead, lets her know, for once, she has triumphed.

Melanie will not be back. Melanie will not bray at her in the cafeteria anymore, not spring on her in gym class. There will be no more torture from Melanie.

Melanie is dead.

Class resumes, she pulls out her Norton Anthology with the rest of them, opens it up to page 245. They’re supposed to be reading.

No one talks, the class is silent. A bubble rises in Stephanie, a lightness, an exhilaration. She raises her head.

Corina is looking at her.

Their eyes meet, hold.

~

The blue thread pulls free with a snap, but there’s still an orange one, and a red. She’s already yanked out the yellow. This is the worst the sores have ever been, angry eruptions all over her legs, her thighs, her arms. They pulse on her back, where she can’t reach them, no matter how she contorts her arms, her shoulders.

The water steams, once again washing away the blood.

She forces her thoughts back to yesterday, to Melanie, and revisiting the bright blood spattering on the linoleum floor, the shiver rises again. She matches the rush, combines the pleasure with the snap of the thread.

Footsteps, a figure appears in the fog.

The threads, wiggling out the door, stop, curve inward on themselves to form an arc, and reverse direction.

She stands up, backs into the corner. No one ever showers, besides her. This is one of the safe places, her place.

She scratches at the back of her neck, wanting the girl to go away. The boil there bursts. The threads wiggle around her neck, joining the water running in rivulets between her small breasts, climbing over the hairs of her groin, down her unshaved legs, to the tiles.

Corina steps into the room, towel wrapped around her breasts, shakes her hair back. She drops the towel, without looking at Stephanie, and advances into the water. “Why do you turn them all on?”  She doesn’t wait for a reply. “I guess it makes the room warmer. Brrr. It’s so cold out there today, no?”

She does not answer, she cannot answer, words have lost their meaning, come adrift in her brain. Arms hang by her side. She’s a swaying ape creature.

She creeps out of the water and grabs her towel, wrapping it around her. The white terrycloth pinkens.

“Ah mi dios,”  Corina says. “You’re bleeding, querida!”

The goddess cares. There’s a future, there’s hope for the first time. They’ll shower together, they’ll leave the locker room together, sit at lunch together. They’ll talk and Corina will teach her Spanish and Stephanie will help her with her English. They’ll be inseparable, they’ll ride the bus together, thighs brushing, heads close as they exchange secrets. They’ll be true friends and their love will last forever and ever.

Corina moves forward, closer, her hand, nails painted shell pink, stretched out. She might touch her, she’s that close, the brown hairs on her arm stand out in the florescent light. There’s pity in her brown eyes, sympathy.

Stephanie looks down. The threads are massed by her feet, a multi-colored tangle, a squirming glob.

Corina takes another step. Her toe touches one.

No.

The thread twists, slips under Corina’s left big toenail. Others follow, sliding underneath the perfect toenails, swarming.

Corina doesn’t make a sound. Her cheeks are stretched in a silent scream, like she can’t get the terror past her throat.

Her towel drops. Stephanie manages to catch Corina before she falls. The weight of her, drags them both to the tiles.

Tiny worms race under Corina’s perfect skin, up her calves, bunched tight, up her thighs. More of the threads creep onto her skin, heading for the nest of pubic hair, where they vanish into depths.

No.

She wipes them away, cups her hands full of water to rinse them off. She’s slapping at Corina, who writhes on the shower, trying to keep them off, keep them away. She never meant for them to hurt Corina, not the perfect girl, the only one who’s ever made a moment of this junior high hell worthwhile.

Finally, there is a scream. A noise of epic proportion. Students run into the shower, girls half-changed, or still in gym shorts, with hair pulled back.

“Oh my God,” they say. Two rush forward and pull Corina away. “Call the school nurse.”

“Get an ambulance. She’s having some sort of seizure.”

“That freak must have done something.”

The threads pulse in Corina’s neck, whirl around in the white’s of her eyes.

The future fades. Loss tightens her stomach. There will be no two of them, no bosom pals, no best friends, no more scent of Corina, even now the musk fades. Corina’s heels thwap the shower floor, her head arches back against the tiles. Again. Again.

She stands there, under the shower spray in the farthest corner. Corina’s head splats in a pool of blood.

Her arms itch. The threads coil underneath her skin, bursting with the urge to be set free.

Her legs throb. Her skin pulses with the need to explode.

The other girls stare at her, disgust reeking out of every pore. The gym teacher runs to Corina and starts CPR. She knows it’s too late; she’s killed the beautiful creature, the potential friend.

There’s nothing left to care about. Not herself, not anyone else, just the compulsion swimming inside her, the fibers wiggling through her veins, demanding release. Even her tears are full of them.

She lets go, the threads erupt, a pool of them, a flood, a tidal wave of delicate thinness, elegant creeping, shifting, sidling, out of the showers, through the locker room, into the hallways and classrooms, the cafeteria, the teacher’s lounge, the principal’s office, the school nurse, the guidance counselor.

Let them go. She just stands there and the quiver in her stomach, down below, erupts. The school starts to scream.

BURN THE WITCHES

K. Trap Jones

We have found ourselves in a big pile of disaster. The whole town has been flushed down the shitter like a two day old burrito. All they had to do was burn the fucking witches, but the morons couldn’t very well leave it alone. How the hell could the assholes screw up one simple task? It’s not rocket science, but unfortunately my collection of all-stars consists of a bunch of inbred hillbillies incapable of individual thought. Those damn witches have returned and they are pissed off beyond emotional repair.

A few days ago, the witch problem got out of hand and the local government allowed for a cleansing of the town. They called it a self-righteous avoidance of chaos or some shit like that. We just saw it as an opportunity to reap some of them voodoo spell casting demons without getting into trouble with the law. Hell, we’ve been doing it for years, but never legally. Everyone gathered around the courtyard to be sworn in as deputy witch hunters. Even those who we thought were dead ventured back into town. It was like a family reunion of sorts, only instead of sodas and cake, we each brought our shotguns and handmade explosives to the pot luck gathering. I even saw cousins that I never knew I had.

The mayor stood on the steps of the courthouse with two pistols buckled to his waist. He was the driving force behind the Annual Witch Hunt amendment on the ballot, but it didn’t pass. Then he opted for a Witch Hunt Day to be a local government holiday, but that didn’t work either. Instead, he waited until the witch population got completely out of hand. After a speech that basically mentioned how he was right all along, the mayor passed a Witch Hunting Season that would last only a few days each year. Everyone went crazy like a two dollar whore on quarter beer night. The gun shop had a surge in sales and we soon became the most heavily armed town in the whole state of Georgia. Townsfolk just sat on their porches, cleaning their guns and waiting for the season to open.

All the folklore tales were told at the local bar. They ranged from staking vampires to shooting silver bullets into the hearts of werewolves, but no one had a damn clue what to do with a witch. We all were somewhat familiar with the Salem witch trials, but we weren’t too sure whether they burned or drowned the sons of bitches. Drowning someone seemed too personal for most, the way you would have to hold them down and all the gurgling and shit, so it was determined that we would choose the honorable option of burning their corpses in a fire pit. Hell, we all loved bonfires, and roasting witch flesh made it all the more worthwhile. With the amount of beer flowing that night, a unanimous decision was not hard to come across. Most didn’t even know what they were voting for. It could’ve been a vote to have sex with a donkey and they would’ve still said yes. The plan seemed simple at the time. Drink, kill, burn and then drink some more. That was it.

Now, these dirty witches are not like what’s shown on the TV. They’re not the sexy, black-haired fine asses that people dress up as on Halloween. These fuckers infesting the outskirts of our town are nasty piles of human waste. I remember my first encounter with one. I was out in the woods hunting deer. I had a sweet kill shot on a large buck and as I walked to collect my meat, one of those straggly ass witches showed up and started feasting like a rabid dog at supper time. He used his long claws to rip into the belly of the deer and damn near stuck his entire face into the wound. My ego got the best of me at my younger age and I wanted my deer or at least the antlers so that I could hang them up. I took two steps forward and that long haired hippy freak pulled his face out with intestines and shit hanging from his mouth. I about puked up a belly full of jerky. He dove back into the disgusting meat piñata that he had made and I tore ass back home. Over the years, we just tolerated them until they started to venture into our town at night stealing our shit and basically freaking people out. They became brave. They shouldn’t have.

The hunting season would work like this. There would be no shooting during the daylight hours, because people had to work. Every hunter had to wear a reflective orange construction vest. This was a result of the near fatal deer hunting incident with the Harper boys last year. They thought it was funny to wear a handmade antler hat in the woods. The younger one isn’t going to be getting that leg back.

The hunting hours would be from eight o’clock in the evening to four o’clock the next morning. Each hunter would have a different color flag to mark and claim their dead. There would be no poaching of another’s kill. A flashlight would be given to everyone because we thought it would be a great signaling idea since no one had ever seen a witch carrying a flashlight before. If friendly fire did occur, which everyone knew that it would, then the shooter had to apologize. If a bullet grazed another, then the shooter owed them a beer. If a flesh wound occurred, then the shooter had to give up the pink slip to their truck. We needed all these rules and regulations in order to keep the whole thing legit and safe for all those involved.

The next day, all volunteer witch hunters gathered in front of the courthouse to sign up and receive their complimentary vest. The mayor added fuel to the fire by announcing that the highest kill count would receive $1,000 cash and a free meal at Rudy’s Barbecue. The crowd lit up with excitement. It was nice how the whole town came together in a time of need for such a worthwhile event. Giving back to the community was what it was all about.

People were counting down the hours until the official start-up of the first Annual Witch Hunting Season. The anticipation fed the winds and tormented the dreams of those involved. No one could sleep. Self-made shooting galleries helped those who needed target practice. Some of the weapons were quite insane and creative. There were trucks customized with spikes on the grill plate and mounted Gatling guns in the beds. One truck bed was filled with bottles of moonshine with rags sticking out of the tops. With every dip in the road that the tires went over, that truck bed rattled while hunters in the back tried desperately to light up a cigarette.

The courtyard became an antique gun show with everyone admiring each other’s weapon. If I was a small animal, I would’ve gotten the hell out of the town by now, because the sheer firepower that was about to light up the night sky was going to be more powerful than the time the fireworks vendor offered buy one get one free the day before the 4th of July.

The armor that people scavenged together was a little crazy at times too, ranging from old high school football pads to stuffed leather motorcycle pants. One hunter, Anton, broke apart his patio table and duct taped the wooden planks to his body. It was not a bad idea, but he walked around like Frankenstein the whole day. The local baker had pie tins and cookie sheets tied to his midsection. Again, not a bad idea. He smelled great, but looked ridiculous.

The group of hunters was a collection of all ages. There were the elders who branded their WWII vintage weapons and even a M2 flamethrower that Rick Allen swore still worked, but I was not about to stand next to him with two tanks of gasoline strapped to his back. For some reason, everyone was dressed in camouflage. I think they thought that the witches would not be able to see them or perhaps it was the fact that most of their everyday wardrobe was, indeed, camouflaged. Regardless, they all believed that they were well prepared to bring the hammer of judgment down upon the flock of witches that had invaded our town. At that time, even I believed it.

The tower chimed eight o’clock, but you wouldn’t know it due to all of the sporadic gunfire of excitement. The time had come; the moment that we all anticipated. The First Annual Witch Hunting Season had begun. As everyone drove and ran off in different directions, it was apparent that we were missing one key point…the whereabouts of the witches. Yep, like a pack of bloodhounds with allergies, the army of hunters blindly headed out of the courtyard in a blaze of glory. The town council stayed behind to construct a fire pit in hopes that it would be used at the end of the night. The courtyard became a lowered trench filled with rotted wood and fallen trees. Another ditch was dug near the pit as a kind of waiting room for the corpses. On the outer wall of the courthouse, a large chalkboard resided with a grid displaying all the names of the hunters and their daily kill count. People who were not participating in the hunting betted on the outcomes and their favorite hunters based on skill level and stamina. Local restaurants and farmers set up food stands and carts to feed both the spectators and the hunters when they returned. It soon became a town event with a petting zoo and even cotton candy. The festival took hold of the community like a tightened leash around the neck of a drooling pit bull.

After the hunters had dispersed, I walked out of the courtyard and stood at the edge of the woods as the sun sank down behind the pine trees. The atmosphere seemed to come alive as the shadows shifted and the last remaining rays of sunlight faded. I had a 9mm handgun on my waist, a machete attached to my back, and a double-barrel shotgun resting on my shoulder. As the tall trees swayed and the breeze cooled, I lit up a cigar and watched the cherry burn. Random gunfire echoed through the night air. Flashlights could be seen waving about at a distance. It was an eerie game of hide-n-seek; we were the seekers and the witches were the hiders.

With one step, I was swallowed by the darkness of the woods. I was not sure whether I was wearier of the witches or all the crazed townsfolk that had a free license to kill. Either way, I continued through the dense trees. High pitched screams filtered with the wind and made my eyes flinch. They were close, so close that I could feel their aura. I could smell their shit-stained clothes. The temperature grew colder and my warm breath became visible before me. Not sure what prompted me to stop, but I did. Call it a hunter’s instinct or just paranoia, but something caught my curiosity and halted my stride. That was when I looked up and saw a lone witch residing in a tree just above me. I made no sudden movement as she was stalking me just as much as I was stalking her. The moonlight cast a blue haze and illuminated her. She was swaying from right to left and staring at me. I could hear her claws gripping and grinding deep into branch that she was perched on. I ran through a few different options in my mind, but tried to focus only on the ones that ended up with a dead, gutted witch. My shotgun was useless as long as she remained up there; I needed bait to move her out. Although I never liked sacrificing a perfectly good cigar, it became my only option. I slowly raised my hand and grabbed the cigar right after I took another hit. With my index finger, I flicked it through the air. The smoke trail and ashes lit up the darkness. It collided with the witch who let loose a terrifying scream, forcing her to leap downward towards me. My shotgun ejected an empty shell casing and her limp body slammed into the trunk of a nearby tree. I was not nearly as excited about killing my first witch as I was discovering that my cigar was still lit and salvageable. I wiped off the blood and returned it to its rightful spot in my mouth.

Prior to the season, everyone watched all kinds of movies and only a few read books involving witches. In all the stories, the witches were portrayed as regular humans that were capable of magic and cauldrons. What I shot in the woods that night was no human. It was more like a demonic creature that appeared human from afar, but up close, that damn thing was ugly beyond words. I didn’t even want to touch it at first, but it was mine to claim and certainly captured me a mark on the kill chart. Hell, I don’t even think that I would classify the beast as a witch. Not too sure what it was, but everyone else called them witches, so a witch was what it was. Regardless, the close range hit from my shotgun nearly beheaded it. The scatter blast tore through her right shoulder and neck area. Her head was still clinging to the body by what appeared to be her spine. I’m not an easily rattled person, but I had seen enough horror movies in my time to know that the monsters always come back alive. Since I had to carry the witch back into town, I thought it best that I cut off both her hands so that she could not use them to claw me to death if indeed she did have a final breath in her.

The night was filled with screams. I wasn’t sure which side they were from. I ain’t going to lie, I felt a little uneasy carrying that carcass over my shoulder. The stench was god awful and I could feel her blood dripping down my neck, but nothing compared to her nearly detached head swinging back and forth and hitting me in my lower back with each step that I took.

With my prize catch in tow, I walked back into the courtyard and discovered that I was not the only one who had gotten lucky. The waiting room trench was filling up. I rotated my shoulder to allow the corpse to rejoin the others. The witches in the trench were all different in appearance. They were both male and female, but all equally disgusting. At that moment, Bubba’s truck came barreling into the courtyard. The 4x4 tires were caked with blood and mud, which made a sort of sadistic camouflage coloring. He turned the wheel and backed up the truck to the trench then hopped down from the cab. Without saying a word, he unhitched the tail gate allowing the corpses of six witches to slide out. The smirks of those around were all that was needed to show praise for his results.

The hunters randomly brought their kills in throughout the night in order to get credit. As the sun began to rise and overcome the lingering fog, the corpses of the dead witches were tossed into the smoldering fire. Their skin crackled and blistered within the flame. As the flesh burned, there was an indescribable aroma that seemed to make everyone hungry. There was just enough time for the townsfolk to go home and clean up before heading to their daily work.

During the daylight hours, the town went back to normal except for the bonfire of witch bodies that continued to blaze under the sun. Throughout the town, stories of the witch killings were rampant through every store, restaurant, and auto garage. Each night, the trench of dead witches became completely filled and the flames feasted upon their flesh. The festival became more excessive with souvenirs and custom keepsakes. You could even jump into the trench and get tangled up with the corpses for a great photo opportunity. As soon as it had begun, it quickly came to an end. The fire pit was allowed to burn out and took several days to do so. Hundreds of charred skeletal bones mixed with heavy ash were all that remained behind. The mayor declared the bones as a sacrificial cleansing and ordered that they be taken deep into the woods and buried.

It took quite a bit of time before the adrenaline levels were reduced to the normal country level of shooting empty cans and drinking heavily, but it happened. A celebration was in order and the local bar hosted an after party where the kegs were abundant and the tall tales were equally as numerous. We had no idea the night was about to take a turn for the worse.

From where I sat at the bar, I caught a glimpse of something ablaze through the window. Knowing that the bonfire was well snuffed out, I gulped down the last of my beer, ordered another and told the bartender that I would be right back. I went out the front door and pulled a cigar from my pocket and lit it. I closed my eyes to take advantage of that first toke and, as I opened them, I felt like I was dreaming. The fire pit was aflame once again, this time with townspeople being tossed into the fire. The screams were deafening, and then I saw them. Those damn witches had returned. Their flesh was back and they were completely covered in dirt. We apparently, and unintentionally, resurrected them by burying their bones. As they ravaged everyone in the open courtyard, there was no denying that they were extremely pissed off. Their claws were slicing through any flesh that was in their reach. They were leaping from person to person and mutilating those poor bastards beyond recognition. I saw one of them jump on a man’s back and, with their arms wrapped around his head, proceed to grab the upper and lower jaw bones and completely rip the man’s face in half. The remainder of his body still stood upright until the witch pushed it into the fire pit. The vision of brutality had me slowly stepping back through the door.

Everyone in the bar panicked and grabbed any weapons they could. Some were either too drunk or didn’t believe it and walked out front to see for themselves. We quickly shut the door behind them as it was only a matter of time before the witches came a knocking. The screams from the outside died down as a sign that there were no more townspeople left in the courtyard. Through a small crack in the wall, I could see the witches scatter in different directions. Random screams echoed as they found other prey. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. They mimicked their own demise by killing a person and throwing them into the fire.

Just beyond the wall, I heard a witch sniffing the air. His nose was guiding him closer to the bar door. His eyes peered through the crack, but he would only see the barrel of my 9mm. One bullet split his head into two equal parts. The loud noise from the gun drew the attention of the horde of witches to the door. They clawed and splintered the wooden blockade to gain access. As they poured in, like an avalanche down the slope of a mountain, the room lit up with gunfire. We all just unloaded and tried to make every bullet count. There were no kill counts being tallied, there were no egos being boosted by mounting a witch corpse to the front of a truck. These were basic survival tactics at their finest. The bar filled with the aroma of gunpowder and lead with a hint of flesh and blood. Even when the witches stopped approaching and the heated metal of our guns burned our hands, we still continued shooting. Huddled together against the back wall of the bar, we all just stood there. With all the firepower that we released, we did indeed kill a lot of witches, but, unfortunately, we also took out the entire front wall of the bar. Another horde of witches stood just on the outside looking in. They were hesitant to enter past the mounds of their own dead. About twenty-five bullet-ridden, mangled corpses formed a dam of flesh between us and the new wave of creatures.

It was like a Mexican standoff in a western town with both sides waiting for that first move to occur. Matty Laughlin decided to be the instigator. With the sights of his .45 staring down a single witch, he pulled the trigger, but there was no bullet in the chamber. That was the loudest empty sounding Click-Click that I’ve ever heard, but it wasn’t the last. As everyone pulled their triggers, it was apparent that a pause in the action was needed for us to reload, a pause that the witches did not understand as they inched closer. Everyone dropped their firearms and pulled out our secondary weapons which included machetes, buck knives, butterfly knives, and even bottle openers. It was about to get up close and personal.

We stood our ground and decided to let them climb over their dead comrades. With machete in hand, I was about five feet away from a real nasty piece of shit. The renewed flesh on their faces was not quite established and it was dangling all over the place. I couldn’t stand looking at the bitch, so I took a few steps forward and buried my blade deep into her forehead. Her tongue exited her mouth like I had hit the jackpot and her head was the slot machine. Now, I never knew that once you crack someone’s skull with a blade that you might as well forget about getting it back. That fucker was dug in deep. I did all I could to pull it back out and damn near tore her head completely off her shoulders. It wasn’t until I allowed her body to fall down that I was able to put my boot on her face and extract it. Good thing too; I loved that machete.

I was about to slice through another one, when the front of Bubba’s truck came steam rolling through the entrance of the bar. The grill spikes staked through the witches and sprayed us all with blood. The flickering headlights cut through the darkened bar and provided us with a rallying point. Bubba shifted into reverse as the large tires ground up the piles of the dead. You would have never known that his truck was originally painted yellow.

Everyone leaped into the back with Scott, the bartender, grabbing the Gatling gun. He held down the trigger so tight, I could have sworn that the amount of rounds released could have ripped a hole in the atmosphere. Bubba floored it and blazed through the courtyard, collecting any unfortunate witch in his way. Down a dirt road we tore, weaving through the gravel with a horde of witches in hot pursuit. They leapt through the trees like a bunch of wild monkeys and the mounted gun was unable to tilt on its axis to get a good shot. The acrobatic bastards made their way onto the truck, but each one was met with a swift exit. Bubba had collected so many corpses on the front spikes of his truck that the wobbly heads made it difficult for him to see through the windshield. The shifting weight of all of us in the tail bed, combined with the uneven dirt road, caused the truck to fishtail and eventually flip. The force sent everything and everyone soaring through the night sky. It felt like a human slingshot, but it was nothing each of us hadn’t experienced before. Guns, knives, and bodies all flew off into the darkened woods like a grenade being thrown into a ball pit.

Once the dust settled and we could establish where we were, we took off through the peach orchard toward Old Man Albie’s farmhouse. Bubba detached the mounted gun and we all grabbed whatever ammo we could scavenge. Our renegade group leapt the fence and ran through the rows of peach trees. The witches were close on our heels, so we had to stop and lay down the law every few minutes to give us some breathing room. We approached the old man’s house like kids to a candy buffet, but that old geezer had different plans. A shot rang out from inside and left a large hole in the front door. We threatened to skin him alive if he didn’t stop shooting and let us in. His hospitality manners changed instantly and we all funneled in through the front door.

We quickly decided on a plan to trap all the witches in the basement because it was well known that the old man brewed illegal moonshine down there and had stored hundreds of kegs in case the apocalypse were to occur. We needed to get them down there and burn them once and for all. We had someone posted at the front door, the hallway, the basement door, and the stairs so that we could guide them to their alcoholic gravesite. The idea was to flood the basement with moonshine, lead the witches down while we all escaped through the outside cellar door, then light those fuckers up.

We opened the front door, ran through the hall, then down the stairs and into the flooded basement with the witches clawing at our backs. Those ugly bastards sped down those stairs like a pack of horses on a mountain trail. We all exited through the cellar door and sealed it up tight. Anton had carried a keg of moonshine out of the basement and we all sat down as Matty lit the match. Our excited mood quickly changed as we saw him lose grip of the lit match and dropped it on the ground, setting the grass afire. Covered to our ankles in moonshine, we all watched the fire trail approach us and ignite our shoes. The smell of rubber soles burning took hold of the breeze as we each struggled to take our pants off. Bubba unclipped a grenade and tossed it toward the cellar door. Everyone ran further into the fields. A few seconds later, the house exploded into a fiery ball of red smoke under the clear night sky. A smaller secondary explosion occurred from the keg sitting with our pants and shoes.

As we sat in our underwear, covered in blood and moonshine in the peach orchards, we all just stared at the massive bonfire fueled by illegal liquor and witches. That night, we had switched roles. We became the hiders and they become the seekers. They followed our festival with one of their own. All we had to do was burn the witches. There was only one thing that we all could agree upon. We couldn’t wait to do it again next year.

UNDER THE PRETEXT OF PROPENSITY

Anton Cancre

Selena was a vision of radiance, of pure youthful sexuality, as she stepped from the shower. Water cascaded gently through her deep red hair, curving in gracefully along the back of her neck and softly over the curve of a milk white shoulder. Droplets rolled down the v of her clavicle to climb the buoyant, pert mounds of her breasts. Large, but perky, defying gravity as if by the force of will. One lone bead of moisture hung from the tip of a jutting, impossibly pink nipple. More of its brethren followed the pull of gravity through the valley of her breasts down to the slight bulge of her belly, caught periodically on the light, downy hair. A bit of silver glistened in the fluorescent light: a small silver hoop in her navel. Just enough to snag attention, but not enough to scream for it. Not more than a few inches below that, incandescent pearls caught the light amid the light red fluff of her pubic hair.

“Oh…fucking…God!” Jordan exclaimed. Electricity ran through his veins. Explosions of light erupted behind his eyes. He hadn’t cum with such force in years. Thick ropes of semen floated lazy circles in the toilet bowl.

A twinge of shame hit him as he looked at the image frozen on his phone’s tiny screen, stopped just before she ruined it by covering herself in the nearby towel to dry off. He knew he shouldn’t have surreptitiously recorded her like that. It was wrong from just about every angle he looked at it, but he couldn’t help himself.

It didn’t matter that she was only fifteen. Or that she was his stepdaughter. That he had known her as a child, crying over skinned knees and broken dolls. None of it mattered. He was obsessed.

He had taken to staring when she wasn’t looking. Tracing the firm bulge of her ass through tight shorts as she pulled weeds in the yard. Catching a glimpse of the creamy, speckled tops of her breasts through the unbuttoned top of her shirt as she reached across the table during dinner. Following the tight, muscular thighs as they rose to their inevitable apex between her legs as she stretched out on the couch.

Despite his shame, his horror at his own thoughts, he had to talk to someone about it before he cracked up. Maybe, if he had just kept his mouth shut, he would never have thought of using his phone on his own. Maybe he would have worked through the obsession without it going that far.

“That’s your big problem?” Lance had said, slapping his hand down on the table and laughing. At only three years older than Jordan, Lance had walked him through the confusion and terror of puberty in the way only an older brother could: by making a joke out of it at every opportunity. Still, he was the source of all sexual knowledge during those formative years and had given Jordan his first pornos. Lance had even shown him some pictures of his own ex-girlfriend en flagrante. Jordan couldn’t think of anyone else to bring his problem to.

“Your stepdaughter’s hot,” Lance continued. “I don’t want to speak out of turn or offend you or anything, but there it is. You’ve finally picked up on it.”

“But what kind of creep looks at his stepdaughter that way?” Jordan said, fiddling with his glass. “Imagine what Genevieve would think of me if she knew the things that have been going on in my head. She’d leave me in a second. After kicking me in the balls a few times.”

“Look, bro, women will never understand the desires that can fucking overwhelm a man. They’re biologically wired to find the most suitable mate and stick with him to make as many of the best babies they can. To hold onto him tightly as her own. That’s why they freak out so much over the monogamy bullshit. Their need for stability comes from a genetic need for breeding.”

“But men…” Lance continued, leaning back in his chair and locking his eyes on Jordan’s, “we’re wired to stick our dick anywhere it fits. To spread as much seed as possible in the hope that it’ll take root somewhere. Besides, a woman’s reproductive viability declines faster than a man’s, so it makes sense that we’d be attracted to younger ones as we get older. We can’t help it.”

“This isn’t checking out someone’s ass while we’re shopping,” Jordan leaned in over the table, dropping his voice lower and staring down into the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “This is her goddamn daughter.”

“You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over this,” Lance said, tossing back a quick swig of whiskey. “Sure, lust is a horrid bitch, but it’s an uncontrollable one. Hell, she’s not your own flesh and blood daughter. And as far as her age goes, a century ago fifteen would have been considered prime age for marrying and breeding. You can’t tell thousands upon thousands of years of evolution to go fuck itself because some new fangled societal moral compass says it’s wrong. Like the man once said: ‘anatomy is destiny.’ We can’t control our own biology.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You love Genevieve, right?”

“Yeah,” Jordan responded, moving the ice around in his drink with his finger.

“And damn well you should.” Lance threw his arms into the air. “Bitch is hardcore. She stood by you through some serious shit and never left you hanging. Granted, her mother’s bat-shit crazy—”

“She’s not crazy,” Jordan interrupted. “Just traditional…she’s from the old world.”

“Yeah, whatever. What’s important is that Genevieve’s hot!  No disrespect, but if you weren’t married to her, I’d be begging just for a chance to hump her leg. Especially after you told me about what she did with the hot oil and ice… Damn!”

“Shit. I am a douchebag,” Jordan said, laying his forehead against the table.

“You’re missing the point,” Lance said, grabbing him by the ears to look him in the eye. “You love her. She rocks every part of your world. You’re not planning on leaving her or fucking around on her. Am I right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re just freaking out because her daughter grew tits and you can’t keep your eyes off of ‘em. I have yet to meet a pair of tits I can keep my eyes off of. As I said: you can’t fight biology. It’s no big deal.”

“I just,” Jordan said, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, “I can’t get past it, or over it. It’s all I think about anymore and I’m afraid I’ll do something to act on it. Make a move on her or something. I don’t know how to get it out of my system.”

“Damn, you do have it bad,” Lance said, shaking his head and laughing. “I’ll tell you what. There was this chick I used to have a huge hard on for. Just a raging pillar of bulging meat in my pants every time I saw her. I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice, but her body… damn. I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. I eventually realized the only option was to get her drunk enough to shut the hell up and fuck her just to get it out of my system.”

Jordan started to get up out of his chair. “I am not going to f—”

“Calm down and listen, bro,” Lance said, easing Jordan back into his seat. “I’d never tell you to do that. I’m just suggesting you do the next best thing, just to work this obsession out of your head.” He leaned in across the table, speaking in a quiet tone for the first time. “You take that fancy little phone of yours and you accidentally leave it in the bathroom next time she takes a shower. You’re always leaving your shit everywhere, so it isn’t like anyone will notice. Set it to record some video and you’re sure to end up with a little something to beat it to. You’ll have seen everything she has to offer and it won’t be a mystery to you anymore. You’ll be able to move on and stop acting like such a nervous little tool.”

“That’s sick,” Jordan responded, shaking his head and sitting up straight. “That’s something a stalker or a pervert would do. That’s fucked up.”

“Is it? Would anyone get hurt? Would it be worse than you finally giving in one night and grabbing at her tits?” Lance was pointing his fingers in Jordan’s face. “I’m not telling you what you have to, or even should, do. It’s just an idea to think about.”

Jordan was determined not to think about it, certain that the idea could lead to nothing remotely good. Superficially, he succeeded. However, over the next few weeks he found himself keenly aware of Selena’s schedule. That she spent a good forty-five minutes primping herself in the morning had been a matter of frustration to him for several years but he never before paid attention to the fact that she showered at almost exactly nine o’clock every night. Then she would take around an hour.

He started making a point to use the bathroom five to ten minutes before then, regardless of whether or not he needed to. While sitting on the toilet, instead of reading some minor bit of trashy literature, he found himself checking lines of sight. Looking for places his phone could rest without looking too conspicuous while maintaining a good view. The few times he was consciously aware of what he was doing, he excused it as a silly mental exercise. He’d never actually consider recording Selena in the shower.

Until he finally did.

Even then, he didn’t dare look at the video. For two days, he repeatedly told himself that he would erase it. Never even look at it. Act like it had never happened. Treat the whole thing as a momentary bit of weakness. Several times that first day, he pulled it up and started to delete it but didn’t hit the second button to confirm.

Finally, he found himself in the bathroom, with no one else at home. The file pulled up. He hovered over the decision: view or delete.

It isn’t like it’ll actually hurt anyone, he thought as he pressed the button, blood flowing in a rush to his groin.

And now he was standing in the bathroom, shame and guilt still coursing through his blood, wondering if he would have made the recording on his own, had he not talked to Lance. Now he’d never know.

~

Selena didn’t come home that night until dinner. Luckily, it had been long enough for Jordan to work out the guilt he felt over masturbating to her image. He had calmed down and felt relaxed for the first time in months. Certain that, for once, he wouldn’t have to be vigilant over where his eyes drifted. Wouldn’t have to force his attention on the mashed potatoes and run out to work on the car the second he finished forcing food into his mouth.

I’ll be damned if Lance wasn’t right.

They all sat down around the table and conversation was trite and dull, but he was excited to be able to focus on it. Genevieve was angry at some stupid bitch at work who was angling for her position. Selena passed the geometry test she spent two weeks studying for, but barely scraped by with a C. The numbers themselves were never a problem for her. She aced both algebra and chemistry, where she said the numbers knew their correct placement and order. He guessed it was the shapes, but she muttered something about simple, predictable Euclidian angles. Then she smiled and said that they would have to accept the existence of other possibilities sometime. Still, she understood the deal they had running, that she would be able to visit her grandmother over the summer only if she passed all of her classes, so she had to learn to play by the rules of those “stupid Euclidians.” Selena adored the old woman, bat-shit crazy as she was, and it made for a great bargaining chip when she turned stubborn. Jordan talked a bit about the customer he didn’t punch, but very much wanted to. All in all, nothing special.

Then, about half way through the meal, Selena yawned and stretched. A simple thing she had done many times that he never bothered to notice. Her arms slowly pulled behind her, in a slight inverted V and her head thrown backwards, back arched and breasts thrust into the air. Those soft, curving domes formed into perfect shape by the bra whose faint outline could be seen through her light t-shirt.

It was quick; a moment sped through and unnoticed by the other two. They continued their conversation, but the words blurred. That single pose remained frozen in his head, overlaid with the memory of how those same breasts looked without any covering, nipples pert with freedom from the constraints of clothing.

The words had stopped. Genevieve and Selena were looking at him strangely. They must have said something to him and were waiting for a response.

Shit. What the hell were they talking about?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must’ve spaced out for a moment. I, uh, really have to go to the bathroom.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. Doing his best to surreptitiously pull his shirt to dangle over the front of his pants, hopefully concealing the raging erection he was sporting, he got up from the table and rushed to the bathroom. The second he was in there, he ripped his phone from his pocket as if it was something alive and trying desperately to attack him from its place of hiding.

The video pulled up again and he forwarded it to the single frame he needed, sitting at exactly the twenty-two minute and thirty-three second point. He was a bit surprised that he already had the exact time memorized. He pulled his pants and boxers down around his ankles and squirted a bit of lotion into his hand from one of the several dispensers on the sink.

“I know what you were doing,” Selena said, giggling some, as he returned to the table. He knew she was just needling him, but he thought he saw an odd glint in her eyes. Something slightly playful and mocking. He tensed up, but hoped she didn’t notice. Certainly, she couldn’t really know. “Baking an emergency batch of brownies?”

He let out the breath that had stalled inside of his frozen lungs, relieved.

“Just wait until you get older, young lady,” he said, waving his finger in faked outrage. “Your own gastro-intestinal perfection will wane one day, too. There’s a bottle of Metamucil being made right now with your name on it.”

The rest of the evening continued without major incident, but he still found himself stealing glances at her. Watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Studying the elegant curve of her neck. Her pink nub of tongue gently smoothing its way along her lips.

That night, he practically attacked Genevieve when they got into bed. The sex was energetic, excited and passionate as any they ever had, but he wasn’t with her. In his head, it was Selena’s ass he was gripping onto, her luscious pink folds he was probing with his tongue, her pussy he was fucking as if the world might end at any moment.

It continued that way for weeks. He did the best that he could to control himself, to abate his roving eyes with the images stored on his phone. To quell his lust for Selena in the bed of her mother when the pictures wouldn’t. The video had begun to bore him. There was too much build up time, with too little payoff. Over twenty minutes of her humming off-key to herself before a quick second or two of what he wanted.

He decided to try again.

He spent almost the entire time she was bathing pretending to read, but he was actually trying to figure out a plausible excuse for going into the bathroom immediately after she exited. He didn’t want to run the risk of Genevieve stumbling across the phone still recording. Instead Selena made it easy for him, coming downstairs right as Genevieve had gone into the kitchen.

“You left your phone in there,” Selena said. His pulse quickened and his veins went icy. Did she know? Had she looked at it? Was this the point where she started screaming at him and his whole life collapsed because of the stupid goddamn mistake of listening to his dick and his brother? “With as much time as you spend telling me to keep track of expensive things, you should try showing a little care yourself.”

Her tone was light, conversational. Quiet and relaxed. Certainly, she wouldn’t have been this calm if she knew what it was there for.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m sure I’d be running all over the house looking for it tomorrow morning.”

“You know you would.”

He went upstairs, doing his best to appear calm and unrushed but needing desperately to see what he had caught. As hurried as he was, he couldn’t help noticing that she had left the bathroom a complete disaster. Sticks and leaves, coated in some kind of odd smelling mud, were laid out in some crude circle on the floor with more of the mud smudged is squiggles. All teens were messy, but she turned it into an art form sometimes. He decided he was going to have a talk with her about cleaning up after herself. Later.

His phone was still where he had left it, perched on the corner of the soap shelf. He snatched it up, double checked the door to be sure it was locked and opened up the file, somehow managing to drop his pants and underwear to the floor in the process.

For five minutes there was nothing except the empty tub and some mumbled, off-key singing in the background. When Selena finally entered the frame, she was wrapped in the fluffy green floor length robe that left her looking like a formless mint lump of cotton. She milled about for a little bit. Brushed her teeth. Spent a few moments making faces at the mirror. Clipped her fingernails. Combed out her hair. The wait was excruciating, but he was afraid that he would miss something if he sped through too much at a time.

Luckily, she began to fill up the tub next. As the water poured from the spigot, she slid the robe from her shoulders. That image, on its own would have been worth it all to him. Watching that mint monstrosity edge off of her shoulders and fall to the ground, revealing her pale, smooth back. She was just skinny enough to show the outline of her ribs and the faint bumps of her spine but her hips were meaty, her ass round and heart shaped.

Then she turned around.

The sight stunned him. Instead of the quick glimpse between frames that he was afforded before, this was a full view from the front with nothing in the way. From her full, gloriously uplifted beasts, topped with those sweet cherry-pink nipples hardened from their release, down her light, softly rounded belly to the her fiery pubic hair. He practically dropped the phone. His dick was throbbing and his balls begged for release. Still, he held off in hopes of more.

She lowered herself into the tub and grabbed the loofah, covering it with soap. After lathering it, she began scrubbing her arms, lifting each one high as she languorously rubbed the soap into her skin. Slowly, she worked the lather into and over her shoulders, around her neck. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw her lips purse in slight moan. The loofah abandoned, she began to work the lather over her breasts, cupping them and squeezing slightly and taking extra time with the nipples. She continued to do this for a full minute before he realized what was happening.

“Holy shit, she’s really…” he whispered. The realization was too much for him. He was too stunned to do anything but watch.

Her right hand had begun to slide southward, smoothly caressing her stomach on its way to her pussy while her left hand continued to knead her tits. She gyrated her hips slowly, counter to the direction her pointer and middle fingers were circling her clit. Periodically a finger or two would dive into the cleft of her cunt before returning to that wondrous pink nub. Her head was thrown back, that deep red hair spilling over the side of the tub. Eyes closed. Clearly biting her bottom lip, probably to keep from crying out. Both the gyrating and the motion of her fingers increased in tempo and he knew she must be cumming. Her back arched, thrusting her tits into the air, hardened nipples pointing skyward as if in triumph. Selena’s hips bucked three times before settling back down into the tub, signaling that she was through.

The whole time, he hadn’t so much as touched his dick, but a thick line of semen had spurted onto the floor anyways. Still, he wanted more. He rewound back through the scene, stunned by the luck he had in being able to capture this, and squirted a handful of lotion into his palm. As he worked himself through his own second coming, something he was rarely capable of any more, he imagined himself being the one to bring her to climax. His hands were the ones cupping her tits. His palms caressing those cherry nipples. His fingers were exploring the depths of that pink little pussy. And she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from crying out under his adoring ministrations. She would scream the name of every deity she knew into the sky as she came.

He hadn’t paid as much attention as usual and left a bit of a mess for himself to clean up. He left the video running out, not paying attention to it as he wiped his DNA off of the floor and side of the sink. He had forgotten completely about it until he heard someone speaking on the recording. Selena.

Speaking his name.

He immediately stopped what he was doing and backed up the video, hoping that it wasn’t what he thought it was. After all, she could not have been calm if she caught him. He would have heard Genevieve screaming if she had been told. Still, his heart was pounding as he watched Selena step from the tub and look directly into the camera.

“I know you’ve been watching me,” she said, speaking soft and low enough that she would not be heard outside of the bathroom. “Don’t worry, I wanted you too.” Her hand began to wander below the view of the camera and Jordan was sure that she was touching herself while talking. “I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me. Call in sick tomorrow. Mom will be at work and we can have some time to ourselves.”

He didn’t know what to think. He never intended to act on his impulses toward her. Of course, that was when he was certain she wasn’t interested. Now, faced with the possibility, he wasn’t as sure. He loved Genevieve and she fucked like a tigress. He shouldn’t have wanted anything else. But he did. He remembered his brother saying that it was all genetic coding, that he had no choice about his desires. That clinched it for him. Besides, how often would an opportunity like this present itself.

The next morning, he waited until Genevieve left to call off from work. Selena wouldn’t be up for a couple hours, since it was during a break, so he took the opportunity to take an early shower. The idea of fucking Selena with her mother’s smell still on him seemed wrong. It was a bit too much.

As the hot water hit him, he was already hard. He briefly considered cranking out a quick one, but decided to hold his energy. He wanted to give this everything he had in him. He grabbed the soap and began to wash himself as he heard the door open.

Poking his head out from the shower curtain, he saw Selena standing in the doorway, naked except for a towel wrapped around her waist. He gulped, suddenly a bit frightened as well as excited. He expected that he would have to come to her. He had planned on going to her room and waking her with a soft kiss to the nape of her neck before moving around to the front of her, doing his best to work her into a frenzy before giving her what she wanted.

Selena obviously had different plans.

She reached across him, letting her dangling hair brush the tip of his dick as she turned off the water. The sensation was maddening. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d cum right then. That wasn’t the impression he wanted her to have of him.

She then took his hand and urged him out of the shower. He was shocked even more when she immediately dropped to her knees in front of him. Without delay, she wrapped her warm, red lips around the head of his cock, running the tip of her tongue along the underside of his glans as she slid her mouth over him. He usually preferred a bit of foreplay rather than going straight for the goods but he didn’t want to stop her.

She was taking him all the way down to the base of the shaft. No hesitation or even the slightest hint of a gag from her as she worked her head up and down. She even grabbed his ass to shove more of him into her mouth. The sensation was tremendous. He wasn’t able to restrain himself and came in less than a minute. He expected her to pull away when the first drop of semen hit her tongue but she didn’t. She pulled him in as close as she could get, sucking down what felt like gallons of cum.

Jordan’s eyes rolled back in his head. His toes were curling and familiar convulsions were running through him. His orgasm was so intense that he didn’t notice the sharp nails digging into the flesh of his buttocks at first. Or her teeth.

The bite came quick and forceful. A double sided guillotine cleaving through the meat of his dick. The pain, coming so close on the heels of such intense pleasure, didn’t register correctly. He was confused and tried to pull away, but her grip on him was too strong. With muscle power far beyond that which a fifteen year old girl should possess, she kept him trapped against her, swallowing both the meat of his dick and the blood that was flowing from the wound.

She continued for longer than he thought could be possible. Long enough for the agony to break through his confusion. Long enough for him to start thrashing madly, trying to force her off of him. She’d gone crazy. She saw him taping her and lost her damn mind. Now she had bitten off his fucking dick and goddamn swallowed it. The pain was white hot, blasting through his head. He lashed out in every way he could, beating his arms against her head and trying to wedge his hands between her face and his crotch but none of it succeeded.

He could feel strength draining with his blood and let his hands fall limply at his sides. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor. Only then did she let go of him. As she stood up, he noticed she looked different. It definitely was not Selena towering over him now. Her skin was taut, a deep leathery tan and cut across in places with lava-red fissures that seemed to glow even under the fluorescent lamps. Those breasts that used to jut out from her chest against the rules of physics and gravity hung low and loose, stretched like pendulums dangling toward the ground. The pink buds of nipples now wizened fingers pointing hellward. And her face. A tight, shiny and plastic mask of humanity with orange embers for eyes looking out over a broad smile lined with triangular, shark-like teeth.

Worse still was the jutting abomination between her—its—legs. Nearly the width of a toddler’s arm. Roped with purple and red veins. A foot and a half long if it was an inch. With a barbed tip glistening in the yellow-green light. The damned thing wasn’t even female.

Before he had time to consider the implications of his earlier escapades with the beast, it reached down and grabbed him roughly by the hair. It jerked him up into a standing position and slammed his head, face first, onto the sink. Bright agony burst through his head as his nose exploded. His thoughts were already fuzzy from the blood loss, but now he felt distant, detached from himself.

The beast that he had thought was his stepdaughter pulled back on his hair, forcing him to look forward at his own phone leaning against the bathroom mirror. Selena’s face was on it, a recording she had apparently made for this very moment.

“You piece of shit,” she said in a surprisingly even tone. “What kind of perverted asshole sneaks a video of his wife’s daughter in the bath? Then you try to take me up on an offer to fuck?

“You were the one who bought me my first bike and taught me how to ride it. You spent who knows how many hours helping me make sense out of numeric gymnastics for math. You told me to always go for the nuts if a guy tried to cross any lines with me. Was all of that just a way to prime me for this?

“You’re a sick fuck, that’s all there is to it. Luckily, you weren’t the only one to teach me a few things while I was growing up. Gramma appreciated my interest in the old ways, in the lessons she learned at the feet of her own elders, almost as much as the help I provided around the house all those summers you sent me to see her. She used to call me her little acolyte when none of you were around. Among other things, she introduced me to one of our dearest and oldest family friends.

“I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

The screen went black and the creature’s grip on his hair tightened. While he was preoccupied with Selena’s rant, he didn’t notice it repositioning itself behind him.

EVERY DROP OF BLOOD HAS A SOUL

A Tale of Faust

David Quinn

From the files of Dr. Jade DeCamp, Consulting Psychiatrist, Bellevue Hospital, New York City.

Isolation-666 is easy to look at.

I should rephrase.

With his eyes tightly closed—a welcome change from his habitual stare scouring my every move—John Jaspers is easy to study. And I remember why I pursued psychiatry in the first place. I’m free to persuade him to deliver what he sees in that world within. Free to try to help him reach…a better place. Or at least a place that doesn’t involve massacre and mystery.

“Look hard. How old are you now, John, when you look?”

“How should I know? I’m a child! The nuns—the nuns are taking care of me, so it’s after—”

“The accident?”

“If you choose to call it an accident.”

John Jaspers was a mute giant when the police brought him to Bellevue Hospital. They had already washed the blood and dirt from him. Some of it was his. Most of it wasn’t. Now, in restraints, in his small chamber, barely illuminated by fluorescent lights, he’s wilted into himself, a wild thing starved for its natural habitat.

But we don’t dare let this inpatient share space with the general population. Not until I make progress.

“After the death of your parents... then… you’re five years old?”

“And the sisters are taking care of me. Like this straitjacket takes care of me. Doctor DeCamp.”

At this, I anticipate anger searing me through his penetrating stare, but his eyelids remain sealed. Not a flutter. He’s closing himself in or closing me out, so I let silence—and his restraints—do their work.

Jaspers inhabits Isolation-666, our smallest facility. Bound as tightly as he is, he cannot escape feeling enclosed within enclosure.

Not that I enjoy making him squirm. But this straining is as much a part of my course of therapy as the outlets for expression I offer him: music, art, communication. He suffers, confronting his most primal fear of confinement and abandonment. He weighs fear against a shred of hope, for freedom. A freedom I take for granted.

And yet he shuts his eyes, making his cage even smaller. The isolation of the self.

He will not see me, here and now. Fascinating.

“Like... being... buried. I don’t know. Hey, isn’t it time for you to go scope the other maniacs? Wouldn’t want to keep you.”

My comeback to Jaspers’ subtle acid is always the same: “My time is yours, John.” And I let the dim silence work.

He’s far, far away.

“They smother me; sisters smell like old dust, paper, pressed dead flowers, wool that’s been pissed on—not to mention lies; Our Father who art in Heaven, We’re Hypocritical Scum, Ya Dig, Sadistic Pretenders to Wings—”

“What’s the point, John?”

“Oooh... bit you, an’ deeply, didn’t I? How does a delicious pair of Catholic legs become a shrink, isn’t ’at piling sin on top of sin?”

It takes a lot to get into Bellevue. It’s not for your Upper East Side manic depressive—that’s NYU Medical Center next door. Our patients have no money, no resources and multiple stressors. Their behavior is so extreme—criminal, self-destructive, both—that no alternative presents itself.

John speaks of sin.

EMS Battalion 8 brought him directly to me from the Syrian Embassy, where he was found amidst a scene of carnage you associate with war or Hell, not the elite, red-carpeted Manhattan diplomatic scene. He was naked, stained with blood… and he could not, or would not, explain who he was and how he got there.

So while the State Department irons out the diplomatic wrinkles, its my job to open communications with this alleged mass murderer. It took me a month just to get his name. He spit it at me as if it could infect me through the bulletproof glass between us.

“All you talk is the nasties, or craving the nasties, but not saying it, right? Come on, doc... I know you’re out there, I can hear you breathin’.”

He pauses.

“All right... the sisters. Wet smells under those layers of sanctity. Skin chafes under all that holiness, see? Flesh, blood can’t be denied, not wholly, so, the sisters sweat in the May sun, almost like real people, yeah, I met brutes later, men’d poke red-hot railroad spikes through your eyes if they didn’t like your tone of voice. Men who commanded more respect than counterfeit angels—smelled fresher, too.”

He hears me stand up.

“What? You don’t wanna hear ’bout Sister Margaret? How I gave her... her bright wings?”

“So many important memories of your, let’s call them teachers—and yet you hold them in violent contempt; don’t you find that intriguing, John?”

“Teachers... I’m walking with one now; the joke is, she and I, we’re pretending this isn’t jail, bluffing I’m free to live, breathe, and even see! From chapel to dormitory, it’s a short walk, Sister Margaret leads, of course, stiffly lecturing, themes unremembered, sister stench exuding. I’ve hung back, you see, looking at the garden, ‘dawdling,’ she calls it. I squint my eyes, let everything blur ’round the edges till all I see is color; then focus!”

“One exquisite flower. I hold my breath. Like you’re holding yours now... Jade.”

“Flowers are supposed to be beautiful like skies’re supposed to be blue, but to see this single bud is to never see flowers again. Makes the rep for all of them, here, now, forever. And Sister Margaret yanks at me; bride of Christ himself, she’s still in come-to-fucking-Jesus hurry.

“ ‘This flower is beautiful,’ I tell her.

“'Yes, it is,' she suffers, betraying her ordinariness of vision. ‘They are all beautiful.’ ‘No. This one is beautiful.’ No words applied to this Sacred Cow will open her eyes. Something turns in me. All it would take are fingers like claws, I imagine, and I see razor shafts of light extend from my stubby young digits into her stone-dead eyes. Get it, now?”

“But she won’t bleed, doc, she won’t bleed though I rip the top of her head away; there, see the cold, obdurate brain! Meat long ago withered—no light source here—so I tear grey waxy paste from the sullen chamber of her skull. My eyes flare and ignite it like old paper, looking for a spark, but... nothing here. This pale shit, this puppet bent to glorify you, Our Father, scraping around colorless, repeating litanies, no longer cognizant, no longer feeling! All to intimidate small boys into almost losing the light, tongues wagging in their heads stupidly, all flowers quite the same!

“At this thought, her first display of vitality—steaming blood cascades high, stinging my wondering eyes like a fountain! Even a miserable bastard like me could worship this miracle; flowers, no two shades comparable, and yes, every drop shines brightly, for every drop of blood has a soul and radiates the cardinal dew, honoring that closure, that final glory.

“My fingers burn through crucifix, sternum, and I bend the ribs out, further out, till they sing, split, and stream like wings behind her death-mask. Sister Margaret, no longer a false angel, she too deserves to be remade, to be true, to feel the rapture! Between her widespread, many-ribbed wings, I open my mouth to her throbbing heart, behold the burnt-red lips awaiting me there, and take them with my own.”

He pauses. His fantasy is obscene. But I realize, he was telling the truth. I am holding my breath. I’m the professional... but he plays me as I play him.

“Then Sister Margaret yanks me out of my reverie, muttering multitudes of Our Father and Our Father and my flower wilts in the stale heat.”

“Measuring mental illness, you see, is no more than discovering the degree of commitment to one’s... principles, to use a word that’s slightly out of fashion,” I say calmly. “Have you ever tried to write, draw these...?”

“Don’t insult me—you take my hands away, but only after exchanging the sticks I used to scrape the walls with for crayons and newsprint! Besides, the light here’s dreadful. And as a model, you make a pretty good piece of furniture. When you bother to show up. Stiff. Wooden. Unconvincing.”

He winds his wrists in circles, rolling thick veins under his skin. Under the jacket, I know, there’s body hair so light, it could be a young girl’s. I try to let the silence work, but he opens the eyes. I’ve jotted today’s date down in my journal, May 4, 1996. Without realizing, I’ve drawn a box around the number six, then a box around the box, and so on, till the page is solid ink!

This well of darkness, it says, is too deep for you.

“Painting gives me a chance to feel, the ability to direct myself—I’m not afraid of people when I can punctuate my feelings with my art; I look forward to a job painting when I am discharged.”

He laughs. He wants me to know that he can act, too. Prick.

“Don’t lie to me, you bastard!”

“Good, Jade! Now we’re getting somewhere with your anger—same time tomorrow?”

“You’ve a knack for calling people on their lies—you willing to be called, too?”

“Of course. I do so look forward to painting with the blood of my enemies, those parasites who used me, when I am discharged—I’m not scared.”

“No, John. You’re very scared. That’s what I’m here to make you see.”

“Love that honesty, doc. Is it time to fuck now?”

The only question he could ask, of course. Not an invitation, but ammunition.

“Scared I might take you up on it? Then you’d see just how wild—”

What the Hell am I doing? I never react like this!

“Well, I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I can smell you, Jade DeCamp,” he says as I walk away.

Later, in Caffe Dolce Vita, the blond NYU student is at his usual table. “You gonna light that cigarette you’ve been nibblin’ the last fifteen minutes?”

I’m trying to quit, I explain, then ask, now that we’re conversing, how he’s been reading Le Rouge et le Noir every night since fall and never turned a page.

“All right, I don’t read French, I dig intellectual chicks. Neurotic as hell, but as long as my body’s getting worked over, might as well get my mind done too. Uh, since you’re not gonna smoke—”

His eyes dart quickly to the burnt-red lipstick stains as he catches my cigarette. So cocky, so sweet, like many of my own students. He doesn’t hide like John.

I mean, like Isolation-666.

This is the kind of young man who would have made me happy, I let myself think. And he doesn’t interest me at all. I’m already breathing tomorrow morning’s electrically-charged air within steel-reinforced padded walls.

And then, when I leave, same as always, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me,” he’ll whine, mocking me. But he’s transparent behind those shut down eyes. He means it, more than life, death and all the colors only he can see.

Featuring characters from the Rebel Studios graphic novel Faust: Love Of The Damned, Trademark and ©2012, David Quinn and Tim Vigil. All Rights Reserved.

DR. SCABS AND THE HAGS OF EL CAJON

Robert Essig

The bar smelled of stale beer and old vomit. That should have been the first sign for Lindsay to walk on by to Chloe’s apartment, but she desperately needed to drink away the lingering memory of Jared. She’d thought he was “the one,” but as it turned out he was just another asshole.

The bar was full of Jareds, all staring at her, making lude remarks, asking to buy her a drink—one guy asked if her tits were real! She could have accepted a free drink, but that would imply that she wanted conversation or that she was looking for some barfly to take her home. What she needed was a dark corner and a vodka on the rocks, a primer for a night of crying on Chloe’s shoulder between bouts of man-hating rage.

After one drink, Lindsay left the bar. Chloe lived in the apartments on a parallel street on the opposite side of the alley behind the strip mall where the bar was located.

“Where you going so fast?” asked a particularly greasy individual with a stringy comb-over and a cigarette dangling from a crooked grin that revealed teeth like corn nibs. “Come back in and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Several yards past the bar, Lindsay turned and said, “No thanks. My friend’s expecting me.”

“Then maybe I should walk you there,” he said as he advanced in her direction. “This is a tough part of town you know.”

“No thanks. I can take care of myself.”

And then he gave chase. Lindsay fled and found herself in one of the burned out shops on the strip. She turned the corner and ran into a man whose flesh was like a jigsaw puzzle of scabs and scars. He pulled a knife on her chaser. With a swipe, he slit the man’s throat getting a face full of arterial spray, then slammed the blade into the side of the man’s head. The man dropped to the ground. Breathless and shocked, Lindsay passed out of consciousness.

~

Lindsay woke to the acrid odor of soot and piss. Disoriented, she rubbed her head as blurry eyes took in the surroundings. A puddle of blood on the littered floor reminded her that she’d been saved by a hideous man. His actions were so violent that she couldn’t help but wonder about his true intentions.

And where the hell was he? What happened to the body?

She nearly gasped when she realized that there were two men sitting near what appeared to be the door to the alley. They looked homeless and crazy—one of them had a filthy beard; the other, a handlebar moustache and broken, rotten teeth. They both stared at her with hungry eyes.

“I...” Lindsay was lost for words. “I really have to go. Someone’s waiting on me.”

“Oh yeah?” said Handlebar with a grin that showcased his crooked teeth. “You’re not going anywhere, bitch. Doctor Scabs brought you here. That means you’re his property.”

That last comment infuriated Lindsay. She stood in a threatening manner and said, “I’m no one’s property! I’m out of here.”

She went for the door, hoping that, by some chance of fate, they would let her go.

Positioning himself in front of the door, Handlebar said, “Not so fast, honey.”

She stopped in front of him and gritted her teeth. “Please get out of my way.”

Handlebar grinned and said, “With sugar on top?”

“Just let me go.”

Beard never moved from his perch on the ground to the left of the door. He looked up and said, in a gravelly voice, “What do you think is on the other side of that door anyway?”

“You don’t want to go in there,” said Handlebar. “The hags’ll eat you for breakfast.”

Lindsay cringed. “The what?”

Beard spoke up. “The hags.” He looked up at Lindsay, one of his eyes infected and milky, the lid swollen and pus-filled. “You don’t fuck with the hags. No one fucks with the hags.”

“Then how do I get out of here?”

“You wait for Dr. Scabs,” said Handlebar.

Lindsay didn’t have to wait long. She saw both Handlebar and Beard’s eyes shift to something behind her. She turned, heart caught in her throat. Dr. Scabs stood in a shaft of light coming from a makeshift door that Lindsay hadn’t recognized when she was sitting on the floor planning her escape.

“You don’t have to worry, honey pot,” said Dr. Scabs.
“The bastard’s dead.”

“You shouldn’t have...” What else could she say?

“You’re better off here than in that guy’s hands. Don’t you think?”

She didn’t know. This situation was equally as uncertain. Lindsay’s eyes darted the room, searching for something to give her a glimmer of hope that she could get out of this place alive.

“I just want to go to my friend’s house. That’s all.”

Dr. Scabs walked into the room he’d come from and fetched the body of the man he’d killed in the alley, dragging his corpse into the burned out hell Lindsay stood in. “Look what I did for you,” he said, pointing to the body on the floor.

She was shaking so badly that she thought she wouldn’t be able to control herself from a panic attack.

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me. Thank you. But—”

“But!” said Dr. Scabs. “But what?”

He nervously peeled scabs from his face and chewed on them. Lindsay tried not to gag at the sight.

“I mean I have to go, you know?” said Lindsay. “My friend is waiting for me.”

“I’ll show you gratitude, you ungrateful bitch. I don’t kill for just anyone.”

Lindsay’s mouth opened to say something, but no words came. Tears ran from her eyes mixing with the sweat that beaded all over her face. The shaking worsened.

Dr. Scabs wore a long filthy lab coat with large pockets in front. He pulled out a hypodermic and a small bottle of fluid that looked like pus or semen.

“I can make you grateful, you know. I can make you grateful for my knife. Grateful for me to kill you and take you from your misery. Is that what you want?”

Handlebar and Beard giggled, passing a glass pipe back and forth in a wispy cloud of smoke.

Dr. Scabs popped the needle into the bottle of fluid and pulled the plunger, filling it with God knew what type of nastiness. He then removed the needle, pushing on the plunger after tapping the barrel to remove any air bubbles.

“Although an embolism may be a blessing in disguise. Don’t you think? An air bubble straight to your heart? Or becoming a slave for the hags? The air bubble could paralyze you if it doesn’t kill you, and even then it would be preferable to being a hag’s slave. But you couldn’t be bothered to show a bit of gratitude, could you?”

“I appreciate what you did for me, I really do.”

“You appreciate nothing!”

Dr. Scabs lunged for Lindsay, and though she tried to resist his grasping, feted hand, he grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall. She squirmed and flailed, repulsed by the idea of touching his disgusting flesh, even in self-defense.

“Touch it,” said Scabs. His voice softened, breath like rotting vegetables. “Touch me. Touch my skin. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

Lindsay whimpered, snot bubbling from her nose, spittle discharging as she attempted a plea for help.

“You don’t like me, huh? You don’t like my body.”

Lindsay stuttered and shook her head like an old palsied woman. Dr. Scabs let loose his grip just before thrusting his face into hers, forcing his scabbed cheek into her mouth.

She screamed, and finally her hand found his arms and she scratched at his rough scabbed flesh. She moved her face from side to side and closed her mouth, inadvertently ripping scabs with her teeth, which resulted in a gag reflex that was impossible to clench. A gut full of vodka, cranberry juice and Hamburger Helper erupted, spraying Dr. Scabs.

“I repulse you? I fucking repulse you!”

His hand landed like a firecracker on her cheek, dropping her to the floor in a pile of shattered woman. Her mind was a rinse cycle of despair and regret.

Dr. Scabs stood above Lindsay, hardly concerned about the blood and pus leaking from his damaged face and arms. His grin was so wide it cracked the scabs around his mouth, producing tiny droplets of crimson, attesting to his pleasure in pain. He raised the syringe.

“You’d better cooperate with me, deary, or you’ll get a nasty injection that will lead to a nasty infection, and then you will be a slave for the hags.”

Trembling, Lindsay said, “Why...? Why are doing this to me?”

“Because I can.” Scabs unzipped his filthy, ripped pants. “I have one more thing I want from you, then you can go.”

Lindsay’s eyes glided down from his mottled face to his groin, where, after unzipping, he pulled down a pair of severely stained boxers. For just a second Lindsay wondered if his penis was in a similar state as the rest of him...

She gasped. She could have dropped from a heart attack right then and there and she would have been grateful. He wasn’t excited yet, his penis so ruined with scabbed flesh that it looked like a dog turd that had been sitting in the yard for a day.

Lindsay shook. She whimpered. Shock began seeping in, numbing her body and causing her consciousness to drift away.

“Oh yeah,” Dr. Scabs cooed. “I want to see fear in your eyes. I want to hear your cries of agony, your whimpers of despair.”

Lindsay had been afraid when she had to be saved with the Jaws of Life after a bad car wreck several years ago, afraid of the dark as a child, but this was a new kind of fear, deep and incomprehensible.

As he became erect, the scabs—all of which had fused together to form a sort of cast around his penis—cracked apart, dripping blood onto the floor. Dr. Scabs cringed at the pain, but the maniacal grin never faltered. His breathing escalated as his eyes fluttered in his head. He took great pleasure in this most absurd infliction of pain.

When he was ready he said to Lindsay, “Now you come over here and give the doctor some medicine.”

Even in her semi-catatonic state Lindsay shook her head from side to side, damned if she was going to give this sick fuck a blowjob. Scabs stepped closer as Lindsay retreated.

“Would you rather have this,” said Dr. Scabs, holding up the syringe. “You’ll get an injection one way or the other. Which will it be, sweetheart?”

Backed against a wall, Lindsay had nowhere to go. Handlebar stood to one side of her so she couldn’t get away.

“Hold her,” said Dr. Scabs.

Handlebar grabbed Lindsay as she flailed and screamed. On her knees, he pinned her legs with his and pulled her arms behind her back in a sort of chokehold without actually choking her.

Dr. Scabs slapped her again, which startled Lindsay, causing her to stop her flailing and look at him wide-eyed, mouth agape, just as Dr. Scabs had planned. He thrust his festering erection into her mouth and tipped his head back, eyes closed.

Lindsay’s swiveling head mimicked the task at hand, to Dr. Scabs’ delight. He moaned with pleasure as she gagged out cries of horror and repulsion. Handlebar held her tight and smiled a black tooth grin.

Everything horrible that Lindsay had ever thought of or seen in her entire life couldn’t have prepared her for this torturous act. All the horrible stories she saw on the news, the ‘what’s grosser than gross’ jokes she’d heard as a school girl—falling into a septic tank head first with your mouth open!—the most vile and violent horror films her ex had enjoyed watching, none of it compared to this.

The sounds in the room, the taste of blood and pus in her mouth, the smell of soot, sweat, and nastiness; it all swirled together in her tumultuous mind like every color in the spectrum until the blend turned black.

Lindsay’s jaws clamped tight. Dr. Scabs screamed, pulling out of her grip with such animation that her clenched teeth pulled the scabby sheath off leaving Dr. Scabs with something flaccid and red between his legs.

When Handlebar saw what she did to Dr. Scabs, his eyes bugged out of his head and he loosened his grip. Lindsay leaped out of Handlebar’s arms. He reached for her, but she used the heel of her foot to kick him in the face. Fueled by meth, he was up quickly, emitting a bizarre caw like some exotic bird. He grabbed Lindsay by the neck and slammed her to the floor.

Just as her swooning head was drifting into darkness, she saw Dr. Scabs rise above her, one hand gripping his burning groin, the other holding the syringe. He was still smiling, which greatly disturbed Lindsay. He slammed the needle into her arm and depressed the plunger. She felt her appendage tingle and burn.

Blackness enfolded Lindsay as she passed out of consciousness.

~

Lindsay woke into a world of pain.

Her body felt old, feeble and throbbing with infection. The slightest movement, such as opening her eyes, sent bolts of pain into her brain.

The ache in her arm served as a reminder of where she was and what had been done to her. Shifting the arm in question, pain assaulted her so strongly that she wouldn’t have been surprised if her arm fell off. The point of injection was swollen and red. It looked like a tiny volcano made of welted flesh, erupting with pus rather than lava. The rest of her arm was sickly thin and lined with purple and black veins that gently throbbed with her pulse. Her legs, similar to her arms, felt so frail that she was frightened they wouldn’t hold her weight.

Head woozy, Lindsay eyed her surroundings. Odors assaulted her, so heavy that she could taste the ambiance of the room. It smelled of body odor and burning plastic, decay and human waste. Blinking her eyes, she focused on something that was making obnoxious grunting and gurgling sounds.

As things came into focus, fragments of recent memory hit Lindsay’s mind like darts, disjointed, yet sticking very clearly. She was supposed to be at Chloe’s house drinking away the memory of her ex.

Her eyes weren’t adjusting. They seemed to have some sort of film that she couldn’t blink away. The sounds were sickening, and they came from the fuzzy blobs across the room.

“She’s waking up,” said a voice like shards of glass.

Lindsay shivered, frantically blinking her eyes. More memories hit the dartboard of her mind: Dr. Scabs, the man in the alley with a slit throat, the smell of soot. Panic seized her.

She remembered talk of the hags.

“She’s changing...fast,” said another in a slurred voice.

“Good,” said a third.

Lifting her arm was like wading through sludge. For a moment, Lindsay thought she had been tied down, but then her limp hand clumsily met her face and she realized that it was more like paralysis. She tried to rub her eyes of the film that clouded her vision, numb fingers thumping her numb face as if she were severely disabled. Laughter bubbled from the blobs across the room.

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Lindsay began to work through the numbness into the pain the rest of her body felt. Rubbing the gelatinous muck from her eyes, things started to become clear. She then realized how wrong everything felt. As she took in deep, strained breaths, it felt as if there were a million tiny holes in her lungs. At the sight of her arms and legs she could have fainted, but as her body permutated, so did her mind.

The disjointed laughter died down into mumbling and slurs as if the severely inebriated were conducting a conversation.

Lindsay’s head glided up from the rank thing she was devolving into to see just what was laughing and taunting her from across the room. Her eyes widened. They seemed amused by her shocked reaction to their presence.

They sat in absurd thrones made of rebar and metal refuse intricately welded together. The hags were monstrous, skinny things that only resembled humans due to the structure of their bodies. They were naked and sitting spread eagled, which was just about the most repulsive thing Lindsay had ever seen, considering the state of their genitalia, which looked like dried sea anemones with thick, rope-like hair. They had severely elongated faces covered in pimples and deep pockmarks. One of them had a stomach that was bloated and fit to burst. Groaning and sighing, they stared at Lindsay with red glossy eyes.

“Come here, slave,” the pregnant hag demanded.

One of the other hags grabbed an absurd looking glass pipe from a table near her throne. It was then that Lindsay noticed the mouth on her neck as it opened and drooled from a toothless maw sheathed in cracked lips. She placed the pipe to her neck-mouth, took a lighter, and produced a flame to the black underbelly of the glass. She made a wheezing sound as her chest expanded and the meth smoke was pulled into her lungs. She pulled the pipe from her strange mouth and held in the smoke for what seemed like minutes before exhaling from both of her mouths and several orifices on her face around her eyes, and where a nose should have been.

“Slave,” said the pregnant hag, “you come over here now. I’m hungry.”

Lindsay attempted to stand, but her body was malformed and foreign. Her legs buckled and she hit the floor face first to the pleasure of the hags who laughed until they choked and coughed.

Lindsay gurgled out an attempt to speak. She felt her swollen uvula catching in her throat. Even her mouth felt different, and every movement brought forth the pain of her transformation.

She tried speaking again and again until she found her voice, though it was nothing she had ever heard before. It was as if she was speaking through someone else’s mouth.

“Why?” was all she could ask of them.

“Because I’m hungry!” screamed the pregnant hag.

Another hag spoke up. “You are our slave and you’ll...do...what we say.” Her words were slurred and distant, sometimes with lengthy pauses, not from lack of breath, but something more akin to toxicity. “Meredith’s pregs...and she’s hungry...and you’d better get her what she wants.”

Lindsay could have cried, could have cracked up, could have taken a shard of glass and slit her throat, only she didn’t know what she was anymore. Even her brain was different, and though she could remember the events that brought her here, the conversation she had with Jared when he told her that she was a bitch and too possessive, her wanting so badly to slam the phone like when she was a teenager but unable to slam a cell phone. She remembered everything from the Minnie Mouse piñata at her fourth birthday to her first kiss, and yet there was something so terribly wrong with her mind.

She stood on wobbly legs and approached the hags. At a somewhat comfortable distance she stood as if awaiting an order. Her whole equilibrium was off. It felt as if at any moment she would fall to the ground like a house of cards in the breeze.

“I’m hungry,” grunted the pregnant hag.

“Wha—” Lindsay choked on a syllable that sounded foreign and terrible from her mouth. “What do you want?”

“Get Scabs. He’s got food. You’re fuckin’ useless!”

Lindsay was confused. How the hell was she supposed to find Dr. Scabs?

After a moment of silence, the pregnant hag screamed, “SCABS! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

A door opened. Dr. Scabs walked into the room, though he didn’t appear to have a sense of urgency. He was quite jovial and sauntered with a gait of confidence Lindsay didn’t understand considering what she’d done to him.

“Teach this bitch how to give us food!” one of the hags screamed.

“You need a refill, huh?” said Dr. Scabs.

“The pregnant hag’s eyes deepened in her oblong face. She held out her long, gnarled arms. There was movement within the arms. Like their necks, their arms had tiny mouths that opened and closed as if trying to bite at something.

Scabs looked at Lindsay. “You,” he said. “You have a responsibility now, you know. You are now property of the hags. All of them.”

Lindsay looked to the three misshapen beings that sat in the odd thrones. “Them?”

“Yes, Beth, Carrie, and Meredith. But also all the others. There are hags all over El Cajon. They come through here from time to time, traveling on moonless nights. You will do what they ask. You will get them what they want, and if you’re lucky enough, you will become one of them...if they allow you that honor.”

“Honor? This is Hell.”

Scabs laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, honey pie? No. This is the underground in El Cajon.”

“What?”

“The drug trade, baby. This is it.”

“But, don’t drugs come from Mexico?”

“Fuck Mexico! That’s the cheap shit. I have developed the best meth in the world, and the hags...you could almost call them the godmothers of El Cajon, the result of a toxic batch of dope that, uh—” he scratched at a large, unruly scab on his cheek “—altered their DNA. I created them, but they’ve mutated into a species all their own, strong but helplessly addicted. They pull the strings, and we’re crushing the competition.”

Lindsay looked at them again. They were alien and wasted, gurgling and grunting, sighing and twitching, picking things off their abused flesh. How they could run a drug trade much less a hotdog stand was beyond Lindsay.

There was a sickening noise from the throne of hags as the pregnant one stood from her perch. She lifted herself off of what looked like a metal turkey baster or some kind of oversized needle protruding upward from her seat, connected to a small keg beneath the chair. All of the hag’s chairs were similarly equipped.

“Are those...?”

Lindsay’s pain had reduced to a dull ache. She would tell herself that she had to get out of there, had to find a door that would lead her to the alley, but her want to escape was equaled with an uncanny sense of question and wonder. Learning about the underground of El Cajon, her mind sunk deeper into that pool of wonder until the natural instinct to flee was stifled.

“Enough bullshit,” said the pregnant hag, now standing. There was something dripping from between her legs that looked like a pale shade of blood. “I’m fucking hungry! Give me my fix before I rip your head off and shit down your throat, you fucking bitch!”

“She needs some of my special dope,” said Scabs. “There’s some in the freezer. The blue crystal. Use a spoon and melt down several grams. You don’t need a syringe. The Hags have developed mouths all over their bodies where the liquid dope can be administered. Only then will Meredith be pleased. The kegs provide them with a steady suppository of lightweight dope, but she has a hunger on her. Gotta feed the baby and all.”

The feeling that she was out of place traveled further and further from Lindsay’s mind. Something twisted, causing her to feel a sense of understanding and compassion for the pregnant hag. Her memories were on the fade, replaced with a whole new heinous perception.

“Where’s the freezer?” asked Lindsay.

Meredith screeched as she lunged toward Lindsay with one of her lanky arms outstretched, but before she could wrangle Lindsay’s neck, she craned forward and collapsed on the floor grasping her swollen belly.

“A hag’s childbirth can be a nasty experience,” said Scabs. “You’d better get her anything she asks or she’ll rip you apart.”

Meredith cried and screamed and flailed on the ground. Her belly quivered and shifted as the baby pushed at the womb with uncanny strength.

The other two hags, Beth and Carrie, rose from their thrones, groaning as they pulled themselves off of their drug spikes. They rushed to their fallen comrade, worry in their strange eyes, asses dripping a pink solution of blood and liquid dope.

There was nothing they could do but watch as the baby was delivered, or rather as it delivered itself. Through sobs and cries Meredith demanded that Lindsay retrieve the dope.

Just as Lindsay was going to search the room for the drugs, Meredith threw her head back and yelled so loud her throat went hoarse. Beth and Carrie grabbed Meredith’s legs and pulled them apart, the only thing they could do to assist her monstrous labor. Just then a small arm with tiny razor-like nails ripped through her vagina in a wash of blood. The hand opened and closed as if searching for something to grab onto that would allow it to pull itself out of the womb. There was a bump on her greasy, mottled belly that erupted like a giant zit from which the other hand emerged, frantically ripping and tearing its mother’s belly into shreds.

Meredith hemorrhaged. Blood poured from her belly and vagina. The arms drew themselves back inside her as the baby decided the best method of birth was the crude cesarean section. Its head popped through the bloody tissue that was Mother’s belly, eyes closed tight from the blaring light, head oblong and deformed.

Lindsay gasped. The reality that she once knew—what was being drawn away from her as Dr. Scabs’ injection changed her—flooded back, overwhelming her mind with repulsion at the thing that clumsily climbed from the dying hag’s womb, the antithesis of a beautiful child birth.

As much as she wanted to stop herself, she’d temporarily lost control as she lifted her sickly foot and kicked the baby in its crooked face. The baby was strong, and kicking it was like kicking a brick. Though her foot ached, Lindsay kicked again with everything she had. In slow motion the awkward face flung upward contorting further, the force of the kick throwing the entire little body from the bloody stomach of its mother, launching it several feet away where it lay lifeless.

The two remaining hags hissed, but Lindsay was already in retreat. She pushed past Dr. Scabs who seemed to be in a state of shock, appalled at her reaction. Not knowing where she was or what she would confront, Lindsay reached the first door she saw and opened it into the room that stunk of soot and body odor. She slammed the door behind her and ran for the next exit in the room hoping it would lead to the alley.

She recognized Beard in a small crowd of dope fiends near the door. Dope fiends were like dogs—they could smell fear. Lindsay wasn’t herself, but she had no way of telling just how different she really looked. The junkies stared, their eyes wide from the meth and this new amazement that just walked into their smoky domain like some mangled plaything.

Lindsay passed them, their red bullfrog eyes following in silence. She reached the door without so much as a warning or threat.

This frightened her.

She could only imagine what she looked like to have shocked such degenerates. Pausing with her hand on the door handle, she looked at her arm. Now lanky and slender like bones wrapped in taut flesh, they appeared to be elongated. The roadmap of veins throbbed irregularly. With waves of adrenalin, pain assailed her once again.

Lindsay opened the door and walked outside. The air was cool and stunk of garbage and urine, but for just a moment it was sweet and lovely. The door closed behind her quite loudly. Five steps into the alley, and it opened again.

Lindsay yelped. It was Dr. Scabs in a full run. The hags waited at the door, illuminated under the brilliance of the yellow street lamp, even more horrendous than they’d appeared in the dim interior.

Taking the alley, Lindsay headed toward Chloe’s apartment building. It wasn’t far off. She took an access road from the alley to the parallel street where the entrance to the apartment building was. Dr. Scabs was on her heels.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Lindsay made her way to the concrete landing on the second floor of the two-story building. She risked a look back and saw Dr. Scabs standing at the bottom of the stairway, looking up at her.

“No one is going to let you in, honey,” he said through heavy breaths. “There’s only one way down.”

Lindsay pounded at Chloe’s door. It opened and then closed abruptly. Lindsay pounded and pleaded, “It’s me, Chloe! It’s Lindsay! Let me in! I’m in trouble! I need help!” But her voice, like her appearance, didn’t resemble the friend Chloe had been waiting for all night.

She looked back at Dr. Scabs stoically standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the black iron handrails.

Lindsay pounded on Chloe’s door again. From within came a muffled, terrified voiced: “Get out of here or I’m calling the police.”

“Yes,” said Lindsay, “call the cops! Call them now!”

She went to every other door on the second floor, pounding and pleading for everyone to call the police. Blinds were ruffled, gasps were heard, and with any luck 911 was being dialed.

At the far end of the second-floor landing, Lindsay sat with her knobby, aching knees up to her chin, wrapping herself with grotesque throbbing arms. As Dr. Scabs ascended the stairs, she wept.

STD

David Bernstein

Brian awoke in a stranger’s bed, his bladder ready to burst. Glancing to his right, he saw the sleeping form of a female. He wasn’t sure who she was or where he was, but after a moment, it came rushing back to him.

Her name was Jackie. They’d met at a bar and shared a lot of drinks. She was a flight attendant in town on a three day layover and staying at a friend’s place who was on vacation. They had a night of crazy, drunken sex, the woman a veteran in the sack.

Creeping out of bed, he tip-toed to the bathroom. Barely able to get his boxers off, Brian relieved himself, but the relief was short-lived. The stream shot sideways, covering the side of the sink in piss. He tried to stop urinating, but it was no use. So he turned sideways and peed into the bowl. He had no idea what was causing the blockage, but figured his hole was partially clogged with dried body secretions or a piece of fabric from the bed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had mornings when his stream went in two directions before. It was just more extreme this time. Looking down as he finished, making sure to get the last few drops out, his eyes bulged from their sockets. A bulbous white-headed growth sat at the tip of his penis. It hadn’t been there before this morning, at least that he could remember. The thing was huge—the size of a small pebble. It had to be something stuck to him. A piece of food or debris that fell onto the bed. He finished jiggling then went to pull the thing off, but lightning pain shot through his member. Nervous, confused, wanting it off, Brian pulled again, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Panic took hold. He went rigid with fear. What the hell was on his dick?

He thought about last night, his time with Jackie. There was no way it was there when they had sex, surely she would have felt it in her mouth and said something. And he would have definitely felt it rubbing against her vaginal wall.

They didn’t use a condom. Maybe she gave him something? Anger swelled within him as he wondered what the bitch gave him. The anger dissipated quickly, though, when he realized that there was no STD that showed up just hours after intercourse. None that he knew of, not that he was an expert.

Possibilities ran rampant. A microscopic tumor irritated by the sex? He was at a loss. All he knew was that it wasn’t there last night. In today’s day and age if something was wrong sexually, someone would say something. Fear was too great. If Jackie had felt it in her mouth, she never would have let him put it inside her.

Lowering the toilet’s lid, Brian sat down. Hunching over, pulling his penis as close to his face as possible, he studied the growth. He felt it. It was firm, but squishy, like a miniscule water balloon. The whitehead was gross; the thing reminded him of a giant zit.

He sat back, relief flooding over him. He had a fucking pimple on his dick.

Should he pop it or leave it be? Wanting the unpleasant thing gone, he pinched low on the zit and squeezed. Electric pain ran the length of his penis. Ignoring the agony, he pinched harder, hoping that once it popped, the pain would lessen and the swelling would subside.

Nicotine colored pus exploded from the lump. Brian continued to compress the skin, making sure to get out all the infected material. With the pus out, blood trickled.

Reaching for the toilet paper with his clean hand, he grabbed a few pieces and dabbed at the head of his bloodied penis. Finished, he tossed the paper into the waste basket. The area burned, as if someone had put out a cigarette on it, but the growth was gone, deflated like a bad tire, and was nothing more than a flap of skin.

He stood, pulling up his shorts. Finding a spray cleaner and roll of paper towels under the sink, he sprayed the floor where the pus landed, as well as the side of the sink still glistening with his urine, and cleaned up the areas. Replacing the cleaner and tossing the paper towels into the toilet—a no-no, but how would he explain using so much—he washed his hands with soap and hot water, then returned to the bedroom to catch a few more hours of sleep.

Sometime later, Brian was awakened by Jackie, rocking him and calling his name.

“What . . . what’s the matter?” he asked, one eye opening. He saw Jackie standing over him, still in her half-shirt and purple panties.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

He sat up. Rubbing his eyes, he asked what she was talking about.

“You’re bleeding . . . down there.” She pointed to his crotch, beneath the sheet.

Looking down, he saw a crimson stain the size of a Frisbee.

“What the hell?”

Lifting the cover revealed blood-soaked pants, his thighs sticky with the red stuff.

“What happened?” Jackie asked, covering her mouth.

He contemplated telling her about his pimple, but didn’t want to gross her out. “Do you have anything?” he asked.

“What?” She had a confused look on her face.

“Any STDs I need to worry about?”

Jackie’s face reddened and her eyes became slits. “Are you kidding me? What the fuck? Of course not. Do you?” She backed away as if he was contagious.

“I’m clean. Don’t worry.”

“Why would you ask me that and why the hell are you bleeding?”

“It’s nothing,” he said softly, not really believing his own words. He had a hard time believing a pimple would bleed so much, although he’d also never seen one so large. Not wanting her to freak out, he decided to come clean.

“I had a…pimple on my…” he motioned toward his crotch.

Jackie’s eyes went wide. “I had that thing in my…you put it in me.” She shivered. “Gross.”

“It wasn’t there last night,” he told her. “Don’t you think you would’ve felt it?”

“I can’t believe you fucked me with that thing on your dick,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “What if it exploded inside me?” She shivered again. “In my mouth?” She leaned over, gagging. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, climbing from the bed. “It wasn’t there last night. I swear.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It was . . . huge. You would’ve… hell, I would’ve felt it.”

“I guess.” She was looking better, then smiled evilly. “Your dick was smooth. Smoother than most by the way. You treat that thing with something?”

He laughed. “No.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. I would’ve felt it.”

“It was right at the tip—”

“Okay. Enough,” she said, holding out her arms. “I don’t need a fucking visual; especially if you plan on putting that thing inside me again.”

Brian got dressed and offered to wash the sheets, or at least pay for them, but Jackie declined, telling him she was going to throw them out. She wasn’t about to try and explain what had happened to her friend, and would just have to hope the woman didn’t notice a couple of sheets were missing.

He went home and told her he would call her during the week.

~

The next morning, Brian woke in his own bed, relieved to see that his boxers weren’t soaked with blood. His bladder was full and needed to be emptied. Hopping out of bed, he headed into the bathroom and went to do his business when he looked down at his penis and nearly screamed.

The pimple, growth, whatever it was, was back and bigger than before. It was now the size of a golf ball. The thing was scarlet in color and the white head was back too, looking like a mound of whipped butter that had been left out too long. Letting go of his member, the thing plummeted, weighed down by the growth. He had to pee badly, but the urethra’s exit was completely blocked.

Sweat lined his forehead as he began to panic.

Lifting his penis, he felt the growth. It was harder than yesterday. He gently squeezed it and cringed. The thing was full of more pus, almost solid, like one of those rubber balls he purchased from the quarter machines at the grocery store when he was a kid.

The disturbing thing had come back with more determination than ever. He shook his head thinking he should’ve just left it alone. Due to his highly agitated nervous system his need to pee was even greater now.

Unsure of how to stand, wanting to get his piss into the bowl, he turned sideways, like he did at Jackie’s friend’s, and tried to release his bladder. Nothing came out. He nudged the growth to the side, biting his lip in pain, hoping to create enough space for his liquid waste to come through. The technique worked, and his urine spewed out in a messy torrent akin to a partially closed water main. The upraised toilet seat took the brunt of the waste and was soon streaked with tears of pee.

His feet tickled and he glanced down to see them getting splashed with urine as a dripping occurred at the same time he was peeing. He couldn’t stop the flow and let it do what it was going to do, the pressure engulfing his tip in a bee-sting like pain. Grabbing the slippery growth, he pushed it farther to the side, pain radiating up the shaft and into his stomach. The obstructed spray became a steady stream as the urine flowed unimpeded. Relief had never felt so satisfying.

When he was done, he released the mass and felt a final drip splash onto his toes. Maybe if he popped the thing again, and cleaned it with alcohol, it wouldn’t come back. He squeezed the growth until a stream of clear fluid leaked from where the crusty whitehead was attached to the flesh.

Brian picked at the crusty cap, using his fingernail to pry it up. He fought through the pain and pulled the entire thing off. It stuck to his finger and he flicked it away, aiming for the waste basket, but missing.

Looking at where the scab used to be, he saw yellow fluid inside, like the yolk of an uncooked egg. Placing his fingers around the mass, he was about to squeeze the pus out when he saw the gooey substance move as if something were inside.

Frozen in disbelief, eyes blinking, Brian couldn’t believe what he saw. It had to be the fluid settling, growths didn’t contain living things. Stretching his flaccid penis closer to his face, he eyed the olive-like bubble. Pinching the sack, the fluid inside rose. He could easily, but painfully, have the thing emptied in moments with one huge squeeze of his fingers and be left with just a large flap of hollow skin. But would the thing come back bigger? Not if he cleaned it with the alcohol, or maybe even glass cleaner—really go for the kill.

He contemplated leaving it alone and seeing a doctor instead, but with the scab off, the fluid would just leak out and soak his clothing. Ready to empty the sucker, Brian saw the ooze swirl. Letting his penis rest in his hand, staring in awe, the growth exploded, covering his face with warm, runny goo.

Brian jerked his head back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Feeling movement at the tip of his dick, he looked down and saw something emanating from the deflated mass.

The creature had a snake-like body with arms and legs, and claws at least a half inch long. It had a wide mouth and opened it, revealing rows of tiny pointed teeth. Brian screamed. There was a monster, a fucking alien, in his penis. He screamed and went to grab the creature, wanting it out of him, but the thing jumped to the floor before he had a chance.

With pus and blood covering his penis and dripping onto the floor, he lifted his bare foot and tried stomping on the creature. He missed as the agile critter slid behind the commode.

He needed a weapon and the closest, deadliest thing he could find was a plunger. Snatching up the tool, he peered around the toilet, ready to strike, but the creature was gone. A slimy trail led to a small hole in the back of the cabinet that the sink rested on.

Putting down the plunger, he gathered up some toilet paper and cleaned himself off, then wrapped his member like a mummy and stuffed it into his boxers. He would tend to it more thoroughly later; he now had a more pressing matter to deal with.

Brian sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed the largest steak knife he owned and returned to the bathroom. Crouching down, knife out, he opened the cabinet’s right door. Then the left. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eye, causing a moment of irritation, but he blinked through it.

He scanned the area, looking around and between the various cleaning supplies, but couldn’t see to the back. He would have to move some of the containers out of the way. He’d been meaning to clean out the place for some time, wishing to hell he had done so. The back of the cabinet was pitch dark. He wasn’t about to stick his hand in there for fear he’d lose a digit or two, remembering the creature’s pointy teeth.

Closing the cabinet doors, he bolted to the kitchen and retrieved a flashlight from the junk drawer and was back in the bathroom in less than thirty seconds. He checked the floor tiles for signs that the creature had slithered away, but found nothing to indicate it had fled.

Bending down, knife at the ready, he opened the doors and began removing the supplies near the front of the cabinet. Before long, he had a gathering of outdated cleaning supplies, brushes of various types, toilet paper, and unopened bars of soap. The cabinet had one disinfectant spray bottle remaining, easily wide enough to hide the monster’s body.

Keeping the light on it, Brian reached in with the knife and stabbed the blade around the bottle, hoping to stick whatever was hiding behind it. When nothing happened, he knocked the bottle on its side. Shining the light around, he noticed a gap between the sheetrock and the piping, the area glistening with slime. The alien thing had escaped into the wall, leaving some of its residue behind. That was another thing he had planned on doing when he first moved into the place—fill the damn gaps to keep the cockroaches and rodents out.

What was he supposed to do? Call the authorities? Animal control? Tell them an alien penis-creature was living in his walls?

He stood up and closed the doors. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t believe such a thing had come out of him. Thinking about it, his stomach churned. Well, at least it was gone; out of his hands—and his penis.

Brian replaced the still-with-good-dates-on-them cleaners and carried the rest to the kitchen garbage where he threw them away.

He heard a knock at the door. “Just a second,” he told whoever it was and quickly washed his hands off in the sink. Going to the door, he looked through the peephole. He saw Jackie standing in the hallway dressed in her stewardess uniform. A piece of luggage rested behind her.

Brian hadn’t expected to see her again. He guessed she wanted to say goodbye. Maybe have a last go round before she left. He wasn’t showered and had morning breath. Screw it, he thought. With his dick in the condition it was, he wouldn’t be using it for awhile. If the woman wanted a romp, he’d simply have to tell her he wasn’t feeling good. Undoing the lock, he opened the door.

“Hello, Brian,” she said.

“Jackie, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, sure.” He stepped aside, letting her pass, and closed the door behind her.

Facing the woman, Brian found his smile fading.

Jackie was staring at him, smiling, her teeth like miniature daggers. The whites of her eyes turned black, the irises disappearing. He staggered back, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Her teeth . . . they looked so familiar.

The woman shot a foot forward, kicking him in the abdomen. He sailed across the kitchen, unable to scream—the wind knocked from his lungs—and crashed into a wall. He felt the sheetrock give just before he plummeted to the linoleum.

Dazed and frightened, he pushed himself off the floor. Looking around, he didn’t see Jackie, or whatever she was. Had he imagined the whole thing? Was he cracking up? He closed his eyes for a moment then heard a low growl from above. Opening his eyes, he looked up.

Jackie was clinging to the ceiling, staring down at him with her eyes like voids. Her tongue protruded from her mouth, dangling loosely and dripping with sludge. She hissed as she fell on top of him and held him down. He struggled, but it was no use, the bitch was strong. She sunk her claws into his shoulders. He screamed, but it was short-lived as the thing threw up a vile green fluid into his maw. Brian gagged as his mouth flooded with a salty, sour taste, reminding him of his own jizz, having once tasted it out of curiosity.

His mouth burned. He tried turning his head to spit out the substance, but the bitch held a hand over his lips, forcing him to swallow it.

His insides were on fire. He’d never felt such agony. The Jackie-thing pushed itself away, letting him writhe on the floor. She—it—had poisoned him, like a spider injecting its prey with venom, turning the quarry into mush so that it could devour the kill later.

Brian convulsed. With the pain at its peak, his body went numb, his thoughts leaving him. Everything went black.

~

With the body prepared for the taking, she ripped off the boxers and saw that its baby had been born. Delighted, the Jackie-thing called out to its offspring, telling her child to come to Momma. From around the corner, the creature came, leaving its slimy trail behind as it slithered into its mother’s arms.

FAT BOY

Kelly M. Hudson

“Hey, Fat Boy!” Dave Richie yelled across the cafeteria, which was something he didn’t need to do considering the person he was yelling at, Tommy Carol, was sitting just one table away.

Dave was a jock, captain of the football team, and record-breaking, All-State linebacker. He was six feet two, all muscle, shaggy blond hair, and sparkling blue eyes. He had perfect teeth to go with his perfect smile. The only bad thing about Dave was his attitude, but most forgave him because he was just so cool and pretty. He was sitting with his friends, fellow jocks and a cheerleader or two, and Candy Adams, his girlfriend. Candy was the hottest girl in school, with large tits, long legs, straight blond hair that reached down to the middle of her back, and big, brown eyes that would make a priest curse his vows.

They all laughed along as Dave held out the tray with his lunch on it, leaning over the pack and shoving it toward Tommy’s face. On the tray was a plate and on the plate was a big slice of greasy pizza.

Tommy slid back in his seat, eyes as big as his belly.

“Want some real food?” Dave mocked. “I know you do. Look at you, eating that rabbit food. Come on, man!  You know you want some of this. It’s the good stuff.”

Tommy was nothing like Dave or his gang. He was five feet, ten inches tall, weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, had beady black eyes, unwashed, dandruff-flecked hair, and wore thick glasses because he was practically blind. Everything about Tommy was fat. And the zits! They covered his face like ants on a dropped piece of chocolate.

“No, thanks,” Tommy replied. He said it soft, humbly trying to be nice, showing he was above their mockery.

“Aw, it’s okay,” Dave said. “I can get another slice.”

The smell of melted cheese and burnt pepperoni filled his nostrils. His stomach gurgled. Despite himself, he licked his lips. It was all too much. He really did want that slice of pizza, but he knew he better not.

Dave, having heard Tommy’s stomach and watching the fat kid lick his lips, almost lost his voice he laughed so hard.

“I knew it!” Dave said. “Come on! You can’t resist this, can you, Fat Boy?”

He waved the plate closer to Tommy’s face.

“Go on. Nobody will judge you. We all know it’s a gland problem,” Dave said. His group cackled behind him.

Tommy was angry. His face rolled up, his nostrils flared, his fist balled at his side. He wanted to get up and punch that bastard right in the face. And how good would that feel? Oh, so very good. He could stand, slug Dave, and then he’d see if all those jocks would still be laughing.

He studied their leering faces, their mocking stares. All his anger and resolve faded. He knew if he did get up, even if he got a lucky shot in and Dave didn’t get back up and kick his ass, the others would. He would get what, maybe two seconds of sweet satisfaction, before they beat the living crap out of him?

It wasn’t worth it.

And on top of it all, that damn pizza smelled so good. He wanted nothing more than to snatch it up and shove it down his throat. He felt like he was starving ever since this diet started. Everyone else could eat what they wanted. Why couldn’t he?

Dave left his table and sat next to Tommy. He put his arm around him. He held the pizza out. He leaned in close. He put his lips to Tommy’s ear.

“Go ahead,” he said. “No one will judge you.”

Tommy licked his lips again. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. If he did, they’d never stop laughing. But it looked so good. So, so good. Maybe he could take a bite, one little nibble. That would be okay, wouldn’t it? Maybe Dave was right. Maybe no one would judge him, after all.

He leaned forward and closed his eyes. He opened his mouth.

Dave shoved the pizza into his face, smearing it back and forth. The jock’s friends roared with laughter.

Tommy jumped up and ran from the school cafeteria, the cheese and grease on his face absorbing his tears.

~

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. Why did he have to be so fat and everyone else didn’t?

They called him Fat Boy. He could hear it, hanging in the air, chiming like church bells, mocking him.

Fat Boy!

He stood in front of a mirror, the door to his bedroom locked. He was naked and, yes, he was very, very fat. Tommy stared at his reflection, the tears he’d been crying wet and shiny on his chubby cheeks. He made sure to look at every inch of himself, to absorb this entire presentation.

Fat.

It started with his cheeks and worked its way down. They hung off his jaw, almost like a hound dog. Then, there was the stuff under his chin, around his neck, and rolled above his spine. His shoulders were okay, but down past them, along his arms, it was like he was caked with three layers of Jell-O. He raised an arm and watched the hanging giblets quiver. With the size of the tits he had, Tommy might as well be a girl, and, sitting beneath them, in massive waves, was his belly. It was etched with stretch marks, running up and down like stripes on a tiger. His stomach drooped over his waist, nearly hiding his crotch. In fact, he couldn’t see his own tiny wiener if it weren’t for the mirror. There was a layer of fat above it, covering his penis, hiding it. His thighs were mounds of cottage cheese, the curds only stopped by his knees. Beyond there, he was fairly normal looking, with average calves, ankles, and feet.

Fat Boy!

Why was he like this? His Mom always told him it was a glandular problem. But she also used to feed him candy and cakes and cookies all the time. Was it her fault?

A bubble of snot expanded and popped from his left nostril, a hangover from his crying fit. He let it sit, wet on his upper lip. Why bother? He was already hideous, what would that little more matter?

Fat Boy!

Over and over again, he heard it, echoing in his mind. It was all he heard as he stood, ashamed of the way he looked but unable to turn away or do anything about it.

Fat Boy!

They hated him. But why? What had he done to them?

They hated him because he was fat.

Well, he hated himself, too. There was no way their hatred could match his own.

“Honey?”

It was his Mom at the door.

“Hold on,” he said. He scrambled, finding an old terrycloth robe. Tommy threw it on and answered the door.

Mom was there, all five feet of her. She was as round as a Butterball turkey, and smiling like she’d just won the lottery. In her hand she held a plate full of steaming, straight-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. She held them out to him.

“For you,” she said. “A little reward, because you’ve been doing so well.”

The aroma went straight up his nose, all the way down his throat, and stirred an insane desire in his stomach. He nearly vomited, he wanted those cookies so bad.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Go on.”

He grabbed two fists full and rammed them in his mouth. His Mom set the plate on his desk and applauded.

“I’ll be back with some milk,” she said.

He grabbed two more cookies and put them in his mouth, freezing for a second as he caught his reflection in the mirror. His lips were smeared with chocolate and bits of cookie. Tears sprang to his eyes.

Fat Boy!

He ate those two cookies, and two more, and two more after that, and on and on until the plate was clean. He cried the whole time, unable to help himself. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

~

The next day, Dave tripped him in the hallway at school. Tommy hit the ground hard and rolled into a ball.

Dave laughed.

“Just wanted to see if you’d bounce,” he said.

Dave’s friends were there and they laughed. Nobody laughed as hard as Candy did, though. She thought it was plenty funny.

Tommy stared up at her, eyes full of tears. She stared back and her braying paused for a moment. He felt something between them, a connection, for a fleeting moment...and then it was gone. She laughed again, along with the rest.

“Ewww!” she said. “Pull up your pants. Crack kills!”

More laughter. Tommy climbed to his feet, pulled up his pants, and scuttled off.

~

That night, he was in front of the mirror again, naked, staring at himself. He had a knife in his hand. He ran it along the fat of his belly.

He stuck the tip of the blade against his belly and pushed. The knife cut his skin. He thought of butter. The pain lanced out in a network of webs. He pulled the blade free and stared at the tip. A drop of his blood hung there, blobbing, before finally falling.

Even his blood looked fat.

~

They did not stop. Every day it was something new. Sometimes they’d bring snacks, like cakes and chocolate bars. Other days they’d simply sit back and chant “Fat Boy!” over and over again, whenever they saw him. And by “they,” he meant Dave and Candy.

Every day, he cried.

~

One night, his Mom came to Tommy’s room. She had some Oreos and a glass of milk, his usual snack before bedtime. Along with the food, there were two small, white pills with “Vicodin” etched into them. Next to those were two more pills. Xanax.

“These should help, honey,” she said.

He obliged, never asking what they were for.

And, oh, how good they felt.

~

The beginning of the next week, things got worse.

He walked home from school, like he always did. Alone.

But not for long.

Behind him, running up like her ass was on fire, was Candy. She caught up and slowed down, drawing even with him.

“Hey,” she said.

He said nothing.

“What are you doing?” She smelled like cotton candy.

“Walking home,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Oh,” she said. Her eyes were so pretty.

He said nothing.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” she said. The sunlight hit her hair just right, making it glow like a halo.

“O…Okay,” he said, stuttering slightly.

“So, sorry about Dave,” she said, her eyes sincere, almost misting.

He shrugged.

“He can be mean,” she continued, a slight, apologetic smile playing on her lips.

Tommy liked the way she smiled. “Yes,” he said.

“He’s just afraid. His dad used to be, um, fat, so I think he’s got a complex or something.”

He liked the way her nose dipped when she spoke, like a string was tied between it and her chin. “That sucks,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

They walked in silence for a minute. He tried not to look at her, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes skittered over her body, absorbing every detail.

“So…” Candy began. She stopped walking. He did, too. “I have a confession to make.”

“What is it?”

She blushed.

She blushed? How could that be? What did she have to be embarrassed about?

“I kind of have a crush on you,” she said.

He thought he might cry. He teared up and his heart almost exploded in his chest, it was beating so fast. A rush of pure pleasure roared through his veins. This was better than any food he’d ever eaten.

“You…you do?” Tommy said. He stuttered again, but he didn’t care this time.

“Yes.”  Her eyes hit the sidewalk. She glanced behind her and back at him again. “Would you come over here? By the house? I want to tell you something else.”

“Okay,” he said.

She walked to the side of a house in the suburbs they were winding through. The driveway was empty. No one was home. She stopped at the corner and turned back around. He stopped. She was inches from him. Her body heat floated over, carried by her cotton candy scent. Tommy thought he might faint.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m going to kiss you,” she said.

His breath hitched in his chest. He closed his eyes.

“Step closer,” she said.

He did.

“Pucker up.”

He did.

“Here it comes.”

He giggled.

Something steaming hot, wet, and smelly smashed against his mouth. It was followed by insane laughter.

His eyes fluttered open. Candy was standing to the side, face in hands, laughing so hard she looked like she was going to puke. Next to her was Dave and, behind him, the rest of the gang. They’d been hiding around the corner of the house.

Dave held a plastic bag, wrapped over his hand, and in it was a chunk of dog shit. The rest of it was smeared across Tommy’s mouth.

“Fat boy!” Dave screeched.

Tommy turned and ran.

~

It was easy to poison his Mom. He just kept feeding her pills. Once he got past the first couple, she kind of lost track, and he continued giving her more and more, until she finally vomited in her mouth and choked to death.

He was sad, watching her die. But he stood there, like a dutiful son, until it was all over. He shut her bedroom door and locked it.

He went down to the basement. There was a flight of stairs and, at their bottom, a thick, heavy door. He took the time to clear the room out, leaving only two wooden chairs and some rope. Once he was done, he shut the door and locked it from the inside. He spent thirty minutes trying to force the door open, using every angle possible.

Escape was not going to happen.

He smiled, pocketed the key to the basement, and made his plans.

~

Dave was easy to get. Tommy followed him home the next day and waited outside for his chance. He brought along his bike, some rope, and his baseball bat. An hour later, when the sun had gone down and darkness was blanketing the town, Dave brought a load of garbage out to put in the bins. Tommy crept up behind him.

Crack!

One blow was all it took.

~

Candy was even easier.

She went outside later that same night, walked down the street, and ducked behind a tree. She fished out a pack of cigarettes and a match. She lit one and sucked the smoke down. She sighed as she exhaled.

She never saw the swing.

~

Three hours later, both of them woke up. They were tied tight to the chairs in Tommy’s basement. They were confused and disoriented.

Tommy sat in his own chair by the door.

“What’s going on?” Dave said, his words slurred.

“You’re both my guests,” Tommy said with a smile.

Candy screamed. She screamed and screamed, her cries echoing off the walls. Tommy kept smiling. It was a queer smile, sort of odd, and slanted slightly to the right. He waited until her voice gave out, and then continued.

“We’re in my basement. There are no windows. We are deep underground. There is only one door in…and out. I have the key. There is no escape.”

He stood, waddled over to them, and stuck wet rags into their mouths. When they were good and stuffed, the crying muffled, he used duct tape to seal them, winding the roll around their heads.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Tommy said.

~

He made sure to go to school, every day. He kept all his routines the same. He could arouse no suspicions. Every night, he came back home and checked on his prisoners. They were still there, still tied, still freaking out.

He ate anything he wanted that week. He had cake and pizza and candy and potato chips with ketchup. He ate until he was full and then ate more.

~

Mom started stinking on the second day. He had to seal her room with duct tape and plastic sheeting he found under the kitchen sink.

~

On the third night he visited his prisoners, they were getting pretty desperate.

“Please let us go,” Dave pleaded.

He took out their gags and gave them each a deep drink of water—one glass full—and no more. They both stunk of shit and piss, which they had no choice but to sit in.

“No,” Tommy said.

“I’ll do anything you want,” Candy said when her gag was removed. “I’ll suck you.” Her face was drawn, her eyes sunken in. “Or, you know, we could do sexy stuff. Whatever you want.” Her breath stank and her voice was lost, like she had been crying from the bottom of a well. There was no hope in it, just the sound of a lost girl calling for help out of habit, not out of belief. That bleakness, combined with the stench of piss, shit, and their natural body odor, almost made Tommy gag.

“No,” he said.

He stuck the gag back in.

~

On the fourth day, the police showed up at the school. Tommy acted dutiful and diligent, playing the role just right. They questioned him, of course; they questioned everyone. They did ask him about the bullying. He shrugged it off.

They left, satisfied.

Tommy smiled his secret, slanted smile.

Later that night, when visiting his captives, they both complained of hunger.

“Please,” Dave said. “A little food? Please?”

Tommy laughed and shut the door as he left.

~

On the fifth day, a Friday, it was time.

He woke up that morning and ate like a pig. He stuffed everything that was left in the kitchen, every sweet, every chocolate, every bit of ice cream, into his mouth until he could eat no more. He waited for it to digest. Around noon, he decided to go ahead and do what he’d been dreaming of for the past week.

He got the pills, took two Xanax and two Vicodin, grabbed the knife, and walked down the steps to the basement. He paused at the entrance, hand on the knob.

Time to get to work.

Tommy stripped naked in front of them. Dave whimpered, Candy retched.

He walked around them, the trapped air in the basement warm on his bare flesh. He slapped his belly and laughed.

“I tried dieting, but it didn’t work. Why do you get to eat what you want and be skinny and I can’t?”

He jabbed the back of Dave’s neck with the tip of the knife. The boy screamed. Tommy grinned as he watched a trickle of blood pour down Dave’s neck and onto the back of the chair.

“It’s not fair,” Tommy said. “And then I get made fun of. That’s not right. I can’t help it. I can’t help how I am. And then I go to school and you humiliate me. And I turn on the TV and there’s fat jokes. It’s not right.”

“I’m sorry,” Candy said. “Please. Let me go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for sorry,” Tommy said. He stopped walking around and stood in front of them so they could see his nakedness. He ran the edge of the blade across his chest, between his flabby breasts. The knife cut him, but he hardly felt it. The drugs were doing their work.

“So,” Tommy said, “you’re hungry? Okay. Let me give you a bite to eat.”

He slashed the blade across his right breast, sheering it off. The flesh cut easy and the blood only spurted a little. He hacked through until there was just a thin flap of skin left next to his arm, holding the tit on. With a savage jerk, he tore it free. He held up his own, severed breast. The inside of it glistened, wet blood dripping and splattering on the floor.

He only felt a slight sting. He grinned and dangled the hunk of meat in front of him.

“Who’s first?” he said.

Candy fainted.

Oh, well. He stepped toward Dave, who shrank back in his chair.

“You have to eat it. If you don’t, I’ll cut Candy.”

“No. Please, no!” he squealed.

Tommy swung the hunk of meat inches from Dave’s nose.

“Want some real food?” Tommy cackled manically. “I know you do. Come on, man! You know you want some of this. It’s the good stuff.”

Dave screamed. Tommy shoved the chunk into the boy’s open mouth. Dave fought back, trying to spit it out.

“Come on! You can’t resist this, can you, Dave?” Tommy said. He pushed his severed breast harder, trying to force it past Dave’s tightly-pressed lips. About half had already made it in. “Go on. Nobody will judge you.”

Dave shrieked inside his closed mouth.

“Chew!” Tommy yelled. “Chew your food!”

Dave shook his head.

Tommy screamed and spun. He brought the knife down and slashed Candy across her arm. Blood burbled from the wound, running down the sides of her arm. Tommy turned back to Dave.

Dave shook his head again.

“All right,” Tommy said, through gritted teeth. “How about now?”

He jabbed Dave’s ribs with the knife, drawing blood. Dave squealed in pain, spitting out the meat. It plopped on the floor with a wet smack.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. That won’t do at all,” Tommy said. He picked up the remnants of his severed breast and shoved it back into Dave’s face.

“Eat it, or I will keep cutting you until you bleed to death.”
That seemed to get Dave’s attention. He opened his mouth. Slowly.

“That’s right,” Tommy said. “Stick out your tongue.”

Dave stuck out his tongue.

“Lick it,” Tommy said.

Dave licked it. He shuddered. He retched. He turned white. He licked it again.

“Go ahead,” Tommy said. “No one will judge you.”

Dave accepted the torn piece of Tommy’s breast and gobbled it down. Blood and grease smeared across his lips and dribbled down his chin.

“That’s a good boy,” Tommy said.

~

Candy woke a little while later. This delighted Tommy. His face lit up and he danced a little jig.

“Oh, good! Now we have an audience again, like you did with me.”

Candy stared at the two red, raw, bleeding holes where Tommy’s chest had been.

“You like it? Cheapest breast reduction surgery ever,” Tommy laughed. It turned into a titter. He was beginning to feel a wee bit out of control. And he liked it.

“What is wrong with you?” Candy said, terrified by the macabre scene.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. I am who I am. I’m Fat Boy!” he said. He made a trumpeting noise with his mouth, as if he was punctuating a public announcement.

“Stop it!”

“No,” Tommy said. He bent over, turning his large buttocks toward her, letting it bob inches from her face. “You used to call me lard ass, remember?” he said. He dug through his pants on the floor. He found the key to the basement and stood erect again. He held it out.

“Here it is,” he said. “Your ticket out. I’m going to put this someplace safe, and if you can get it, then you can escape.”
He held the key up, tilted his head back, and dropped it into his mouth. It took a couple of tries, but he finally swallowed it. The teeth raked his throat, but that was okay. He didn’t really feel it, though he could taste the blood.

He picked up the knife he’d left on the floor and drew it across his stomach. Blood oozed from the wound. Candy cried out. Dave said nothing. He sat in his chair, slumped against the ropes holding him. His eyes were dull. Blood and giblets of fat dripped from his bottom lip.

Tommy jabbed the knife deep into his own belly, jerked it right, carved a path through the blubber, cut down, and then went back the direction he came.

“Oh, God,” he said. “I’m feeling that.”

He cut up, completing a rectangle. He dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the floor. Blood poured from his open wounds. It ran town to the edge of his belly and dripped off, splattering on his thighs and seeping down to his knees. He staggered over to the corner, where he kept the bottles of drugs. He grabbed the Vicodin, swallowed a couple more, and followed it with a Xanax. He checked inside both. Only one pill of each left.

Oh, well.

He’d waited long enough.

He dug his fingers into the rectangle he carved. He wriggled them into the wounds, scratching through the fat, until they met inside of him. He worked his fingers around, scrabbling, until his fingers were actually touching each other, flesh to flesh.

Tommy yanked the chunk out. It popped free with a wet smack. He held the handful of fat right in front of Dave.

“Ready to eat up?” he said.

Dave’s mouth opened, slack, as if it was resigned to its fate. Tommy rubbed the fat onto the boy’s protruding tongue. He smeared it around and shoved it in as far as it would go. Dave lapped it up, chewing slow, staring off into space.

Next to them, Candy screamed and screamed.

“You’re next,” Tommy said. He waited until Dave finished eating. He turned away from Candy, putting his body between her and his front side, so she couldn’t see what he was doing. He picked up the knife again. He cut into his love handles, slicing off both sides in two quick strokes.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said.

Her breath hitched in her chest. She closed her eyes.

“Lean closer,” he said.

She did.

“Pucker up,” he said.

She did.

“Here it comes,” he said.

He giggled.

He shoved the piece of fat against her pursed lips, smashing it hard against her closed mouth. She squealed and tried to pull away, but there was no escape from the chair.

“Oh!  I love you!” he said, laughing. He kept smudging the fat all over her face, coating her flesh with his gristle, his blood, and his grease.

“Fat Boy strikes again!” he howled.

Tommy’s head spun. He staggered back. He was losing too much blood now. He had to hurry.

“Okay, okay.” Tommy leaned against the back wall, the concrete cool on his burning flesh. He glanced down and watched the blood as it poured from his wounds. His legs, groin and feet were soaked now.

“Time to finish,” he said.

Tommy staggered over to Dave. He slashed the blade across his stomach. There was a patch of untouched skin between the two chunks he’d taken out. This was the area he exploited. He cut a circle around his belly button, two inches on each side. Once he finished, he dug his fingers in and tore the fat out. It burst free with a grunt and splattered Dave’s chest with blood.

Tommy set the hunk on Dave’s lap. As he did, he saw a little piece of his intestines slide out of the new hole.

“Hot dogs,” he said.

Dark spots exploded at the corners of his vision like black fireworks. Tommy didn’t quite have the strength to hold the knife anymore, so he let it clatter to the floor. He was done with it now. In fact, he was almost completely done. He stared down at his body and smiled.

“I think I dropped about fifty pounds,” he said, blood gurgling in the back of his throat.

He snatched up the piece of fat, and shoved the wad into Dave’s mouth. Dave opened wide, accepting his punishment. His eyes stared out into space, vacant, lost.

Tommy kept shoving, kept pushing, until the fat was lodged in Dave’s throat. At this point, Dave gagged. He fought against his restraints, but there was nowhere to go.

Tommy sat and stared as Dave’s face turned black and he choked to death.

Oh, yes, he thought. Oh. Yes.

Tommy lay down and closed his eyes, riding off on the Xanax high. Candy’s screams accompanied him as he drifted off to death.

~

The police beat down the basement door two days later. They found Dave, still tied to his chair, purple and bloated. Noxious gas filled the room. The second chair was empty.

On the floor, Candy was digging into Tommy’s stomach, carving back the fat, eating it, licking her fingers clean, giggling. The key to the basement was lying in a heap of Tommy’s intestines, unnoticed.

A few officers took Candy away. The rest stayed at the scene, trying to understand what had happened.

And Tommy lay on the floor in death, grinning. Fat Boy no more.

THE PUBIC HAIR TUMBLEWEED

Joshua Dobson

“Fuck my ass SQUAWK fuck my ass SQUAWK!”

I don’t know why the parrot haunting the vents cusses like that. Maybe somebody trained it to cuss like a sailor before releasing it. Maybe it has Tourette’s syndrome. Can birds get Tourette’s syndrome?

“Felch my pucker SQUAWK gargle my diarrhea SQUAWK!”

I’d already closed off all the grates save this one, trapping the little fucker in the ventilation system. It ends today. Opening the box, I take out one of the little black pills, and set it in the duct. I spark up my lighter and touch the flame to the pill. It bursts into flames and a huge black, python-like snake grows from it. When the serpent is fully formed, it slithers into the ventilation shaft.

“Fuck my turd spewer SQUAWK jism queef SQUAWK!”

As I’m replacing the screen, my fat hippie boss pads up behind me.

“George called,” the boss says before pausing to suck on the joint clutched between his fat fingers. George is my boss’ boss. “His grandson’s away on vacation, so he needs you to sweep the floor of the Laundromat once a day.”

I groan. In addition to the Bowl-A-Go-Go, where I work, George also owns the Sudsy Duds Laundromat. The Sudsy Duds is the only Laundromat in sector K that serves sex offenders. It’s nightmarishly fuckin’ disgusting.

“Shit pudding SQUAWK fucky fucky shit cunt SQUAWK!”

The boss passes the joint to me and says, “At least he doesn’t want you to wear the bubble suit.”

“At least then I’d get some free booze,” I reply. George gives bums a free bottle of cheap booze for donning the costume of the Laundromat’s mascot—a man made of bubbles called the Sudsy Dude—and standing out by the street, waving signs that read: Lose Your Crud at the Sudsy Duds.

A flurry of squawking and frantic flapping wings drifts from the vent.

“Spunk bubbles squawk butthole pussy spooge squawk!” shrieks the Tourette’s parrot, but it’s not as loud as before, muffled like it’s coming from inside the body of a snake.

~

On one side of the Laundromat there’s a bar called the Bukkake Bucket. Instead of a cover charge you have to jizz off into a cup in order to get in. They have a carnival style dunking booth, where you throw a ball at a target to drop a naked lady into a dumpster full of rancid jism.

On the other side of the Laundromat there’s a restaurant called Sparagmos that’s run by a cult that worships Dionysus. You pick out a goat or sheep, then, you can either rip the living beast limb from limb with your own bare hands, or relax and watch slutty, drug-crazed maenads perform the sparagmos. In accordance with ancient Dionysian rites, all flesh is served raw.

Depending on which way the wind is blowing the Laundromat stinks of either rotting cum or bloody meat and the menses of madwomen. Today, it kinda smells like both.

Dripping blobs of spilt detergent and swirling splotches of cum glow under the black lights, turning the inside of the Laundromat into a swirling abstract impressionist splatterscape.

An obese woman in a cowboy hat and a metallic gold bikini, the bush basket of which overflows with tangled blond pubes, straddles one of the washers while an off balance load thumps around inside. The fatty moans lewdly as the machine bucks and shudders beneath her. The quivering cellulite is hypnotic as a Lava Lamp.

A weasel faced pervert in a rainbow colored afro wig, with a barcode and the words SEX-OFF tattooed under his left eye in that weird red government ink, spews frothy white foam from the corners of his lipless mouth. He’s either been drinking detergent or he has rabies (not that one precludes the other). Afro Wig glances around furtively before opening a dryer and snatching a huge pair of white cotton fat-girl panties streaked with pink bloodstains. He nearly knocks me over as he darts out the door with the prize clutched between his rotten green teeth.

The Laundromat scum seem even more riled up than usual. Must be a full moon tonight. Glad I have my trusty razor stashed in my boot.

The floor of the Laundromat is a jungle of linty grey-blue dust bunnies and little tumbleweeds of hair, most of which are probably sex-offender pubes.

As I push the dust mop down the aisles, a tumbleweed of red pubic hair about the size of a grapefruit drifts out of the path of the oncoming mop, blown by a breeze from an air conditioner vent no doubt. Maybe what they say about red pubes being good luck is true, because the second time the mop bears down on the pubic hair tumbleweed it is once again blown clear.

The third time the pubic hair tumbleweed dodges the dust mop, I start to think it’s not the result of a breeze. Crazy as it sounds, I’m beginning to suspect that the pubic hair tumbleweed is avoiding the mop, displaying both motility and volition. It’s probably just the pot, I tell myself, but when I reach down to grab the hairball, and it suddenly changes course and increases its speed, there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s alive.

Instead of feeling awe or wonder, I just feel a surge of seething anger. I don’t wonder how this could possibly be happening, I just wanna catch the little fucker. Sweeping the Laundromat floor has suddenly become a contest of wills and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be bested by a ball of carrot-colored sex-offender pubes.

The pubic hair tumbleweed is headed for the safety of the wee little crack between the nearest washing machine and the floor. If it makes it, I’ll never be able to get it out from under there.

I fake left with the mop and, when the tangle of pubes dodges right, I drop the mop and reach down to grab the pubic hair tumbleweed with both hands.

The horrible itchy sensation that shoots through the palms of my hands forces me to let go. I expect to see the pubic hair tumbleweed darting for the cover of the washer, but I don’t cuz it’s not there anymore. The pubic hair tumbleweed has vanished and my hands itch something fierce.

I turn my hands, palms up, and choke back the flood of hot bubbling puke that surges up my throat when I see the curly red hair growing out of my palms. I grab a tuft and try to pull it off only to find that it’s somehow rooted itself in the flesh of my palms.

My furry hand snakes into my left boot and grabs the straight razor. I try to shave the parasitic pubes from my left palm, but the fiendish follicles sense the blade and retract into my flesh, disappearing like the head of a frightened turtle. I barely even feel it when the blade bites into the meat of my palm, shearing strips of skin from my hand. The pubes just retreat further, burrowing deep into my glistening red flesh.

I’ll take the whole damn hand off if I have to, I scream inside my head, as I begin to hack at my wrist.

THE PROUD MOTHER

Ken MacGregor

Charlotte Banning was an unusual woman. She spoke her mind when she chose—much to the frequent dismay of her peers. She was not satisfied with a girl’s education of manners and diction; she was fascinated by science, by anatomy, by medicine. Charlotte Banning was determined to be a doctor.

However, no medical university would accept her. Her grades were excellent, her aptitude plainly evident, but her gender made Charlotte undesirable. Well, in one sense anyway. Many of the men to whom she applied made it quite clear they found her desirable in other ways. And, if she thought it would get her enrolled, she would have fulfilled their desires; what was the body after all if not a tool to be used and studied. Her own, even, if it served her ends. But, the men in the universities refused to even consider letting her attend, though many told her she was pretty.

So, after months of frustration and travel, by motorcar—a device conceived in the bowels of Hell—she finally found herself at a private institution, a stately old house on well-manicured grounds with no sign of its purpose. It was recommended by a sympathetic friend; he, too, had wanted to become a doctor, but had no stomach for the sight of blood.

“Charlotte,” he had said to her over brandy, “if you must pursue this goal, and looking at you I can see you must, there is one alternative you have perhaps overlooked. There is a group that studies human anatomy in great detail, and I have even heard of men using it as a stepping stone to go into medicine. A group of men I believe would not hold so much stock as to a person’s gender as most. Personally, I find it repulsive, but, knowing you, you would likely be enthusiastic.”

“Stop beating around the bush,” Charlotte had replied, “and tell me what this is.”

“Mortuary science.”

And so, she now stood at the front door of The Williamsburgh School of Mortuary Science. Charlotte knocked, was admitted, and, a few hours later, she was enrolled.

In two years, Charlotte mastered the handling of the dead and received her degree. She made the ruined whole again, or at least made them look whole. She learned amazing things about the human form: about the seven stages of death, from Pallor Mortis to Skeletonization. Then, for another year, she served as a mortician’s apprentice. She received greater hands-on experience than she could have in any medical university. At the end of her third year, Charlotte Banning was twenty-six years old, and a licensed mortician. She gave up the goal of practicing medicine; she had found her calling.

~

She used family money to purchase a house in Gloucester, Mass., a town known for its progressive thinking. She set up her mortuary in the basement with a separate entrance in the back. Her office and waiting/viewing area were on the ground floor and her living quarters on the floor above. She bought discrete ads in local papers and set out to meet her neighbors. She was a lovely and personable woman and made friends quickly. Soon enough, clients began to appear. She was providing a service, after all, that would always be needed.

After a few months in town, she met Winston DeGuerre, a handsome man who had been visiting his ailing aunt in England; she had passed away while he was there, so he had come home to his beloved Gloucester. He got word of the new, and by all accounts beautiful, mortician and made his presence known to her. For Charlotte’s part, she was not unimpressed, and allowed Winston to court her.

“Do you know,” he asked her, as the two of them sat on her front porch. “This island was visited by a sea serpent?”

“Really?”

“Truth,” Winston said. “It wasn’t so long ago. Perhaps it will come back.”

“If you’re trying to frighten me,” Charlotte said, “you’ll do well to remember that I handle the dead for a living. I’m not easily spooked.”

“I,” Winston made a face, “sincerely wish you wouldn’t mention that. It makes it difficult for me to see you as the delicate, feminine creature I so desire.”

“I like to think I can be feminine without having to resort to being delicate.” She smiled.

“You speak like a man.”

“As do you.”

“Yes,” Winston said, “but I am a man.”

“Tell me more about the sea serpent,” Charlotte said.

So, Winston regaled her with the famous tale of the Gloucester Sea Serpent. She was enchanted by the way the townspeople protected the beast from those that tried to kill it.

“I love it,” Charlotte said. “This place has such an interesting history. Thank you for telling me about this, Winston. You’re a peach.”

She kissed him on the cheek and he flushed, taken aback. She noticed and awarded him with a devilish smile.

“Did you know, Winston, that a flush, such as the one on your face right now, is caused by a surge of blood to the face, and is in direct corollary to the rush of blood to another part of the body that is usually indicative of an increased level of sexual arousal?”

“I’ve never heard that before,” said Winston, his blush deepening as he suddenly became hyper-aware of that other part of him, and the blood that was, in fact, starting to rush there.

“That’s because I made it up,” Charlotte said laughing. She stood. “I’m going to get some more lemonade. Coming?”

“Um,” Winston hedged. “I’ll just sit for a bit longer, I think. It’s a lovely evening.”

Charlotte laughed at his discomfort, but not cruelly; her eyes sparkled at him.

“Suit yourself. I’ll be back shortly. Here, give me your glass and I’ll bring you some.”

~

Charlotte Banning flipped the five switches that turned on all the basement lights. She had a new body to tend to that had just arrived. A young man, maybe twenty-three, had fallen off a roof and broken his neck. Likely killed within seconds, even instantly. Charlotte removed the sheet and did a quick visual examination. Yes, the head was at an impossible angle and she could clearly see the vertebrae slammed to one side by the impact. Other than that, and a few minor scrapes from the roof shingles as he fell, the body was in good shape. Exceptional shape. Charlotte found herself looking at his groin. It was above average, but not spectacularly large. It was straight, nestled in short, curly reddish-brown hair.

The hair looked soft, and without realizing what she was doing, Charlotte found herself stroking it idly with her fingers. Part of her mind, the rational, scientific part, wondered what the hell she was doing . . . but she didn’t stop. She took off her gloves so she could feel the hair; it was soft indeed, and she grabbed it gently with her fingers, tugging a bit. When she did, something else moved. As she stared, Charlotte realized she wasn’t moving it…it was moving on its own, growing, getting hard.

“Rigor mortis,” Charlotte said aloud. “The stiffness of death.” She knew this was possible; she had read about such cases, shortly after death, but hadn’t seen it firsthand. As she watched—still playing with the fine, soft hairs—it got all the way stiff. She took it in her hand and admired it. It was bigger than she expected, based on its flaccid state. She continued stroking, mesmerized as her hand slid up and down, up and down. She felt herself become wet.

Again, Charlotte’s rational mind rebelled, silently screaming for her to stop. She did not. She stroked the corpse’s thick meat from base to tip, and her excitement continued to grow. Without stopping, without letting go, she slipped her free hand under her skirt, pulled aside her soaked cotton panties and slowly stroked herself, too.

For a while, the manual stimulation was good, really good. It was enough. For a while…then, it suddenly wasn’t.

With a guilty look around—to verify she was alone—Charlotte completely removed her panties and climbed up on the table. With trembling legs, she mounted the deceased man. The dead flesh penetrated Charlotte’s body and she gasped in shock and pleasure. There was some pain as she deflowered herself, but it wasn’t bad. Soon, as she continued to grind against the rock hard penis, there was only wet, hot pleasure.

A knot built in her stomach as Charlotte drove herself toward ecstasy. She started to climax, and, inside her, there was a tremor as the cock she rode twitched and spasmed; the movement drove her over the edge. When she finally stopped shaking, Charlotte sat still, feeling him subside, as a live man would.

When her ardor cooled, her sanity returned. She looked down at what she was doing and was ashamed. She got off of him and straightened her clothes. She found a towel to clean him off and stopped short. There, mixed into that fine, soft hair was blood from her broken hymen and semen. He came inside her.

She threw up.

~

Two months later, Winston and Charlotte were married. It was a lovely ceremony with just over a hundred guests. After their guests left, he carried her over the threshold of his house and into the bedroom. She was giddy, happy as a schoolgirl in his strong arms.

“I do love you so,” he whispered into her neck.

“And I you, my handsome prince,” she replied. Her stomach was in knots, but she was sure it was nerves and hid it. He slid her onto the queen-sized bed. Watching his eyes, she slowly pulled up the hem of her wedding dress, exposing her legs inch by inch. He blushed crimson, and she laughed throatily.

“You’re blushing again, my darling. Is blood rushing elsewhere, too?”

“By God, woman,” he said. “You’re impossible!”

“No,” she whispered. “What I am is yours.”

She pulled him down for a kiss, feeling the heat of him. So very different from the last one, the cool and silent one. She shook her head, driving the thought away.

“What?” Winston said, worried. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she said. “It’s... it’s work. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy and tired. It’s not you. Come here.”

She undressed him one button at a time, while he watched her fingers. When he was down to nothing at all, she stared, drinking him in. She reached up to undo her gown, but he stopped her.

“Let me,” he said, his voice tender. He took his time revealing her flesh. When she was naked, he stared as she had.

“My God,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I’ve grown a bit fat, I’m afraid,” she said, looking at herself.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “That’s just a little bump. I think it’s quite fetching, actually.”

“Will you,” Charlotte asked, “kiss it?”

“My darling wife,” Winston grinned at her. “I’ll kiss anything you want.”

And he did, and she vibrated to the pleasure of his mouth. Finally, she made him stop and took her turn. He loved it, but made her stop almost right away.

“I can’t,” he gasped. “If you do that, I can’t wait. I’ll go, and I don’t want to yet.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Some other time, we’ll do it again, and I won’t let you stop me.”

“I look forward to that,” Winston said. “Now, please, my wife, lie back and let me please you.”

He teased her a bit, almost entering her, and she grabbed his face.

“Don’t make me wait anymore,” she panted.

He slid all the way into her. Her first thought was how hot he was; so much heat in one place. Her second was that he was not quite as big as her last. She quashed that thought, mortified, and concentrated on the feeling between her legs. It was easy to do; the feeling was incredible.

“Rigor Vitae,” she murmured.

“What?” Winston stopped.

“Don’t stop,” Charlotte said. “Rigor Vitae, I said— the stiffness of life. I was appreciating yours.”

“You’re a crazy woman, do you know that? I’ve married a lunatic.”

“Fine, just as long as you keep moving. Just. Like. That.”

She thrust against him with her pelvis, forcing him deeper inside her. She came again and again and the passion drove him over the edge until he spent himself inside her.

Just as he did, he felt something, an extra set of muscles perhaps, envelop him and squeeze. Almost too hard, almost painful, but wonderful at the same time. His orgasm was explosive, a level of pleasure he hadn’t imagined possible. He collapsed atop her, exhausted and dripping with sweat. Moments later, they were spooned together, asleep.

~

In the morning, relieving himself, Winston was shocked to see tiny red circles on the shaft and head of his penis. They were sore and tender to the touch. He worried that his wife had a disease, perhaps caught from a dead body, and now he had it, too. Leaving quietly, so as not to wake Charlotte, he walked to Dr. Billings’s. Billings was a friend as well was his physician, and could be counted on to be discreet.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Winston.” The doctor examined the sores with a magnifying glass. “Actually, I have, but it was much larger and on a leg.”

“What?”

“Man came in here one summer who’d been skin diving. He had an unpleasant encounter with an octopus. Seems he stepped on the poor animal and it sprayed him with ink and grabbed his leg with its tentacles. The suckers made wounds that look exactly like these, only larger, the size of a nickel. You haven’t been doing unspeakable things with a baby octopus, by any chance?”

The doctor laughed at his own joke, but Winston was not amused.

“Last night was my wedding night.”

“Oh. Oh my,” the doctor said. “Perhaps I should examine your wife?”

“Yes,” Winston said. “I think that might be a very good idea.”

~

Charlotte woke alone in the big bed and immediately wondered if she’d done something wrong. Then she chided herself for being silly and got up. She took a long bath and dressed. She made breakfast for herself, wishing her husband was here to enjoy it, too. He walked in as she was eating.

“I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I started without you. I’ll throw another two eggs on for you. Just a moment.”

“Thank you,” Winston said, cold, polite.

“What is it?” Charlotte froze. “I did something wrong, didn’t I? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do; I’ve never done this before. Never been married, I mean. I’ve made breakfast of course. Lots of times. God, I’m babbling. Just tell me what’s the matter, Winston. Please?”

“There’s...” he stopped. “I want you to see Dr. Billings. Today, if possible. Soon after if not.”

“But, why? I don’t feel sick. In fact, I feel wonderful. Last night, you made me feel wonderful.”

Winston slammed a palm on the table, scaring Charlotte.

“I do not want to talk about last night!”

She was stunned into silence. Her appetite fled and she sat down on the floor where she was. Winston looked at her, emotions battling for control of his face. Without another word, he left the room. Charlotte wasn’t much for crying. She never had been, but tears filled her eyes then. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and stood. She grabbed a shawl from the hook by the door and went out, closing the door behind her, listening for the latch.

Back straight, she walked to Dr. Billings’s. She had no idea what to expect when she got there. Her husband’s anger had unnerved her. Was something wrong with her? Was she somehow unclean? Unworthy?

~

“Everything seems fine, Mrs. DeGuerre,” Dr. Billings said. “Is this why you and Winston got married so quickly? I won’t tell a soul, of course.”

“Tell a soul what, doctor?”

“Why, that you’re pregnant of course,” the doctor said. “Of course Winston did the right thing. He’ll be a good father, I assure you.”

“I’m,” Charlotte stuttered, “pregnant?”

“Yes, of course. About two months, I’d say. You didn’t know? That happens sometimes. Mothers sometimes delude themselves that they’re not pregnant for months. Why, I’ve even heard of women who gave birth and seemed shocked that a baby had been inside of them at all. Seems a bit far-fetched to me, but the world is a strange place, you have to agree.”

“It certainly is,” Charlotte said, thinking about two months ago and the only other man she’d ever had inside her. How there was semen on his dead body. How he had cum inside her. “Doctor,” Charlotte’s voice quavered. “Why did my husband ask me to see you? Did he know I was pregnant?” The word felt strange in her mouth, alien.

“No, no,” Dr. Billings said. “He came to see me about an odd...rash he discovered this morning. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t something contagious, that you hadn’t gotten it, too.”

“What rash? I saw him naked last night, and his body was flawless.”

“Dear me,” the doctor blushed a little. “I think it showed up this morning. I told him it was probably nothing, but he wanted me to check you just in case. I do have patients waiting, Mrs. DeGeurre. Congratulations on your baby.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, getting up to leave.

~

Winston was waiting for her when she got home. For a long moment, they just looked at one another.

“How was your visit with Dr. Billings?”

“Fine,” Charlotte said. “He said I’m healthy and normal.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Charlotte snapped. “Why? Does that surprise you?”

“Honestly,” Winston shot back. “Yes. It does, a little. Come with me, please.”

He led her to the bathroom, closed the door. He pulled down his pants and breeches and showed her the marks. They were tiny perfect circles, angry and red. Charlotte knelt in front of him and looked. She used her hand to turn him one way, then the other. His body reacted to her touch, though he was still a bit afraid, a tad repulsed.

“What are they?” She asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me. I think they happened inside of you. At the last moment, I felt something, a pressure, a tugging, a squeezing. It almost hurt, but also felt amazing. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you have some special muscles no other woman does.”

He was getting hard, talking about it, her hand still on him. She saw and smiled.

“Shall I kiss it and make it all better, my husband?”

Without waiting for him to respond, she took him in her mouth, and true to her word, ignored his pleas for her to stop. She drank him down as he shuddered all over.

He forgot all about being upset. He forgot all about everything.

~

For two weeks, she put off letting him enter her again, for fear of somehow hurting her husband. She was also very aware of life growing inside her. She was excited to be a mother, but filled with shame that it was not her husband’s. But, two weeks is a long time for a man, especially a man who just got married and has only had his wife once. Even a man who might be a little afraid of doing it again. And often, desire overpowers fear, and makes us forget we are afraid.

Two weeks is also a long time for a woman. Charlotte wanted Winston just as much as he wanted her. Finally, there really was no choice.

This time, as before, it was wonderful, almost magical. The playful teasing leading up to it was lighthearted and fun, but when it was clear where they were headed, Charlotte and Winston suddenly got serious. He lay on his back looking up at her, a long lean body, slightly bulging in the middle just above the hair between her legs. She held him in her hand, poised to drop and take him in.

“You’re sure you want do this?” she asked, breathing hard.

“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. You’re my wife, and I love you. No matter what.”

“Thank God,” Charlotte said. “I don’t think I could have stopped myself.”

She slowly lowered herself onto him, feeling every inch of his throbbing length push inside. This was what she needed, oh yes. This was exactly it. Winston’s expression said he felt the same. She lowered all the way, their bodies so close they were as one. She felt the usual flutter of pleasure she got from this angle, but then another flutter, higher inside her. Movement. It’s the baby, she thought. I really need to tell him about that. She looked down at her naked self and saw her abdomen move, ever so slightly, a whisper under the skin. Quickly, she looked at Winston. He saw it, too. He stared at the spot. Neither moved for several seconds; neither spoke at all.

Then, she began to slide back and forth, rubbing that sweet spot on him and gliding him slightly in and out. Winston looked up at her, confused, gripped with desire, yet afraid.

“It’s okay,” Charlotte told him. “It’s okay. Just make love to me. I need you to do this.”

That was enough for him. He matched her movement with his own, quickly finding the rhythm. The wet walls of her vagina squeezed him in a hot embrace. He could feel how wet she was, the heat inside of her.

“Ah, God,” he said. “This is what we’re made for!”

Charlotte nodded, focused on her goal. Wanting him to cum, wanting to cum herself. Her hand slid down between her legs and she toyed with her clitoris above the slippery joining of their bodies. Winston watched, wide-eyed and amazed. He felt her muscles tighten, saw her face contort in ecstasy and inching closer to orgasm. He held off; he wanted her to go first. He loved to watch her cum. And she did, squeezing her legs tightly around his hips, she cried out, her whole body tense with pleasure. Winston could hold back no more and he thrust up into her again and again, faster and faster. As he came, his pleasure drove her into another frenzy of orgasms and she nearly screamed.

As Winston came, he felt it again: the gripping, the strange extra muscles inside his wife. It made his orgasm even more intense, despite the fact that the pain was greater this time. He emptied himself inside her, as if every drop was being pulled out of him, almost by force.

When it was over, he rested inside her and was nearly asleep when he felt it again. A tugging. A pulling. He was still hard, but slowly fading, and he tried to pull out of Charlotte. He could not. He was stuck. He looked up at her and met her eyes. She knew, he could tell.

“What are you doing,” Winston stammered. “What are you doing to me?”

“It’s not me,” Charlotte replied. “It’s the baby.” She was calm, even serene.

“Baby?” Winston was puzzled. “But, this is only the second time we’ve ever... and it’s only been two weeks. How could you possibly know if we had a baby? And how could it do that?”

“Oh, Winston,” Charlotte said. “I’m truly sorry to tell you this, but the baby’s not yours.”

Winston, who could still feel himself being pulled into her by something, was incredulous.

“Well, then,” he said, “whose is it?”

“A man’s,” she said. “A dead man’s.”

Winston was speechless. He stared at his naked wife, still straddling him and wondered if she was mad. Then he felt a much harder tug on his penis. This one hurt. The pulling got worse very quickly and it was all he could do not to cry out.

“What’s happening, Charlotte?” he asked. “I’m afraid.”

“Shh. Don’t be. It’s only my child, dear. I think he’s hungry.”

“Hungry?”

Yes, Charlotte thought to herself. Of course her baby was hungry. She could sense it, this need to feed. Somehow, she could feel its hunger.

Winston was pulled up suddenly, his pelvis slamming into hers. Charlotte gasped in surprise, pain and yes, pleasure too. He looked at where they were joined, and saw for a moment the wonderful sight of two as one. Then, he felt a sharp awful pain, and blood poured out of his wife. He was pulled up again, harder and this time something severed. This time, he screamed.

Again and again, as more of his body was pulled inside Charlotte to feed her child, he screamed as no man has ever screamed before or since. Finally, his voice gave out, and then his life did too. Charlotte watched, stunned and fascinated, as the limp body of her dead husband was slowly drawn into her vagina.

Charlotte sat naked on the bed, belly horribly distended but already starting to recede. Her husband’s blood soaked the sheets, and she found herself glad that she had put down the protective under sheet earlier. The mattress might be fine after all.

It was this thought that prompted her to wonder if she was going insane.

~

Charlotte was large with child now and all the Gloucester ladies wanted to know when she was due, whether she thought it’d be a boy or girl. She wouldn’t speculate, she said. She’d be happy no matter what it was. They asked her when Winston would return from Europe, but she said she hoped it would be in time for the baby’s birth, and would say nothing more on the subject.

She asked Dr. Billings to come to her home when the time came. He said yes, and she was glad. Charlotte wanted to make sure, when her baby was born, that it had something to eat. Something other than her.

GAME OF GOLF

Gregory L. Norris

Alvin took aim and swung. “Four!”

The club could have been a driver, or a wedge, or iron, or putter for all he knew—or cared. Alvin hated the game of golf and, particularly, golfers. The club struck its target with a hollow, oaken note, mildly painful on the ear. Granted, the golfer’s head was considerably bigger than a golf ball, far less easy to miss, but pride filled him as vibrations shuddered up his arm and through his bones.

The impact knocked the poofy plum-colored cap off the golfer’s head. Metal slammed into skull bone, former caving in latter. The drive also launched a cascade of liquid crimson across the unnatural green of the surrounding fairway and down the crisp cotton of the golfer’s designer polo shirt, powder blue. The golfer, at first, remained upright, eyes wide, his surprise visible through the streaks of blood. Wetness bloomed from behind his zipper. Mouth hanging open, he attempted to comment on his condition, a series of guttural gargles and grunts spoken in some new, unique language.

Alvin snapped back on the handle and delivered another swing. This one crushed the golfer’s nose, blasting it apart in a shower of syrupy red, creating a mess across the man’s trim silver mustache that reminded Alvin of strawberry topping on an ice cream sundae or banana split.

New language died and the golfer went down, rigid from the top of his shattered head to toes curling in expensive shoes. Just to be sure, Alvin gripped the club’s handle with both hands and chopped downward, twice striking the golfer’s head, once his neck.

The other assholes with their wedges and wingtips clustered in twos, threes, and fours were far too focused on shoving their balls into holes to notice the second murder of that young morning near the eighteenth hole at the Haven Loch Golf Course. The first victim laid in pieces in the woods, partner of the one with the silver mustache, Alvin assumed. Silver no more.

He dragged Daddy War-Fucks into the bushes where, on a humid and overcast June Sunday, the flies were already feasting on Kill Number One, Richie Rich. The once-dormant animal that lived in the space between Alvin’s belly and balls had turned rabid, hungry. Thirsty, for more blood.

And there was so much left to spill, just beyond the slope.

~

The golf cart picked up an additional seven miles per hour on the charge down the hill. Alvin drove it into the three unsuspecting golfers. The front bumper and headlights plowed directly into two of the men, knocking them down, forward, and then down again. He only clipped the third, but the impact with the safety cage was enough to shred something tender and arterial, according to the massive spray of blood that painted his face from the right.

Of the two he nailed head-on, the damage a simple golf cart could unleash on flesh and bone was telegraphed in crunches and snaps and loud croaking pops as organs exploded and faces blew apart beneath tires.

The cart bumped and bucked over body parts. Alvin banked the wheel to the left. Gravity slammed into the vehicle’s rear, nearly spilling it onto the side. A series of deft maneuvers by bloody hands kept the cart upright and moving—and still deadly. Alvin lead-footed and took aim at the golfer he’d clipped. That guy was down but getting back up, clutching at his torn throat with both hands. Blood gouted between steepled fingers; even a battery-powered, normally lethargic lightweight vehicle could transform into a juggernaut in the right hands, apparently.

Alvin ran into the golfer and over him as he fell. A solo performance of high-pitched shrieks briefly rose up, more of that agonal chorus made by souls en route to Hell. A few hard turns and the music shorted out, replaced by the tenebrous calm in which only Alvin’s galloping heart dared speak.

In one of the golf bags that spilled out of the cart’s ass end, he found a hand gun. Neat little semi-automatic piece, the perfect instrument of murder for your typical soul-stealing corporate cocksucker seeking to relieve some stress and compete with his fellow cocksuckers for cocksucking bragging rights on the green.

He checked the clip and carefully tucked the gun beneath his belt, the metal icy against the top of his crack.

Alvin moved on to the next part of the killing chute.

~

The pair he bludgeoned to death at the sand trap fought back and nearly ended Alvin Morris Lampson’s killing spree far short of the first hole. Young, the pair of eighteen- to twenty-somethings likely crowned with pretentious rich kid names like Brandon or Cody or Jason—who spoke in uppity lingo punctuated by the word, “Dude,” played water polo in their families’ in-ground pools, drove new-model sports cars, had never known what it was like to go without, not for one single want or urge, the spoiled fucks—caught sight of him as he approached, his skin glistening with sticky wetness, blood hanging from his chin in clotted ropes, his clothes soaked through with red.

“Chad, what the fuck?” the closest of the two tools asked.

“I don’t know, Trip,” his fellow golfer and near-future corporate hit man-cum-cocksucker answered.

Trip, so the privileged prick was third in a long line of bankers, lawyers, politicians, and pukes. Rapers of humanity and of the Earth.

In his rage, Alvin overlooked the all-important element of surprise that had served him so well to that point and showed his hand too soon. The one named Chad got in a swing with his club, a wedge or a driver or a dildo he’d later use on both himself and Trip after they dined on some endangered roasted animal dressed in fleurs of radish and tomato and sipped Pinot trodden by the feet of the peasants kept chained in their wine cellars.

Exquisite agony burned across a kidney, forcing Alvin to suck in a deep swoop of air. As the painful wave traveled through him in brilliant concentric ripples, some disconnected register realized he’d subsisted on shallow sips since jumping the fence on Mack Hill Road, along the tree line. Almost as sickening as the agony of being clubbed in the flank by the dick’s stick was the smell that filled his lungs from the dick himself—a thick and cloying cologne, designer and expensive no doubt. An image painted on the inside of Alvin’s eyelids between rapid blinks, of that foul cologne lingering on sofa cushions and bed sheets long after the silver spoon soaked in the noxious shit wandered away, spent. A choking haze mixed with sweat and blood, filled his lungs.

Expelling the foul breath, Alvin charged, nailing Chad or Buffy or Binky or Thurston or whatever the fuck his name was in the junk. He fired a kick at Trip’s groin. Soft meat flattened under steel toes. As he dropped, the prick’s face turned an ashen shade belonging more on a corpse than one of the living.

Wincing, Alvin grabbed the Chadster’s head.

“Dude?” the golfer mewled before Alvin slammed his face into the sand, again and again, until the stink of expensive cologne vanished beneath the metallic tang of fresh-spilled blood. The fucker, Alvin noticed when rising, had messed his golf shorts.

Alvin dragged the remaining golfer over to the twitching corpse of his bent-over buddy and stomped his head into strawberry jam, howling, “Suck on your momma’s titties, bitch. Yeah, suck the vinegar out!”

Two more down, and Alvin still didn’t feel sated, like he’d hoped. Two golfers left in chunks and pieces on the sand trap. So many more to go.

He realized that it was the strawberry jam comparison that kept his rage fueled, sending him on to the next target.

~

Alvin drowned one man in the ball washer. Held his head under the water, which was tinted pale blue with a cleaning solution. Bubbles sloshed as fists hammered the plastic tank and legs attempted to launch him into the sky. Maddening seconds after the plunge, the golfer went slack. Alvin relaxed his grip. The golfer’s head slipped out of the ball washer, his lips now blue, too, his face purple, his eyes bulging and cocked in different directions.

Alvin grabbed the man’s golf tees, spilled on the ground, and popped two into his face, one per eye.

~

Alvin slipped into the cottage-style men’s bathroom and resumed the carnage.

Two men dressed in matchy-matchy golf outfits, one canary-yellow, the other a bruised shade of claret, stood side by side at a pair of urinals, discussing the muggy weather, johnsons in hand. In one fluid motion, Alvin reached out and drove their foreheads into the tiled walls directly in front of their faces. Porcelain subway tiles cracked, as did noses. Still spraying their urine, which flew up in little golden fountains, the men crashed spines-down on the unforgiving floor.

Alvin moved toward the feet of the two dazed men. “What have we got here, laddies?” he posed in a Scottish accent.

Kneeling, still wincing from the blow to his flank, Alvin yanked off the largest man’s right shoe.

“A couple of golfers, aye. Golf, such a fine Scottish game. The game of kings. Are ye kings, laddies?”

The two men moaned. Alvin raised the shoe, spike-side aimed down.

“Kings that need crowning…”

He slammed the sole on faces a dozen times each, rapid fire. Blood spattered as flesh shredded and bones broke and matter not quite gray, more the color of orange sherbet, stained canary-yellow and claret clothes alike.

Alvin laughed, his voice resonating sharply, madly, off the urine-stinking walls. “Take that, ye dirty golf devils!”

He was about to exit the cottage-head’s confines and continue onward when a muffled whimper reached his ears through the dying echoes. Alvin tracked it toward the stalls. A set of hairy shins over funched-down shorts trembled beneath the farthest door.

Alvin licked his lips and tasted something sour that his tongue translated into strawberries. “And what have we here, laddies? A bit of raised kilt and sporran? One of the clan in his tartan finery?”

He dropped the bloody shoe, shook the door.

“Open up, lad,” Alvin ordered.

“No,” the voice on the other side said.

Alvin kicked open the stall door and choked the quaking golfer right where he shat.

~

Alvin reached behind his back and drew out the semi, took aim at the face-lifted fuck wearing a visor and shorts too short for a skeleton her age. Diamonds dripped from the gold bands on the woman’s fingers. Mother probably to more than a few of these rich pricks, he hoped the two dead dicks in the sand trap had come shooting out of her gitch as he nailed her cleanly through her ear.

Alvin fired again, capping two of Lady Macbeth’s gal-pal crones. The pops of thunder bounced off the surrounding trees and up into the sweaty gray sky, alerting the rest of the country club set that something truly wicked would handicap their game of golf this day.

It could have been minutes later or perhaps hours when the siren-song of approaching Crown Vics and ambulances joined in counterpoint to the screams of the shot and dying. By the time a uniform tazed the blood-drenched murderer babbling in Pigeon Scottish, a total of twenty-nine dead golfers lay strewn about Haven Loch, most in remote corners, some in several pieces.

~

White male, twenties—and clearly quite, quite mad.

“Why’d you do it?”

He could have told them:

“Alvin Morris Lampson’s my name. Don’t you recognize it? You should. Lampson Farm? It was only the biggest producer of quality food in the area for like a thousand years, you bleeding gits. Lampson Farm, where my grandfather and his father and his father going all the way back to the powdered wigs…well, you get the fooking picture, laddies…ah, yes, our clan farmed this great land. A hundred and seventy-seven acres, I’m told. It was half that when I was a wee bairn; I was seven when they took the cows away. That was the government’s doing, farming out as much of the American menu to foreign countries as possible, and putting the small farmer out of business.

“They raised the taxes, and when we could no longer pay them, they took the land, bit by bit. And by my tenth birthday, they stole the last of it. They bulldozed the house, which had stood for two hundred years; the sweet antique grapes whose precious vines originally came across on the Mayflower, aye; torn out of the earth, they were, tossed into piles of flotsam and jetsam to be carted off to some landfill, along with an acre of strawberries and my great grandmother Sarah Elizabeth Wakefield-Lampson’s heritage roses. Torn out, they were. Made extinct, like the good Lampson name—all so that a bunch of privileged fucks can stroll over the bones of my clan, knock around a little ball while making deals that fill their coffers and degrade the earth and destroy families…”

He could, but it didn’t matter to these puppets of the rich.

Instead, still speaking in that broken Scottish accent, Alvin said, “I bloody hate the game of golf.”

SLICE OF LIFE

Thomas Pluck

Walking down the street of brick row houses, Will squeezed the narrow, gray handle of the knife in his pocket. Sheathed in the leather cover of the Bitch’s Holy Bible. Carbon steel. Sharper than God. Will’s shaved forearms a testament to its purity.

Will stared ahead, mumbled to himself. Shove my knife up that cop’s asshole.
Rip that skirted bitch from crotch to tits.

Will inherited the knife when the Bitch had a stroke in the parlor, sprawled in her flower print armchair dotted with cigarette burns. Will knew she was still alive because her eye twitched when he cut her tits off. Knew she was dead when he sliced her eye and she didn’t blink.

The Bitch had been Will’s mother. She called him the bonus on her SSI check, which kept coming long after the flesh was scraped from her bones and burnt to ashes in the furnace. The bones were stripped clean with lye. He’d wired them together and made a gleaming cage for her eyeless head down in the cellar.

The Bitch’s wizened rictus stood tall among his other souvenirs: a shriveled big toe. A nipple dried into a Hershey’s kiss. A nose. Whatever the knife told him to take.

The knife was God.

When the Bitch owned it, it had been the Devil.

~

Rachel eyed the little brown bottle from her bed. Half empty, round white moons scored down the center. Three weeks since her last.

The dull film of unreality had washed away when she stopped taking the pills. The flowerpots on her fire escape no longer flat as a painting; bagels stopped tasting like modeling clay. The muted buzz of city life focused into taxi horns, sirens, people berating each other over their cell phones, echoing up to her window.

But as weeks ran into one another like watercolors, the flowers withered from neglect. Words became twitching ants and books fell from her limp fingers. The scent of decay settled in, and the beige ceiling above the bed became a black hole she could not escape. An invisible stone crushed her chest to the mattress.

She named the weight Amber, after her older sister.

Amber preferred to sit on Rachel’s stomach as punishment. For using her lip gloss. For eavesdropping. For sharing her room. For being alive.

She hadn’t used the gloss, but Amber didn’t believe her. Even after she pinned Rachel down and pissed on her belly.

“Sleep in it. Tell Mom you peed the bed, you little liar.”

Rachel did as she was told. She’d seen the things Amber had done to their brother, Justin. He ran away the first chance he got.

~

Will’s father ran off with one of his whores every summer. Told Will he couldn’t stand the Bitch all year. Sorry, boy. Hold the fort for me. Will turned seven the year he never came back. The Bitch sucked her cigarette and told Will his old man washed up down the river, and the crabs had eaten his eyes and lips.

That night, Will had woke screaming, sheets soaked with urine.

The second night it happened, the Bitch yanked his piss-soaked undies off, and held the knife to his tiny clammy erection.

“Want me to cut it off? Do you? We’re out of sheets!”

The third night, he soaked the bare mattress. And she cut him.

“Now you’re circumcised, like the whoremaster who made you.”

He woke screaming to the sting of hot piss on his wound. Fell asleep crying into the ammonia smell of his underwear, held in his mouth with loops of the Bitch’s cellophane tape.

~

An origami crane fused of Remington razor blades perched on Rachel’s night stand.

Justin had fled to an art commune, where he made razor blades into sculpture. Beautiful, in their inhuman, industrial way. Untouchable without consequence.

“In Japan, if you make a thousand origami cranes, you get your wish,” Justin had told her. “This is only my seventh, but I hope it grants you peace.”

Rachel wished her crane could shift the tombstone off her chest. That she could summon the effort to crawl from bed, draw a hot bath in her claw foot tub, and fly Justin’s crane from elbow to wrist.

To let the slow poison seep from her veins.

~

Will first saw the girl in the park as he watered the bushes. He fingered his scarred member with one hand, the knife with the other. She sat sketching the bridge. She didn’t smoke, like the Bitch. Her hair was the right shade, the right length. She was tall enough. No ring, and when he followed her home, Will found a rusty fire escape bolted to her brick apartment building, in a trash-strewn alley invisible from the street.

Black paint flaked off the rungs as he scaled the shaky ladder.

~

To Rachel, it resembled a drive-in movie screen miles away, playing the silent and muddy print of an old slasher flick. A rawboned man with coyote eyes stepped in through her window, his long gray knife held low. Distant rumbles rocked the bed as he leaped on her and straddled her chest.

The man was shouting, his rage muffled by miles of vacuum. The knife quivered above her eyes.

Drive it in, Rachel thought. End this suffocation. This yawning empty plain of zero.

Kill me.

~

“Scream, you cunt!”

Will yanked her sweatshirt and her head lolled. The knife split the fabric and he clenched her breast in his thin pale hand. The knife-edge dimpled her mottled pink skin. Fine blond hairs shone against the blade.

“I’m gonna cut your tits off,” he growled. “Scream!”

Will knew she was alive. She blinked.

He slid the blade an inch, spilling blood thick and shiny as rose nail polish.

Nothing else. No reaction.

Will unbuckled and stroked his flaccid, white-scarred member, but it was no good. She was too much like the Bitch. He climbed off the bed, whimpering under his breath. He screwed up his face and plunged the knife into her pillow.

She’d seen his face. He’d have to cut her throat. No souvenir, though. He hadn’t earned it.

Will turned to see her hunkered on the sheets, holding a small metal bird. A thin slice marked her right tit where his knife had kissed it.

The bird was beautiful.

~

Rachel smashed the crane across his face, shrieked and clutched her fingers. The crane shattered into a splash of razors on the hardwood floor.

The man howled through the bloody strips of flesh that were once a mouth. His kitchen knife sank into the wood. He thrashed and clutched his face. Rachel flinched under the flecks of blood.

Rachel stuck the knife to the hilt under his ribs. The knife-point stretched the back of his shirt.

He collapsed to the floor, and she felt the colors rush in. The insane babble of traffic, the stink of unwashed dishes, the rancid funk of his bowels letting go. She felt more alive than she ever had back when she swallowed those round, white moons.

The knife was harder to remove than going in, but at least this was medication she could live with.

STUD SERVICE

J.S. Reinhardt

Two miles in and the day’s heat had built up a slick sheet of sweat between Steve’s body and his t-shirt. Only a fool ran in South Florida in August.

He was a lot of things, but foolish?

Enough was enough, time to cut today’s run short; with the sun coming up the heat would be unbearable in no time.

Checking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic—like there would be any on this road—Steve leaned over and crossed the aged tarmac in three strides. His thoughts shifted back to Miami, back to work. The soft crunch of his shoes against the sandy shoulder pulled his mind back to his breathing. As he crested a small rise, Steve took note of the vehicle pulled off to the side a quarter mile up; a rusty Ford pickup with long, surf-casting fishing poles jutting up out of the bed. It was a hike to the closest beach from this road—some local must have a special spot.

He didn’t recognize the truck, but, then again, he had only been in town for a week, most of which he spent holed up in the rented cottage reading and trying to relax. This was his first vacation since becoming director of Emergency Medicine at Mercy Hospital. He didn’t have to be back in Miami for another week, but the dread of returning to the hustle of the city was already boiling up. Gazing down at his feet, he tried to clear his head again.

Movement.

Something fast rushed at him from the brush to his right. For a split second he thought it was a gator, but as the large form slammed into him, Steve registered the acrid smell of dirty human. Human or not, he was still gripped with fear as his body crumpled to the ground, his head bouncing off of the jagged concrete.

Dazed but conscious, Steve heard grunting, and felt the hot roadway under him.

He was being dragged toward the truck.

“Stop—”

His mind warbled and nausea crept into his gut. The last thing he saw was a large black fist slamming into his face.

~

Head lolling on his shoulders, arms bound behind his back, he was being dragged through water, deep grunts accentuated the pain of his body being lifted and then his knees were scraping on a rough wood floor. His head was covered, the rough fabric sticking to the side of his face. His whole head pounded in time with his pulse.

Consciousness slipped away from him again.

~

Grunting, like a boar.

Water dripping.

A torrent of tepid, salty water poured down over him.

Someone grabbed the sack and yanked it off, taking some of his hair with it and opening the wound on the side of his face. Warm blood pulsed out as the coarse fabric ripped free from the road rash.

Steve blinked, trying to focus in the low light. The smell of a zoo in summer overwhelmed him, thick and musky with stink and urine.

Then he saw her.

He figured her weight to be somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred pounds—an abomination in any sense of what a human could be.

She had no form, just roll upon jiggling roll of glistening obesity. Pale, almost translucent flesh curdled like old milk over her gelatinous fat. Festering open sores clumped together in wide swaths across her naked skin, seeping dark black and yellow fluid that crusted in the folds of her rotund, slug-like body. Other bumps, red volcanic rises of agitated flesh, threatened to erupt with white puss on her face and neck.

Her smell filled the humid chamber, overpowering the fetid swamp decay; a pungent stink of old sweat, stagnant shit, rotted meat, and yeasty ripeness.

She moaned, shifted her bulk slightly to the side, and let loose a stream of piss that sprayed over her massive legs and ran down the rough-hewn wood steps in thick rivulets. Acrid ammonia pierced through the foggy haze of Steve’s overloaded senses.

Settling back down into a semi-upright position, as much as her bulk would allow, she licked her cracked and seeping lips with a thick, slimy tongue. Her smile revealed rotted black teeth.

“You’re very tasty looking, young man.”

Filthy, over-stuffed sausage fingers tweaked the erect nipple of her left breast, a thin yellowish fluid seeping out, matting down the black hairs that surrounded her areola. She brought her fingers to her mouth and flitted her tongue out to taste the fluid.

Two filthy, naked men pushed sharpened sticks into his side, their muscled bodies towering over him as Steve dropped to his knees.

“Good job, boys.”

She flung the last clinging tendrils of her tit’s excretion to the floor like moist snot. A naked, dark-skinned dwarf scampered from the shadows, his flopping erection testament to the enjoyment he felt at his mistress’s gift, and began licking at the dollop of fluid.

In his periphery vision, Steve could see one of the large men that had dragged him in begin to manipulate his cock, deriving some sort of pleasure from this horrific scene.

Steve shook his head from side to side, unwilling to open his mouth and speak for fear of adding his own vomit to the muck and stench of this beastly woman’s chamber. The dwarf sat, legs splayed, furiously beating his cock.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

The dwarf giggled, then let out a high pitched wail as his red-tinged ejaculate pumped out over his hands and dribbled to the floor. Steve watched as the diminutive freak laid down in the mess and began rolling around, his laughter filling the small room.

Steve convulsed, gagging.

The woman waved her hand, the movement causing her whole body to undulate.

“My boys sure know how to pick them.”

They were all laughing now, cackles swirling around his head, and Steve couldn’t hold back any longer. Lurching forward, his morning’s breakfast rushed out of him in a chunky torrent. The woman’s behemoth “boys,” dwarf, and woman herself laughed louder, wheezing and coughing. The stab of a sharp stick in his back pushed Steve off balance and he slammed down into his own vomit.

The dwarf scampered over to him, splashing his little feet in the puddle of puke, and proceeded to rain piss down onto Steve’s head and face from his chafed and bloody cock. Steve writhed around, gagging on another rise of vomit, fighting to keep his mouth and eyes shut.

“Get him up and into the pen. I should be ready tomorrow, boys.”

With that he was yanked up by the binds on his wrists. The dwarf waggled his flaccid penis at him, squeezing out short bursts of foul urine on Steve as he was dragged across the floor.

The fist crashed into his face again, and Steve welcomed unconsciousness, hoping it was all just a dream, he would wake up in the cabin, back in a world he could understand.

~

He came to in an even more nightmarish room.

Naked, in a rusted cage of flat steel, his sweat turning the dirt floor slick beneath him. Pale light filtered through painted over windows, casting the small room in an amber hue. The room was dank, and as his vision cleared, the horrors of his surroundings came into focus.

A second cage held a prone figure. The long dirty hair made him think that it had been a woman, but there was no way to tell for sure. The body’s flesh looked soft, moist, and gangrenous. Bloated, the outer layer of skin was flaking and brown. Whoever that person had been, their corpse was now in an advanced state of decay, exasperated by the heat and humidity. The smell was foul. The churning sound of liquid meat drew Steve’s eyes to the corner, where a second body, this one missing its head, arms, and legs, roiled with maggots. The appendages, roughly hacked from the torso, hung from the ceiling bound and sweating fat like sausages in a deli. There was no sign of the head. Flies filled the room with a buzzing, and palmetto bugs skittered on every surface.

In his fifteen years of emergency room practice, Steve had thought he’d seen the most disgusting things a human body could become, but the terror that he would soon be festering and rotting away in the room like these two poor souls, made anything he had seen in the ER pale in comparison.

He had to escape.

The sound of large latches being thrown cracked into the room.

One of his captors struggled to pull a large man into the cage area with one hand. The thug had a hatchet in his other hand. Steve turned away, not wanting to see.

A wet thud, some grunting from the disfigured man, then the unmistakable sound of the hatchet burying into flesh. Steve rocked back and forth, wishing his hands weren’t bound so he could cover his ears. The floor shook as the hatchet came down again, striking wood instead of meat and bone.

“Eat!”

Turning, the man threw a severed forearm at the cage, smiling.

Behind the hatchet-wielding captor, on the floor, the large prisoner lay naked, his right arm severed and now laying just outside of the bars.

Steve dry heaved, his stomach empty, his body’s reaction impossible to control.

Stepping over, the hatchet-man picked up the arm and started poking at Steve through the bars with the severed limb, laughing and shuffling his feet.

“Eat, dummy, eat!”

Recoiling, wishing he could melt into the floor, there was no escaping the taunts. The dead man’s hand slapped him, sliding across his sweaty skin. The hatchet-man lifted the arm to his own mouth and ripped off a piece of flesh from the mangled limb, chewing it with broken teeth.

Blood and gristle dripping from his gaping maw, the man reached through the bars and tossed the severed arm onto Steve’s lap. The flesh was warm and slick, the feeling of it landing on his exposed genitals pushed him into a panic. Steve screamed and thrashed about. His captor’s laughs stopped and a scowl overtook the thug’s face. The man’s hands reached in, grabbed Steve by the hair, and slammed his head into the bars.

“Quiet! Eat!” Steve’s head bounced off the bars once more and he crumpled to the floor as the hatchet-man released him and walked out of the room, closing the door and throwing the locks again from the hallway.

The chill of shock settled in Steve and his body shuddered uncontrollably. The arm slid off him and down to the floor, but he could still feel it there against his leg, cooling and moist. Roaches converged on the cage, crawling on him, biting at his fingers, swarming the severed arm. He felt them wiggling between his sweaty ass cheeks, spiny legs scratching at his tender scrotum, their gnawing mouths pulling at his body hair. Steve squirmed, feeling the roaches pop under him and scurry away. A nauseous, soupy feeling crept up into his gut. The light was fading and shadows enveloped the room. The bugs, seeming to multiply, scurried everywhere. His head was swimming in delirium, and slowly, the room drifted away down a black tunnel.

Everything snapped back as the door latches were thrown again.

Pale, hot sunlight filtered into the room.

How long had he been out?

“Momma wants you, don’t fuss.”

Steve’s legs were cramped and leaden as the brute pulled him from the cage and dragged him back down the hallway. He could hear music playing, a janky staccato rhythm of drums and warbling accordion like some twisted circus was underway in the distance.

The man pushed him to the floor and stepped on his back as he slid a steel door to the side. The disjointed music washed over Steve’s overloaded mind. The mother’s chamber was lit up in blinking Christmas lights, red, blue, and green flickering everywhere. The massive woman was splayed out on her platform, legs out, bloated feet planted on the strained wooden steps. The dwarf’s face buried in the woman’s cunt, head shaking back and forth, tiny hands massaging the dappled flesh of her enormous thighs as she moaned and fondled her seeping breasts.

The other man moved out of the corner and grabbed Steve’s left arm, and the two hauled him to the foot of the stairs. They pulled back on his shoulders, holding him in a kneeling position. The pain of blood rushing back into his legs spun Steve’s mind away from the horrific scene and back to his own tortured body.

With a guttural howl, a geyser of fluid pushed out around the dwarf’s head and the woman’s entire body quaked with pleasure. The dwarf lapped at her pussy with fervor, and as her wailing ceased, the diminutive pervert leaned back, stumbled down the steps, and turned to look at Steve.

The dwarf’s face was spattered with sticky yellow puss, his eyes wide, a crazed smile revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. With pudgy hands, the demented dwarf wiped the woman’s vaginal fluid off his cheeks, and flung it on Steve’s face with a high pitched squeal, his feet shuffling in a gleeful soft shoe routine.

“Help momma sit up, boys.”

The two men pushed Steve to the ground, and the dwarf jumped onto his back, mounting him like a toy pony. The men strained as they pulled the woman upright, propping her up with some sort of plank behind the mass of her torso.

“Look up here, mister.”

The dwarf pulled back on Steve’s hair, and the full view of the woman shut out the pain in Steve’s body.

Milky, viscous fluid oozed from her pussy, small tendrils clinging to the matted hair carpeting her pubic area. The agitated skin of her thighs, scaling and flaking off, reminded Steve of the lepers he saw on his last trip to Egypt. As his eyes moved up, over the mound of her body, the smile on her face brought back the chills of shock, her festering tongue darting in and out over her lips. Nausea twisted his gut again. She shifted her bulk slightly, the platform groaning in protest, looking directly into his eyes, and the rumble of a wet fart bubbled out from under her. On his back, the dwarf shook with laughter as the hot, beefy smell of her putrid insides wafted down.

“That’s better,” she said with a smile. “Momma needs a woman child, and you gonna give it to me.”

Peels of laughter filled the room; the boys caressed her tits, the dwarf jumped up and down on his back, convulsions twisting Steve’s insides.

“Bring him up here, boys, momma wants a fucking, and you needs a sister!”

The dwarf dismounted him as her two sons came around and hoisted him up by his now-numb arms and hauled him closer to the gaping, festering pussy of their mother. As Steve was dragged closer, he noticed squirming maggots in the crusted pubic hair surrounding the dark red and swollen lips of her cunt.

“You gonna fuck me good, or else.”

The men lifted him off of the ground, his shoulders sending out electric waves of pain that made Steve’s head spin further into delirium. They set him down on the steps, off balance, and he fell forward onto her enormous belly, the heat from her foul sex close to his protesting, retracting cock. There was no way he was going to get hard enough to fuck this disgusting beast, and the thought that they may kill him seemed a welcome relief.

Steve squirmed to get his face out of the folds of her belly, and terror rocketed through his body as the boys pulled his legs apart. Another set of hands, tiny ones, began manipulating his cock.

They were going to force him hard.

Steve focused on the rotten, caustic smell of her body.

The decomposing bodies of the cage room.

The thoughts of these horrendous people butchering him.

Despite the horrors of his situation, his body was responding to the dwarf’s hands.

He felt himself growing hard, the toothless mouth of the diminutive sex slave pulled his scrotum in, the thick tongue swirling around his balls as the two hands slid back and forth faster on the shaft of his growing erection.

“Yea, get him, Rufus, get him going good!” The woman’s voice wheezed, her body rocking back and forth like a sweaty water bed below him.

He fought his body’s reaction, but as the dwarf moved his mouth from Steve’s balls to his cock, slurping up and down the entire length, the first spasms of orgasm began to pulse through his member.

The men yanked him up, his cock flipping out of the dwarf’s mouth, and forced him into their mother. The woman’s pussy was hot like an infected wound, sopping wet, and gritty. They rocked his body back and forth into her, and Steve began to weep, screaming as his body took over and released his load of cum into that disgusting filth hole that bore these monsters.

The woman groaned, slapping the sides of his head, and then pushed him back against the men.

“Now that’s a fucking, boys!”

They threw Steve to the floor, as he slammed into the wood, screams of pain and horror gurgled up from his very core. He rolled to his side and saw the two men pumping their cocks, standing on either side of their mother’s face, her tongue running over her lips, hands manipulating their scrotums. The dwarf stood in front of her pussy, one hand ramming up and down on his erection, the other slapping, then rubbing, the woman’s clit.

Clarity shot into Steve’s mind.

Their focus was on each other, not him.

This was it.

Steeling his core, Steve squirmed further away. They didn’t see him move.

He would get away, or die trying.

All four of the disgusting swamp dwellers were moaning, moving in time with the blaring music, eyes closed in incestuous ecstasy.

Steve rolled over and exploded onto his feet. Without glancing back he stumbled through the open doorway into the hall. His legs protested, but adrenaline was pumping now. He bounced from wall to wall, almost falling as he willed his legs forward faster.

Bursting through a door, he slipped and slammed into a large table strewn with blood soaked clothes.

Down another hallway, through another door, and suddenly he was in what looked like a regular, filthy, backwoods home, complete with a large entry door that was open.

As Steve pushed through the dilapidated screen door, he heard screams and howls behind him.

He forced himself out into the oppressive heat and took off straight across the littered yard, running as fast as he could.

A narrow path cut through the underbrush, weaving left and right, up a slight incline that rose the burning in his thighs from an ember to a raging fire.

They were behind him now, crashing through the woods.

He leaned forward and pushed harder. Branches reached out and tore at his arms and legs, and he burst into a small clearing. The tall grass cut at his skin, and Steve ran faster, even as the pain of the foliage’s razor edge catching on his cock leapt up into his chest.

Back in the woods, he heard them closing in behind him, shouting and yelling for him to stop.

He splashed through a low, muck-filled swamp and up another small rise, the sounds of his pursers now on either side of him. He turned, and tumbled down the other side of the berm, splashing into hot, stinging water, wrestling with the weight of his body to get his face up and out of the depression.

He was at the side of a road.

Rolling onto his back he pushed himself upright again, and clamored to the gravel at the side of the shimmering tarmac. The hot blacktop scorched his feet, but a smile burst onto his face.

He was a runner, he could get away.

Spinning around he saw his pursuers stop at the tree line, staring. Without pausing he turned, legs beginning to run as the roar of an engine snatched his gaze away from the monsters he was escaping.

The truck’s bumper hit him in the hip, shattering bones, and sending Steve into the air. He came down again into the water filled depression and felt his legs snap as he flipped up and then crashed down again on his back, looking up into the sky.

The smell and smoke of burning rubber registered to him, and he saw a man looking down, saw his mouth moving, but could not hear what he was trying to say. It was like his head was encased in thick, buzzing cotton.

The woman’s filthy spawn appeared behind the guy looking down and talking to him.

A shock of fear sparked in his muddled mind as the two men began beating the guy who was trying to talk to him, and Steve tried to yell, to point, but nothing seemed to be responding in his body.

They were punching and kicking at the truck driver as he fell to the ground. Steve couldn’t hear anything, but he knew they would kill him.

The men turned and reached down, hauling Steve up and out of the water.

Steve’s head flipped back, lolling, and he felt a quick pinch before the world blinked out.

~

When the world slowly returned through shimmering clouds, Steve felt pins and needles in his arms and hands. His head was heavy like stone. He slowly began to move, his hands seemed to work, but were bound to the table with rough rope. His neck was sore, but he could lift his head slightly. What he couldn’t do was feel his legs. The pain of lifting his head threw his mind into an exploding field of stars.

He could hear music, slightly muffled, somewhere in the distance. The sound of latches being through, the groan of a heavy door, and the music became clearer. It reminded him of a slightly askew circus tune.

Two men appeared on either side of him, smiling, but their smiles weren’t happy. There was something sinister…

The events of the last couple of days flew back to him in a churning mess of fear. The men’s laughter filled the room, and Steve realized exactly where he was. One of them leaned in close, rank breath, hot and moist, on the side of his face.

“You gonna have to get better, momma needs a fuckin.”

“And we needs a sister,” the other one said, and they both let loose a boisterous, wheezing laugh.

Steve’s screams rose up, but were drowned out by his captor’s laughter, the swirling music, and the howl of the beastly woman he knew rested down the hallway on her demented stage of perversion, waiting for him to service her.

GIVE ME SOMETHING GOOD TO EAT

Shane McKenzie

Dan tightened the ropes around his son’s wrists, then walked around the chair to face him.

“Are they tight enough?” Esmeralda asked.

“They should hold.”

Esmerelda bit her lip and turned her gaze away from Corey.

Dan wrapped his arms around his wife. “I pray to God they hold.”

Their son’s face dripped sweat as his eyes bounced from parent to parent. “Please. You don’t have to do this…”

Esmeralda buried her face into Dan’s shoulder. He reached up and squeezed the back of her neck, his eyes on Corey’s feet, unable to look him in the face.

“I’m sorry, Corey. We have no choice.”

Dan led his wife up the stairs and out of the cellar, leaving the light on for Corey and ignoring his pleading. It never got easier, year after year, keeping their only child locked away like that. But it was something that needed to be done. Their lives depended on it. Everyone’s did.

Dan locked the cellar door, taking deep breaths to collect himself before turning to face his wife. He had to stay strong in front of Esmeralda. The woman seemed especially on edge lately, and he worried her composure would shatter if he let her see how stressed he truly was.

“The pumpkin?” he said.

“On…on the counter…”

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and charred pumpkin. The jack-o-lantern sat atop the counter, just as she said, the candle already burning within. The face was simple: triangularly cut eyes and nose, a smile with four square teeth. The flickering flame within cast dancing shadow demons on the walls.

He scooped up the pumpkin and he and his wife headed toward the front door.

The other parents would be waiting outside.

They walked to the curb and placed the pumpkin there, signaling to the others that Corey was secure. Other jack-o-lanterns lined the sidewalk—one for each home. The street was alive with orange, writhing light.

Their neighbors, Preston and Walter, walked out just a few seconds after Dan and Esmerelda and set their pumpkin in its place. Their adopted daughter, Sonia, had only been with them for a year, and it was their first Halloween as a family. The balding men embraced each other and wept as they stared at their jack-o-lantern, taking turns lifting their eyeglasses to wipe the tears beneath.

“You guys stay strong,” Dan said. “The night will be over before you know it, and we can all get back to our normal lives.”

The men said nothing, didn’t turn to acknowledge Dan. They just stared at their pumpkin, sniffled and whimpered.

Dan eyed the street, counting the jack-o-lanterns. Couples stood at the end of their driveways, nodding to one another as they made eye contact. Everyone knew what had to be done. Dan pursed his lips and gave each one of them a nod. Esmerelda wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. He squeezed back, resting his chin on the top of her head.

The sound of shuffling footsteps grew louder as they approached from his left.

Simon trudged toward them, the moonlight behind deepening the shadows on his heavily-lined face. His back was hunched and a shaky hand repeatedly rubbed the back of his head, which hung limp from his neck. When Simon reached Dan and Esmerelda, he finally let his eyes roll up from the cement.

“I need to talk to you, Dan. It’s the McKrackens.” When he said the name, he jerked his head to the rear.

Dan peered over Simon’s shoulder toward the one-story brick home of the McKrackens. The curb was empty and dark, no pumpkin in sight.

Not again, Dan thought.

“You talk to them yet?”

“I was hoping to have you along ’fore I tried it. Never know, know what I mean?”

Dan nodded and gave Esmeralda a tight squeeze. She kept her arms locked around him, looked up into his face. “Dan?”

“It’s fine,” he said, doing his best to hide the panic threatening to cave in his chest. “I’ll go talk to them. I’m sure they’re just behind, lost track of time. No big deal.”

Esmerelda nodded but kept her face pinched as she unwrapped her arms from his torso. Dan kissed her three times before walking down the street with Simon. He had to force himself not to look back at her again.

The two walked in silence until they reached the empty curb in front of the McKrackens’ home.

Simon cleared his throat. “They got twins, don’t they?”

“They sure do. Good boys…nice boys.”

“Not tonight they’re not.” Simon ran his hand over his face as he glared at the home’s dark front patio. “What in the hell are we gonna do if—”

“Let’s just hope it’s a misunderstanding, that they just—”

“A misunderstanding? The sun’s almost down, there’s no fucking time for a misunderstanding.” Simon sort of whisper-yelled the last sentence.

Dan held up his hands and nodded. He sucked in a stomachful of cool oxygen and marched toward the front door. The air smelled of grass and burning pumpkin. Dan couldn’t help but remember the McKracken boys mowing his lawn—front and back for five bucks each—every other week. Good boys. Nice boys.

Simon followed closely behind, cursing under his breath. He had been there the last time a parent buckled under the pressure. He knew what this meant.

Dan rapped his knuckles against the red wooden door, checked his watch, then turned to look at the sky. The last of the sun hovered just over the horizon. They had to do this quick if they weren’t already too late.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

“No time for this shit!” Simon pounded his fist against the door then jumped back when it creaked open.

They locked eyes for a brief moment before entering the home.

Dan felt the energy in the air change. The sun had sunk. The night had risen. Halloween had begun. The air was as thick as caramel, and as they stepped into the home and down the front hall, he could smell it. The meaty scent of fresh blood.

Oh Jesus…

“Something’s wrong,” Simon said.

“I know.”

They crept past the living room and into the kitchen, then stopped cold. Simon gasped, and slammed his knuckles against the countertop.

“Fuck! This is so… fuck!”

The McKrackens lay facedown on the tile in a pool of their own blood. The puddle continued to widen as Dan and Simon stared. The blood ran along the grout lines in red zigzag patterns.

“Stupid fucking bastards,” Simon said as he paced the living room. “One day a year. One day a fucking year! Now look at ’em.”

“Simon—”

“No. No, these fucking assholes are putting us all in danger. Goddamnit! How stupid can you be, huh? How fucking stupid!”

“Simon, they’re already—”

“You remember what happened the last time, Dan. You remember. Ah shit, Dan, I don’t know if I can handle another night like… Stupid fucking bastards!”

“Simon! They’re dead. Cussing them out won’t change shit, okay? We need to warn the others.”

Dan did remember the last time it had happened. Would never forget it. He’d seen more than six of his friends and neighbors die that night. They’d found Bill and Donna—Dan and Esmerelda’s best friends at the time—sprawled out on their lawn. Bill’s throat had been scooped out so that his spinal cord shone in the moonlight. Donna lay on her back, her arms tense, fingers digging into the grass. Her eyes bulged, jaw moving up and down like she was trying to speak but only hoarse whimpers oozed out.

Their daughter Eliza—just barely two—was between her mother’s legs. Her tiny toes dug into the lawn as she pushed herself forward, crawling back into her mother’s womb, already waist deep when Dan had seen her.

Dan shook his head and pulled his mind out of the past. There was no time.

“Oh shit, Dan. They’re…they—”

Dan crouched down beside Simon who had Felicia McKracken’s body turned over. Dan knew it was Felicia’s body because of the flowery dress she wore, now drenched in dark red. But he was looking into the face of Oscar McKracken, her husband. A butcher knife had been shoved into Felicia’s neck stump, hilt first, but buried deep enough to hold. Oscar’s severed head was pressed down onto the blade, a gap just wide enough between where his head ended and where Felicia’s neck began to see the gleaming metal of the knife. Dan looked at Oscar’s body and saw the long blond hair flowing from the head. He didn’t need to see the face.

“We…we have to—” Dan jumped to his feet when the screaming started from outside, and he sprinted toward the door without waiting for Simon.

He stumbled through the door, nearly tripping over the threshold. The night poured over their street and he could feel the evil crackling in the air, could sense that Halloween was in full swing. And the children would have their night.

All it took was one. He’d seen it before. One child would free another, and then they would free two more, and so on and so on. Dan’s nightmares were still filled with what he did the last time to get through Halloween night. But he wouldn’t put his family at risk. Not this time.

I have to get to my family.

As soon as Dan reached the sidewalk, he stopped short when he heard the giggling. It came from his left, high-pitched and whispery. His muscles tightened and he clenched his teeth as he turned to face it. He shot a quick glance toward the house and saw Simon standing in the doorway.

Sonia skipped toward him down the middle of the street, her eyes shining a hellfire orange. Her jump rope made a wet sound when it skipped off the pavement, and she hummed between giggles as she approached.

Dan was frozen in place as the little blond girl hopped closer and closer. Staring at her for too long made the backs of his eyes burn and pulse. And, as she grew nearer, he saw that her jump rope was a fresh, slimy tube of intestine, splashing blood over the street as she swung it over her head and skipped along the pavement.

“Stay back, you little bitch!” Simon rushed across the McKrackens’ lawn toward Sonia, fist raised above his head, but didn’t make it too far before his body was thrown backward following the loud blast.

Dan flinched at the sudden sound of the gunshot. He ducked and covered his head with his arms.

Simon’s body slammed against the concrete and blood rushed out of the hole in his belly. His legs writhed and he gurgled and groaned.

“You w-won’t touch my daughter!” Walter limped forward with his shotgun held at stomach-level. Smoke spiraled from the tip of the barrel.

Sonia dropped her slimy rope and dove onto Simon’s quivering body, tearing away his shirt like it was a food wrapper. She dug her fingertips into his wound, pulling it open, and plunged her face into the red and yellow fat just below his skin. She slurped it up like buttered grits.

“Dan! D-Dan…get her off…” Simon’s words grew fainter until his mouth fell open and his eyes stared sightlessly at the pavement. Sonia moaned and chortled as she gorged.

“You stay away from my Sonia. Don’t you t-touch her,” Walter said through his high-pitched sobs. “My beautiful little Sonia…”

“Where’s Preston, Walter? What did she do?”

Walter collapsed to his knees in the middle of the street and bawled. He rocked back and forth, the barrel of the shotgun scraping against the asphalt. Sonia’s eyes lit the night around them. Dan sidestepped away from the wet sounds of Sonia’s feasting, keeping his eyes glued to Walter.

“I need to get to my wife, Walter. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

“Preston…he…”

Sonia screeched and turned to face Walter, fresh gore dripping from her face in globs. She did a handstand as she tittered, shining her hell light over her foster father’s face and washing it in orange. She walked on her hands toward him, slowly, singing as she went.

“Trick or treat…” Another few steps with her hands, her hair hanging over her blood-stained face. “…smell my feet…” Her voice went deeper, but held the childlike shrillness simultaneously. Walter covered his face and wept.

“Give me something good to eat!” She cartwheeled back to her feet as a demonic voice exploded from her tiny throat, startling Dan and nearly making him fall backward. She dove for Walter, but he had his shotgun at the ready, and pulled the trigger just in time. Sonia’s body flew backward, her chest blown wide open. As her body flopped around, the orange light dissipated until fading out completely. The smell of burnt gun powder mixed with the pungency of blood and cooked pumpkin flesh.

“No! Noooo!” Walter pounded his knuckles into the street, cracking the skin and flinging blood as he pummeled the black concrete. “Sonia!”

Dan felt a deep sadness for the man, but he had no time. Esmeralda could already be in trouble. Corey could have been released, maybe by one of the twins, maybe by Sonia. For all he knew, every damn kid on the block could be free, raising hell and feasting on the flesh of adults.

Esmeralda could already be dead.

Walter cracked the gun open, dug into his pockets, shoved a shell in and snapped it shut. As Dan ran by him, Walter already had the barrel in his mouth.

I’m sorry, Walter.

When the blast rang out, echoing off the houses and parked cars, Dan flinched but didn’t look back, didn’t slow his pace. No time.

Screams exploded into the sky from every direction, and Dan whimpered as he pumped his legs faster, passing the orange grinning faces of the jack-o-lanterns lining the street on both sides.

Please be okay…please be okay.

He passed Simon’s house and winced when a woman shrieked from inside. His house was only a few strides away; he could already see the Corolla’s rear bumper in the driveway.

The boys stepped into the street from opposite sides, merging together in the middle. The McKracken twins, covered in blood, locked arms and faced Dan. Their eyes illuminated the lawns and houses around them.

They juggled something, flinging glistening objects over their heads. One boy tossed them into the air, the other caught them and handed them over, again and again and again.

Dan squinted against the orange of their eyes, tried to find a way around them, but found himself rooted to the spot. The twins closed the gap between them and him, and the blue moonlight revealed what they were juggling.

Pieces. Some unrecognizable. There was a hand, crudely severed at the wrist, jagged flesh and skin flapping as it flew through the air. A small breast, already turning blue, followed the hand.

The nipple is pink, not brown like Esmeralda’s, Dan thought, but it did little to calm his panic.

After the breast came a foot, then a wad of red and yellow flesh that could have been a chunk of belly. The boys snickered as they marched forward. Their eyes bathed the juggled meat the color of candy corn.

“Trick or treat,” they said in unison.

Shit!

Dan thought about trying to plow through them and make it to his house, but he didn’t know what tricks they held up their sleeves. The children were crafty little devils. He about-faced and ran back to Walter. The man had blown a hole in the middle of his face, from the chin through the top of his balding cranium. Dan tried not to look as he scooped up the shotgun. He cracked it open to find it empty, then dug his hand into Walter’s pocket, grimacing as he felt the man’s motionless, warm thigh through the fabric.

Just as his fingers wrapped around a fistful of shells, something collided with the side of his head. It hit with a splat, spraying blood and fluid into his face and mouth. He spat and wiped his face with his shirt sleeve as he pulled his hand from Walter’s pocket. The severed breast jiggled to a stop at his feet, the pink nipple staring up at him like an albino’s eye.

The twins leap-frogged over each other, getting closer to Dan with every hop. Their voices grew deeper as their childish giggles bloomed into maniacal cackling.

Dan fumbled with the gun as he loaded it with shells, nearly dropping it a few times as his shaking hands grew greasier by the second with sweat. He snapped the shotgun shut and took aim. He only hesitated for half a second, looking across the barrel at the twins, remembering how Esmerelda would make fresh lemonade for the boys to drink while they worked in the yard.

Good boys. Nice boys.

The shot tore through the first boy’s head, splattering the other with his brother’s brains. The scrawny body fell over and his eyes faded out. The other boy came at him on all fours, galloping like a rabid dog, but he was blown backward and splashed over the street. He gurgled his own blood, bubbling and oozing from the corners of his mouth. The orange light flickered. The boy smiled up at Dan as he passed.

“There’s nowhere to run, Dan.” The voice had lost all traces of child now. A deep, gruff chuckle rattled from the throat. “We’ll use your children to eat you alive. We’ll use them to eat you and fuck Esmerelda.”

Dan raised his boot and stomped down on the kid’s face. The boy cackled and blood sprayed from his face as Dan’s boot continued to slam his head to concrete. Dan didn’t stop until the orange in the boy’s eyes faded to black.

A scream. Esmeralda!

As he ran, Dan reloaded the gun and prayed to God that his next shots wouldn’t be at his own son. Prayed that Corey was still tied up in the cellar, that none of the other children got to him yet. Prayed that his wife was alive and well, barricaded inside of their home, waiting for him to return.

Orange light lit the neighborhood. The air swam with the laughter of children and the screams of parents. It came from all directions now, but Dan kept his focus on getting to his home, to his family.

He ran past the Corolla and stopped at his door. It stood open, swipes of blood dribbling down the wood and pooling on the patio below.

He rushed into the house and slammed the door, securing the deadbolt and chain.

“Esmeralda!”

No answer. Dan ran to the cellar door. His heart plummeted to his groin when he saw it standing open.

Oh God no.

“Esmeralda! Where are you!”

“I’m…h-here…”

The shaky, faint voice of his wife came from the cellar. She was down there. She was alive. Dan stepped over the threshold, slammed the door shut and locked it, then took the steps three and four at a time, nearly tumbling down. The cellar was engulfed in orange light.

Corey sat in his chair, the ropes still secure. As Dan approached, Corey’s head spun and his eyes shone, making Dan squint and grimace. But the boy was tied up. Everything will be okay, Dan thought. I made it in time.

“Dan? I-I’m s-so sorry…” Esmerelda sat in the corner, her face beaded with sweat, hair pasted to her forehead.

“It’s okay, baby. We made it. Our family is safe. The others, the neighbors, they—”

“No. Stop t-talking and listen. I…I…”

Dan took slow and careful steps around Corey and approached his wife. She flinched at every one of his steps, whimpered and shook her head. Her legs were spread into a wide V…and an orange light glowed from beneath her dress.

“I will eat your fucking heart and rape your soul!” Corey roared with a voice that wasn’t his.

“Esmeralda? What—”

“I’m so sorry, D-Dan.” She raised her head, her eyes bright red and swimming in tears. “I’m pregnant…”

The rubbery body burst free, sliding across the stone floor. The thing was tiny, no more than five months developed. The eyes shone just as bright as the other children, and a tiny smile spread across the glistening face. Esmeralda moaned and kicked her feet as she scraped her nails across her belly and thighs. The baby crawled toward Dan, but was stopped by the umbilical cord still attached to its mother. It crawled in place, stretching out the cord, reached out its tiny hand toward Dan as it giggled.

“Trick or treat, smell my feet…” Corey sang, his prepubescent voice squeaking through the demonic growl.

Dan took blind steps backward, shook his head, covered his ears to block out Esmerelda’s screams and the baby’s tittering. The back of his knees hit something, he lost his balance… and landed in Corey’s lap.

The boy’s eyes burned out Dan’s vision, engulfing his brain with intense heat. All he could see was orange. All he could smell or taste was pumpkin flesh.

“Give me something good to eat.”

The teeth tore into his neck. His mouth filled with blood as he choked and gurgled a shriek. Something wet hit his leg, clawed at his pants as it climbed.

Esmerelda screamed in rhythmic bursts.

The teeth bit into his throat, pulled, ripped. Another mouth, toothless and wet, lapped up the blood.

It was Halloween. And the children would have their night.

LINGER

Daniel I Russell

TELL ME WHY…

I don’t like Mondays. Mondays mean work. Work means here.

Work means rotting in this cubicle wearing a headset that hurts my skin, listening to customers telling me to fuck off.

What’s my job?

I sell, well try to sell, mobile phone plans. For eight hours. Most goddamn days.

My father always wanted me to be a doctor, pretty damn ambitious considering he worked at a shoe factory all his life. Yet this memory comes to me often, sitting on his knee at around five or six years old, being told how I would do great things, not end up like him. I could have it all, the world if I wanted it. The money, the car, and everyone loves a doctor.

My father’s been dead for three years. I wonder if he’d be proud of me?

Maybe if I was a doctor I could have saved him. On the bright side, at least Mum was able to call and tell me the sad news at a very competitive tariff.

My father always smelled of Bryl cream and mints, although he never had any, but then again I’ve always had a very sensitive nose. Memories and feelings come to me that way: freshly polished floors make me think of school, and vanilla-scented candles remind me of the night I lost my virginity when I was eighteen. The girl in question now runs her own successful business.

Bitch.

Dad spent the last six months of his life in the loony bin. Acute schizophrenia. Didn’t even know who I was when I went to visit.

In the booth next to me, Dave pulls off his head set and glances away from his computer to meet my eyes.

“You okay, bud?” he asks. Dave’s not a bad sort. Several years younger than me, he’s doing the young man thing. Asked me to come along with him a few times. Be his wingman. I have no idea what that means.

“I’m fine.” I place my phone next to my Telstra pen. My desk is immaculate, which is surely a desirable quality in a doctor? A surgeon, definitely. All my instruments are laid out in order: my pens, notebook, and scissors. I actually really like the scissors. Shiny silver blades and black plastic handle. I use them to trim the jagged edges from my sales reports, nice and neat. Surgeons use scissors.

Dave stood with his empty mug and gestured to my own. Taken aback by this rare occasion, I hand it over.

“Cheers, mate. Two sugars for me.”

“Forget about her, Harry. Seriously, man.” He taps his temple with his mug. “Women. They will fuck you up in the worst way if you let them.”

I smile. “Thank you for that advice, Dave. You’re like a sage.”

My workmate chuckles and heads to the tiny kitchen area in the corner. Hope he remembers to use Hi-Lo in mine. I guess he’s going straight on the prowl tonight; I can smell expensive aftershave radiate off him in waves. Me and my nose!

My other colleagues are either speaking to prospective customers or paying no attention to me, so I check my phone again. Nothing. No missed calls or text messages. Dave’s right, this is starting to mess with my head a little bit. I’m not used to this kind of thing.

I should speak to her, you know, clear the air and find out conclusively what’s going on. She’ll be in her office now, a little way down the corridor. If I stood near the door I could probably smell her. In fact…I think I can. A subtle hint of her perfume lingering in the office.

Instead, I open my inbox and reread her latest message. I received it last night.

I don’t think this working out. Think we shud just be m8s.x

I study it again, looking for some hidden meaning I must have overlooked, because things were quite clearly working out. Last week’s meal was a delight, and the kiss we’d shared long overdue. What possibly couldn’t be working?

Besides, surely an official dumping text message would use correct grammar and spelling?

I’M ONLY HAPPY…

When it rains, the office smells differently. It must be something to do with the windows. They get cold and steamy. I would’ve thought that all that condensation would stink, I mean, that’s come out of people. That’s people’s breath right there on the window. Yet it smells fresher in here, just like outside.

Susan’s breath was fresh though, even after that curry.

I pound my fist on the desk. A few people look over. Fuck them. It’s Tuesday. We all have a right to be pissed off over something.

Susan. Why must it always come back to Susan? I texted her last night. When did this become the primary way of communicating between two soul mates? Anyway, she has concerns that our relationship, thank Christ she used that word, would affect our careers.

So there was hope!

I texted her back: What careers? As far as I know, there aren’t any careers in telesales, just minimal pay and the occasion consideration of suicide.

She’s been avoiding me since.

Dave’s been regaling me with his antics from last night. Yes, he spent the night alone after eating Chinese takeaway…alone, but as he says, it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part. The fun’s in the hunt.

I’m done with the hunt. In fact, no. Let’s hunt. Susan, a square mile of open bush and me with a shotgun. Yeah, now there’s hunting. I could have her stuffed and mounted.

Let’s see how that works out…

“Harry, you ignorant prick!”

I blink. “What?”

“What planet you on?” says Dave. “You look miles away.”

I smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. Just thinking.”

“About her?”

“No.”

Something I did gave it away, and Dave sighs. I’ve never been good at poker.

“I told you,” he says. “Forget about it. You going to spend your life dwelling on some admin assistant that dumped you after two meals out?” He shakes his head. “You really have to come on a bender with me, mate.”

Come on a bender? I don’t like the sound of that.

“And I didn’t want to bring this up…” Dave leans closer and whispers. “You keep talking to yourself.”

Nonsense! I’ve been talking to you. Thanks for listening. You understand, right? You know where I’m coming from.

And suddenly, she’s here. Susan. She’s in the room. I can’t see her in the maze of cubicles, stationary cupboards and water coolers, but I can smell her. I don’t know what perfume she wears, but it’s intoxicating, taking me back to the first time we met. I was out of staples, and so was the stationary cupboard. She sat at her desk sorting through some papers when I walked in. All raven-haired and sleek as a panther. She’s a little older than me, which doesn’t mean a thing. Beauty like that matures and grows, like…I don’t know. Cheese or something.

No. Wine is classier. I meant like wine. No woman wants her beauty to be compared to cheddar.

I asked her for staples…and she gave me staples.

And stole my heart.

And the first time I took her out... I couldn’t believe she’d said yes, and the whole night was spent in a weird kind of euphoric haze. I can hardly remember a thing about it, besides the night being over too quickly. And the scent. Her perfume.

And now the room is filled by its fragrance.

EVERYBODY HURTS…

Sometimes I wonder why I bother. Honestly. Why the fuck do I waste my life, day after day, sitting in this chair, looking at this screen filled with phone numbers, talking into this goddamn uncomfortable headset? Because we need money. We need money to live. We slog our guts out to earn money to live a life we hate. It’s like being tortured, and when you’re not being tortured, you’re working to save the money to pay the torturer. Fucking bullshit.

Sorry. Started on a very pessimistic note there. You’re here to listen, not be my punching bag and emotional outlet.

Dave called in sick. Something about a stomach bug, probably induced by copious amounts of alcohol last night. I miss him, a bit. He’s a welcome distraction from all this.

No text messages last night. Not a thing. But still, the smell of her perfume clung to me when I left the office. Even on the bus home, trying to read, and I just couldn’t shake it. The bus usually stinks, but yesterday, it sang with scents of floral bouquets, alcoholic temptation and sex.

Damn her!

How the hell can I work under these conditions? I’ve been sat here watching, and fuck the customers. We call them up and ask if they want a phone. They already have one! Not like I sell many handsets and payment plans anyway. I’ll just continue watching.

Yes, here she is. Again. Taking paperwork to the head of department in his office. Bet she’s screwing him. It’s the only real explanation, right? I was a complete gentleman, kind and courteous, a dream to be with. Our relationship was affecting her career… Funny how quickly you rise through the ranks with your boss’s cock in your mouth.

No, that’s silly. It is silly, isn’t it? She isn’t sleeping with the boss. He’s married and has two kids.

I hate this stench! It’s like she comes in and secretes it on purpose, a sexy octopus entering and squirting her ink of seduction. It fills the room. How much perfume does one woman need? No one else seems bothered by it. I have keen senses and I’m almost choking on it.

The smell followed me home from the office again last night, even beyond the bus. My one room apartment reeked of her foul perfume, even though the whore had never stepped foot inside. How can that happen? Did the molecules of her fragrance bond themselves to the fibers in my clothing, only to peel away and reproduce in my home?

I put some fish in the microwave. Screw the other residents. For a blissful few minutes, the smell of her perfume was masked before it seeped out again. I couldn’t sleep last night. Susan wouldn’t let me. The smell, it held me from rest, invading my dreams.

Look, she’s come out of his office, and again the place smells of her hair, her clothes, her skin.

How am I supposed to get over this? Seriously, I’m asking you. Tell me what I have to do. I’m desperate.

HOW TO DISAPPEAR…

Completely through with this now. Completely through. I can’t work, I can’t sleep. She’s here, there, fucking everywhere. The smell. I can’t shake it.

You wouldn’t offer any help: not one scrap of advice. Thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart. Just sit there and listen to me. Watch me suffer. You’ve been such a friend.

I bought one of these inhaler things, the ones you stick up your nose when you have a cold. It worked, at least twice. I breathed in the harsh mix of eucalyptus and rubbing alcohol. It was bliss! Now it smells of her perfume, so I threw it in the bin and cried a little. People are watching but I don’t care. None of them will be the one to come over.

Dave’s sick again. I’m on my own here, besides you, and you hardly fucking count.

I called her last night, weeping into my phone. She told me to leave her alone and hung up. Can you believe that? She’s so wrong. I just want to grab her and shake her and tell her how wrong she is.

I can’t take more of this smell.

Feels like it’s coated the inside of my nose and mouth. My sinuses are awash with the stuff. I can’t shift it. Food tastes of her. Oxygen tastes of her.

Quitting my job wouldn’t solve this. Her fragrance is in my clothes and apartment. I can’t escape it. Unless…

I pick up the scissors. Remember I told you surgeons use scissors? I like these scissors.

I glance up as the door to the office opens. Susan walks in with yet more paperwork for the boss. She’s definitely sleeping with him. He doesn’t need that much paperwork. She walks in, her head held high. Won’t give me the pleasure of seeing her guilt…if she has any. Look what you’ve done to me, Susan.

Please.

Please look.

She spends a few minutes in there with him. I wipe the tears from my eyes and watch her chat through the internal window. All smiles and hair curls for him.

The plastic handle of the scissors are on the verge of snapping in my tight grip, so I set them down carefully. Not going to break my stationary over her. Dave was right. Women can fuck with your head in the worst way.

My idea is stupid. Please tell me it’s stupid.

But if it’s the only way to stop this smell…

Susan walks out of the boss’s office and without a single glance in my direction, pushes the door open and leaves the office. She’ll be returning to the sanctuary of her own small space.

Perfect.

I’ll need these scissors.

I USED TO LOVE HER, SO I HAD TO…

Kill her. That’s what I want to do, and as I watch her at her desk, I feel that urge. Perhaps that’s what my father would have done, in his last few months at least. He was seeing and hearing things by then, completely cuckoo. The scissors feel hot in my hand. No. I’m not going to kill her.

Did I just hear you sigh in relief? No, thought not. Killing her would be far too predictable. And how could I get away with it in a crowded office building? For one moment I thought you’d shown a little emotion. You’re a stone-faced bastard, you know that?

From my hiding place beside a storage cupboard in the corridor, I sneak past her room. I don’t know why I tiptoe quickly by…even if she saw me, what would she do? Nothing. I’ve come to terms with my place in her life, even if I don’t like it. I just want to get some closure, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

And to the end of the building and into the men’s room.

They clean this place every night after business hours. It should smell of bleach, detergent, and air freshener. But instead…I wonder if Susan has ever been in here. Probably with the boss. A bit of lunchtime fun in one of the cubicles.

I walk over to the sinks and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Not too shabby. A tad podgy around the waist and I could do with a shave, but generally…what did she want? What was she looking for? What does her perfect man look like?

My sensitive nose, of course, is a mess. Almost glowing bright red, the skin around the nostrils is dry and peeling. Just look what that bitch has done to me.

At least I can fix it.

Last chance to talk me out of this, my friend.

I see.

Your silence speaks volumes.

So you think this will work? It has to. It will work.

Now, what’s the best way to start?

I open the blades of the scissors and poke one into my left nostril. Or is it the right nostril? I get confused looking into mirrors. The tip of the other blade is on the outside, close to my eye.

Ready? One…two…three.

FUCK! Oh God… Blood. I lean my face over the sink. Don’t want to mess up the bathroom. God this hurts. Need to quickly do the next one. Quick quick quick.

I shove the shaking blade back inside my nostril and snip! A chuck of triangular flesh falls with a splat into the pool of blood in the sink. A glance in the mirror shows my half-ruined nose.

I can still smell her. Even through the wet copper I can still smell her. Blood is pouring down the back of my throat and bubbling from my destroyed face…and still I can smell her. Cough it up, spit it out.

I haven’t done enough.

Gritting my teeth, I slide the soiled scissor blade into my other nostril. Two blasts of brain-numbing pain later and a second piece of nose falls into the sink.

Things are getting a bit fuzzy now. Blood is jetting out of my face and across the enamel, taps, walls and mirror. I’m past caring. All that fills me now is the pain. And the smell. Susan.

My nose looks long and thin without the excess bits. I doubt these scissors can cut through bone…but I’ll give the cartilage a go. One good, hard snip should do it. Then a few jabs into the opened sinus cavity…

Grinning at myself, I open the scissors wide, clutching the slippery handles with both hands. The remains of my nose are between the blades.

Yeah, this should do it.

I WANNA BE…

Sedated, so now it doesn’t hurt so bad. The doctors keep me nice and topped up, which is nice of them because I keep going to pick it. It’s not there to pick anymore! Feels weird under all these bandages. Just a hole. The boss had walked into the bathroom, probably on a secret liaison with Susan, and what a shock he had! Don’t think they’ll be asking me to come back to work…another bonus.

Had to work fast though. The cartilage was tougher than I thought. I had to use the scissors to kinda chew through the rubbery stuff and then pull it off, using the scissors as pliers. All done now. I even managed two quick stabs up there before the boss and others jumped on me. The doctors said I could have killed myself if I’d stabbed another half an inch deeper. Just lucky, I guess.

My main doctor, he was my dad’s in the last six months! Small world.

They won’t allow me my phone, in fact, they won’t allow me anything, you know, just in case. Think I’ll be spending a few weeks drugged up in this here bed. I’d like my phone though. Want to call Dave and see when he’s coming to visit. I’d like that. And Susan. I think I should call Susan and apologize. I miss her. I miss her smell.

But at least I’m not alone, right? You’ve stuck with me all the way through. Nice to know I have someone. I’ll be fine, won’t I? Yeah, absolutely. Just don’t leave me. Promise you won’t leave me here on my own.

You won’t leave me, right?

SKUNK JR.

John McNee

Henry’s pants were wet. This was the first thing his senses told him as he started to come round. Next was the crisp cold of the night’s air on his face, followed by the smell of motor oil and the taste of blood. Slowly, painfully, his eyes eased open to reveal the dark of the sky overhead and snowflakes, tumbling softly down to land upon him and the ragged crush of glass and metal that, once upon a time, had been a fairly well preserved ’98 Chevy Cavalier.

It was difficult for Henry to tell what kind of shape the car was in. He was still only halfway conscious and a long way from a complete assessment of his own physical condition. The roof was gone, for sure. Windshield and windows gone. At least one door gone.

And Michelle. She was gone too.

Henry lay awkwardly on his back, safety belt digging into his stomach, head throbbing against the empty passenger seat, unable to see anything but snowflakes. He raised his right hand, hoping to uncouple himself, and saw its outline, swimming toward him through the thin light. Two of his fingers broken. Damn near severed. Index and ring dangled uselessly over the back of his hand from threads of skin, blood leaking weakly from the red wounds. Weird that his middle finger should escape unharmed. It didn’t hurt yet, but he knew it would.

He leaned right to try and free his other hand, blood spilling out of his mouth as he turned. He saw her then. Saw her pale legs, almost invisible against the snow, shoes gone as though she’d kicked them off to play at making angels in the drift. He saw the perfectly rounded swell of her stomach, straining against the dampening maternity dress. He saw her arms and hands, delicate and frail, but mercifully not mangled like his.

Henry wanted to call to her but, when he tried, could only drool blood. His left hand came free with a little more effort and, pressing his elbows against the seat, he managed to pull himself forward, straining against shattered glass. A sharp shock of pain in his thighs revealed he was pinned hard by the dash, plastic and metal cutting him deep. Explained why his pants were wet.

He stretched his neck, just enough to see her nose, her clear gray eyes…and the frayed red edge where the top of her skull had been. Her brains, sprayed vividly across the snow, looked like a pound of rotten strawberries dropped from a helicopter.

Henry shrank back, letting the door hide the sight of her again, as a new pain exploded from his gut, sending shivers through his limbs, forcing tears into his eyes and a wail of despair out of his throat.

He was answered almost immediately by the bark of a dog.

“Ace! Ace, c’mere, boy!” A man’s voice. His boots crunched through the snow as he clambered down the hill from the road. “Oh boy,” he wheezed. “Boy oh boy...”

The dog bounded into view, light gray and lean, and bent its nose to Michelle’s feet. It sniffed and whined, then turned its heavy head toward Henry. It was only when he saw its long, angular snout and pale blue eyes that he realized it was a wolf. The animal stepped back, raising its hackles and lowering its head. It pulled back its lips to reveal its fangs and growled.

A cry of “Ace! Heel!” quelled any immediate threat. The wolf immediately straightened up, a look of serene composure falling across its face, and ran to the side of its master, who now strode past the wreck and knelt down at Michelle’s side.

He was an old man—tall and broad-shouldered. His scalp was bald, but white hair sprouted from the sides and back of his head in long, twisting strands, clumped together with dirt. He wore a brown raincoat so ragged it could have been a hundred years old, only partly covered by a poncho fashioned out of clear plastic. When the man knelt down by Michelle he dropped a sack, letting it fall in Henry’s direction. Sat at the top was a dead raccoon, half flattened by the wheels of a truck.

The man placed a filth-black hand on Michelle’s belly and Henry tried to shout, but his exclamation was reduced to a blood-bubbling squeak. The man turned his head, revealing a long white beard and eyes as blue and pale as the wolf’s. He stared at Henry for a long few seconds, then bent his head to Michelle, placing his ear against her distended stomach. Nothing happened for a while, till the man’s eyes popped wide and he jumped back, breathlessly muttering: “Boy oh boy oh boy...”

Henry stared on, failing to remain calm, as the man plunged a hand into his sack of roadkill, rooting around, spilling assorted animal parts till he found what he was after—a long-bladed hunting knife, sharp as a scalpel and dappled in blood. He used it first to slice through her dress, revealing her belly in all its glory—white and round as an egg. Then he got to work on her flesh, sinking the blade into her side, just below the rib-cage and cutting toward her groin.

“No,” Henry tried (and failed) to shout. “Please. Stop.”

The man knew what he was doing. He carved the approximate C-section with a care and speed that could only come from decades of skinning and butchering animals. Even as dark blood spilled out of the wound, seeping into the snow around and underneath him, he didn’t slow. He dug his dirty fingers into the gash and opened her up, peeling her skin back like it was the soft-top of a sports car, revealing a red interior of blood and organs.

“Don’t,” Henry imagined he said, struggling to focus, as the man wiped his brow with his sleeve and picked the knife up again to make a last few considered incisions. Then he washed his hands as best he could in the snow, wiped them down on his jacket and plunged them into the quivering mess.

Henry’s pants were really soaked now. He felt consciousness draining out of him along with his strength, blood and all hopes of survival. The vision before him—of a monstrous hobo elbow-deep in his girlfriend’s guts—began to darken, his thoughts slipping away.

He let his body go limp. Let his eyes fall shut.

And the last thing he heard before he passed out was the shrill cry of his newborn son…

~

In the red glow of the ambulance’s tail-lights Lt. Teddy “Bear” Warner’s fat face looked like a hairy blood blister ready to pop. Training his gaze on Doctor Levine, holding out his hands and raising his eyebrows the way he’d learned at that ‘Assertiveness Training’ seminar, he said: “Now, I used to work Transit...”

“No,” the Doc interrupted, shaking his head. “Teddy, don’t even try...”

“Now hold on, just wait, just a sec,” Teddy said. “When I worked in Transit we saw stuff like this all the time. Hell!” He waved his hand at the carnage over his shoulder. “This ain’t even the craziest shit I ever saw. There was a time this suicidal fellah knelt down in front of a train and when they scraped his body off the tracks they couldn’t find the head. We had thirty men searching a mile of track for that head. Two full days and nights we were down there combing every last inch of it and we couldn’t find the damn thing. Finally we give up and then when the coroner’s cuttin’ this guy open—wouldn’t you know it—there it is. The guy got hit so hard, it pushed his head down through his neck and into his chest!”

“Teddy, this woman’s baby isn’t in her chest,” said the Doc. “Not in her stomach neither, nor anywhere else around here.”

“All I’m saying is that crazy stuff can happen in these kind of accidents. She’s going into labor, he’s speeding and who knows what happens after they hit the ice? And don’t you think something like what I’m suggesting is a little more likely than...”

“Teddy, please…” the Doc said, battling to control his temper. “Just presume I know my job for one moment, okay? The baby is gone. Taken. Cut out and taken.”

“Teddy!” Sgt Sam Bucksee emerged from the side of the ambulance, his pants marked from where he’d knelt in the snow. “I’ve got tracks over here, headed into the trees. Man and dog. Plus some blood, looks like.”

Dr. Levine held out his hand toward Bucksee and glowered at Teddy over his spectacles—a visual communication of the question ‘well?’

“You sure about that?” Teddy asked Bucksee.

“Yes sir,” the Sergeant answered. “Damn sure.”

Teddy sighed. “All right. I’ll have to call the Sheriff.”

“Call the Sheriff?” the Doc sputtered. “Teddy, we don’t have time!”

“It’ll take twenty minutes for him to get down here,” said Teddy. “An hour tops.”

“An hour might be all this kid has!”

“There’s a certain way to do things...”

“A certain way ain’t the fucking way, Teddy!”

“With respect, sir,” Bucksee interjected. “I wouldn’t wait around. There’s a fresh snow-front moving in from the east. Soon as it gets here the trail’s gone.”

Teddy looked up at the clear night sky, twinkling with stars, then back at Bucksee, wondering which of the Sergeant’s Native American senses had informed him of this meteorological bombshell. “You sure about that?” he repeated, more hysterical this time.

The answer came from over his shoulder, from Officer Pete McGavern, leaning against the open door of his truck. “He’s right,” he said, grinning sadistically beneath his gray mustache. “They’ve been saying the same thing on the radio.”

“Damn it,” Teddy muttered, casting a fearful eye to where the body of the woman lay, her abdomen splayed open like a burst balloon.

Dr. Levine took a step closer, lowering his voice. “A child ripped from its mother’s womb is the most vulnerable thing in the world,” he said. “It’s fifteen degrees below out here and gonna get a hell of a lot colder before the night is out. I can’t even tell you this kid’s odds if we don’t move now.”

“If it’s even still alive,” Teddy said.

“That’s right,” the Doc answered, his resolve unwavering. “If.”

~

Teddy gathered together what he could from the men and equipment available. Sam Bucksee was a given, leading the way into the woods. Doc Levine, too. The paramedics made a gift of whatever items he asked for, including a thermal absorbent blanket and head cover suitable for a newborn. Then there was Officer Pete McGavern, who elected to bring along the M4 carbine assault rifle from his truck, and Teddy’s young cousin Gale, driver of the auto-recovery vehicle that would be taking what was left of the Chevy away.

It was Gale, now with a shotgun slung over his shoulder, who did most of the talking on the trail. Kid never shut up.

“So, Bucksee, was it, like, your dad who taught you how to track ’n shit? One of the tribal elders or some such?”

“Jesus Christ, Gale,” Teddy exclaimed.

“That ain’t racist,” Gale protested. “He’s a Kickapoo Injun tracking for the Sheriff’s Office. Just showin’ interest in his heritage, is all!”

“’S all right,” Bucksee answered, his eyes on the ground ahead. “My dad was a store clerk, son. But he knew a thing or two. So you’re not so far wrong.”

“See?” said Gale, shooting a look of vindication to the others.

“Hey, I know where we are,” said Pete McGavern, changing the subject. “This ain’t a half mile from where the Arlen cabin used to be.”

“What are you talking about, Pete?” said Teddy.

“The Doc might know,” said McGavern. “Hey Doc!” he shouted, needlessly. “You ever hear of Skunk Arlen?”

“Jesus,” the Doc replied. “I haven’t heard that name in... maybe fifty years.”

“Yeah.” McGavern grinned. “See…Skunk Arlen and his pop Tick were a pair of poachers lived in a cabin just east of here along the Crick.”

“The what?” said Gale. “The creek?”

“Crick,” said McGavern. “With an I. Nobody calls it the ‘creek,’ boy. There used to be all kinds of colorful characters living on the Crick before the mine shut down. One such being Tick Arlen and another being Lynne Tavish, a widow who let Tick come’n shoot his load up inside her twice a month. Was a service she offered to a lot of lonely men on the Crick, and was popular too, on account of she only charged a couple bucks and didn’t make any of ’em wear a rubber. Whenever she had a pregnancy scare she just shot herself full of a douche of Coca-Cola ’n Ajax ’n that was that.”

“Christ,” Teddy moaned.

McGavern chuckled. “Except for one time it didn’t do the trick and she ended up giving birth to twins—boy and girl. She laid the blame square on Tick, who agreed to raise the boy, naming him Skunk ’cause…he was a fuckin’ retard or some shit.”

“’Cause he stank like a dead dog,” said the Doc. “Way I heard it.”

“Stink or no,” McGavern continued, “when he gets to be fifteen years old, Tick takes a paternal interest in the boy’s virginity, thinking it’s about time he had his cherry popped. And bein’ that Tick ain’t the imaginative sort—or just downright sick in the head—he takes the boy along the Crick to Lynne Tavish, who by now has got herself out of the cock-sucking racket, discovering she can make a lot more green by lettin’ the menfolk shoot their load up inside her little girl instead. Named her Peggy. And Skunk, not knowing she’s his sister—or not caring—fuckin’ falls in love. Gets it in his head he and Peggy are meant to be together, but knows the only way that can happen is if the folks are out the way. So he comes back after dark and sticks Momma Lynne through the eye with a tent peg. And not wanting his pop to try and chase after him, while he’s sleeping, he ties him to the bed with barbed wire. Dumb old Tick, when he wakes up, tries to wriggle free and slashes his stomach open. Poor son of a bitch dies of septicemia, while Skunk and Peggy disappear into the woods.”

“That’s a hell of a story, Pete,” said Levine. “Not exactly the way I heard it, but...”

“Oh, I got a hundred of ’em,” said McGavern. “Just as nasty.”

“Anyone ever catch Skunk and Peggy?” asked Gale.

“Nope.” McGavern grinned wider than ever. “No, they never did.”

“Hold up,” said Teddy, raising his hand. Bucksee had halted a few steps ahead, flashlight held low. “Everything all right, Sam?” Teddy hissed.

“Nope,” the Sergeant replied, grimly. “Can’t say it is.” He raised the flashlight, pointing it toward the nearest tree, just above eye level.

Teddy’s eyes followed the beam and saw what it revealed—a tiny human skull, fixed in place to the trunk by a nail through the eye socket. “Oh Jesus...”

“Is that what I think it is?” said McGavern.

“Is it... y’know...” Gale stammered. “Is it... the kid?”

“Doubt it,” Bucksee answered, and swung the flashlight around to the tree on his left, where a second small skull was secured.

“Oh Jesus,” Teddy repeated. His hand went instinctively to the pistol on his hip. “What the hell?”

“There’s another one,” said the Doc, stomping across to a third tree on the left, getting close enough to touch the toothless white ornament that adorned it. “Baby skulls,” he said, giving a careful examination to the specimen nearest him. “Can’t be from a kid more than eighteen months old. Not sure how long it’s been here, not an expert. But going on wear and tear... I’d reckon years.”

“I don’t like this,” said Gale. “What is it? A warning? I mean... who in the hell does this?”

“Five’ll get you ten... Skunk Arlen,” McGavern sniffed. “No other fucker’d be sick enough.”

“Oh shit-can the fairy tales, Pete,” Teddy snapped, turning back to Bucksee. “What do we do, Sam? This means we’ve got to be close, right?”

Bucksee nodded. “There’s a clearing. Just there. The trail leads us right into it, but...”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Teddy cast a glance to the tiny baby skull over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “I know what you mean. Can we go around?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.” He pointed east. “I think if we—”

The next sound out of his mouth wasn’t a word. It was an involuntary expulsion of air and red froth, issuing forth as his jaw came free from his head. It spun away into the bracken along with the burst of blood, brain, and bone that escaped from his skull as the bullet from a Winchester rifle passed through at 2,900 feet per second. Taking the shot in the left side of his face, Bucksee fell hard to the right, hitting the ground even before Teddy.

And Teddy dropped fast. Blood in his beard and “fuck” issuing loudly and repeatedly from his lips, he dove for the snow like it was the deep end of an Olympic-size swimming pool and shoved his back up against the nearest tree trunk.

The others scrambled for cover of their own. Teddy couldn’t see them, but he could hear their cries of confusion and heels desperately kicking at frozen dirt, followed by a short, sharp blast from McGavern’s M4. “C’mon then, you murderin’ son of a bitch!” he yelled.

“Where’s he at, Pete?” Teddy hollered, casting a glance at the spreading pool of blood under Bucksee’s shattered head.

“Fuck if I know,” McGavern answered from the darkness. “Just lettin’ him know we’re out here.”

The crack of the Winchester echoed again through the trees as a flurry of snow not two feet from Teddy funneled into the air. “Shit!” Teddy cried. “I think he knows.” The same rifle sounded again, this time sending a bullet into the side of Teddy’s tree, showering him in splinters. “Shit!”

“Turn off your fuckin’ flashlight, Teddy!” McGavern yelled.

Teddy looked down to see the beaming light in his hand. Cursing himself for being a moron, he switched it off and drew his pistol. The darkness helped. The rifle fire ceased.

“Okay,” he said to himself, trying to will his heart not to explode. “Everyone all right?”

“We’re okay,” the Doc answered from the shadows. “Is Sam dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus...”

Teddy looked again to Bucksee’s body. The shooter was close. Real close to make a shot like that through the trees in the dark. Maybe within pistol range. Certainly close enough for McGavern to get him with the M4. If they could just pinpoint a little better where he was...

Keeping his back against the tree, he pushed himself up into a crouching position and leaned out as far as he dared. “Arlen?” he called, taking a chance. “Skunk Arlen?”

A few seconds passed in silence, then, “Yeah?”

“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” McGavern muttered.

“Arlen, this is Lieutenant Teddy Warner of the Sheriff’s Office! I’ve got a whole lot of armed men with me, so I would advise you to drop any weapons and come walking out with your hands over your head!”

Skunk was quiet for a few moments more, then hollered: “What do y’all want?” He sounded high-pitched and hoarse. The voice of a ragged old man.

Teddy almost laughed. “The kid, Arlen! We’re here for the kid!”

“Keep him talking, Teddy,” McGavern hissed. Sounded like he was on his feet, his boots crunching away through the trees. “I’m going to get a bead on this fucker.”

“We know you cut it right out of its mother!” Teddy shouted. “You tell me now—is it still alive?”

“Sure he’s alive,” Skunk answered, quickly this time. “I wouldn’t hurt a helpless little baby.”

“That so? Cos there’s a shit-load of skulls nailed to trees out here that would seem to suggest otherwise!”

“Naw, naaww... Them’s my kids! I would never... We always wanted young ’uns of us own! We tried! We tried so many times, but all the little ones we had…they were just too weak! Either born dead or died soon after!”

“So you nailed their skulls to fuckin’ trees? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I do right by my own!” Skunk yelled. “In my own way! All I ever wanted—all I EVER wanted—was to give my Peggy the child she deserved! But this one? Little Skunk Junior? He’s strong! Strong like his Pop! You must’a seen what he survived! He’s a miracle! You must’a seen that! And the Good Lord sent him to us!”

“You’re not his pop, Arlen!” Teddy yelled back. “His pop’s in the emergency room right now fightin’ for his life! And the Good Lord sent us to take his kid back!”

Skunk didn’t say anything to that. Not for a few moments. When he next spoke he was quieter, less emotional. “Y’all can try,” he said, then whistled. Two long, shrill notes.

Teddy didn’t quite know what to make of that.

Officer Pete McGavern, meanwhile, had navigated his way around to the left of the clearing, and hoped he was coming up on Skunk’s flank. A shiver of movement in the bushes over his shoulder, however, made him think twice. Hunkering down, he raised the rifle, sweeping his eyes across the undergrowth, struggling to make out details in the dark.

This was okay. McGavern wasn’t the kind to get scared in these kind of situations. He was an experienced hunter, default position very still and very quiet. If it was too dark—which it was—he held his breath, closed his eyes and listened.

What he heard was the slow panting of a wolf. And it came from right behind him.

He turned, but not nearly fast enough. The animal barreled into him, paws knocking the rifle from his hand, its full weight shoving him to the ground, jaws snapping at his neck. By the time he got his hand on his sidearm it was already too late, the wolf’s teeth digging deep into his throat. When it pulled its head back most of his windpipe came with it, arterial spray painting the snow with his blood. The wolf spat the soggy chunk of flesh into the bushes and ran, taking off in the direction of Gale and the Doc. McGavern, abandoned, shot up onto his knees and fired his pistol three times into the shadows where the beast had stood. His free hand grasped at his neck, touching only hot liquid and meat. Nothing to salvage, no way to survive, he sank down, wilting like a pin-stuck inflatable, and fell face forward into the snow.

Teddy heard the shots. Peeking out from the side of his tree he yelled: “McGavern? Pete?”

His answer was two more gunshots—a shotgun, this time—and a scream that sounded like Gale’s. Then came Doc Levine, running out of the trees and into the middle of the clearing, waving his arms over his head in mindless panic and shouting “Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed!” till SNAP! he stopped and dropped, his leg caught in the teeth of a bear trap.

“Damn it, Doc!” Teddy yelled, getting only screams of agony by way of reply, before another blast from Skunk’s rifle chipped away the bark an inch above his head.

Teddy ducked right, certain Skunk could see him, and tried to make a break for new cover. Another gunshot and flurry of snow sent him tripping backwards again, completely pinned. “Jesus FUCK!” he yelled.

“Teddy!” the Doc shouted. “I see him! He’s in the walnut tree! The walnut tree!”

Teddy took another glance, thinking Which one’s the fucking walnut tree? Then he saw it. A tall, thick trunk of pale wood, sprouting up into six long, bare branches, just a dozen yards from where Levine lay. Giving it a proper look for the first time, Teddy saw that pieces of wood had been hammered into the trunk, winding up around it like a spiral staircase and reinforced by a banister of rusted sheet metal. As he watched, up over the banister appeared a white-haired head and plastic-covered shoulders, bending a rifle toward the Doc who, sprawling, trapped and helpless, put his hands in front of his face and screamed: “No! Please! No, no, no! Don’t!”

Teddy popped out a knee, raised his pistol and let off four rounds. Too quick to be accurate, but it at least sent Skunk ducking back into cover.

“Teddy!” the Doc screamed. His hands were in the trap now, trying to work himself free, desperately splashing blood over and under himself.

“Just hang in there, Doc,” Teddy replied, running out from the tree-line, keeping his weapon trained on Skunk’s position. By the time the old man popped his head out again Teddy was close enough to make the shot count. He fired, hitting Skunk in the upper arm. Fired again, the bullet slicing across the top of his shoulder. Pulled the trigger a third time... and heard the hammer click!

Teddy Warner’s sidearm of choice was a Smith & Wesson Model 10, a .38-caliber revolver holding six shots. It was a crushing horror to realize he’d spent them all.

Skunk, who appeared not even to notice his wounds, gazed down at Teddy from halfway up the tree, his blue eyes merciless. As calm as could be, he cocked the Winchester and swung the barrel down... then jolted backward as his head erupted, the back of his skull spattering across the bark. He staggered and spun as bullets peppered his face, chest and arms, then crumpled over the barrier and dropped, landing in a bloody, Swiss-cheesed mess at Teddy’s feet.

Teddy and the Doc stared for a long time at the body, watching it seep blood that steamed in the winter air, and not noticing Gale until he had walked all the way out from the trees and was standing between them, blood on his face, blood on his clothes, and Officer McGavern’s smoking M4 in his hands. “I killed a dog, too,” he stated blankly, nodding at Skunk Arlen. “And Pete’s dead.”

Teddy turned to Gale, looking him up and down, then felt a tap on his boot. He stared down to see Doc Levine, pale-faced and so choked up from shock he was barely able to speak. “The... kid,” he gasped, pointing his blood-caked finger at the walnut tree “Got to... get... the kid.”

Teddy looked to the tree, seeing now where Skunk’s makeshift staircase led—a square, black hut, nestled in the grip of the branches. Just big enough for two.

~

The tree-house reeked of shit and dead animals. The only way in was a crooked ladder through a square hole, and after calling, but getting no response, Teddy grabbed a hold of the rickety rungs and climbed on up.

Inside it was pitch black, the stench close to overpowering. Teddy couldn’t see a thing but he could hear the soft sounds of sucking—no, suckling—from the corner over his shoulder. He switched on his flashlight and swept it across a floor littered with filth-smeared animal skins, till its beam fell upon Mrs. Peggy Arlen, née Tavish.

The old woman lay naked on the carcass of a wild pig, her withered legs stained by her own dried piss and excrement. Teddy had to guess it had been some years since she’d been able to get around on her own. In her left hand, lying limp at her side, was a blood-spotted razor. Clutched in her right arm was the baby, bright pink, sucking hungrily at her breast – though it was impossible she could provide him with milk. Her wrinkled head was cast down to the boy, bleary eyes gazing at him with unbridled affection. Finally taking some notice of the stranger in their midst, however, she  looked to Teddy, opened her toothless mouth and grinned. “Ain’t he a beauty?” she rasped. “Ain’t he just the cutest thing you ever saw?”

As she said it, she turned the baby around, letting her nipple slip from his mouth, revealing where she’d slashed herself with the razor to give him something to drink. Skunk Jr., red of face and chubby of cheek, kept his eyes squeezed tight in the flashlight’s glare, but yawned, blood spilling from his lips, dribbling down his chin in a thick crimson stream.

And in that moment even Teddy had to admit... he was one hell of a cute-looking kid.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

David Bernstein is the author of the novels Amongst the Dead, Machines of the Dead, Tears of No Return, the forthcoming Damaged Souls, and in 2014 The Tree Man and Witch Island. You can reach him at davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com or www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3

Laura Campbell lives, works, and writes in Houston, Texas. She has an eclectic background in science, law, and business. She has had over two dozen short stories published, ranging from children’s fiction to erotica, and from vampires to science fiction. In 2007 she won the Baker Award for short story. Her bibliography also includes medical scientific publications and scholarly legal literature. She is supported in her writing by her husband, Patrick, and their children, Alexander and Samantha.

Anton Cancre daylights as a herder of that most fowl and terrifying segment of society: middle school teens. He has oozed symbolic word-farms onto the pages of Necrotic Tissue and Shroud Magazines as well as Post Mortem Press’ The Ghost Is The Machine and continues to vomit his oh-so-astute and quite self righteous literary opinions, random thoughts and nonsense at: horrornews.net and antoncancre.blogspot.com.

Robert Devereaux has written a bunch of novels and a passel of short stories, and continues to contrive fabulistic machines designed to bend out of  shape the minds and psyches of his readers. You may have heard of his novel Santa Steps Out or his collection Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit. Pretty much all of his work has been brought back into print by the good folks at Eraserhead Press. Coming up soon will be Robert's third Santa novel, which may bear the title Santa Claus Kicks God's Mangy Ass All Over Heaven.

Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun, some of which has appeared in Twisted Dreams Magazine, The New Flesh, Microhorror, Pulp Metal Magazine, Horrotica, Sex & Murder Magazine, Freaky Fountain Showcase, Surreal Grotesque, Razor Dildo, Horror Sleaze Trash, Weirdyear, Sinisterotica, and Grindhouse. Visit him at:

http://joshuadobson.deviantart.com/

Robert Essig is the author of the novels Through the In Between, Hell Awaits and People of the Ethereal Realm. He has written over 40 short stories and two novellas. Robert lives with his family in Southern California where the weather is sunny and the people are nutty.

J. F. Gonzalez is the author of around twenty novels of horror and dark suspense including They, The Corporation, Back From the Dead, Primitive, Survivor, and is co-author of The Clickers series (with Mark Williams and Brian Keene respectively).

More than 80 of his short stories and novellas have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and other venues, and a portion of these efforts have been reprinted in three full-length collections. His column on the history and development of the horror genre—"Shadows in the Attic"—appears quarterly in the digital magazine Lamplight. He also works as a ghostwriter, a screenwriter, and a technical writer. A native of Los Angeles, California, he currently lives in rural Pennsylvania, but he plans an excursion back to the west coast soon. His home on the web is: www.jfgonzalez.com.

Kelly M. Hudson resides in Kentucky, loves rock n' roll and all things horror. He has two novels and a variety of short stories, all linked up at his website: www.kellymhudson.com. He hopes you and yours have Happy Nightmares!

Harper Hull was born and raised in the rain-lashed north of England but now lives in the sultry southern United States. He started writing short stories in 2010, mainly horror and science fiction, and has been lucky enough to appear in some fantastic collections including last year's Extreme Zombies alongside authors as great as George R.R. Martin, John Shirley and David Moody. He is working on his first solo collection which may be titled Gulls and Ravens.

K. Trap Jones is an award winning author of horror novels and short stories. With a strong inspiration from Dante Alighieri and Edgar Allan Poe, his passion for folklore, classic literary fiction and obscure segments within society lead to his creative writing style of “filling in the gaps” and walking the line between reality and fiction. His novel The Sinner (Blood Bound Books) won the Royal Palm Literary Award. His second novel The Harvester (Blood Bound Books) is due out in Winter 2013. He is also a member of the Horror Writer's Association. Facebook: K Trap Jones; Twitter: @ktrapjones

Jack Ketchum has written over twenty novels and novellas, the latest of which are The Woman and I’m Not Sam, both written with director Lucky McKee. His story The Box won a 1994 Bram Stoker Award from the HWA, Gone won again in 2000, and in 2003 he won Stokers for both best collection for Peaceable Kingdom and best long fiction for Closing Time. Five of his books have been filmed to date – The Girl Next Door, The Lost, Red, Offspring and The Woman, the last of which won him and co-author Lucky McKee the Best Screenplay Award at the Sitges Film Festival in Germany. His stories are collected in The Exit At Toledo Blade Boulevard, Broken on the Wheel of Sex, Sleep Disorder
(with Edward Lee), Peaceable Kingdom and Closing Time and Other Stories. His novella The Crossings was cited by Stephen King in his speech at the 2003 National Book Awards. In 2011 he was elected Grand Master by the World Horror Convention.

Matt Kurtz is a lover of all things horror, thanking his mother for rearing him on Hammer movies and Universal Monsters. He grew up with Aurora monster model kits, “Kolchak the Night Stalker,” and Famous Monsters of Filmland. Being bombarded with such monstrosities at an early age, Matt became terrified of the dark. It was while cowering under the covers at bedtime that his mind leapt into overdrive, creating tales of terror he’d eventually spew onto the page decades later. His fiction can be read in anthologies from Blood Bound Books, Evil Jester Press, Comet Press, and Necrotic Tissue Magazine.

Kerry G.S. Lipp teaches English at a community college by evening and writes horrible things by night. He hates the sun. His parents started reading his stories and now he’s out of the will. Kerry's work will appear in several forthcoming anthologies including The Best of Cruentus Libri Press. His story “Smoke” was adapted for podcast via The Wicked Library episode #213, and pioneered TWL’s inaugural explicit content warning. Lipp blogs weekly at www.HorrorTree.com and will launch his own website www.newworldhorror.com sometime in 2013. Say hi on Twitter @kerrylipp or his Facebook page:  New World Horror – Kerry G.S. Lipp.

Raymond Little was born in London and has had success with several short stories in the UK market. He recently finished writing Ghost Town, a supernatural horror novel for young adults, and has started work on his first adult novel, Doom. “Scream and I’ll Come to You” marks Ray’s debut in the States.

Ken MacGregor’s stories have appeared in several speculative fiction anthologies, including A Quick Bite of Flesh, The Dead Sea, Horrific History, Slaughter House: The Serial Killer Edition, vol. 3 and Barnyard Horror. His work has also appeared in magazines and podcasts. Ken is a member in good standing of The Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers. Ken will sometimes reread a piece he wrote and shudder in revulsion or glee (often both). He lives in Ypsilanti, Michigan with his wife, Liz and their children Gabriel and Maggie. He can be found on Facebook (Ken MacGregor - Author), Amazon and Goodreads.

Shane McKenzie lives in Austin, TX with his wife and daughter. He is the author of Infinity House, All You Can Eat, Bleed On Me, Drawn & Quartered, Jacked, Muerte Con Carne, Addicted to the Dead, Fat Off Sex & Violence, The Oak, Toilet Baby, and Pus Junkies. He is the co-owner and editor for Sinister Grin Press (sinistergrinpress.com). Keep up with him on Facebook and Twitter (@shanepmckenzie) or at his website: shanemckenzie.org.

John Mcnee is the author of numerous strange and disturbing stories, published in various anthologies, including Ruthless, Tales From The Bell Club, A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre and the Blood Bound Books collections D.O.A, Steamy Screams and Blood Rites. He is also the author of Grudge Punk, probably the only dieselpunk-bizarro-horror-noir anthology on the market. He lives in the west of Scotland, where he is employed as a reporter covering strange and disturbing news.

Gregory L. Norris is a full-time professional writer, with work published in numerous fiction anthologies and national magazines. He once worked as a screenwriter on two episodes of Paramount's modern classic Star Trek: Voyager and is a former feature writer and columnist at Sci Fi, the official magazine of the Sci Fi Channel (before all those ridiculous Ys invaded). He is the author of the handbook to all-things-Sunnydale, The Q Guide To Buffy The Vampire Slayer, the recent The Fierce And Unforgiving Muse: Twenty-Six Tales From The Terrifying Mind Of Gregory L. Norris (Evil Jester Press), and many paranormal romance novels, two of which were republished as special editions by Home Shopping Network in late 2009 as part of their “Escape with Romance” line—the first time HSN has offered novels to their global customer base.

Visit him on Facebook and online at: www.gregorylnorris.blogspot.com.

Thomas Pluck writes unflinching fiction with heart. His work has appeared in The Utne Reader, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Blood & Tacos, Burnt Bridge, PANK Magazine, McSweeney's, The Morning News, Beat to a Pulp, and numerous anthologies. He is also the editor of Protectors: Stories to Benefit PROTECT.

His first novel, Blade Of Dishonor, an action thriller spanning World War II to the present, will appear in 2013 from Beat to a Pulp press. You can find him on the web at: www.thomaspluck.com and Twitter as @tommysalami

David Quinn @DavidBQuinn is the writing partner behind Faust, Nightvision, The Littlest Bitch and The Romeros. He’s Diane’s husband, Olivia’s dad and a New York based branded content consultant blogging at inwalkedquinn.com.

Jason Reinhardt is a two time Gross Out Contest winner, has several short stories published, and a novella on the way from Blood Bound Books. He lives and works in the heart of the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle country. Visit him on Facebook and at jsreinhardt.com

Australian Shadows Award finalist Daniel I. Russell has been featured in publications such as The Zombie Feed from Apex, Pseudopod and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #43. Author of Samhane, Come Into Darkness, Critique and The Collector, Daniel is also the current vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and was a special guest editor of Midnight Echo.

D. Lynn Smith has spent most of her career writing and producing such television shows as Touched By An Angel, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman and
Murder, She Wrote. In addition, Debbie has published short stories in the Dark Delicacies, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, and Summer Chills anthologies. She was nominated for a Scribe Award for her audio drama “The Lost Girl”
which is set in the world of the 60s classic television show, Dark Shadows.

Debbie lives in Las Vegas with husband Paul, Jack Russell Terrier, Mad Max, cat Mr. Grant and desert tortoise Hermione. Visit Debbie's website at: dlynnsmith.com.

Kristopher Triana is an author, screenwriter, and all around horror fanatic whose work has appeared in several magazines and anthologies. You can follow his horror and booze obsessions at his blog, tavernofterror.com, and stalk him on facebook.

Calie Voorhis is an internationally published fantasy, science fiction, and horror short story writer and poet. An alumnus of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop she holds an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University and a B.S. in Biology from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Residing in coastal North Carolina, she is the Assistant Technical Director of Thalian Hall Center for the Performing Arts.

Wrath James White is a former World Class Heavyweight Kickboxer, a professional Kickboxing and Mixed Martial Arts trainer, distance runner, performance artist, and former street brawler, who is now known for creating some of the most disturbing works of fiction in print.

Wrath is the author of The Resurrectionist, Succulent Prey, Yaccub's Curse, Sacrifice, Pure Hate, and Prey Drive (Succulent Prey Part Ii). He is also the author of Voracious, To The Death, Skinzz, The Reaper, Like Porno For Psychos, Everyone Dies Famous In A Small Town, The Book Of A Thousand Sins, His Pain and Population Zero. He is the co-author of Teratologist co-written with the king of extreme horror, Edward Lee, Orgy Of Souls co-written with Maurice Broaddus, The Killings and Hero co-written with J.F. Gonzalez, and Poisoning Eros
I and II co-written with Monica J. O'Rourke.

Wrath lives and works in Austin, Texas with his two daughters, Isis and Nala, his son Sultan and his lovely wife, Christie White.

Wol-vriey is Nigerian and quite tall. He is the author of The Bizarro Story of I, Chainsaw Cop Corpse, and Vegan Zombie Apocalypse.

Wol-vriey blogs at http://oddityfarm.wordpress.com

Table of Contents

THE DEVOURING

IF MEMORY SERVES

SCREAM AND I’LL COME TO YOU

REAL DINO SHIT

FINGER CUFFS

ANOINTED

HOME

ROAD KILL

A SCALENE LOVE TRIANGLE

BORDERTOWN

ONE FLESH: A CAUTIONARY TALE

TELESCOPIC

SEXY

THREADS

BURN THE WITCHES

UNDER THE PRETEXT OF PROPENSITY

EVERY DROP OF BLOOD HAS A SOUL

A Tale of Faust

DR. SCABS AND THE HAGS OF EL CAJON

STD

FAT BOY

THE PUBIC HAIR TUMBLEWEED

THE PROUD MOTHER

GAME OF GOLF

SLICE OF LIFE

STUD SERVICE

GIVE ME SOMETHING GOOD TO EAT

LINGER

SKUNK JR.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS