Inflicted Fiction

SHORT STORY: Knee Deep

2007-03-11T18:25:00.000-04:00

The childhood monuments hadn’t changed in thirty years. The old "warhorse" still bobbed at the end of its frayed rope and the rainwater gently sloshed within its tire. The jungle-gym cast its long shadow across the yard, a grim reminder of fractured arms and chipped teeth. Jeremy couldn’t understand his father’s need to keep them around. Each time he made one of his occasional visits, guilt demanded he make more occasions to visit. Today, though, his father had called for him. Something urgent.

He couldn’t remember the doorbell ever working, so he rapped with the rusted knocker.

"Jer, come on in. But do it slowly." The windows were propped open; his father was apparently in the kitchen.

"Why?"

"Just do it. There’s something in here you need to see."

Jeremy’s father was very healthy for his age. He hadn’t shown any signs of senility in the past, but something about his tone sounded... off. Jeremy stepped into the house, flinching when the floor complained beneath his work boots.

"Dad?"

"In here. Quiet."

Jeremy peered around the corner and into the familiar kitchen. His father cowered against the humming fridge at the opposite side of the room, a claw hammer gripped tightly in his left hand.

A fist-sized shape, smeared in black, danced around the table between them. It skittered sideways along the scarred wooden surface. Several spiny limbs sprouted from its back, all of them stubby next to its menacing stinger. Jeremy decided it must be some sort of scorpion.

"Dad, what is that?"

"It’s my coffee mug."

"I don’t--"

"Watch." The old man took a hesitant step forward and swung his weapon downward with surprising violence. The creature exploded. White debris littered the tabletop.

Jeremy studied a piece of the rubble. It was porcelain, with a decorative blue trim.

"Have a seat, Jer. We need to talk."

"No kidding! What just happened?" Jeremy brushed chalky powder from the seat of his chair and realized he was seating himself in the same chair he’d been assigned for three decades. His father sat next to him.

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you pulled a magic trick without me seeing the strings. Where did the scorpion go?"

"Scorpion ... I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it did look like one. I assure you that it's gone now, though--I smashed it. Assuming it wasn’t a trick, what did you see?"

"OK ... It looked like you broke a mug that wasn’t a mug at first."

"No, it was a mug at first. It was the mug you gave me when you were in the sixth grade. It was the one that had that old picture of you and Tad Delpino on it."

"I don’t remember that."

"You don’t? Well it’s right there, on the counter behind you." Jeremy raised an eyebrow. His father looked extremely old, the creases radiating from his eyes were deeper than usual and the veins in his forehead tried to push free from beneath his dark skin.

Jeremy spun around and came face to face with a mug he’d never seen before. A faded image, apparently captured from Jeremy’s days in Boy Scout Troop 522, had been glued onto its surface. Tad Delpino grinned a gap-toothed grin next to a teenage Jeremy. A simple blue trim had been painted around the rim.

"But... Tad was never in the Boy Scouts. His parents wouldn’t let him join, remember? Where did you get that? I didn’t give you that mug." When Jeremy turned around to face his dad again, the table was completely clear. "Dad, how are you doing this?"

"I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about the universe, or perhaps a fundamental lie would be more accurate. Here, take this and be ready to smash my mug again."

"What?" Jeremy retrieved the hammer.

"Just do it. No! Not yet--wait for it to change. I know you never gave me that mug. In fact, you hardly ever gave me anything. So, I convinced myself that you had. I fabricated several things that you might have crafted for me throughout the years, had we been closer, and then there they were. Physical. But, as you can see, they’re changing."

"Changing into what?"

"I don’t have an answer for that, but you saw one of them. About to again--smash it!"

The mug vibrated at first, but soon its surface boiled and the photograph peeled. Tad’s smile grew unnatural as it melted away. The exterior cracked, creating a jigsaw pattern of shining porcelain pieces connected by black, organic sinews. Jeremy pummeled the half-mug until it was chalk again.

"So you’re telling me you only have to wish for something and it’s yours? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"

"Yes, but that's not exactly what I meant. I don’t wish for things; it’s more complex than that. I lie to myself. Do you think I would still live in this place if I could have anything? No, Jer, I’ve tried. It’s something different. Loss, maybe."

"I don’t understand."

"I’ve always regretted how things worked out between the two of us, so I convinced myself that it couldn’t possibly have been as cold as it seemed. And then it wasn’t. I had photos on my walls of us going to ballgames, scrapbooks full of your artwork, perfect report cards, hell I even had video tapes of us on the beach when you were only four years old--you do realize we never even owned a video camera?"

"How?"

"Because it’s bullshit. All of it. That’s why I called you over. Everything is changing, like the scorpion you saw. I don’t know why. Maybe as I’ve grown closer to the end of my life, I’ve started doubting my memories, perhaps even repairing them."

"Then there are still more of those things?"

"They don’t all look the same, but yes, there are many more of them."

"Where?"

"I’ve killed a dozen or so, but several escaped. Some haven’t even changed yet. That’s why you’re here."

"You’re afraid of them."

"They’re real, Jer ... And violent." The old man lifted up his shirt and ran his knotted fingers across enormous bite marks on his belly.

"Dad!"

"It’s fine. It hurts, but it didn’t break the skin."

"We have to get out of here. You can come live with me for a while."

"Did you know I drove all the way to Redwater last month? You didn’t, did you? Went to stay with your aunt Claudia, but they followed me there. No, I created these things and apparently they’re bound to me."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Fight them. I’ve got a big one trapped in the basement. Maybe the biggest. You and I are going to kill it."

"How big?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No ... I guess not. Do you have any weapons?"

Jeremy’s father gestured for the hammer and his son returned it to him. He tested the weight of it. "This has done fine for me so far. We’ve got a couple of your hockey sticks still in the garage."

"Dad, we never played hockey ..."

"Right. Shit."

"You remember playing baseball?"

"Of course."

"Good, there’s a baseball bat in the garage too. We’ll get that after we deal with the sticks."

Jeremy rifled through the cupboards for makeshift weaponry. He carefully opened each cabinet, ready to spring away if he encountered more of the inky beasts. Finally, inside the kitchen drawer, he discovered a long-tipped barbeque lighter and complimented it with a can of anti-corrosive spray.

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"You understand that I am having a hard time with this, right? I want to believe you’re not crazy, and I’ve seen some stuff here that I can’t explain. But doesn’t this all seem a bit surreal to you?"

"Yeah."

"You’ve definitely creeped me the hell out, you know that?"

"Sorry."

"Do you think you’re the only one who can do this?"

"Honestly ... no. I think the scale of it is much bigger. I’ve thought about the lies we feed ourselves each day, hell, we’re not even responsible for most of them. Our brains tend to twist things over time, sometimes making old experiences better, but usually making them worse. Grudges. Hurt. What if all that garbage is leaking out into the world around us? What happens when all those misconceptions begin to break down like mine did and we’re left knee deep in shit?"

"That’s awful."

"Yeah."

"No, really--that is fucking awful. How am I supposed to accept that?"

"It’s just a theory, Jer. Come on, now that you’ve "outed" my hockey sticks, we’d best get to them before they escape."

The two men walked carefully through the hallway, each studying the rooms they passed for signs of trouble. Jeremy felt a stronger connection to his father than he had in years, despite the absurdity of the situation. They were the Carver team, perhaps for the first time. Jeremy’s lighter flashed to life and he held the spray can ready. He nodded his readiness to his father.

Though the door’s paint had faded over three decades, the familiar double-click of the top hinge hadn’t changed. The two men tensed, but nothing attacked. Jeremy reached into the black room and flipped on its harsh fluorescent light.

"There’s my bat, but I don’t see any hockey sticks," said Jeremy.

"Not a good sign. I bet they’re hiding back there." He tilted his hammer towards several large sheets of plywood.

Jeremy nodded and they advanced together. As he stepped beneath the light fixture, something wet splattered onto his shoulders and sprung to life. It clung to his neck with rubbery legs.

"Get it off! Get it off!"

"Hold still, I’ll--" The old man shrieked as the second creature squirmed its way up his pant leg. He dropped to the ground, desperately pushing down on his jeans to keep the beast away from his crotch.

Jeremy slammed into the old tool desk and sent its contents clattering to the floor. The creature spiraled around his neck several times and when it finally flexed, it easily cut off Jeremy’s breath. Panicked, he aimed the anti-corrosive can towards his own face.

The old man dropped onto the oil-stained floor and splayed his legs. He hammered the bulge in his jeans with the claw-end of his tool, shrieking with each swing. The creature only squeezed tighter, so he swung with more violence.

Jeremy, ready to black out, made a dangerous choice. He sprayed the anti-corrosive towards himself. The clear stream passed through his lighter’s flame before splashing his face with pain. It blazed brilliantly; soon he wore a beard of fire.

The creature in the old man’s trousers began to slow; black liquid bled through the fabric. Finally, he felt the hockey stick return to its rigid state during a downward swing. It was too late to redirect the blow.

Jeremy pulled the flaming, charred carcass from his throat. It transformed into a blackened, L-shaped piece of wood as it struck the ground. His father stood and pulled the chipped hockey stick from his pants. He kept one trembling hand on his testicles.

"Dad, are you--"

"I clipped one. I ... I'm sure it will be OK." His voice was a whisper.

"I think I burned myself bad--I can’t feel my face."

Jeremy’s father stared at him, jaw agape and eyes intent. He quickly corrected his reaction and smirked. "A little red is all, like a sunburn. You got a worse burn skiing in Colorad--"

"Dad."

"Never happened, did it?" His voice remained weak. The old man was biting back his pain.

"No. What do we do about these sticks?"

The old man said nothing. He simply picked up the damaged sporting equipment and placed them upon his table saw. It took several runs over the noisy blade, but the threat was eventually reduced to kibble.

"Get the bat, Jer."

"Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe we should wait a bit until we’re both feeling a bit--"

"We need to do this now."

Jeremy hesitated. He was looking for a way out. He wanted to return to his own house, where Mary would be waiting with his dinner. He’d put some cream on his burns, fabricate some crazy excuse as to how they got there, and return to normality. But how could he leave his father to fight his demons alone?

"Jer?"

"Ok. Let’s do it." He pulled "Slugger" off of its wall hook.

The short walk back inside and to the basement was brief but uncomfortable. Jeremy kept his eyes aimed upward as much as possible. His father limped, his right hand still attached to his groin.

"You said this was a big one, dad. Are you sure we can handle it?"

"Right now, yes. It hasn’t changed yet. When it does, though – probably not."

The lights were already on in the basement, and Jeremy was grateful for that. When he opened the door, he saw same the basement from his youth. At twelve, his father had allowed him to move his room downstairs. It was his sanctuary. The thought of something unnatural living in it caused more anger than fear. He descended halfway down the stairs and peered into the open space.

"Dad, if you know it’s a lie, why hasn’t it changed already?"

"I think because it believes in its own existence."

"What do you mean?"

Jeremy glanced up at his father. Tears traced the heavy creases in the old man’s face. The father studied the son, whose face was a reflection of his own from thirty years ago. Patches of his boy's cheek, where the skin had peeled away, swarmed with squirming black tendrils. The old man raised his hammer.

SHORT STORY: Tender

2007-01-23T01:18:00.000-05:00

I'd always assumed it was a homeless shelter. The architecture, while plain enough to blend in with its aging neighbors, peaked and plunged like most of the city's older churches. It wasn't likely that this temple had seen any worshippers for decades. A moat of garbage spanned its cracked exterior and layers of bird shit marked its passage through the years. A few marred ornaments sprouted from the roof. No doubt the building had once commanded respect, but its flock had moved on. It wasn't abandoned; I had seen people inside, shuffling past the fogged windows. Some days the front door cracked open just enough to reveal the chipped tile floor inside. The sign on the wall said "Piscine St. John," which, I thought, sounded like a perfectly good name for a shelter. Of course, in French, a "piscine" is actually a pool, but I had only lived in Montreal for about two years at the time and still hadn't picked up the language.

In those two years, I hadn't yet experienced a true Montreal winter. Sure, it dropped well below the coldest I had known growing up in the South, but that winter, the winter I was to learn the truth behind St. John's, was a whole different creature. Even tucked beneath a thick scarf and a wool cap, the wind stung my skin. My eyes welled and leaked. That morning, I saw the real homeless shelters of the city--bank A.T.M. entrances, subway benches, and even telephone booths. Anything to escape the wind. Those who braved the weather tucked themselves into alleys and cocooned inside heavy sleeping bags. Some still walked the streets, bundled in awkward layers of filthy clothing. It was the first time I'd come face to face with human survival.

During the summer, in a big city, you learn to ignore the vagrants. It sounds cruel, but you cannot help them all. Newcomers will start out by giving quarters to each one they encounter (for about two blocks) before realizing that there is a whole society of needy people living off of pity. Soon, newcomers will begin to ignore the cries for money, look away from the signs begging for help, and only respond with an apology once they are called out by a passing fuck you. It's just easier that way - if you don't notice something, you can't feel guilty when you deny it.

Watching the winter try to claim these people, however, caused me a great deal of shame. I decided to pay St. John's a visit and see how I could help. I wasn't prepared to volunteer my time serving food but I did have my checkbook with me. I'm not going to portray myself as a benevolent spirit here, because at that time, I was not. The city has a way of forcing introversion upon you, teaching you hard lessons when you reach out to people. My hand had been bitten enough times to know that sticking to my routines was the safest way to get by. I needed a quick way to write off my guilt and be done with it, so I headed to the shelter.

By the time I reached St. John's, I was disoriented, stumbling, and I had developed a dull ache behind my eyes. Wind as frigid as it gets here can permeate your skin and sink even deeper. An ice-cream headache. That's the best way to describe it when the chill passes through your eyes. I considered warming myself with a cigarette, but I didn't dare expose my hands long enough to fumble with lighting one. I wasn't even sure if you could smoke through a scarf.

The shelter looked almost new to me. The garbage had been covered by several inches of snow and the stained roof was also veiled by winter. The front door stood about an inch open, allowing the warmth to leak out. Whether it was the promised relief from the cold, the apparent transformation of the building itself, or something less easily explained, I don't think I can properly describe how welcome I felt at that point.

It became clear that St. John's was not a shelter (or even a church) as soon as I stepped into the front room. The walls were colored with fluorescent blue and lined with lifesavers and pool cleaning nets. Painted footprints led around the corner. A yellowed photograph, labeled "Bain St. John--1926," hung unevenly behind the front desk. In it, two men in suits shook hands while people bathed in the water behind them. Public baths had long since become unnecessary, so the city must have adapted it to something more useful - a piscine.

I had forgotten about my original goal for entering; curiosity now compelled me to explore the odd building. I followed the path laid out by the tiny footprints. The pool room was cramped, yet comfortable. The pool itself retained an unusual shape from its past spent as a tub and didn't appear to have a "deep end". It struck me as odd that the place was even open in January. There was no cover over the clear water. I glanced back at the painted feet. No doubt the children of the neighborhood were aware of the pool here; with an open front door and an exposed body of water, this place was potentially dangerous. There weren't any lifeguards around. Or were there?

"Hello? The front door was open. Is anybody here?"

I thought I heard a faint reply from somewhere...outside? I tried again.

"I can't hear you. Speak up!"

Nothing. The thin windows along the sides of the room hummed as the wind caressed them.

I began to itch inside my winter gear. St John's was very well heated--too hot. I removed my coat and hooked it over the back of a chair. I tossed my gloves, scarf, and hat onto the seat. My clothes beneath were soaked in sweat.

I wanted to explore the rest of St. John's, but each time my eyes crossed the surface of the water, the hum grew louder and my thoughts slowed. Soon I was entirely focused on the pool and when I looked away from it, I panicked. I worried that it might disappear if I let it. I felt I was missing the big picture, that if I opened my eyes wide enough I'd see everything. In the middle of the harshest winter of my life, more than anything, I wanted to swim. I am normally a modest person, but that morning I stripped down to my boxers. I'd left the front door cracked open, and somebody could have walked in at any minute. But I needed to swim. There was no rationalization, something unnatural drove me forward.

Someone did enter. Even as he hobbled into the room, I continued to stare into the water. The surface blurred and writhed in response to the new occupant.

"No, God... No," he said. His words were thick with phlegm.

The voice woke me from my trance. On instinct, I reached for my clothes to cover my nakedness, but stopped as I caught site of the intruder. At first consideration, he appeared to be one of the city's vagrants. He'd layered himself thick with dull grey clothing. His hands were lost within oversized sleeves and most of his face masked by stacks of winter hats and hoods. The skin I could see was pale and sickly. Bloated lips twitched as he spoke.

"You can't do this! You can't!"

I clumsily pulled my pants back on. "I'm sorry... The door was open, I thought--"

"Who's there? Please! Don't let it put me in there!"

Homeless and drunk. It wasn't a fair assumption, but there it was. "Do you need me to call someone? I thought this was a shelter, but I guess it's--"

"No!" The man had reached the opposite side of the pool. The layers of soiled cloth peeled back and the hoods lifted. The man inside them was completely exposed. His flesh was gelatinous and it quivered as he was ejected forward towards the pool. I could see completely through his body. His bones and organs were visible, yet translucent. He flopped onto the concrete lip of the pool with a disgusting splat, and his entire body rippled. His eyes met mine as he slid helplessly into the water.

...And then I saw the true purpose of St. John's. For a second, the water seemed as clear as ever, but the illusion broke when the man slid into it. The entire basin was filled with living, jellied people, and all eyes were upon me! They mouthed words I couldn't hear, but I knew they begged for help. I could see through their bodies, all the way to the bottom of the pool. It was much deeper than it had appeared, by at least ten feet, and a hole opened at the very bottom. What looked like a simple breach in the floor chewed slowly with staggered brickwork teeth. I stumbled backwards and toppled over a chair.

The man's clothing, now floating a few inches above the ground, spun to face me. It began a slow drift in my direction.

"What the fuck?" I asked myself aloud. I dashed for the front door. More of the cloaks. At least three more had entered St. John's through the front. I grabbed one of the safety nets and headed back towards the pool. The first cloak still hadn't reached my side of the pool. Why were they so slow? Because their prey is usually slow, I realized.

I charged it, pole extended, and was shocked at how insubstantial the beast was when I connected. I easily snagged it from the air and hurled it towards a wall. Stunned, it hesitated a moment before floating upright. The room began to darken. Above me, the entire ceiling was obscured by descending cloaks.

I desperately gripped a doorknob at the back of the pool room, hoping it was a fire exit. It didn't turn. I kicked at the door with the flat of my foot, but without my boots, I had no chance of forcing it open. Weighing my odds, I sped back to the front room.

I failed to notice one of the cloaks that had flattened out along the floor and I stepped right into its trap. It snapped shut. The nerves in my leg screamed and I fell to my knees. I tried to kick the thing off, but it gripped tighter. The other cloaks in the room were almost upon me from all directions. I waved my makeshift weapon at them, but soon there wouldn't be room to even swing it. The warmth in my trapped leg was almost gone. With nowhere else to flee, I dragged myself to the pool and slid in. The cloak released its hold before I could pull my leg over the side.

It wasn't like treading water, though the bodies were slick with fluid. They still had weight, and I could keep myself near the surface by stepping on their rubbery limbs.

A woman's voice, full of liquid but definitely female, whispered into my ear, "Don't leave us."

The pool stunk of vinegar and my eyes stung. My exposed skin burned as it pressed against the slimy bodies. The mouth below still called to me, although it was less urgent now that I was already being digested. Let go. Swim.

It would have been easy to let go, too, but I had one trick left. I braced myself between one body and the wall and reached into my back pocket. I shoved my fist up into the cloud of cloaks and my lighter licked the beasts with flames. The blaze leaped through the creatures, gaining momentum with each new victim. They began to drop flat to the floor or into the pool. The digesting bodies began to howl as they burned. With pieces of burning clothing stuck to my back, and my hair alight, I pulled myself from the pool and ran towards the street.

I rolled myself into the thick snow banks to extinguish the flames, and then kept running until St. John's was nothing but a pillar of smoke in the distance. I ran through the streets of Montreal until I nearly collapsed, half-naked and smoking. Heavily bundled onlookers watched in pity but refused to help. Sirens rang out in the distance and I knew I'd have to hide, so I dragged myself down the stairs and into a subway station. I was completely numb and shaking. My skin had been burned by both the fire and the cold. I imitated the other vagrants in the station and rested next a large heating strip along the floor.

That night, I would sleep among the invisible, and if I woke up, I would leave the hungry city.

SHORT STORY: From Flesh to Fly

2006-12-08T12:28:00.000-05:00

--------------------------------------------------

The orb-weaver sat motionless though her silken trap danced upon a tender breeze. She had eaten well this past week. Cow carcasses dotted the Kansas wheat field for miles, each one swarming with insects. She'd taken advantage of the carnage. Her web bisected an open barn window, a perfect snare for any intruder seeking the decomposed cattle inside.

A captured fly struggled hopelessly against the sticky surface. The desperate jig sent pulses across the web and within seconds the spider was upon him. Soon, another impact. And another. Flies peppered the web's surface. The spider hesitated, now unable to distinguish one victim from the next. Then, something unnatural. The web itself became a cloud of flies. Stunned, she lost support beneath her body. As she plummeted, she saw a similar transformation befall the spackled barn walls. They too lost their forms. Wood became insect. Vast sheets of it dispersed into spiraling black specks. The orb-weaver exploded into animated, buzzing life before she could hit the floor.

The people of nearby Belldover marveled at the ominous collective buzz of a billion incoming flies.

#

"It's surrounded by what?" asked Dale Raleigh. Remembering his manners, he removed his purple K.S.U. cap and exposed a gleaming bald spot.

The sheriff plucked at his impressive sideburns with untrimmed fingernails. "It's a wall. The damnedest thing. An enormous, black wall."

"More of a cube, George. It has a top." added Susie "Scoot" Gershin. "Although technically we don't know if it has a bottom."

"How could they build a wall in ... "

"Cube."

"How could they build a cube around the entire city in just one night? I was up at Moby's just yesterday. There wasn't any construction--something that big would take months!" said Dale.

"There's something else," added Scoot. "The cube seems to be moving."

"Moving where?"

"Not like that ... it's staying in place. It's just that the thing ... shimmers." His embarrassment painted stark reds across his pale cheeks. During emergencies, George tried to adopt the mannerisms of a big screen, small town lawman. He'd lean against walls, gaze away randomly, and take extra time to let his words sink in.

More like Captain Kirk than aything, thought Dale. "Is there a reason you two are fucking with me today? I've got work to do."

"It's not a joke, Dale. We need you to ... just have a look at it."

"Why? I build houses, George, what do I know about shimmering cubes? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You've done demolition. We were hoping you'd help us tear it down," said Scoot. Her rugged firefighter suit drooped heavily from her tiny frame. Scoot was a good foot shorter than Dale, but her meager physique had never hampered her ability to run a tight firehouse.

"Maybe they don't want us to--"

"Dale, the phone lines are cut. The power lines too."

"Did you try cell phones?"

"No luck there, either. The signals are being blocked by the walls, or--"

"Or what?"

"Let's not worry about that yet. Let's get that barrier down first. How long would it take you to get your machines out there?"

"It depends on which ones I'll need. Did anyone get a look at what it's made of?"

"Not up close, no ... just a 'copter view," said Scoot.

"Why not? Maybe there's a door."

"Fear, Dale. Nobody has the balls. All kinds of rumors going around. Aliens, disease, biblical prophecies, you name it."

"What about the big boys? Shouldn't we wait on them?"

"They're on the way ... though I don't think they believed my story," said George. "We're not expecting them until late. I need to move on this fast. If there's any way we can save people in there, we're doing it."

"You mean I'm doing it?"

The two guests stared uncomfortably at each other, each hoping the other would come up with a convincing reply. There was no avoiding the simple fact that Dale was their "go-to" guy, and Dale knew it. Dale could run for any office in town and would stand a damn good chance of winning. I've helped George and Scoot so many times that they, hell the whole town for that matter, won't act on something this big without my advice, he thought. "We can get you a bio suit if it will make you feel better,"added Scoot.

"No, it won't."

#

Dale caught a foul whiff of Belldover as he passed over her farms.

"What the hell is that?"

"Sewer pipes. Severed below the ground and bubbling up. Look over there." The pilot, Carlton Jones, pointed towards the opposite helicopter window, indicating the dead cattle below. Kansas still hadn't robbed him of his Caribbean lilt.

"Can sewage do that?" Dale shouted above the whirling blades.

"We're not sure, but it's one possibility. We have an autopsy team down there, see them?"

Dale watched two men in clumsy protective suits toss a carcass into the back of a pickup truck.

"Where are the farmers?"

"Gone. Houses are empty," said George.

"This doesn't make any sense."

"You haven't seen anything yet."

And he hadn't. Belldover pushed into focus through a sheet of morning haze. A dark obelisk encased the main portion of the city. Dale was sure that if bad shit could be labeled miraculous, he was staring at a bona fide miracle.

"It's changed shape," said Scoot.

The surface was undulating, it's edges hard to distinguish against the sky. It was as if an enormous, gnarled finger reached skyward from the endless Kansas plains.

"I said it's changed shape. Dale?"

"I ... uh."

"Yeah, exactly. Take us down, Carlton."

The highway patrol chopper descended behind a large crowd of uniformed workers and its passengers hopped out. Fear had drawn an invisible line across the landscape and nobody crossed it. It wasn't long before Dale and Scoot pushed their way to the front. A long stretch of highway, its passing lane paint serving as guidelines straight into chaos, teased Dale. This is your path, buddy. You're the go-to guy, so get to going.

"I'm going to need a ride," said Dale, "are you coming with me?"

"She's not," said George. He hesitated, scratched his chin, then continued, "I am. Wait here, I'll get my car."

The two men drove at a cautious thirty miles per hour towards Belldover. Neither spoke. Once in a while, they would glance into the rearview and watch the line of people grow smaller in the distance. The black wall produced a sharp static noise that made both men squirm, and it was growing worse. Any other time Scoot would have been with them, and, Dale suspected, she was probably fuming back at the staging area. Once, she'd named their trio the Super Friends, but her fire crew lovingly renamed them the Stupid Friends. They'd dubbed Dale their Superman, George claimed Batman, and Scoot decided she'd be the Human Torch. Her friends had cried blasphemy, but you couldn't argue with Scoot.

Dale flipped on the siren, startling the Sheriff.

"Jesus Christ! Are you trying to kill me Dale?"

"Sorry, I thought the people inside might hear it and know somebody's trying to help."

"It's a good idea ... just give me some warning next time. How close do you want to go?"

"All the way, I guess. We need to see what we're dealing with."

"We can always count on y--"

"Yeah, yeah."

#

Fifteen minutes later, George's Crown Victoria barreled towards the crowd, sirens screaming, but this time Dale manned the wheel. He fish-tailed the car before bringing it to an abrupt stop. Dry-heaving, he tumbled out onto the scorching road.

"Dale! Dale ... what happened? Where's George?" Scoot ran to the car.

"He's ... the wall ... pulled him in! Flies! It's made of flies!"

"What?" She kneeled by his side and gasped when she saw his condition.

Dale tightly gripped the upper portion of his left arm. The bottom portion was missing.

"Stay away from me!" The crowd stepped back in unison. The fingers of his right hand began to spasm, the skin blackened, and soon his flesh became flies. Scoot had never seen Dale in pain before; his screaming was unbearable. She rushed to help him, but her effort was pointless. She tried to tourniquet the stump of one arm with his sleeve, but felt the skin beneath become a multitude of insects eager to escape his shirt. His shoes fell empty to the sides and his pant legs gave birth to buzzing black masses. Veins sprayed his life at the pavement, but even his blood took flight. Dale struggled with one final, desperate breath before his chest dissolved. Scoot finally let go when she held only his eyeless head. Seconds later, it too became flies.

Blubbering, Scoot pleaded with the crowd, but most fled to their vehicles and headed back towards normality (something they would likely never have again). Carlton tugged at her suspenders.

"Come on, Scoot! This is way beyond us. We need to get out of here and wait for the feds."

"I ... tried. There was nothing--"

"You did what you could. We have to go now."

"But George ... "

"Is dead."

"We don't know that!"

"We don't have to know that. You saw what I saw. This is biblical shit, Scoot. Beyond us. Way beyond us."

Scoot recalled a quote from her father, the quote that helped her keep control of her team through the worst situations. He'd said, "Give me five weak people and nothing gets done. Give me one strong person and I've got four more."

"George wouldn't leave us in there. Damnit, we're both rescue, aren't we?"

"Do your people run blindly into fires?"

"Sometimes, yes. If we have a chance to save somebody. I have an idea, but I can't do it alone."

"What's your idea?"

"He said flies. The walls are ... flies. If that's true, we can kill them with the fire engine. There's water in the tank. We can cut through those walls, I'm sure of it." She made sweeping gestures with her arms to represent the slicing water streams.

The fire chief was usually very composed; Carlton was shocked to see her so close to hysteria.

"That's a terrible idea. Do you really want to get that close? You're not going to have enough water to last anyway."

"We can push through to Westworn street. There are hydrants on every block once we reach the city." It was David Ortez, one of Scoot's veteran firefighters. David stood taller than anyone else on the team, but his intimidating size was muted by his soft-spoken manner. He seemed calm, but Scoot noticed vomit spatter on his pants.

"You're going, Ortez?" asked Carlton. He reached into the patrol car and cut the siren.

"It's what we do. And George is a friend." David hefted an axe onto his shoulder. "You going home?"

"I ... I can't let you people kill yourselves. I'll go with you, but if things start to look bad, we turn back. Deal?"

"Start to? What's your definition of bad?"

"Let's just be careful."

"We're coming too." Kevin Cornell spoke for a cluster of mixed rescue employees: cops, EMS, and, of course, some of Scoot's boys. Two large fire engines arrived, followed by an ambulance. Somebody cranked up a heavy metal CD and Kevin spun around. "Please tell me you're not playing post-haircut Metallica in my ambulance!"

"This is not the time," said Carlton.

It was the perfect time, thought Scoot. Testosterone and levity, two great motivators.

The caravan cruised down the highway, Scoot's engine in the lead, Tad Clemens behind the wheel of the second truck, and Kevin's ambulance taking up the rear.

"I never sit in the front car of a roller coaster," said David.

"I hear you, man." Carlton was squinting for a better view of the wall.

Within a couple minutes of hauling ass, they had nearly reached Belldover. Though she never doubted Dale's statement after witnessing his death, actually viewing the obelisk's shifting mass shook Scoot. The tip of its grotesque peak now spiraled into the sky and lost form, insects ascending to some unknown destination. The base remained solid despite its constant rippling.

"Scoot's on your tailboard, who's driving?" Tad's voice called through the CB.

"I am. What's up?" David answered.

"Look far to your left. Do you see it?"

"What am I looking for?"

"There's a recess in the wall. It seems to be getting bigger."

"Yeah, I see it now. We'll meet you there."

The vehicles broke from the highway. David ran down a thin wire fence, and then continued onto the flat field beyond. The single-file driving order was broken and Kevin's ambulance began to flank far to the left.

The tear in the insect wall curled its edges like lips and exhaled a burst of flies. David rolled up his window.

"This is bad. This is bad. Time to go b--" Carlton's eyes locked onto a new shape emerging from Belldover. He grabbed the CB. "Kevin, get the hell out of there! There's something coming your way!"

"We see it. Just a cluster of flies. We'll be introducing them to our windshield momentarily."

Scoot studied the ball of flies. It hung low to the ground--touched it, in fact. It moved towards the trucks at an impressive speed, not with a chaotic looping motion as she expected, but with a clear direction. She caught a glimpse of something ... animal beneath the swarm. Frantic, she waved to the ambulance, but their attention was focused on the swarm. She pounded on the back of the truck, attracting Carlton's attention. Scoot pointed at the incoming monstrosity and Carlton shrugged. David was mesmerized by the impending impact between the two speeding bodies.

The swarm hopped over a rock in its path and for a second everyone saw through the masquerade. A headless, four-legged beast jumped slightly out of its insect escort before vanishing behind the black again. It was mangled and pink, with bones protruding haphazardly from its skin. To Scoot, it looked like a bull turned inside-out.

Carlton's CB squawked to life. "Did you see that? Holy shit, did you see that?" The ambulance spun to its side to avoid the impact, but only ended up offering the beast a bigger target. The impact was quick and brutal. Displaced metal rippled around the splattered creature's shape, spraying the side of the van with crimson wash. The vehicle spun and tipped. Scoot struggled to see through the growing dirt cloud. Carlton shouted something out his window, but she was too shocked to comprehend.

Finally, a figure emerged from the haze--Kevin. His forehead spilled blood down his face and shirt, and he desperately limped away from the wreck. He had taken a gun from one of the cops in his ambulance, but his arm hung limp to the side. David was already steering towards his downed friends.

"Hang on, Kevin!" called Scoot.

A shadow overtook the ambulance driver from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, screamed, and pulled a pistol from his waistband. There was no time to fire; it easily tackled the wounded man, striking with such force that Kevin nearly folded in half backwards. Scoot's fire engine pulled to a stop and she leaped from the back. Arms flailing and mustering the most horrible scream she could, she dashed towards the violent scene. Despite the fire chief's best efforts, the beast didn't run. There was no moment of confusion or hesitation, it just simply turned and charged her.

In the moments before contact, Scoot realized it wasn't like a bull at all. It was even larger and wore a span of tumor-knotted flesh wrapped tautly around engorged muscles. Instead of hooves, its legs peeled away to reveal misshapen clusters of bone. The head was absent, but the gash in its place was lined with spit-slathered, jagged teeth. It loosed a cry that sounded like muffled diarrhea.

Scoot's forearms crossed to protect her face. She winced and prepared for the worst, but it never came.

An impressive fire axe whooped end over end across the field and plunged deep into the creature's flank. With the beast stunned, David followed up with a steel-toed assault and recovered his weapon. In a stunningly swift motion, David brought the painted axe head down again and again as the creature gurgled in dying protest. The violence ended as quickly as it had begun. David stood silently over his fallen foe for a moment before wiping sweat from his brow.

"I think it's dead now," he said.

Scoot could only stare.

The two were interrupted by Carlton's voice. "It killed everyone inside. Kevin's dead too!"

"Wait a minute-- where is Tad's crew?" asked Scoot. She scanned the field and the second fire engine was not in it.

"They went ... in." said Carlton.

"In?"

"Drove right through the wall, didn't even stop."

"That's crazy!" said David. "Why would they do that?"

"We'll worry about that later ... when we get in there," said Scoot.

"Get in there? How many people have to die before you've had enough?" Carlton pointed at Belldover.

She ignored his question. "I'll get the pump started. David, take the hose. Let's do this before another one of those ... things comes out."

David propped his axe against the truck and started to unwind the hose while Scoot focused on the machinery. Cartlon threw his hands up in frustration, but neither noticed. He quietly walked to Kevin's corpse, hesitated for a moment before stepping over the beast's carcass, and then plucked the hand gun from Kevin's hand. He returned to the truck and jabbed the gun's nose into David's back.

What the fuck, man?" David dropped the hose and reached for his axe.

"Carlton! What's wrong with you? Put it down!"

Scoot stood frozen.

"Look at us! What are we going to accomplish here? The sound of that thing, which is made out of fucking flies, by the way, is getting worse. We've been attacked by a headless godknowswhat. Most of us are already dead or missing and you want to spray water at it. You want to piss it off more. Well, I'm stopping this. I'm saving our lives. Get back into that truck and turn it around, we're leaving."

"I'm warning you, friend. Take that gun off me."

"And I'm warning you. Get in the truck. I'm not staying here."

David gripped his axe tightly and closed his eyes. Scoot noticed.

"Stop this! Let's just focus on what we need to do he--"

Carlton pointed his gun upwards to fire a warning shot.

"No, don't!" Scoot screamed.

Pop!

David flinched. He spun around, using the momentum to drive his fire axe upwards. Carlton dropped the pistol.

"Wait! I--" The axe shaved off CarltonÂs face just above the upper jaw. The body crumpled into a twitching pile and the airborne chunk landed several feet away.

"Jesus Christ!" said Scoot.

David threw up again. "Am I shot? Scoot! I don't feel where it hit-- do you see anything?"

"You aren't hit! It was a warning shot!"

"Oh God. I'm sorry I didn't--"

Scoot spoke through tears. "You had no way of knowing."

"Still, I should have--"

"David. You had no way of knowing. Come on, we need to get this working." Scoot picked up Kevin's gun before approaching the pump system.

The powerful stream was more effective than Scoot had imagined. Instead of simply knocking out specific sections of the wall, even untouched areas began to separate into individual insects and disperse. After several minutes, the tank's water ran out, but they'd taken down a large portion of the living barrier. The remains of Belldover were exposed. The tops of buildings had vanished, the middle floors blackened with flies. Streams of insects rose towards the sky. To Scoot, each building was like a giant candle with a shivering black flame.

"It looks like we're too late," said David. Tad's fire engine rested on its side, just a few yards inside the wall.

"We need to get to them," said Scoot. The two firefighters returned to their own vehicle.

"What happens when we cross that edge?" he indicated where the wall had been. Now only a puddle thick with drowning flies stood in their path.

"I don't know. I can go alone, David. You did your job."

"Not a chance."

They held hands and Scoot gently stepped on the gas. As the fire engine crossed the edge of the city, both firefighters tensed. David held up his hands and watched them carefully, flipping them top to bottom, but there was no transformation.

"I think we're OK," said Scoot.

"Yeah, it looks like it. Pull up next to Tad's truck and I'll check it out."

The interior of the vehicle swelled with black motion, a mass so thick there was no way to see inside.

Scoot bowed her head. "Carlton was right. We never should have come here. I'm responsible for all these people. What will I tell their families?"

"Tell them they died trying to save lives."

Scoot sighed. Admitting failure meant admitting that lives were wasted. She shifted the truck into reverse. David groaned and held his belly.

"What's wrong?"

"Stomach hurts. It hurt before, but it's gotten worse since we drove inside. Are we leaving?"

"Yes." The finality stung.

Something leapt into the side mirror, arms raised high.

"Is that--George! It's George!" Scoot opened her door.

"It's not safe out here! You have to get off the street!" The Sherriff had a butcher knife tucked beneath his snakeskin belt. He was panting; a fit of coughing soon overtook him.

"Hop on! We're getting out of here!" she answered.

"No, we can't leave. There are survivors! Come on, we're going to be seen out here!"

Though they hesitated a moment, Scoot and David abandoned their vehicle and followed the lawman. They hadn't run far when Scoot realized people were forming a crowd in a nearby intersection. "Look! Survivors!" she said.

"No--those aren't human," said George.

Scoot tried to make out details through the insect haze. Some of the figures were limping and others crawled along the ground. "Look at them! They're injured. George, we have to help!"

"They're not injured, they're deformed."

"What are they?" asked Scoot.

"Fuck if I know."

"Shitbags," added David.

"Yeah ... shitbags. Those are slow, but I've seen other kind, even some that fly. I hope you're good with that axe, Ortez."

"I get by. But the one we saw was anything but slow."

"Two or four legs?"

"Four."

"Yeah, I saw one of those. I didn't stick around long. How about you, Scoot? Know how to use that gun?"

"Never fired one in my life," she said.

"We'll trade, then. He gave Scoot his knife and then checked her weapon's ammunition before transferring it into his own empty gun. "This is police issue. Where did you get this?"

"There were cops in Kevin's ambulance when it ... crashed. He must have taken it from one of them."

"Who? Were they hu--" More coughing.

"They're dead," said David. "Walker, I knew. The other two were twins."

"Shit," George was better at hiding his emotions, but Scoot saw through it. "Come on, there's a house over there that hasn't started changing yet."

Something mangled and pink dipped in and out of the maelstrom high above them.

"Come on, move!" said George. They entered what would have been a pleasant, cream-colored duplex before the disaster. It stood pristine within the chaos. The sheriff advanced with caution, gun raised, and visually cleared each room as they descended to the lower floor. He flicked on his Maglite and painted the room with soft illumination. "They took people down here ... into the ground below. There's some sort of cave system. I ran out of ammunition before getting far in, so I had to come back out. We need Dale to have a look at this place. It definitely looks man-made. Where is Dale?"

"He's ... gone, George." Scoot mentally replayed her friend's demise, his hollowed-out eyes still staring.

George bowed his head. "I keep expecting to wake up from this. Listen, there may still be some of those things down there, but I'm not going to waste bullets on them again. They seem mostly harmless."

"Mostly?" asked David.

"Watch for the ones with fingers or teeth. The others don't really have a way to hurt us. Just stay away from them if you can, push themback if you can't, and I'll shoot when needed."

Scoot held the butcher knife downward in imitation of her favorite cinematic slashers, gripping tighter when she heard gurgles from the darkness below.

"Yup, they're still here. Be careful," whispered George.

Squinting, Scoot tried to make sense of the shapeless black. She was pretty sure whatever was down there was more than a match for her imagination. The phlegm-filled whimpering jumped between sounding human and animal. This is as bad as it seems, and probably even worse, she thought, yet she kept moving.

George tried to be merciful with his flashlight, pointing it forward and not directly at the twitching creatures that lined the basement walls, but the soft glow splashed onto the room's occupants. Some of the creatures made aggressive, fluidic noises as the group passed. Each beast was uniquely deformed; some were missing pieces while others had stunted limbs jutting randomly from their blistered bodies. Headless, one of the beasts searched the wall with its long, tapered neck.

"Over there," George whispered, "They took them into that hole." He indicated a portion of the ground where the carpet had been peeled back and the planks removed. It was past the creatures.

David held his axe parallel to the floor. There was no room to swing the weapon without hurting his friends, but it would serve as a barrier if needed.

A shape sprouted from the hole. The thing pulled itself up with four sinewy legs, obscene lips uncurled and teeth dripping.

"No!" David dashed in front of the fire chief and forced the axe handle into the creature's mouth. It chomped down, vigorously breaking its own teeth as it continued to chew.

"Give me a shot, Ortez!" George had taken a trained shooter's stance.

David twisted his axe and hurled the creature onto its back, yet the jaws refused to release. George aimed at creature's lower neck and fired, spraying wet matter across the room. Holes splayed open across the surface of the convulsing body, revealing countless sets of teeth. The remaining creatures moaned; malformed heads turned and hidden maws opened.

"Oh, shit!" David was back on his feet.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh." Head cocked, one of the creatures carried David's words from one of its many mouths. Its brothers were advancing.

"Don't!" shouted Scoot. She didn't know if she could bring herself to stab another living creature, especially one that looked human.

George fired two shots, each one bursting its target. Red spatter stained a hanging photo of three smiling children. George hesitated. He put a fist to his mouth and coughed violently.

A blistered hand with five bony nubs hammered Scoot's back. She turned and sank her knife deep into a creature's gullet. It screamed and grabbed her tightly. Mouths across its body tore into her belly, thighs, and shoulder. Her fire suit protected the skin beneath at first, but the pointed fangs soon broke through and stung her flesh. She jammed her blade once into each eye, twisting it on the second stab. The creature hung limp on her clothing for a second before the body's weight pulled its teeth free.

George descended beneath the house, flashlight between his teeth, and the basement returned to shadow. A moment later, light flashed up through the hole. "Get down here, we can outrun them!"

"George, you don't kn--"

"Hurry, Scoot! I don't think they can keep up. Look at them, they're crippled!"

George helped Scoot climb down while David, now free to swing his weapon, cleaved into the advancing crowd.

"David?" Scoot called to her friend.

No answer.

"David, please." It was almost a whisper.

Suddenly, the large man landed hard in front of her. He groaned and held his stomach.

"You're bleeding!"

"No, it's not mine--I don't think. Go!" He nudged her shoulder and the three of them moved as fast as possible with only the sheriff's light to direct their passage through the cavern.

As they ran, the bobbing light revealed not only stone walls, but wooden planks propped up as support beams. There were no industrial tools strewn about or even signs of past mining.

"What is this?" asked David. When he received no reply, he said, "Hold up a second. I don't think they followed. We need to rest."

"Ortez, I don't know how much life my battery has left. We need to get in and get out as fast as possible."

"Get in and do what?"

"Find those people and free them."

"You said they were taken--taken by what?"

"Well, there were the ... shitbags mostly. But there was a man with them, too. A midget. He was giving them orders."

"A man? You're saying people did this?" Scoot asked.

"I'm saying I saw a midget with them, that's it. Christ, I don't know what any of this is about! All I know is that we have a chance to something that makes sense in this ... madness, and I'm going to take it."

"Those people are probably dead by now," said David.

"Maybe not, but they probably wish they were," a strained voice spoke from ahead.

The trio startled.

Under George's light, an elderly man approached with an arm over his eyes. "Can you point that away?"

"Who are you?" asked Scoot. She pointed her bloody knife at him.

"Uh--Lawrence. Did the government send you? It's too late." He studied their uniforms. Lawrence was completely bald, even his eyebrows were absent. He wore a dirt-stained hospital gown and one battered slipper.

"Not exactly, it's just us so far, but the cavalry should be here soon. What are you doing down here?"

"They took me, along with the other patients in my wing."

"How many others?" Scoot spoke with concerned confidence, something she picked up while dealing with fire victims throughout her career.

"Seven of us. There were more, but ... uh." His hand gestures indicated explosions.

"They blew up?" asked David.

"No, he means flies," said Scoot.

"Yes. It murdered ... children ... nurses. Didn't touch us. Why? What good are we?"

"What do you mean?" asked Scoot.

"15G. Terminal Cancer Ward. We're all dying anyway."

"How did you escape?"

"I didn't. He let me go. Said I wasn't ... ripe."

"Who?" George raised his voice, sending it far into the caverns.

"The dwarf. You said you saw him too."

"I did. So there are six of your friends still in there?"

"Might be. Might be dead too. Either way, we need to get out of here!"

"We're not leaving. And you're coming with us." George grabbed Lawrence's arm and spun him around.

"There's no need to be rough!" Scoot protested.

"How far is it?" asked George.

"I had no light, so it's not far at all. I was slowly finding my way in the dark. The tunnel turns. You won't need your flashlight once we turn."

How quickly he backed down, thought Scoot, he's given up. He just wants to die.

Eventually the tunnel did turn, and it began to pick up the faint light from a nearby chamber. The group moved close to the wall with their heads low. The same gurgling sounds they had heard in the basement were repeated here, only louder. Creatures squealed and grunted, and every so often the sounds of human agony broke through.

George peaked around the corner and his face went slack.

"What do you see?" whispered David.

"It's ... horrible. So many of them."

"Do you see any survivors?"

"No ... only those things. Wait, there's the dw--"

"Oh Larry ... " A voice beckoned from the chamber.

"No." Lawrence fell to his knees.

"I told you ... we're not ready for you yet. Are you trying to cut in line?"

"Please, shoot me." Lawrence begged George as reached for the sheriff's gun.

"Who are you talking to, Larry? Did you bring friends?" the voice asked, and then to someone close to him, "bring them in."

George's eyes bulged, and he unleashed a horrible scream. He charged into the chamber and began to fire. A second later, David followed. Scoot reached out to Lawrence.

"Come on, get up!"

"Leave me alone!"

Scoot left the old man on the floor and chased after her friends. Stunned, she stopped at the vast chamber's entrance.

The scene before her was a surrealist's painting given life. Fleshy creatures melted and merged, some walking bipedal on her level, some in flight, and some impossibly traversing the walls. Above, a great whirlwind of flies orbited a sickening green light. Giants loomed over the smaller creatures, faces blank and pocked breasts dangling. They leaked milk from their foul mammary sacks onto the heads of their brethren. Under the milky deluge, new limbs sprouted and twisted muscles grew. An enormous cavern mouth led to blackness at the back of the chamber. At the center of the chaos, a dwarf sat calmly in a plain lawn chair.

Sprawled on the ground, George was unable to do anything but cough. He fought to catch each breath.

David held his stomach and rocked on the earthen floor, his axe dropped to one side. There were several pink carcasses around him.

Scoot felt a dull ache beneath her left nipple.

"What is this?" she demanded.

"You're pretty, but you weren't on my shopping list. Oh, I see ... congratulations to all three of you!"

"For what?"

"One moment. Larry? Are you going to come out?"

There was no answer.

"So be it." Jarrod closed his eyes and winced. There was a panicked scream before a stream of flies sped into the room and joined the swarm above.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" David could barely speak through the pain.

"Some call me Charles, but I like Jarrod better. Why am I doing this? Orders. Wait a minute, look--we've got a birth!"

George heaved. Liquid came up between labored breaths. Tissue poured from his quivering mouth and quickly sprung to new life. The mass flopped about on the floor, tore in several places, and then took flight. The newborn creature disappeared into the cavern.

"Wow! Will you look at the lungs on that guy!" Jarrod stood on his chair and spun around to see his inhuman audience, but he got no reaction.

The Sherriff twitched and sputtered.

"Son of a--" David tried to fight through his own pain.

"You're going to do that ... to all of us?" asked Scoot. She inched towards Jarrod as he spun on his chair. Human or not, she intended to stab him when the moment was right. Too much ground to cover, she thought.

"Oh no, that's not my trick. You've seen mine." He pointed up.

"I don't understand!"

"Because you haven't met the big daddy yet."

Behind Jarrod, something in the darkness shifted. Something easily as big as the tunnel that held it.

"Behold, Bavolis!"

"What--"

Bavolis leaned forward on four arms the size of buildings, rotten hands tipped with enormous black claws. Wrapped in numerous layers of stained cloth, the beast upset thousands of insects with each movement. They danced between the folds of its garb. Its putrid face sat shadowed beneath a ragged hood, but one of its milky eyes seemed to shine with unholy light. Its stench, one of life born from death, filled the chamber. Scoot cringed.

"Never smelled a god before?" asked Jarrod.

David sprung to his feet and charged the dwarf, but Jarrod was too fast. The smaller man winced once again, eyes closed. and the ground beneath David's feet transformed. Rock buzzed away in a living black spray and David fell several feet into the cored stone.

"David!" Scoot followed David's lead; she sprinted to the tiny man and sank her blade into Jarrod's gut.

"Bitch!" he screamed, and backhanded her with inhuman force. Scoot tumbled backwards and nearly passed out when her head struck stone. The creatures became agitated, filling the chamber with their hideous cries. Jarrod seemed unconcerned about his new wound.

"You shouldn't have made me do that. Now he's angry with both of us--you're special to him, you see. You're going to give birth to a mother."

Scoot tried to focus the giant female creatures through cloudy eyes, gasped, and looked away. She placed the edge of her butcher knife against her throat and prepared to do the unthinkable.

Suddenly, a gunshot. Now wide-eyed, Scoot scanned the chamber. The dwarf had fallen from his chair, a red spatter beneath his right eye and a pool of blood leaking from the back of his head. She checked for David, but only saw the backside of his axe arching up from the hole as he tried to hook an edge to pull himself out.

George.

The sheriff suffocated, smile on his face and gun in his hand.

Bavolis roared with rage. Every one of its children cowered into whatever crack or cave they could find. The flies began to disperse from their vortex above and then reform on the tumor creatures. The grotesque "mothers" wailed as the insects pierced their flesh. The creatures had extreme reactions to the flies; skin swelled and burst open. The smaller beasts tried to flee, but were too slow to escape their fates. The chamber filled with ravenous buzzing.

"David! We have to get out of here!" She reached into the hole and helped him climb out, though the large man did most of the work himself. He was still suffering.

"I'm done, Scoot. I can feel it. I can't hold it in much longer."

Bavolis screamed at them in a thousand unknown languages with thousand different voices at once, and then spun back into its cave. It left behind a trail of parasitic life. Maggots wriggled helplessly on the floor while clouds of lice dispersed.

"Look, it's leaving ... and the other ones are all dying! We can do this, David. We can get out of here!"

"Like hell it's leaving. They're not getting away with this. They are not!" David readied his axe and then charged into the black cavern after the beast.

"David! David." No time for this, she thought, you have to get out.

Scoot grabbed George's flashlight and his gun, though she wasn't sure if she could figure out how to use the latter. Around her, masses of cancerous life howled out their dying gibberish as they were swarmed. A few flies harassed her as she fled, but for the most part they were more interested in the exposed meat of the creatures. The swarm sped ahead of her through the carved tunnel. She hoped the flies would slay the creatures outside as well.

When she finally surfaced, Scoot witnessed the death of the city. The few remaining structures dissolved into insect and roads crisscrossed an empty landscape. Here and there a fence might still stand, or a tree remained untouched, but ultimately, Belldover had been removed from Kansas.

Trucks were already beginning to appear on the horizon. The black walls had dispersed, granting rescue workers a newfound courage to investigate.

Scoot caught a lift back to the main staging area of the operation, but spoke very little. When asked, she feigned amnesia, at least until she could get her head together. She would be questioned, almost certainly detained, but there was something she needed to deal with first. It still pulsated beneath her breast.

Scoot composed herself, removed the emergency blanket they'd wrapped around her, and walked right into the crowd with full confidence. Still in her fire suit, she went unnoticed. It wasn't long before she was able to commandeer one of the fire department's pickup trucks.

She sped away from Belldover's corpse, eventually exiting the highway and pulling onto a wooded back road. Once she located a spot where she'd have privacy beneath the trees, she parked. She removed the butcher knife from her belt and placed it on the seat next to her. With trembling, bloody hands, Scoot began to unbutton her shirt.

SHORT STORY: Sick and Tired

2006-08-08T20:20:00.000-04:00

--------------------------------------------------

Miller hadn’t killed for Sonya in over forty years. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to her for most of that time. Once, he had allowed himself to be swept up by her righteous tempest, had even reveled in the tasks she had given him. After all, he’d had permission from the highest of authorities to commit acts forbidden to most men. Sonya had served as both his divining rod and his moral foundation.

Four decades and the sting of love lost (perhaps even a spot of senility?) had marred his memory. At the time he’d had complete faith in her but after so many murders without miracles, without even one indication from any higher power that he walked the right path, he had begun to doubt--and she had left him for it.

Now her presence stirred within his house again. Her voice waited beneath an insistent, blinking bulb. The machine displayed Gayle, Sonya. With the push of a button, what? Another favor? Forgiveness? Perhaps something more? You’re seventy-two years old, Miller, does she still matter? He couldn’t lie to himself; he pressed the plastic button.

“Miller? It’s Sonya. I need your help. This time it’s bad. Worse than ever before. Call me, my number hasn’t changed.” Her voice was still as sharp as he remembered, her need completely credible. She ended the message with a hook barb, “I miss you, Mil.”

Shit. After all these years, she still had him. It only took one ring before Sonya picked up his return call.

“Mil? Is that you?”

“Yes, I--“

“Hold on, let me get my aid. I can’t hear you.” A hearing aid implied frailty. He had never seen her frail before. She’s in her sixties now, things have changed.

“Sonya?”

“Sorry, I have you on speaker now, so talk louder. How’ve you been, Mil?”

“We both know that’s not why you called. What’s going on? The sickness is back?”

“It never went away.”

“So you’ve ignored it?”

“No, you weren’t the only one, Mil. There have been others. The work had to continue.”

Christ, thought Miller. How many have died since we parted?

“But this time you need me,” said Miller.

“Yes, I know you don’t believe in me anymore and I know you haven’t believed in me for years. I can’t have you dy--I can’t have you living with that kind of regret. You didn’t kill people, Mil. I’ve wanted to show you all this time, but I never had a way. Finally, I found one. I’m so sorry it took so long.”

“You want me to kill somebody.”

“I want you to end something.”

“What’s different about this one? A lazy eye? Does he walk with a limp?”

“That’s not fair. Meet me tomorrow and I’ll show you. Please.”

“Where?”

“Bus 27, the Kensington route north. It stops near you.”

“I know it.”

“I’ll board that bus at the subway station at 9:30 AM. We’ll pass your stop at 10:02, and then his at 10:06.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Mil?”

“What?”

“Do you still have your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll see you there. Get some sleep.”

“Goodbye Sonya.”

He had no intention of killing anyone. He would humor Sonya, follow her victim as they used to do, but once cornered, he would force a conversation. He’d prove to Sonya, and more importantly to himself, that her targets were regular people. What then? Would he turn himself in? Certainly he deserved punishment, but could he bring himself to implicate Sonya? No.

#

Miller waited beneath the harsh morning blaze, an antique man with an empty antique gun stuffed haphazardly into a raincoat pocket. He had dressed warmly on a scorching day due to a slight chance of precipitation, and was now soaked by sweat instead of rain. Once he’d been a warrior. Fearless. Now he felt ridiculous, a retired veteran of an imaginary war. He choked on thick exhaust as the 27 swung up to the curb.

The driver, wired to a miniature radio by matching ear buds, grunted but didn’t bother to look up when Miller flashed his pass. Once Mil passed, the driver’s thumbs continued to assault the steering wheel to a monotonous urban beat.

“Mil!”

He had expected to wade through a crowd of strange faces to pinpoint (and recognize) Sonya, but the two old friends had the bus to themselves. His voice caught when he saw her.

“I, uh ... ”

“I, uh! Same old Mil. You look terrible.”

“And you’re still beautiful.” Damn, that sounded cheesy. I never could talk to her.

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” It was true, though. She’d braided her lustrous red hair into a long tail without even a hint of grey. Freckles still adorned the cheeks beneath focused cerulean eyes. Her skin was age marked, but the lines enhanced her majestic image. Her single flaw was a small device residing in her ear.

Miller took the seat next to her, on the side of her hearing aid. He raised his voice when he spoke. “I thought you--“

“I can hear you just fine with my aid, there’s no need to yell at me.” She smiled.

“You said you had others to help you with your work. Why are you asking me again?”

“Jack isn’t with me anymore.”

“Jack?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry, were you--“

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“Two. Jodie and Aaron. I’d like you to meet them, they’ve certainly heard a lot of old stories about you, but they both live in Redwater now. How about you? Surely you have a family?”

“No, I never found anyone.”

“Mil, that’s horrible. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ve been busy, haven’t had the time.”

“Busy with what?”

“Thinking, I suppose.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go with all that guilt. But that’s why we’re here. Did you bring the gun?”

“Sonya!”

“Oh, he can’t hear us. Did you?”

“Yes.” He patted his pocket.

“You’ll see. There’s no doubt this time. You’ve never seen anything like this before. Two more streets, now. He’s at that stop every weekday.”

“How long have you been following him?” Miller could never rationalize the fact that she could become more obsessed with strangers than with the people closest to her.

“A couple of weeks now. I know where he works, too.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want you to be scared, Mil. It’s going to get really extreme when he boards the bus. I need you to pretend that you’re used to it. Wait--there he is! Do you see him?”

The scrawny man approaching the bus stop appeared to be a teenager. He wore a tattered leather jacket, originally black, but now so cluttered with slogan pins and rock patches that it barely resembled clothing. A dark hood extended from another jacket beneath and covered the top half of his face. His baggy jeans showed gaping holes where knees should have been.

“He’s a looker isn’t he?” Sonya asked.

“He’s probably just a confused kid.”

“No, he’s not a kid. I’ve seen his face.”

The hood boarded the 27 without acknowledging the driver. Wincing, the driver adjusted the volume of his radio. The hood dumped himself into one of the reserved handicap seats near the bus’ front and casually slid back into his seat, arms and legs extended. He seemed uncomfortable, plagued by nervous tics. A junkie?

“Looks human to me,” said Miller. There was no reply.

Sonya’s head lolled and her eyes showed only white. She twitched violently, her quaking much more violent than the hood’s. Miller had seen her do this before, but never so severe.

“You see, M-mil?”

She’s faking this. It’s part of her fantasy.

“You think he’s doing this to you?” he asked, careful to keep his volume lower than the bus’ engine

“Yesss.” Two crimson lines now connected nostrils to lips.

The hood turned towards them. “Lady, you do this every day. Why don’t you go see a fucking doctor?”

“T-tell him I’ll be f-fine, Mil.”

“She’ll be fine,” said Miller, “It will pass.”

The convulsions stayed strong until the hood exited the bus, close the end of the route. Once they were mobile again, Sonya immediately sat up. She fished for a tissue in her purse and dabbed her face.

“Do you believe me now, Mil? See how strong he is?”

“Sonya, I think you need to--“

“This is where we get off. We’ll need to head back a couple blocks, he works at that thrift store we passed.”

“And then what?”

She just stared at him, puzzled.

#
Hands of Help was a squat, uncomfortable building wedged tightly between two government housing projects. Its windows displayed equal parts graffiti and advertising. Statements like Paperbacks: Two for One, Furniture Blowout, and Fuck Your Mother lured in potential buyers. Miller and Sonya found a small span of window between sale stickers thin enough to mask their presence while they spied on the hood.

There were three people in the thrift store, each of them uniquely bizarre. The hood remained hooded, even indoors. He kept shifting positions, entirely too animated. Miller guessed the man was eager for a fix.

The intruders couldn’t hear the conversation, but a muscular dwarf was clearly addressing their target. The smaller man waved his stunted arms about to enhance whatever point he was making, and the hood replied with defiant gestures. The dwarf seemed sick, despite his physique, his skin too milky and his eyes glazed. The dealer’s second in command, thought Miller, and probably a junkie as well. Why hire a dwarf as your enforcer?

The third man seemed uninterested in the conversation. Instead, he paced the perimeter of the shop, knocking on walls, examining floor tiles, and studying the ceiling. He wore a charcoal suit and checkered tie. Miller attempted to construct the third man's story. He's definitely the dealer, and he's searching for a hidden stash. He's ordered the dwarf to keep the hood busy while he has a look around. These are dangerous men, all three of them.

There was a moment of tension when the dwarf pointed a thick finger at the hood. The hood raised his arms, hands pulled into fists and teeth bared. The dealer, however, calmly interrupted them, spoke a few words to each, and then headed for the front door. Miller and Sonya scuttled behind a van.

“Watch for traffic,” said Miller.

Despite protests from his various joints, Miller slowly lowered himself to the asphalt and peered beneath the vehicle. I hope this isn’t your van, thought Miller.

As the two strange men exited the thrift store, Miller noticed that the dealer wore no shoes. Barefoot, he began to stride away from the shop despite the heated sidewalk. Miller felt the heat on his palms even in the van’s shade. The dwarf stopped dangerously close to Sonya.

“Can you smell that?” asked the dwarf. He tilted his head back and put his full body into an exaggerated sniff.

“Smell what?”

“Old people. Smells like aspirin and urine.”

“They know we’re here. Did they see us in the window? Sonya--I don’t have any bullets …Sonya?”

Slumped against the van, Sonya convulsed and struggled for air. Miller pulled her into his arms.

The dealer spoke again, this time loudly, “You really don’t want to go in there, grandpa. Houl’s not big on company. Short temper, too.”

“These two are even stronger, Mil. Too strong. I can’t breathe.”

“Hold on, I’m going to move you.”

“Wait. They’re gone. They’re gone now.”

“You’re OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“We should leave, then. The bus should be back soon.”

“Leave? No, Mil. I need to prove this to you.”

“I’ll prove it to myself, then. You wait here.”

“But you have no bullets!”

“We’re going to have a talk. That’s all.”

“You don’t know what you’re--“

“Wait here!”

Miller walked straight into Hands of Help like any other customer. The door chimed as it swung.

“We’re closed,” said the hood.

“Oh, I didn’t see a sign. Maybe we could talk for a minute?”

“We’re closed, old man.”

“Listen, Houl is it? My friend is convinced that--“

“How do you know about Houl?” Rage replaced apathy. The hood clutched a carving knife from a kitchen bin at his side.

“Hey, wait a minute. I just want to--“

“You were with the sick woman! Who sent you?” He traced erratic arcs in the air with the blade’s tip.

Miller drew his gun. He pointed it at the hood’s forehead. Forty years ago, he could have nailed the shot from across the room. Forty years ago, the gun would have been loaded. “Back off! Now. I just want to talk.”

“Oh, we can talk. I like to talk.” The last word of the hood’s statement caused a ripple in the air around his face. The word had been spoken with thousands of voices in harmony. Soon, his breath was visible, though the store was uncomfortably hot. No, not his breath. It’s something else.

The hood’s body began to vibrate; irregular twitches overtook him first, then pushed into a rhythmic wave. The man-sized blur strode slowly towards Miller, toppling shelves of second-hand records, pulverizing old ceramics, even cracking the very foundations of Hands of Help. The building’s screams, however, were muted by the hood’s own cacophony. The weapons of the duel had changed. The junkie’s knife twisted like rope and fell to the floor. Miller mimicked him, dropping his useless firearm. The aural assault loosened the old man’s muscles and his legs failed him. He could feel his tissues tearing inside but he wasn’t sure if he was actually crying out. The horrible sound seeped into his mind, past his hands, even as they clasped tightly around his ears. The noise was crippling, he could barely remain conscious. This is it, Miller. At least you know.

A new figure entered the building. Sonya. Miller tried to warn her to run, but his voice was impotent. She held her hearing aid in front of her like some holy relic. It screamed feedback.

Though his shape was nearly gone, the hood fell upon his ghost limbs. He rocked in pain.

At first it seemed that Sonya was waving the device in defiance, but Miller soon realized it was pulling her forward. She pointed with her free arm and spoke, but her words were lost in the chaos.

Coils of substance stripped from the hood as they were tugged towards the tiny device. First, sheets of skin danced through the air, but soon muscle and organs joined the flow. Blurred limbs became stable for a moment before they were pulled free of their host. Drenched in the hood's fluids, Sonya hurled the hearing aid into the center of the storm. What remained of the the junkie’s mangled body spiraled into it. The thrift store dripped with remains. Sonya loomed over her fallen friend.

“Mil! Are you OK? I heard the sound outside and it hurt my ears, so I took out my hearing aid. I could feel it tugging at him before I even came in! Did you see that? Oh God, I’m so happy you saw that. You hang in there, Mil. I’m going to take care of you.”

Cradled in her bloodstained arms, Miller put his fists against his ears and then stretched open his hands to indicate he couldn’t hear. The old man smiled.

ENTRY: An Urvite Transformation?

2006-07-25T01:02:00.000-04:00

--------------------------------------------------

This is incredible! An anonymous letter (as they always are) was waiting for me today when I returned from work. The text was very to the point:

"A photo of your predecessor."

Is it a warning or a threat? I have no way of knowing. It could also be a hoax. My theory--this is evidence of an Urvite transformation. No doubt this man is dead. If my sources are correct, he has certainly merged with architecture somewhere - most likely in Redwater, where Urvus activity is the most prominent. I will attempt to fill in the detail of this image to show you what I see, in case you do not see it. I doubt I will get much sleep tonight.

Update: My artistic interpretation of the photograph

Do you see it now? I apologize for the gore, but based on the descriptions of this terrible transformation, I'm actually being quite conservative.

SHORT STORY: Groundwork

2006-07-19T17:20:00.000-04:00

--------------------------------------------------

Peter Donald trudged his way through the rising rain puddles as they filled Bremson Street's legendary potholes. The Muppets still lingered in his head, endlessly serenading him with their nonsensical melody.

Manamana.

Once it resurfaced, there was no way to fight it back down.

Do do da do do. Manamana. Do do do do.

Dan Danvers, KFUG's "fugliest" DJ, had played the damn thing for the seven AM wake-up call every day for the past week and Peter kept forgetting to set the alarm slider to a different station. Peter wondered what had driven Dan to select such an infectious song to open his program, but he supposed it was the same malevolent imp that had infected his own life. The city’s population had never felt so tense, so eager to tear each other down at the slightest provocation. There was a subtle, yet tangible madness on the streets. Nobody smiled anymore. Every stranger seemed to be a potential threat or at least an irritation. Eyes went wide. Teeth were bared. Yet industry continued; in fact, labor had become a hopelessly thin barricade between normality and an inevitable riot. The citizens fought back the perpetual influx of bills with equally unending labor, but without significant result or reward. A great sinister energy boiled and would soon erupt.

Peter’s old friends barely recognized him anymore. He had always been the designated driver, the reliable chaperon, and sometimes even the “go-to” guy. He had tired of predictable suburbia and had uprooted his perfect, pleasant life. Six years ago, he had planted himself firmly into the aged core of sprawling Redwater. Now he was one of its toiling machines.

Manamana.

Peter wanted to blame someone for his unhappiness. Dan Danvers certainly came to mind this week. But he knew that wasn’t fair; he couldn't point a finger without a million fingers pointing right back. It was the city itself, or rather the people infesting it, Peter included.

Come on you bastard, bite me. Do it. I’ll grind your shaggy skull beneath my heel.

The Pomeranian gazed up at him, its tongue stupidly dancing upon the humid air. Despite Peter’s silent demands, it scuttled past him without incident, its elderly master in tow. Peter pushed his own tongue into the tender gum recess beneath one of his molars and winced. Great. More money for the dentist.

He pressed forward on strained muscles that fought against the invasive cling of once-fitting, now twice-too-small corduroys. Peter was late for work yet again. An extended series of infinitesimal catastrophes had delivered him just a moment too late to his bus stop. For twenty minutes he had fumed while impatiently waiting for the next germ-trolley to pick him up.

Christ, I actually pay two dollars to be sandwiched between sweaty men every morning.

The odor of the Redwater River, swollen with catfish, laid claim to the industrial district and its bustling textile factories. Each day, Peter was expected to traverse its stinking alleys and make his way toward Galvin and Sons, Inc., a clothing distributor that had never employed a Galvin. Mustafa and Sons just didn’t have the proper ring to it, Peter mused. His boss was the son of a son of the original Mustafa, but that didn’t make him any less irritating. Peter loathed his job, but he relied on it to fund his meager apartment. Despite his continuous internal bitching about the place and the pact he made with himself to eventually leave it, but he suspected he’d end up doing some worse kind of labor if he tried to change. The city had absorbed him into its ceaseless, pumping bloodstream. Good natured, hungry-for-love, sky’s-the-limit Peter had been tainted by prolonged exposure to it. Like most of his fellow workers, he existed without ambition, without inspiration, and, despite his daily transit dilemma, without human contact.

Manamana.

Peter heard the telltale double honks of a diesel from one of the enormous garages and dashed across the street before it could creep backwards over the sidewalk. He glanced behind him, hoping to make eye contact with the driver, eager to let him know how he felt about the existence of such boisterous vehicles with a mere look. Of course Peter would never actually say anything. He knew the Neanderthals were likely to gang up on him, their own infected moods at a head and ready to burst at the slightest agitation. His anger stung the back of his throat, lifted up on a wave of acidic reflux. Something wasn’t right.

Something solid scraped along the back of his teeth and he probed it with his tongue. A sharpened point met tender flesh and Peter winced, sucking in damp air. He spat the thing into a cupped hand.

“What the fuck?”

It was the head of a rusted nail. Not a full nail, just the rounded tip and a small protrusion of the shaft. The point of separation was sharp enough; the pool of spit in his palm had blood in it.

Peter scrambled to think of where he might have ingested the damn thing. It could make him rich! He’d heard about people suing over finding severed human digits in their meals, but this was worse. Hell, he might even have tetanus. There had to be extra money to be squeezed from tetanus. For a brief moment he panicked. What was tetanus anyway? He knew it could kill if it wasn’t treated, but he wasn’t the type to get shots. His brow creased again as he catalogued his recent meals.

He had a slice of fridge-chilled pizza for breakfast, thin crust and single topping. In fact, half of a topping was a more honest description. Surely he would have noticed the chunk of metal floating on its cheesy surface. Last night? The same deduction applied because it was the same pizza. Winding the hours back even further, he could count a half dozen cans of soda, but he would have heard the nail rattling around inside the aluminum shell. Lunch had been a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard on a kaiser roll. Just thick enough, he thought, his inner voice doing its best pompous lawyer impersonation, just thick enough to deliver this potentially fatal foreign object into my unsuspecting body. As he considered the type of bite motion required to consume a roast beef sandwich on a kaiser roll, he inadvertently mimed the process. To a passerby on the sidewalk, it looked like a distorted yawn, but to Peter it was confirmation that he had probably swallowed a large portion of the sandwich, along with the Trojan nail.

This realization came as a bitter disappointment. The local deli was a ramshackle establishment that had been teetering precariously on the edge of bankruptcy for the last decade. A law suit filed against it would probably just put it out of its misery before Peter collected any money. A slight grin rode his sweat-spattered face as he determined that there was no way to prove the object’s origins. It could have come from any one of the products he had recently consumed, and even from products he hadn’t consumed. He’d pick a large company, like the soda manufacturers, to pay for his pain and his new house. Just the possibility of having tetanus, of imminent death, should be enough emotional stress for any jury. He felt his jaw begin to stiffen.

Only it’s real. My jaw really is stiffening. All of my muscles are getting tight.

Peter pushed himself harder, believing he could walk off whatever psychosomatic symptoms his mind had conjured. He swept past the same alley he’d seen thousands of times but had never entered even once, and then stopped abruptly several feet past it. He moved closer to the wall and traced a gap between the bricks with his index finger as he cautiously stalked his way back. He poked his head around the corner to try to make sense of the nonsense he’d just witnessed.

The usual oddities were there: hubcaps strewn about, a moldy couch long abandoned by its cushions, shattered windows, and the inevitable boxes of discarded materials from the factories on each side. The nook maintained a perpetual shade due to the height of its neighbors and the fact that opposite fence wore a thick coat of wind-tossed garbage. It was an ugly site, but it had never seemed particularly noteworthy, nor did it now. Its occupants, however, were strikingly out of place.

The first was a tall, emaciated man who slunk around the area, casting his hand toward the ground as though blessing it with holy water. He wore an immaculate suit and jacket, buttoned up to his gullet. A hideous checkered tie neatly hung from his collar. As if the man wasn’t already a disturbing contrast to his environment, Peter glimpsed his naked legs and quickly looked away.

Completely insane. He’s some crazy homeless bastard.

The man was wearing no pants to match his jacket, nor was he wearing any protection on his feet. Trails of blood ran along the treacherous floor of the alley, forming bizarre, geometrically absurd patterns.

The second man slumped into the couch as if dead, but Peter saw that his head was tracking his pantless companion’s movements. The seated man was wrapped in black plastic garbage bags except for his face which peeped through a roughly torn hole. His eyes were glossy and distant, as if he were drugged. A rope of spittle rappelled from his chin and streamed down into his lap. His gaze lazily drifted toward the voyeur and his eyes bulged.

“No! You can’t let them do this again! Run!” shouted the bag man. His voice was a strained wheeze.

The pantless man stopped as if frozen in time, completely unmoving. The bag man began to struggle beneath his artificial cocoon, but made no progress. “I said get the fuck out of here!”

Peter turned to flee, the excitement causing another burst of painful liquid to ascend his esophagus. It deposited a clump of solid objects into his mouth. He let out a pathetic yelp and vomitted onto the sidewalk, eyes wide.

“Oh god. Oh god. What is this?” he whimpered, staring at the spatter on the ground--wooden shards and plaster.

“Wait.” It was the pantless man.

Peter bolted.

“Wait, Peter Donald.” There was no urgency or hostility in the statement. It was the voice of a rational businessman, trained to announce promising quarterly results at afternoon financial meetings. “We’ve need of your services.”

Peter hesitated, but not enough to completely stop his motion. He slowed to a casual jog. He’d make his way to work, he was close now, and he’d have plenty of time to rationalize what he’d seen. He was terrified of the hospital, but he vowed if anything else passed through his system, he would take a cab there immediately.

Get to work, run the machines all day, and get home. Simple. I can do this. He knew my name. How the hell did he know my name? Doesn’t matter. Get to work.

Peter’s arm began to itch. He scratched violently but his skin protested by burning glorious red. But there was more to it that just the color and pain, the skin itself shifted, as if the muscle below moved in trembling, patterned waves. He pressed his fingers hard against the flesh, attempting to massage the phenomenon away like some furious charley-horse. The skin broke, revealing a shiny, pulsating black patch beneath. Plastic.

Peter made it back to the alley with startling speed. People on the sidewalk simply moved out of his path, most likely thinking him mad. Nobody seemed to notice the odd men.

“What are you doing to me?” questioned Peter. His antagonist stood exactly where he had been when Peter left. His eyes, and only his eyes, turned to greet Peter.

“Oh, I assure you, it’s not me.”

Peter noticed the man on the couch was now completely covered in the grotesque pupal restraint, the portion now covering his face inhaled into a macabre mask.

“You killed him!”

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea, Peter. Please, have a seat and we’ll talk.”

“Have a seat? You think I’m just going to sit there and let you murder me too? What is this? Poison? Drugs? Why me?”

“That certainly is a mess of questions. You’re sure you don’t want to have a seat while I answer them? It will be easier for you.” The pantless man had resumed his ungainly procession around the alley, continuing his seemingly pointless hand gestures toward the ground and renewing the drying blood lines with fresh color. He seemed completely unconcerned about an attack from Peter and even turned his back to him when the pattern demanded.

“I’ll call the police. Your blood is all over the place. They’ll have your DNA, they’ll take me to the hospital, and they’ll get this poison out of my system while they haul your ass to prison.”

“You think so?”

Peter had no response. In fact, he did not believe his own threats.

“Or do you think perhaps the police cannot see me . . . or our friend on the couch there? Could it be that you are having some sort of mental mishap and we aren’t really here at all?” The pantless man was smiling.

“No. You’re here. You’re here and you’re going to fix this.”

“You’re right. We’re real, more real than any of those people out there. We are this city, as are you. We’re just children being brought up in the image of our father.”

“What do you mean?”

“Name something positive about your life. Why do you exist? What do you contribute? Who do you love? Who loves you? Who even gives two shits about you?”

“My parents.”

“Your parents are dead.”

“How did you--“

”Your parents are dead, you’ve only had one girlfriend, when was it--back in the 90s, if I remember correctly. Laura. She barely remembers you. Your fellow employees avoid you. Why shouldn’t they? You hate yourself! One might say you’ve been poisoned for years.”

“How the f--“

”Don’t be stupid, Peter. The walls have ears. Let’s just say I’m a good listener.”

“Who are you?”

“Hmmm. Redwater will do.”

“Ok, Redwater. What do you want from me? I just want to get rid of this, please. I’ll do my good deeds, spread some karma. Joy to all and all that shit. Make something of my life. Go to church, even.”

Redwater stopped for a moment, a look of concentration on his face as if what he’d just heard was impossible to process. “Good deeds? You mistake me for someone else, my friend. You’ve done exactly what you were supposed to do. And you will make something of your life. That’s why you’re here! This is an exciting day for all of us. Urvus is very proud of you, you know?”

“Here’s what I think. You’ve drugged me somehow and I’m having an especially bad trip. Or maybe you’re some kind of street magician who is abusing cheap tricks. Hypnotism. That could be it. You’re putting things inside my head that aren’t real.” Peter realized he was waving his arm at Redwater violently and noticed the plastic had begun to snake out of the wound. It clutched the outer surface of his arm, spiraling over the contours of his muscles.

“Believe what you will, Peter, but the truth lies with our friend over there. Perhaps you should have a look?”

The thought repulsed Peter, but he saw no alternative. He had his doubts about the reality of the situation, but wasn’t going to gamble his life on it. Redwater obviously knew how to help him, and maybe Peter just needed to play along. Peter toyed with the idea of tackling the frail man. He could easily force him to the ground and there were plenty of makeshift weapons within reach. The possibility of Redwater refusing to cooperate or even fighting back headed off that line of thought. Peter was a coward at heart and like it or not, he’d do whatever Redwater wanted him to do to get his normality back. He approached the couch and noticed the man-shape beneath the synthetic sarcophagus was misshapen and angular.

“Go on, pull it off. Just standing there gawking at it will only make it harder for you. It’s not as horrible as you think.”

Peter steeled himself and then pulled the grimacing plastic from the man’s face. Beneath was a twisted collage of brick and wire. Peter spun around to face Redwater.

“No, it’s not a trick. That’s Horace Gordon, reborn.”

“Bullshit!”

“Peter, walk over to the wall there and tell me what you see.”

Peter obliged. He scanned along the ground for some trace of the man who had tried to warn him--Martin, but found nothing but debris.

“No, not there, look at the wall.”

“My God!” Peter saw several spots in the brick that contained human remains. A row of teeth protruded, proudly displaying silver fillings. A skeletal finger pointed toward nothing. Other traces of human bones bulged and retreated into the lopsided wall. “They bricked people into that wall!”

“There’s only one person in that wall. Mary Evers.”

“Mary ... Evers? This is Evers and Company, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is.”

“Why are you showing me this? This building has been around since the turn of the century. You’re not old enough to have--“

”She was a whore. Now she is ... historic. Every beautiful bit of architecture here has a name behind it. Each one a person refined by their loves, dreams, and vices and then restructured by Urvus.”

“Galvin and Sons?”

“The sons were even more despicable than their old man. Posthumously, they made one of the most successful businesses in this area, but you already knew that.”

The plastic parasite sprouting from Peter’s arm had enveloped the full extent of the limb and now coiled around his torso to pull his arm tight against his body. His shoulder dislocated, accompanied by a horrific snap and a pained scream from Peter.

“I’m not like them! I’m a good person!” The statement sounded ridiculous to Peter, and he wasn’t even certain it was still true.

“This isn’t a punishment, Peter! Urvus looks for potential in his children, not morals. Your mind, your wondrous mind, has become your blueprint and he’s chosen to build you. I envy you. I really do.”

“Make it stop!”

“I can’t. I just prepare the lots, I don’t handle the architecture.”

With a metallic squeal, bars begin to worm their way out of Horace Gordon’s concrete body and sprout like vines across the alley’s floor. His corpse was dragged from the stinking couch and pulled along the meticulous bloody symbols Redwater had left beneath his wounded feet. It was both ridiculous and wonderful to behold--a man-sized sack of material rapidly traversing crimson guidelines as it sprouted the foundations of brick walls.

“Ah, construction begins. My work is done here. If I were you, I’d clear this lot. It’s about to become dangerous,” said Redwater.

Peter tried to mutter a protest, but only managed to blow a cloud of white powder from his mouth. The chalky substance invaded his lungs, causing him to fight for breath. He fled.

Redwater gave him a final acknowledgment before disappearing into the dark of the alley, “I’ll visit you when you’re done, Peter. I’m sure you’ll be a thing of wonder.”

Peter was soon completely enveloped by his plastic tormentor. He had tried to beg for help but the busy riverside workers seemed to ignore him. He finally collapsed, his heart strangled in coiling wire, beside an empty lot.

Manamana. Do do do do.

#

The Redwater River district eventually celebrated a financial boom as the government realized they could turn run-down factories into historic tourist hot spots. All of the great antique buildings were featured in the Redwater River brochure, including Galvin and Sons, Gordon’s Metalworks, Evers and Company, and of course, to the delight of the inquisitive vacationers, the final stop at the legendary Donald’s Deli, where the roast beef on kaiser was an absolute must.

SHORT STORY: Spoil

2006-07-16T17:46:00.000-04:00

--------------------------------------------------

Are you reading actual words here? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I guess if you're able to read this there may yet be hope for me. I'll give you my name first and see if that changes things. It's Shane Leighton. Still there? Great. You've got a stronger will than most.

If you're reading a handwritten letter, it probably hasn't been long since I first circulated my story. You'll have to forgive my handwriting. Although I like to think I've educated myself thoroughly despite my problems, I haven't focused on my penmanship. I made as many copies as possible with the school library's photocopier, but eventually the ink ran out. Last night I spent three hours making sure every post and pole downtown was wearing a copy. It almost cost me my life and I won't risk so much time in public again, so I hope you're actually there.

If you're reading a typed copy, I may have changed locations again and your chances of helping me are much smaller. But not lost. No, I have to keep my faith. If someone bothered to type up my account, people are reading it, and someone was able to read through to the end.

Let me explain. Concentrate on my words because there is a great chance that they will spoil. I've left messages for people before and though rarely there is a delay in the reaction, it always comes. Most of the time it would have happened by now. I can only hope you are strong enough to have held out this long; maybe you are my salvation.

I considered all of the implications of writing a longer letter versus a brief one. At first I believed getting right to my plea would be best because you'd have less to digest and less time to react, but I'm not sure that's the best route. What if you manage to read through a tiny portion of text without incident but react negatively to my physical presence when you seek me out? That could be extremely dangerous for me (and for you as well, because I do defend myself if I have the physical advantage). I will use the space of these pages to transcribe major events in my life. I have three hurdles here, first you'll need to be immune to my curse, but more importantly, you'll have to use that immunity to find me, and finally, you need to believe me. So my task is to break through your skepticism and maybe even your fear. Why would you do what I am going to ask? Compassion? Curiosity? I honestly don't know, but I have to try.

A lot of people in my situation would simply end their lives. I have considered it, but each time I come to the same conclusion. Though I am nearly thirty now, I only experienced about nine years of my life before things changed. It's not fair, and I am not going to accept it. I want to be like you again. I will be like you again once we figure this thing out.

Right. I said this thing started when I was nine. There were always bullies at school to avoid, but one day it was different. It was during our fifteen minutes of silent reading--I looked up and the girl who sat next to me, Chloe, was madly staring. Maybe my mind has altered the event, but I distinctly remember her frothing at the mouth, her eyes opened unnaturally wide. I panicked, thinking she must have been choking, and called out to my teacher, Mrs. Crowe. Mrs. Crowe turned around with a pleasant smile on her face, as usual, but once she had caught sight of me, her face became a scowl. She began to throw various HATE YOU objects from her desk at me, violently. Soon she was screaming. My clearest memory from the attack involves a stapler, unlatched, flying end over end. It struck me hard on the cheek and even managed to leave its metal stinger in my skin. The other kids began to tackle me, drawing blood with their fingernails. I couldn't stop crying--or screaming, but somehow I got away. I couldn't understand what I had done to make everyone hate me. I still don't.

On the way home, anyone I passed on the street would stop, as if stunned. I now believe that it was due to their brains processing the sudden, unnatural anger. I have seen it many times. Fortunately, I can often use this moment of confusion to make my escape, leaving them dazed and wondering what had made them so upset. They don't pursue me. Once I am out of sight, if I make no noise, they resume their lives as if nothing had happened.

On the walk home that first day, I was attacked several times, but fortunately I was a DIE nimble child and made it to the safety of my own home.

People don't understand how significant a home is until it's taken from them. It's the foundation for our lives, not only physically, but on a mental level too. I had mine stolen from me when I was a child. My perpetual haven, a place where it was safe to cry, a place to retreat when I was sick, and to sleep BURN undisturbed, had become hostile. I stumbled into the house, blathering, my clothing stained with blood and my pants stained with shame. My voice alone was enough to enrage my parents, in fact my father trampled my mother as they both tried to grab me. It was focused, irrational rage. They did not recognize me. I could barely recognize them, I had never seen their faces so distorted.

Still with me? I hope so. I began to live my life YOU MUST KILL ME as a thief, taking my basic supplies late a night, at first from dumpsters, but later by breaking into the stores themselves. Once in a while I would encounter people, or even animals, and struggle to survive. I never wanted to hurt them, but I did. Maybe I shouldn't type it here, but really, what harm can it do at this point? Yes, I've even killed. I've lived in ROT many different cities, but I have the best luck in the suburbs where the streets are empty after midnight.

I know there is still hope because I did have a friend once. She was an elderly CHOKE homeless lady, Gladys, who caught me scrounging through her "home" and did not attack. I should have been terrifying to her; this was during my early twenties were I often went unwashed, unshaven, and carried a solid piece of rebar with me. But she didn't back away. In fact, somehow she was able to tune out whatever it is that I do. Desperation sensed desperation and welcomed me in. She managed to uplift me during one of my lowest KILL points by teaching me how to survive without drawing attention. I told her about my curse, but I don't think she believed me; she told me about her husband, who left her for the circus, and I didn't really believe her. I should have realized what would happen, but I was greedy. I needed a connection.

After a week or so of companionship, I awoke with Gladys' arthritic hands around my throat. Instinctively, I ME lashed out with my makeshift weapon. When I realized what I'd done, I reached out to her, desperately apologizing, but she was already suffering horrible convulsions. Blood streamed from her nostrils. I couldn't bear to end her life, so I did something even worse. I ran. KILL.

Did I mention I now live in an elementary school? KILL The security isn't very ME tight here, which allows me to come and go after the kids leave. If you come here, you'll find that a lot of the windows are easily opened from the outside. I KILL have to be careful that the children aren't staying late for plays or sports, but ME my only real worry is the Janitor who makes his runs KILL between ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. I think maybe you can KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. here every Wednesday KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL hope ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. you read this far it KILL ME. KILL only mean ME. KILL ME. you are immune. KILL ME. 540 Islington. KILL ME.

SHORT STORY: Blowing Smoke

2006-07-13T23:32:00.000-04:00

--------------------------------------------------

“I’m not sure how much help I can be, Mr. Hagerbaumer.”

“Charles.”

“Charles, right.”

“We’re like normal people, you know. Just a little smaller. Our minds work the same way.”

Catherine’s right eyebrow soared and her face filled with color, a rare reaction after so many years in the practice. “No! That’s not what I meant--sorry. It’s just that I’m trying to quit smoking myself. I feel a little guilty trying to be the expert on a vice I’ve yet to conquer.”

“God, I guess it’s me that should be embarrassed. I apologize, it’s just that I have to be on the defensive, considering ... ”

“Considering that you’re a dwarf?” Catherine felt uneasy saying the word, even though she was sure she’d used the right term; Charles did have comically awkward proportions. She was trained to scan him for subtle gestures but he remained still, stubby arms tucked beneath each other. His heels crossed and his legs were relaxed, despite ending several inches above the olive carpet. He's comfortable. Good.

“Yes, my height is the first thing people notice.”

“How much would you say I weigh, Charles?”

“Uh.”

“It’s fine. I know I’m heavy. No guesses?”

“Hah! Okay, I see what you’re doing. Fair enough.” Charles shifted his position, slightly embarrassed.

“Just trying to loosen you up a bit. We need to figure out why you smoke before we can work on a solution. You seem very composed. Usually people are at least a bit nervous when they have their first session.” Catherine believed she’d found a loose thread and began to tug at it.

“I think you’ll find I’m a very calm, rational person. Which is exactly why this cigarettes thing is kicking my ass. I don’t want to smoke and I don’t get any enjoyment out of it. Hell, I don’t even crave them most of the time. But here I am with a pack of smokes in my pocket.”

“Do you want one now?”

“Not in the slightest.” There was a hint of protest in his voice, as if the question was a jab at his integrity. “Do you?”

“I can’t say the temptation isn’t there. I’ve been clean for three weeks though.”

“Cold turkey?”

“More or less. My eight year old watches too much television. He was crying one night and when I asked him what was wrong, he told me the man on T.V. said I was going to die. I crushed the pack I was working on and let him throw it in the garbage himself. I’ll be honest, though. I do have a just-in-case pack tucked next to my bible on the bookshelf.”

Mirth crept across Charles’ face. Catherine chuckled.

“No, it’s not a religious experience or anything like that. It’s just that He was the only witness when I made the deal with myself, so its there as a reminder. It’s worked so far.”

“I’m not a religious man.”

“And I’m not a particularly religious woman. But if it works, it works, right?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Charles had returned to his relaxed posture.

She noted it was precisely the same position he had settled into before and she scribbled notes. “Do you have a lot of friends who smoke?” she asked.

“No, none of them.”

“Do they drink?”

“We go to bars sometimes, but none of us drink heavily.”

“How long have you been smoking?”

“It’s going to sound strange, but I can’t remember. I know I wasn’t smoking when I lived in Toronto, so it’s definitely been under a year. I couldn’t even tell you where I got my ashtray.”

“Was there a lot of stress during the move?”

“No, no more than usual. I mean, packing your whole life into a truck is always kind of bizarre, but nothing particularly unpleasant happened. In fact, I was excited because I got the job I wanted.”

“What job was that?”

“I’m a supervisor for Fenoware’s technical service department.”

“And you like it there?”

“Yeah. It’s stable. And I get paid more than I need to get by. I also like the midnight shift because I can avoid traffic.”

“And avoid people?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s much more comfortable when I’m not trying to push through crowds to get there.”

“I understand. Do you ever consider another job, one that is less structured?” She was tugging again. Let this be easy for once.

“No, not really. I’m actually pretty happy where I am. I work with a great group of people. They’re a bunch of rascals sometimes, but worth the headache.”

“It sounds like you have some fun there.”

“More like they have fun at my expense, but yeah, I wouldn’t know what to do without them.”

“Mhmm.” Catherine circled a portion of her notes and rapidly clicked the mechanical end of her pen as she prepared her next question.

“Would you say that you’re the voice of reason there? You serve as their ceiling when they get too rambunctious?”

“Sure.”

“What about home? Are you married? Kids?”

“Nope, just me and my dog Bucky,” said Charles.

“Is Bucky a small breed?” She preempted his reaction with a gesture. “Don’t take offense, I’m only asking because small dogs are easier to control, and that’s relevant to what we’re discussing.”

“Yes, he’s a collie. So you think I’m a control freak?”

“Do you think you--“

“Do I think I’m a control freak? I knew that was coming.” They both smiled. “I guess in some ways I am, but I don’t see how that causes a smoking habit.

“I don’t think we’re ready to make that conclusion yet, but I’m throwing it out there for discussion. I think it’s possible that given your stature, you’ve spent most of your life struggling to be normal, and that’s fine for Charles Hagerbaumer the dwarf, but now Charles Hagerbaumer the typical man has surfaced. Cigarettes are cool, and although entirely too common, they’ve always been a sign of rebellion. What if subconsciously, you’re rebelling against your protected environment in small doses?”

“Wow. You’ve sold me.” There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“Haha, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s just one possible path and we’ll explore many if you choose to come back for more sessions. Do you know the first thing that came to my mind when I decided to stop smoking?”

“What?” asked Charles.

“What am I going to do with my hands? My cigarette was a device used for more than just consumption. I could emphasize my speech, use it as a pointing device, or the best part, pretend I had no lighter and use it as a way to meet new people.”

“I see your point.” She noted his right hand now rested on the square protrusion under his breast pocket. He noted she was using her pen to emphasize her anecdote. “Your ad says you are a trained hypnotherapist. Can you simply suggest that I don’t want cigarettes anymore while I’m under?”

“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid, or I’d be filthy rich. You can’t force the mind to stop doing something it wants to do. Extended sessions might help to change your outlook on smoking, but I suspect we need to rule out a bigger dilemma first. I’m not convinced, subconsciously speaking, that you want to quit smoking. If you’re amiable to the idea, though, I think we can find out a bit more through the hypnotherapy.”

“You promise you’ll just stick to the smoking, and not poke around in my closets?” Charles joked, but the concern was genuine.

“I promise. And most people believe they are an open book under hypnosis--it’s not true. Your defenses will still be up, just slightly less picky about what information is filtered.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I guess that’s the control freak talking again?” Charles’ protective, uncomfortable position was just as predictable as his relaxed one.

“We won’t proceed if you have any hesitations.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to do this. Are you going to swing a watch in front of me?”

“Nope. I can do this without tools, that’s how skilled I am.” She aimed her pen at him, then read his expression quickly and glanced down at the tiny psychological crutch resting in her hand. “Not even this one.”

“So what do I do?”

“First I need you to close your eyes.”

He was hesitant, and even braved a couple of peeks before finally forcing his eyes closed. Catherine noticed a lot of movement behind his stretched lids. He’s nervous. He’s got an impressive amount of control, but he’s definitely nervous.

“Now I need you to breathe deeply, imagine you’re not in an office with me. You’re at home, sitting in bed alone. There’s not a worry in the world right now. You’re completely calm and safe. Now, raise one of your hands in front of your face, fingers lightly touching each other.”

Catherine was fascinated by the size of his hands. She wondered about his daily life and how clumsy simple tasks must feel to someone using instruments designed for much larger grips. She realized it was probably no different than a growing child; he had probably adapted to the limitations of his body just as everyone else did, dexterity replacing size and strength.

“Without opening your eyes, focus on a point in your palm. It’s going to be very hard to open your eyes because you’re so relaxed, but I need you to do it now. Open them and see the point become a reality.”

Charles’ lids fought the request, but he managed to open them just wide enough to find the point he had envisioned. His lips danced softly as they sang some nonsensical, silent song.

“You’re going to spread your fingers open and as they slowly move further and further apart, you will have to strain more and more to keep your eyes open. You’re becoming more relaxed than you ever imagined possible. Now, spread your fingers.”

Charles did as instructed. She wasn’t sure if his eyes were completely closed or if he was still processing some tiny amount of light. Catherine began the usual “deepening” methods to prepare for her conversation with his subconscious. She had him raise his stunted arm and focus on slowly lowering it. The science of it, or some might say the trick, was to keep him focused on the outcome of each task while the difficulty in getting there would deepen his trance. Simple gestures such as lifting a limb became exhausting exercises for the mind. She began the final deepening routine, but to her shock, Charles leapt up into a lopsided position, eyes completely focused. One of his eyes grudgingly followed its twin as they analyzed their environment.

“Awww, damn. He went to a shrink? What for? Isn’t he shrunken enough?”

“Charles?”

“What’s he complaining about? Can’t get it up? Can’t find the perfect little woman? Hears voices in his head just before he falls asleep?” Charles popped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket with a solid tap and had one in his mouth before Catherine could react. A click-swish-click of his lighter preceded a great puff of smoke and a satisfied grunt.

“That’s a fancy lighter for someone who doesn’t smoke regularly.”

“Hey, I would smoke regularly but we don’t get smokes out here.”

“Out where?”

“So how much is he paying you for this, anyway?” His face contorted and shadows crawled across new geography. He appeared many years older.

“That’s not important, are you going to answer my question Charles?”

“Are you going to answer mine?”

Such bite in his voice. This is Charles’ subconscious, stirred by years of denied wants, now ready to burst open.

“Very well. This session will cost you forty-five dollars since it’s our first meeting, with later sessions costing sixty-five. But you already knew that.”

“Maybe he is crazy, then.” Charles snorted. “Whatever he’s told you is probably true, but I promise you--you’re not going to be able to fix it, so stop taking his money.”

“Well you told me you smoke. And here you are, smoking.”

“You’re shitting me. He’s here because of that?”

“You’re the one who-“

“Let’s stop with that. I’m not Charles.”

“I understand that sometimes it gets hard to express yoursel-“

“I’m not Charles, bitch!”

Catherine diverted her eyes into her notepad, unable to look directly at her patient. The man had much greater problems than an unhealthy habit. She typically dealt with social anxiety and self esteem issues. This was out of her league. She’d bring him out of trance and recommend someone more qualified. The repetition of her pen clicks sped to match her furious pulse. But first, she had to know.

“Who are you?”

Short bursts of spindly smoke pushed through the corners of his mouth as he laughed. “Not that you’ll believe me. They never do. I’m a dead man.”

“A ghost?” She made no attempt to hide her disbelief.

“Don’t be stupid. Do I sound like a ghost to you? I died, yes, but I’m still alive. In two places actually.”

“Two places. In Charles, and in ... ”

"Hell. Bavos. Hades. I guess it depends on your religion."

The idea was absurd, of course, but nevertheless, every one of Catherine’s muscles felt like it was flexing in one sudden ripple.

“So you’re a demon, then? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, woman! No! Psh, Demons. There are no demons. Just us. My name is Jarrod Keele.”

“So you believe you’re being punished for your actions while you ... while you were alive?”

“It’s not a matter of believing, it’s a reality."

"How do you believe you died?"

"I don't know. I was alive, and then I was here. It must have been something quick. Maybe I got hit by a bus. Aren't you curious to ask me what my days are like?”

“What are your days like?”

“I don’t have any. It’s night here, always night, and endlessly cold. There are other people here, I know because I can hear them crying out for warmth. I try to answer them, but I can’t speak English here. My words come out as fucking nonsense, just like everybody else’s. Some of the others have gone mad with laughter despite their misery. And we don’t die. We can’t die. I can’t even tell you what my body looks like because I can’t see it, but I can feel my skin peeling away. Christ, I don’t think there’s even any skin left on my legs.” He was weeping.

“So you seek out Charles as an escape?” This was exciting new ground for Catherine. She’d had plenty of neurosis pass through her office, but this was something extraordinary. This man’s subconscious was speaking with her coherently, showing graphic, elaborate signs of self punishment. For what?

“I enter him for warmth. For the taste of a cigarette. They let me smoke when I was in prison. That was paradise compared to my new home. Charles is different, no question there. His body takes some getting used to.” Charles’ hand sought out his crotch.

“So you possess him. Would Charles be better off speaking with a priest?” She longed for a cigarette of her own.

“I don’t know exactly how it happens. I stare hard into the darkness, straining so much my eyes burn, and then something ... slides. My focus bleeds into his focus and I’m here. Not for long, but I’ll take what I can get. I didn’t pick the shrimp; it just works out that way every time. I’ve got other abilities once I’m here. If I were you, I wouldn’t let Charles go to a priest or bad shit may happen to you. Really bad. That’s a promise.”

“What are these abilities? How would you stop him?”

“You really wouldn’t want to see them. Trust me.” He wagged a plump finger at her.

“Charles, I’m going to clap my hands and when I do, you’re going to wake up.”

“You filthy bitch! I’m warning you!” He lunged from the couch but Catherine brought her hands together before he could complete the motion. Charles tumbled to the floor and opened his eyes in shock. Flames sputtered forth from the carpet beneath him and he rolled to safety. Catherine assaulted the newborn conflagration with her coffee before it had time to grow.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh, Charles ... I’m sorry. I can explain all this.”

“To cure me of smoking you made me smoke a cigarette? I don’t understand.”

“You lit it on your own. I tried to bring you back before you could, but I was too late. Are you okay?” She was helping him to his feet, feeling immensely guilty both for potentially harming him and lying about the session.

“I’m fine. But I’m not paying for the carpet.”

“Neither am I, the insurance will cover it.” They were both smiling.

“So what did you find out? Can I quit?”

“I’m going to refer you to a colleague of mine who specializes in cases like yours. Not the smoking, we could work on that. But I think you first need to work on your sense of identity. I have some concerns that I will share with her and she’ll be much better at explaining them to you.”

“Wow, it’s that bad, huh?”

“No, not at all, Charles. It’s good that you’re here. Perhaps your subconscious was using the smoking to make you seek help. And you’ve found it. I just want you to have the best therapy possible, so I’m going to get it for you. We’ll meet next week at the same time, in this office. I’ll introduce you to her and make the transition easy. She’ll charge you the same fees I would.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. In the meantime, try to cut back on the frequency of your smoking. Fight that subconscious urge. It really is a matter of will.”

“Alright. Thanks. I’ll be here. You have me more than a little worried, but I’ll be here.”

Catherine tried her best to keep a smile on her face and to at least appear optimistic even though she dreaded the amount of therapy the poor man would probably commit himself to. She would call Samantha and beg for a favor, an owed favor, as soon as she got home. She crept over to her blue tinted third-story window and peered over the sidewalk. Charles moved towards the subway station at an impressively brisk pace despite the turbulent sea of people pushing past him.

#

“Mom?” asked Anthony.

Catherine hesitated a moment, unsure if she had woken to her son’s voice or something conjured by her sleep. She rubbed her eyes into focus.

“Mom.” he insisted.

“What is it, hon? It’s ... It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I think there’s a kid downstairs.”

“What?” She was out of bed and fumbling with her nightgown.

Half of Anthony’s face peered through the door's gap.

“Why do you think someone is in the house?” she asked.

“I saw him.”

“You saw who?” she whispered, terrified.

“He’s little. He was in my room and then he went downstairs. I heard him in the kitchen.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just having a nightmare? You stayed up pretty la--“ Catherine was interrupted by a distinct thump downstairs. “Crawl under my bed right now and don’t come out until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

“What is he--“

“Right now. Hurry.”

Catherine spun towards her nightstand and her stomach tightened at the sight of an empty phone cradle. Shit. He was in here too. She watched her son as the draping comforter swallowed him whole and, satisfied that he was out of view, began desperately assessing the knickknacks of her room for weapon potential. She couldn't find a single object with defensive value. Her bedroom only boasted two neighbors--the bathroom and Anthony’s room.

A rapidly expanding plastic universe thrived in Anthony's bedroom, but unfortunately he wasn't the least bit interested in sporting equipment. She considered arming herself with one of his toy guns but only found "Alien Attack Blasters" and "Robot Rays," a legacy left behind by her ex-husband and his sci-fi tendencies.

Catherine made a mental inventory of the bathroom: tweezers, nail file, toilet brush, plunger, or chemicals. Catherine decided that hydrogen peroxide hurled into the trespasser’s eyes would produce spectacular results, but she’d never been able to throw accurately (not the least bit interested in sports either). Panic rode her, demanding her retreat to the bedroom with Anthony, its tone cruel and condescending. This is pointless. You don't have the courage for violence. Wait it out. Wait it out and he'll leave on his own.

She turned to flee but was promptly anchored when she noticed a weapon masquerading as a harmless piece of porcelain. Catherine carefully lifted the rectangular top from the back of the toilet. Her face pinched as the lid clumsily scraped loose. The piece was much denser than it appeared and its unpolished underside bit the soft meat of her fingers. She hefted it upward as if preparing to strike and, neither satisfied nor disappointed, headed into the hallway to begin her descent.

Catherine felt ridiculous perched at the top of the stairs, toilet lid lofted high above her like Moses receiving the Commandments. Her bare toes curled silently into the carpeted steps as she forced her shaking body downward. Each breath escaped stunted and hard as a nervous tremor reached her lungs. She reached the bottom step and scanned the main floor of the house. The harsh kitchen light revealed open drawers. A dozen flies spun in drunken circles around the kitchen's bulb. A burglar? He must have left the patio door open.

"You can put that down, Cat." The voice rose from the black of the living room.

"Charles?" She kept her weapon.

"In the flesh ... but not in the spirit I'm afraid."

"Jarrod?"

"Yeah Charles is pretty trashed right now and I'm his designated driver."

"You ... uh, Charles, told me he wasn't a heavy drinker." Catherine attempted to keep him talking. This is a sick man. He needs your help.

"This is a sick man. He needs your help." Charles mocked her with her own internal voice.

"Jesus Christ, how did you--"

"I told you I could do things."

"What do you want? Why the fuck are you here?"

"Thought I'd have a smoke." Charles, Jarrod, flicked open his lighter and produced a brilliant little flame. With new illumination, Catherine saw him sinking into the recliner, his stunted body overwhelmed by the girth of the furniture. While the fire still sputtered light, she watched him inhale the smoke and then exhale it from a good couple of feet higher than his head.

"Your cigarettes taste terrible. I've had this brand before--it doesn't taste like this. As stupid as it sounds, it may be because they've been rotting next to your bible. Isn't that funny? Turns out I've got a lot to learn still."

"What are you?" Catherine's analytical brain was caught in an irrational loop.

"Haven't we been over this already?"

"Get out of my house!"

"But you haven't introduced me to Anthony yet. Where are your manners? Where is the little guy? Anthony!"

"Mom?"

Catherine responded with a terrifying, guttural shriek. Jarrod spat out his cigarette as she charged him. His stubby arms did little to fend off the porcelain lid as she repeatedly hammered it down upon him. Moaning, Jarrod collapsed to the floor.

He rolled onto his knees and Catherine noticed he had tucked one of her kitchen knives beneath his belt. Oh God. He's here to kill us. She continued her assault before he could regain his balance. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Her stomach picked up the violent sound before her ears and she nearly retched. Soon the crimson spatter soiled the lid's pristine surface.

The wounded man managed to reach the dividing line between the living room's teal carpet and the kitchen's linoleum squares. Bloodied, shaking fingers pulled him towards the light. Now completely engulfed in flies, the bulb fought for its own life. Staccato illumination splashed across the room and in the split-second eye adjustment between flickers, in the unlight, Catherine could see Jarrod's hell.

Her unkempt kitchen was gone. In its place, a bleak cavernous landscape extended far enough to fade into fog. Iron cages sat upon the jagged floor, each one spaced from its neighbors and each one containing a battered human figure. Most were lying prostrate, all of them suffering. Some cried out while others cackled with tortured madness. Many spat foreign words like curses.

Jarrod rolled in place, his hands grasping at his mauled skull. One of the caged people nearby imitated the gesture. This man was full-sized. Infested with flies, his legs were exposed to the bone. He kept repeating a word she didn't know.

"Elichnar! Elichnar!"

In unison, Jarrod said, "Bitch! Bitch!"

"What is this?" She trembled. All faces turned towards Catherine, their eyes long since devoured by insects. Some began to reach out to her with mangled limbs.

"Is that a midget? What's wrong with him, mom?"

"Anthony! Don't look!" She dropped the toilet lid and quickly turned her son away from both scenes of carnage. She ushered him towards the front door.

"Where are we going?"

"To Grandma's. We're going to spend the night there. Hurry." She grabbed her keys on the way out and the two of them, pajama-clad, were soon on the road.

#

Catherine returned to her house the following morning with her father (and her father's pistol). Her toilet lid rested cleanly on the carpeted floor without a drop of blood on it. The kitchen bulb blazed brilliantly, perhaps stronger than ever. Her emergency pack of cigarettes was gone, but the rest of the house seemed undisturbed.

Her father urged her to file a police report, but she refused.

"Well at least move in with us, at least until you feel safe enough to move back. We never use the basement and it's practically an apartment by itself. You'll have to go outside to smoke, though."

"Dad--I quit!"

#

Catherine suspected she'd never see Jarrod or Charles again, but she kept her father's gun in her purse just in case. Charles' second appointment neared. Distracted, she knew she was providing inadequate help to her other clients. It's fine. He won't show up.

But he did. Charles showed up for his appointment five minutes early, exactly as he had for the first session. Catherine studied him closely for any sign of Jarrod Keele, but found none. His face was heavily bruised and several parts of his head were stitched into place. Bandages covered his fingers. He sat before her in his controlled posture, his eyes even and focused. She had shoved a hand into her purse (which she hid below the desk on her lap) as soon as her secretary had announced his arrival.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?" His tone wasn't malicious.

"Ask what?"

"Why I look like I was hit by a bus?"

"Come on ... I think we both know the answer to that." Her fingers tightened around the pistol's grip.

"You caught me. I'm a little embarrassed. I told you I didn't drink heavily, but you knew the truth. You were hinting at it."

"So you got drunk?"

"That's an understatement."

"And what do you think happened to you?" She pointed at his stitches with her free hand.

"I have no idea. It would seem I got into a fight. I don't think I won."

"How bad is it?"

"Lots of stitches, obviously. A slight concussion. One bitch of a headache. The guy who did this must have been huge. Well, I mean, even more so than usual for me."

"I'm glad to hear you'll recover. I'm not going to lecture you on the drinking."

"I guess I'm your colleague's problem now. Is she here?" he asked.

This is it. The big lie. Get him out of your life. More importantly, get him out of your son's life.

"I spoke with Samantha and proposed some theories. She concurred. You won't need any future sessions."

"What? But I'm still smoking--and drinking. Just look at me, I'm a total wreck. I don't understand."

"You're going to have to keep smoking. Charles, I'm going to be brutally honest here. We determined that your subconscious is desperately, actively seeking escape from its prison--your structured and controlled life. You came here to try to conquer that urge, and look where it led you. Somewhere very, very dangerous. It's a small vice, and far less damaging to you in the long run than what may come about if you try to stop it. Eventually, you may not feel the need for them anymore."

"Your solution to help me stop smoking is to continue smoking?" Charles' tone had changed. He was letting emotion slip through his perfect composure.

"For now I think it's best, yes. And Samantha agrees. You're welcome to see another therapist if you like, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

"And you expect me to pay you for nothing?"

"Of course not, I won't charge you for either session. I'm only being honest. I can't help you."

The anger subsided and Charles gave her a quick nod. He slid from the couch and landed lopsided on his feet before marching towards the door.

"Charles, wait. Can I ask you a favor?"

"What?"

"Can I bum a smoke?" she asked.

He looked up at her beneath a folded brow. "I don't understand."

"Oh, no ... it has nothing to do with you. I just need one now."

Charles unbuttoned his shirt pocket and slid out the pack. He freed one of the paper sticks and handed it to his ex-therapist. It was from her own emergency stash.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem."

"Good luck, Charles."

"Um. Good luck to you too."

She watched from the window again as he wove his way back into the crowd below. She noticed scores of people outside with cigarettes firmly pinched between either lips or fingers.

Is Jarrod the only one? It's not my problem. Christ, it's certainly not Anthony's problem. There is a game going on here and I was not invited. They can sort out the rules.