He had a catch phrase on that shitty sitcom a few years back. You know the one, with the animatronic alien and the little kid squealing “Who’s your daddy?”. Anyway, that’s the kid back there, the ginger with the gun to my head. Tyler Quackenbush. I don’t think he’s been in a movie or T.V. […]
Eddie Pax climaxed with a gasp about thirty seconds after Kathleen, the woman he’d met in the hotel bar. When both of them were spent, he fished a pair of cigarettes out of the pack on the nightstand and lit them together before placing one between her lips.
“You staying here?” he asked after catching his breath.
She propped her head on her hand and French inhaled. “Room 231,” she said. “I’m here for the CPA conference.”
Eddie vaguely remembered a placard about it in the lobby.
“You don’t look like a bookkeeper,” he said.
“I’m not,” she replied. “I’m office manager for an independent service in the capital. The only time I use a calculator is when I balance my checkbook.”
A shout awakened Moira, deep inside the cave where she slept. Blinking open her sleep-crusted eyes, she made out a dim light reflecting around the corner.
She’d stumbled upon the cave a year earlier, blitzed out of her mind in the woods behind the railroad tracks, just sensate enough to know she’d collapsed somewhere out of the midnight rain. She’d awakened hours later and lain all day in the dark, anticipating the inevitable rebirth of her humiliating urge to reawaken and drag her off on the daily hunt. But by nightfall, the need still hadn’t returned—somehow the millions of tons of rock and dirt over this dark hole in the ground had smothered her cravings.
She’d moved in the next day, crawling to drag a sleeping bag and a broken pallet far into the tunnel. Once or twice a week—wearing ear muffs to block her siren’s cry—she snuck out for supplies. For a year the cave had saved her, but watching the light steadily growing around the corner, she feared her respite was over.
“Ow!” a man grunted. “I bumped my head again. How far we got to go?”
Juliet chain-smoked by the open window, her naked body sheened with sweat and silhouetted by the red neon of the ‘No Vacancy’ sign on the wall outside, the cherry-colored light accentuating her curves, my memory filling in the details.
The coal of her cigarette flared as she inhaled. “Everybody dies,” she said, answering a question neither of us asked.
I turned my head. I knew if I stared at her any longer I would never be able to look away. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. I could still see her in my mind; feel her pounding through me like a coke-high.
“But not like that,” I said and looked up at the celling fan, the slow chop of its blades struggling to stir the heavy air. Running had been my idea. Memphis had been hers. Paulie, for his part, never had an idea worth a damn.
She’s a pimple faced girl. Vicious scowl. Anxious to get back to texting. “Only one alcoholic beverage per order. Rules.”
She’s explained it twice already. Once in mumbles. Once in a slow “get it through your thick head old man” delivery. There’s a sign about it somewhere in the cluster fuck behind her but I’m missing the movie and how complicated can two beers be?
“Bet there’s a rule about that fucking phone.”
“Nope. No rules about that.”
I grab her pink cell and throw it into the popcorn machine, planning to let that be the end of it but anger has its own agenda.
Scott Edwards sopped the remaining yolk with whole-wheat toast and peered at the early edition sports pages. It was a few minutes after 5:00am. Every morning at this hour, seven days a week, he was the only patron at The Sunrise Diner. Not this morning. He was about to call for a coffee refill, when he noticed a man in a wheelchair parked at the end of his booth. The man didn’t take his eyes off Edwards.
“Can I help you?” Edwards asked, regaining his composure and craning his neck for his favorite waitress, Diane.
The wheelchair-bound man was strapped in by a seat belt. He maneuvered himself next to Edwards. “It was too early to shave. I don’t usually go out without shaving. I’m sorry for my unkempt appearance. You’re Scott Edwards, yes?”
Edwards glared at the man. “Yes.”
“Chairman of the Society for Wheelchair Advocacy?”
There’s a fat guy pissing in the corner. Maurice doesn’t even notice the yellow river at his feet. He’s too busy talking about his damn cartoons.
“Captain Infinity, he’s like, the strongest. A comet hit him and gave him powers, you know?”
Maurice is a dumb shit. The polite thing to say is he’s slow. I’m not polite. Kid’s a dumb shit.
“And Dr. Jackal? Oh, boy! He’s the bad guy.”
It’s like sitting with a six year old.
“Maurice? Quiet.”
Next thing you know somebody better call the cops, ’cause some bad shit is goin’ down. Problem is there’s nobody here to call the cops. The only ones here are me and the missus, and the missus can’t call ’cause she’s too busy covering me with her Glock. Besides, she wouldn’t call anyway because that’s not how she rolls. And I can’t call because I’m the one being covered, and I don’t think the missus would appreciate me making any sudden movements, such as taking out my cell phone and dialing 9-1-1. Plus, I’m pretending to be paralyzed and I don’t want to break character. So like I said, nobody’s here to call the cops.
“I can’t move my legs, baby. Please.”
I’m on my back, not moving. As I look from the blue steel barrel of the gun to the blue steel eyes of my wife, I’m not sure which blue steel looks scarier. The look in her eyes is one of murder. She’s dead serious, I can tell. Her finger is tensed on the trigger, and I don’t have to wonder if she has the balls to pull it, I know she does. I know it because it stinks in here, like gunpowder. And there’s hazy blue smoke in the air. And my ears are ringing. And there’s blood dripping out of a hole in my chest.
Jaime held a finger to his lips, reminding his asshole partner to be quiet. It was instruction Jaime didn’t need; creeping through the embalming room had stolen his voice.
“The fuck is that smell?” Tommy asked again.
Death.
“Embalming fluid,” Jaime said. “I’ll find you a bottle if you promise to drink it.” He was tired of Tommy’s bullshit. The guy had enough focus to pick a lock but after that, his meager intellect was spent and he liked to fuck around.
Two years ago Jaime had cased a triple-decker near Tufts with apartment doors that weren’t visible from the street. A fresh batch of students moved in every fall—it was a bottomless treasure trove of laptops, smartphones, and tablets. All they had to do was get through the common door and Jaime and Tommy could toss the place like it was The Rapture.
I didn’t think the kid had it in him, but he’s good, keeping his cool. I had my doubts at first. All the shit he’s been through. Most break, few come out of it stronger. I was convinced he’d change his mind. But I was wrong.
As soon as I put the guy in front of him I know. I can see it in his eyes. He wants to do it. Kill the motherfucker and get on with his life. Whatever is left of it.
The kid’s small for his age. At nineteen he’s just five foot six. Reminds me of my Adam. Maybe that’s why I want to protect him. I don’t want him to end up like me. I don’t want him to get a taste for it. I turn away, think about how I ended up here. I wasn’t much different, just some kid getting even.
The guy screams and the kid says, “That’s for mom.”
One Eye Press is thrilled to announce the digital release of Blight Digest, a seasonal fiction magazine dedicated to horror. Editors Bracken MacLeod and Jan Kozlowski, along with publisher Ron Earl Phillips, have collected 10 of the best horror and dark fiction stories for this debut launch. A print edition is following and should be […]
“Cutty!” The room erupted in cheers as the man walked into Davy’s Locker Bar and Restaurant, arms in the air like he’d just won the middleweight belt and hadn’t just been released from Bridgewater State after two years. His father gave him a huge tearful hug. His fiancée—who was only his girlfriend when he went in—wept openly.
“Oh fuck, ” said Elbert on the barstool to my left. “You wanna get out of here?”
“Nah,” I said.
“I don’t like how you said that,” Elbert said.
“How did I say it?”
“Like you don’t give a fuck.”
