by Jim Butcher
Marchesa and her friend Paula searched the bodies for metal objects that fire might not consume. They assembled a bagful of disabled cell phones, belt buckles, jewelry, and the like. These identifiable objects would be tossed into one of the cars before it made its final trip through the crusher.
The cash from the bodies was tucked thriftily into Marchesa's pocket.
Paula, whose mouth was still bloodstained, had the job of stomping skulls. She was of the fanged persuasion, and terrifically strong. It would be better if the bodies were never identified, or at least not for a long time, and Paula went about her job with the enthusiasm of the young. Marchesa laughed when Jamison crunched under Paula's heel. Paula took extra care to pulverize him.
The young man who'd played the music and started the film had a new task. He was pouring the contents of a can of accelerant around the warehouse, making sure everything would be consumed. It would take a while for the fire trucks to get here.
Toddy hugged Deena and Purcell. "Thanks so much for helping out," she said, and hiccuped. She covered her mouth and giggled. "They'd had so much to drink," she said apologetically.
"It was a ton of fun. Sorry it turned out that way. I really hoped they'd see the error of their ways," Purcell said, not too sincerely. "I thought about using mind control, but I decided that really would have been cheating. They needed to earn their own redemption." He tried to look righteous.
"But you weren't counting on that," Mark said. Purcell shrugged. "I was pretty hungry," he admitted with a charming smile. "It's been a long time since Deena and I hunted and drank our fill. Got to be so careful these days! Now we're full, and the environment is safer." He practically glowed with virtue and Selim's blood.
They all left out the concealed back door and emerged into the cool night. Their cars were parked there, ready for their departure. Toddy and Mark's Prius looked a bit prissy next to the Collvilles' Lincoln. The couples bade each other farewell, and Mark took a package of papers containing their new identities from Deena's hands.
Toddy and Mark, both full and exhausted, exchanged only the occasional comment on their way to the airport. They'd reluctantly decided to fly to Sweden rather than take a boat. All their possessions were in storage, to be retrieved some day in the very distant future. They'd narrowed their home search down to three ecologically friendly structures designed by forward-thinking architects. Despite her anticipation of a great new chapter in their lives, Toddy still had regrets.
"I'm sorry I couldn't convert them," she said sadly as they waited to board. "I did everything I could."
"At least they're being recycled," Mark said.
Dear Prudence
Steven Savile
Miller held the pen poised over the scrap of paper, thinking about what he would write.
My Dearest Darling Prudence, Just nipped out to the shop to buy a packet of cigarettes. I might pop into the pub for a quick pint, catch up with some of the lads and watch the second half of the game. You know me and football. So, if you come back and I am not here, don't worry, I'll be right behind you, singing and dancing if we win, sulking and in need of some TLC if we don't. Hope you had a great night out with the girls.
Your fool in love, Miller
No, that wasn't quite what he wanted to say.
My Darling Pru,
Just nipped out to the shop for a packet of cigarettes. I'm gasping here. I feel like I'm living in Old Mother Hub-bard's house. There's nothing in the cupboard, not even a digestive to munch on. There was a time when twenty a day would do me, then I met you. Now I could smoke for England. Could there be a link? I think I'll drop into the pub on the way home, watch whatever's left of the match, have a smoke and listen to some idiots talking about how crap the game is while I drown my sorrows. You know me and football. I'd rather sit in a smoky bar in the company of drunken strangers than alone in the house while you gallivant here, there and everywhere. I'm sure we'll lose, so most likely I'll be a bear with a sore head when I get in. Not that you'll notice. You never do. I might as well be a Ken doll you can put away in his box when you're finished playing with him—only I'm not as flexible these days. I feel about as sexless, though. That's a form of torture in some countries, I'm sure. Melting the genitals. If it isn't, it ought to be. Women of the world could unite in emasculating their men. Life in plastic. It's fantastic.
Your love toy, Miller
Better, but still not right. There was so much more inside him he wanted to say.
Dear Prudence,
Won't you come out—no, I promised myself I wouldn't
do that anymore. I used to think it was cute you were named after my favourite song. Now, I can think of so many more appropriate tunes, but the one that immediately comes to mind sounds like a love song but isn't. It's funny, it always ends up on these greatest love song collections but its evil. That's why it fits. "Feels Like Heaven." Only instead of love its about twisting the bones until they snap, the poor sod screaming without anyone being able to hear his pain. That's me. Screaming and snapping while you twist.
Well, you know what? I'm sick of it. This worm's turning, baby. Oh, hell yes. Screw romantic love songs for the bunch of crap they are. God, it's liberating to say that. No more pretending that ours is the great
love.
I'm going out to buy some cigarettes and then I am going to the pub to drink myself into oblivion. You've driven me to it. Does that make you all warm and tingly, knowing you've reduced a grown man to drink? I'm hoping my liver perforates before the night is out, or I can suck down enough smoke to give a small third world country cancer. Right now drinking and smoking myself to death seems like a great way to go.
It's Monday so there should be a game on. Watching other people kicking seven shades of shit out of each other should serve to appease my need to do bodily harm.
Should, did you like the way I said that? Your shrinking violet, Miller
That brought a smile to his face, but it barely scratched the surface. He let his thoughts run down a different track.
Prudence, Bane of my Life,
I had one once, you know, a life... but that was before I met you. To think I used to love you. If I could hop back into a time machine and warn Young Me, I would, in a heartbeat. How sad is that? I'd go back to the day before I met you and spill my guts about all the vile things you do day by day to ruin what shred of self-worth I have left. I doubt I'd believe me, though. I'd be like Nostradamus predicting the end of the world, but without the cute poetry. "Tomorrow you will meet the devil, "I'd tell myself earnestly. "You won't recognize her because she wears human skin and speaks pretty words with her forked tongue, but don't be gulled by her words or flattered by her looks. They will fade. Her wickedness will not. When she smiles at you, run and don't stop running until your lungs collapse." Prudence, Prudence, what is a boy to do? Smoke a cigarette? Coitus Nicotinous? See, instead of a life all I have now is an addiction to nicotine and a need to drink myself into a stupor. Cigarettes without sex are like fish without bicycles. The feminist in you will understand that, I'm sure.
I remember when we first slept together, thinking I was the luckiest man in the world. I lay there all night just watching you snore and imagined all of the things I wanted to do with you. Now I watch you sleep and my head explodes with all of the things I want to do to you. Instead of climbing Machu Picchu and the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, it's all about choking the life out of you until you turn blue. I imagine you kicking weakly at the bedsheets then lying utterly still.
All this excitement has given me quite a thirst. '
Don't wait up.
Miller
Prophet of Doom
Yes, that was what he wanted to say. Blue is the color of my heart. He smiled, ready to commit it to paper and banish forever the image of the doting husband, but even before he had set the first letter down, his mind was racing with another, more creative missive.
You Know Your Name, It Is Legion Do you know what I want?
Right now, more than anything I want to see you die. I'm simple to please like that.
Let's play a game. Let me count the ways:
By hanging, your feet dangling inches off the floor.
Drowning in a vat of acid. No, a bathtub, your hands slapping at my arms as I hold you down.
A silver bullet between the eyes.
A stake through the heart.
Sunlight and a crucifix.
A gypsy curse.
Set ablaze by a mob of angry villagers.
Defenestration. That's another great word, isn't it? See, all this thinking about you is good for my vocabulary.
Disembowelment. Decapitation by a rusty chainsaw. Fed into a wood chipper. How much Pru would a wood chipper chip if a wood chipper could chip Pru? That's today's million-dollar question.
Eaten by a pack of hungry wolves is good. Struck by lightning would do. I love the smell of ozone in the morning.
Anaphylactic shock. I'm not fussy and wasps have always frightened you, so that's a bonus right there.
Hell, even a good old-fashioned heart attack would raise a smile.
That's a lot of ways to die, some of them were good enough for Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man and all those other Universal Monsters, but shall I tell you a secret? Not one of them is good enough for you, Prudence.
Piranhas aren't good enough. Plague isn't good enough. Warts eating away at your genitalia, still not good enough. Mad cow disease? I pity the cows. A thousand cuts? Come on, there's got to be a more inventive way to do it.
How do you kill the Antichrist? Blessed flatware from the kitchen of the Lord? Dull, dull, dull. There has to be a better way. Voodoo? Witchcraft? Sacrificing a virgin? Sacrificing a wizened old hag (easier to come by around here)?
Nibbled to death by gerbils?
Hmm, I rather like that one. I wonder if the pet store is open at this time of night? I'll check when I'm picking up the victuals—cigarettes and alcohol.
If not, buried alive does have its charms.
Don't say I don't love you—I am always thinking about you. Even when you are not here.
M
He grinned, delighted with himself. Then doubt set in. Was it wise to reveal his hand so early? Forewarned, forearmed and all that. Could she find silver-bullet-proof armor?
Slut Bitch Whore, I have plans.
Such plans.
Oh yes.
Such plans.
Must remember to buy plastic sheets to catch the blood. I can get them now while I am out buying cigarettes.
Shall I tell you what I am going to do?
Oh yes.
Everything is better shared.
First I will gut you, then I will stuff you and stitch you back together and then I will have you mounted and put on display in the Met. I already know what the plaque will read: This Bitch Ruined
My Life.
Your taxidermist, Miller
He relished the image of his wife stuffed and displayed as an exhibit, but even as he felt the warm glow of freedom seeping into his limbs, those doubts solidified. He saw it now, laid out before him, chains of cause and effect. No, no, no.
Oh, Pru, You Clever, Clever Bitch, I get it.
I understand your game. You think you are so much cleverer than me, don't you? You think you can play me like a ... a... I was going to say radio, but that doesn't work, you're a passive listener with a radio, sure, you can twiddle the dials but essentially you're at the mercy of the DJ, then I was going to say a guitar but we both know you're tone deaf and about as musically inclined as a bag of nails. And you're the antithesis of sporty so let's forget football analogies while we're on. Chess! That's a miniature reflection of a war, black and white generals going at it head-to-head. That's perfect. You think you can make me your knight sacrifice, pushing me out to murder the queen only to get taken in turn.
Oh no, no, no. See, it's all about the long game, looking moves ahead. I'm no fool. You telegraphed your play. I can see it plain as the nose on your fat face. You'd give yourself up, driving me to murder, just so your specter could lurk behind The Chair and gloat as they juice her up... I get it. It's the ultimate, the queen sacrifice. Not only do you get to ruin my life, you get to sink your fangs into my afterlife. I don't think so. See, I'm too clever for you. As David Bowie sang, this is not America. We're civilized. We've done away with state-legislated murder. I know, I know, you think with this new lot in power they'll bring it back—-just for me. Sorry to ruin your scheming, m'dear.
Check and mate, Grandmaster Miller
But should he let her know he was on to her schemes? Could he somehow twist it for his advantage? Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey, as his mom used to say.
Prudence, Woman of My Nightmares, I still think about you all the time. They were such loving thoughts. But times change. I still think of you all the time but now my head is filled with all of these vicious, horrible, nasty things I want to do to you.
Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.
I hear voices, goading me on, telling me to cut you, to hurt you, to punish you. They want me to do unspeakable things to your corpse. I try not to listen to them but when you leave me alone like this, they get louder and louder until I want to scream and it seems the only way to shut them up is to surrender and do what they say.
I am going out now to walk and to clear the demons out of my mind. In the words of Captain Scott: "I may be some time."
Call it an exorcism, only instead of a Bible and holy water I'm shooting for the purifying essence of cigarettes and alcohol.
Nomini patri et Philip Morris... Father Confessor Miller
Dearest Prudence,
Got lonely without you, so I just nipped out to the shop to buy a packet of cigarettes. I'll be home soon. Hope you had a great night out with the girls. Been thinking about you. A lot.
All my love, Miller
A Good Psycho Is Hard to Find
Will Ludwigsen
At least with the Chainsaw Guy, you always knew where you stood. When he came lurching between the palmetto fronds, swinging that Husqvarna over his head, there was no question that he wanted to lop off your arms and send them flying in a bloody spray into the bushes. There was no debate, no discussion, no feasibility study or Microsoft Project resource allocation chart.
Nobody at EnAble Technical Consulting has the straightforward, no-nonsense attitude of the Chainsaw Guy. Like an algae-coated stone at the bottom of a shallow mountain creek, our CEO Mr. Wendell has been worn into a rounded disk of corporate pliancy: everything just flows above and around him. He deflects responsibility to people like me, still idealistic and energetic from college. Like him, everyone here is safe, friendly, professional. Worst of all, none of them have ever threatened to kill me with a garden tool.
The summer before I started here, I worked one last time as a counselor at Camp Soaring Osprey. Maybe it was my way of saying good-bye to my young adulthood. Maybe I also hoped for one more chance with Misty, the girl at the canoe paddock I'd always dreamed of helping to—well, fill a canoe, anyway.
When the Chainsaw Guy came to kill us, I got my chance.
The newspapers distorted the story. Yes, an escaped mental patient wearing camouflage fatigues hunted the children at Camp Soaring Osprey. Yes, the scalp of a diner waitress who'd spurned him hung from his belt. Yes, the chug-chug-chug sound of a chainsaw cranking up growled across the lake. Yes, children fled for their lives, and their camp counselors managed to stop him. But no, we weren't naked and making love in the moonlight on Rowboat Island. We'd just gotten there.
Mostly, I was pissed. Together, we had paddled across the lake after lights out. Beneath the moonlit sycamore leaves, I'd finally told Misty how I felt about her, and we'd started our negotiations—mostly with our hands. I'd just managed to unclasp her bra when that crazy asshat came stumbling out of the underbrush.
You'd think it would ruin the mood, but there's something existentially inspirational about the possibility of death. It's
as though your genetic code knows it's now or never. I wish I could say I bravely stood up to fend him off, but frankly, my DNA still wanted to get as far as it could.
Misty, fortunately, had more sense. With her lovely left breast surging from beneath her shirt, she rose from the grass and took a swing at him with her canoe paddle. The screwball parried with the chainsaw, and sawdust salted
the air.
Annoyed, I grabbed the other paddle and got in the perfect dueling stance I'd learned from watching Star Wars. I wondered which of us was Qui-Gon Jinn and which was Obi-Wan Kenobi while she lunged and jabbed toward the Chainsaw Guy.
I spun dramatically, swinging my paddle in a motion that was more Bambino than Jedi. The water-treated spruce thocked against his skull and he tumbled backward onto his ass. The Husqvarna fell against his chest, nearly cutting him. Misty squished his balls with her paddle, and we ran to the trails.
You saw the rest of the story re-created on American Justice. We got the kids together, hid in one of the cabins, and tried to wait out the night until the police came. They squirmed and sobbed, but we managed to keep them all contained—except for Gordon. We begged him to use a bucket, but he insisted on making a run for the latrine. We heard his scream echoing against the tiled walls followed by the slurp and smack of his fat-streaked giblets.
Enough was enough. We had to stop the maniac before he came looking for us.
Misty and I hatched a plan. She'd run out into the quad, lure him into the electrical shed, and I'd finish him off by shoving him into the old non-OSHA-compliant circuit breaker.
We left Reuben, the crazy tough redneck kid, in charge and stepped outside. There, huddled beside the door, I held her hands. "Are you sure he'll follow you?"