9 Tales Told in the Dark 21

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “Mr. Allen. Do you have any idea what your credit history looks like?” she said, with a slight scent of fish in her breath. Even for Ben, as a rare visitor, the attitude seemed highly unprofessional.

  “Unfortunately I don’t. What’s the highest amount I can get?”

  “How about considering other options with your wife?” She said with bored expression.

  Ben felt a chill run up his spine. What do you know, you stupid kid? was slithering in his mouth like a foul spit. But he swallowed it and squeezed out a smile.

  “Can you arrange a custom solution?” He asked most politely.

  The girl looked puzzled, then closely looked into Ben’s.

  “Who told you about that?” She said.

  “I don’t remember exactly.” Ben lied. Actually, he had a late schoolmate who’d told how he got his hands on a luxury SUV despite a terrible credit record, just by asking the bank for a ‘custom solution’.

  “Well, it may be possible to arrange something if matters are desperate. Unfortunately, that’s a privilege for platinum customers only.”

  “Then I’d like to become one.” Ben said.

  “The question is if you really want to do this. It has some strict requirements from client part as well.”

  “Tell me. I can handle that.”

  “You have to hand over your copyrights.”

  “What do you mean?” Ben had a painful expression on his face. “I haven’t published or ever owned-”

  “You haven’t, we know that.” She said and for Ben it sounded like she silently added, you fool.

  “Then what...” he trailed off and gave up the questioning. “ Fine, I’ll do anything. What’s the procedure?”

  “We’ll have to fill all the formalities, first.” She took something from the drawer and placed on the table.

  Ben glanced at it, then back at the clerk. It was a plastic syringe.

  “Do you need blood tests? Or do you have some kind of DNA database?” Ben said puzzled.

  “Yes, some sort of a database.” She laughed as if he had said something funny.

  “Just tell me what is this for?”

  “Let’s just say, it allows our company to expand its business.”

  Frustrated, Ben stared at the syringe, the size of a thick marker. Something felt wrong about this. But then, he didn’t know much about banks and their latest hi-tech practices.

  “Is there any medical personnel here?” Ben asked, seeing how the clerk was trying to open the package with her teeth.

  “Sorry, layoffs.” the clerk said. “Look, I’m not forcing anything.”

  “All right, fine!” Ben put down his arm with and rolled up the sleeve. “Do it.”

  He drew a deep breath and watched how the needle pierced his skin. With a slight pull of the plunger, a spurt of thick red blood appeared and he sighed with relief.

  “Are we done?”

  “I said we’ll have to fill all the formalities.” The girl whispered, with a sorry expression.

  Ben became pale and started to shake. This must have dislodged the needle, as now the plunger didn’t move and only caused intense pain. Sporadically, the clerk moved the needle, looking for a new vein.

  “Don’t move. I want to finish this before my shift is over.” She shook her head, looking at the clock.

  That didn’t assure Ben, who now watched how dark red blood slowly filled the plastic container. Finally, when the syringe was completely full, the clerk unceremoniously removed it and dropped inside a plastic bag.

  “What the hell was all this?” Ben breathed heavily, grasping his arm. It still hurt and blood slowly soaked through his shirt.

  “That was the procedure.” The girl replied casually and collected papers along the bag. “I’ll attach this to your agreement.”

  “I mean is this a normal practice?”

  “No, it’s a custom solution. Isn’t this what you asked for?”

  Ben felt too tired to argue, probably because of all the stress and blood loss. Then he saw the clerk leave and leaped from the chair.

  “Wait. Do I get my loan?”

  “Yes, we’ll transfer what you asked.” She said and looked back over her shoulder. “I hope your wife will be happy.”

  Ben mumbled something, feeling completely humiliated. With a sudden need for fresh air, he went to the door, still clutching his arm.

  Outside, it felt hot, humid and the air reeked of something rotten. Sounds were sharp and prodded Ben’s brain. Suppressing nausea, Ben glanced around and noticed the same taxi that he took to come here, what seemed hours ago. He started to walk towards it, but its driver gestured disapprovingly, saying something that Ben was not able to hear. When he was just about to get in, the taxi sped off.

  Ben stood dazed and in disbelief. Sight began to double as in fever and drunkenness at the same time. He was shivering and cold sweat dripped from his temples. Ben fumbled for a phone to dial Marie.

  “Hello?” her gentle voice made him feel a little better.

  “Hi dear. I’ve got some good news, but can you do me a favor and pick me up? I’m at the …”

  “Who is it?” her voice was suddenly cold and sharp. “Who’s speaking?”

  “It’s me, Ben. I don’t feel very good, can you …”

  “I don’t know this number. And it’s not funny.”

  Call ended

  Ben put back the phone and went forward, carefully placing the trembling feet.

  “Marie, credit history,” he murmured sleepily. “Platinum customer, DNA...”

  He dragged himself to a bus stop and leaned against a streetlight, breathing heavily. People stepped back leaving an empty circle around him and Ben realized he was the source or the foul stench he felt before. Someone caught a cop’s attention, while others ignored the strange man, who had trouble standing on his feet.

  “Sir, have you been using anything? Do you need help?” the voice registered only after second repeat.

  Ben spoke, as in trance. “Hello officer. No, I’m not under influence. No, please no ambulance. I just want to get home. Yes, I have ID. Ben Allen. I was at Society Holding. Yeah, that’s me in the picture. I had a procedure. No, I want to go home, please. Please!”

  Everyone backed away, as with a sudden movement he broke loose and ran through the open bus door. No one followed and the door slammed shut. Exhausted, Ben collapsed on the seat and dozed off.

  It was a late, silent evening, when a crouched figure shuffled at the front door of Ben’s house. It wailed, struggling with the lock for a long while then gave up and knocked.

  “Who’s there?” Marie’s voice came from behind the door.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up, but I don’t have the right key. Maybe I lost it. You won’t believe how terrible this day was. Will you let me in?”

  There was a moment of silence and then Marie said loudly, “Ben, there’s someone here!”

  “Who’s here? Why? Let me see him!” he banged at the door and violently pulled the door handle.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “Was that you who called me today?”

  “Yes, and you hung up. What’s the matter? Let me in!”

  Loud steps came from inside the house as someone approached.

  “Is that the sicko who bothered you?” there was something oddly familiar in the male’s voice.

  “Yes, it’s him. I’m calling the cops.”

  The door flung open and there he stood. Not only the voice or build or features, but every wrinkle, hair and smallest detail was flawless. Even the angry posture was impossible to mimic consciously. Calling it merely a copy would be an insult to its creators.

  Ben stood paralyzed and didn’t attempt to escape the heavy punch in the jaw. A happy thought came to his mind just before he was knocked out.

  I’m already home. Marie will be happy. So it’s fine. It’s all just fine.

  The police car was gone, but Marie still stood on the porch, trying to calm her nerves.

/>   “Why did it have to happen today? After your nice surprise, it spoiled all the evening,” her voice was trembling slightly.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s the last time we’ll see him,” her husband embraced her. “Shall we go back and finish the dinner?”

  “Yes, let’s forget about this. Would you like more sushi? Funny, I thought you didn’t eat raw fish.”

  “I love it more than ever,” he said with a smile, as they walked back into home.

  THE END.

  BIO:

  Jānis Zelčāns lives on a small peninsula in Latvia, one of the Baltic states. By day, he works as a network engineer, but during the night, he stays awake to feed the dinosaurs or write preposterous stories.

  ZOMBIES ARE NO LAUGHING MATTER by Len Dawson

  Cora Engle, speaking at the Church of the Devine Sepulcher, was a couple minutes into a touching eulogy for her husband J. J. Canfield, when the dearly departed sat bolt upright in his coffin and looked around with the kind of startled expression you’d expect from someone who’d just been poked somewhere inappropriate. If I hadn’t known better, I might’ve thought it was a reaction to the distant explosion I’d heard just moments before.

  Aside from a couple of gasps and one ear-piercing shriek, the whole church full of mourners just stood there silently gaping at old man Canfield who’d been dead for three days. The morticians had done such a nice job with his makeup he looked better than he had when he was alive. So good, I’d wondered if his funeral was just an elaborate hoax when he sat up.

  We’d probably all still be there staring at him if he hadn’t growled and climbed out of his coffin then started stumbling toward his grieving widow with a crazy ravenous look on his face. A few of the mourners had the presence of mind to rush to Cora’s aid but they weren’t able to reach her before Canfield got to her. Cora, enough woman to fill an XXL dress and then some, slapped him so hard he staggered. We watched him teetering and wondered for a moment which way he’d fall. Then, leaning so far in her direction that his weight set him in motion, he lunged at her again. She screamed.

  Then the dearly departed was all over her, and as he mauled his wife a gorgeous young woman next to me said, “That guy’s on her like a crow on roadkill.”

  Having said that loud enough for the people sitting in the next two pews to hear her she added, “He must’ve been dying to get at her.”

  I resisted the urge to smile because I didn’t want people to think I had enjoyed a comment so insensitive and inappropriate, even if I had.

  Crumpling to the floor under J. J.’s weight, Cora flailed at her husband with her fists as he ripped her clothes off with his bare hands. After tearing out a piece of her stomach with his teeth, his head popped up and he looked around at us while he chewed on the bloody morsel dangling from his mouth, and he kept a wary eye on us, like a predator afraid one of us might steal his meal.

  A few perverts among the mourners pressed through the crowd to get a better view of Canfield slaughtering his wife, but most of the bereaved ran for the exit at the back of the church. Of course, it didn’t do them any good because the church only had one set of doors, and here in Sandy Creek we measure snow in feet. So the doors opened in, and with dozens of frantic people crammed against them, there wasn’t much chance of anyone getting them open.

  Town councilman Andre Reddick tried without any success to coax people away from the doors, and puny Saleem Diaz, the Junior High School English teacher, was beaten by frantic mourners when he tried to push them back. After that, the shouting and shoving degenerated into a free-for-all.

  As a distant relative of the deceased, I was seated in the second row of pews, which put me close to the action. Unsure of what to do but certain I couldn’t just stand there and watch Canfield eat his wife, and intending to help her somehow, I turned to my left. But the pew was so full of people I couldn’t get out that way. I turned to my right, which put me face to face with the beautiful young woman who’d made the tasteless roadkill remark.

  Illogically, especially given the dreadful situation, I started to apologize to her, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. But then her beautiful dark eyes stared into mine, triggering the exasperating mental paralysis I always suffer when confronted by a beautiful woman.

  She nodded in Cora’s direction and asked, “You think she’s still alive?”

  Helplessly distracted by her shimmering, wavy black hair, and flawless dark skin, I had only half-heard the words her seductively fine mouth had shaped.

  She touched my arm and said, “I asked you if you think she’s still alive.”

  I shook my head. “It looks like she stopped fighting.”

  Leaning so close to me I smelled the sweet scent of her hair and felt the warmth of her breath on my ear, she whispered, “She doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Get it?” she said, elbowing me and grinning. “She doesn’t have the stomach for it?”

  I smiled. Then she smiled, and her smile made me feel so good I wanted to take it home. But it was watching her lips as she talked that really drove me crazy. I imagined kissing them. Then I imagined doing other things to her and was glad she couldn’t read my mind.

  “I figured out what that looks like,” she said, pointing at Cora then scrunching up her face as though she’d tasted something bad. “A blender drink made out of a meat-lover’s pizza.”

  I told her that her comment was in poor taste then immediately regretted it, but she didn’t seem to take offense. It wasn’t until she smiled and said, “Poor Taste. Nice come back,” that I realized I’d made a bad joke of it.

  She held her hand out to me. “My name’s Willow, and no tree jokes, please. I’ve heard them all.”

  As I took her delicate-looking little hand in mine and told her to call me Brad, Arnie Levesque, the owner of the funeral home handling Mr. Canfield’s service, walked up behind her. Arnie, who had changed his name to Armand years ago because he didn’t think the name Arnie sounded sophisticated enough for a funeral director, had come to tell Willow, “You really should show some respect for the dead and grieving, especially in a house of worship.”

  She spun around to answer him, turning her back to me, and I eyed her shamelessly. Slender as a twig but deliciously curved, her body aroused a desire in me so prurient, that even if I’d had the words to describe it I wouldn’t have had the courage to say them to her.

  While I groped her visually, Willow asked Levesque, “Do you really think Canfield or his wife care what I say about them now?”

  Arnie scowled at her.

  In a defiantly loud voice she told him, “I think they should rename this place ‘Casa Del Corpse,’” at which Arnie turned bright red then stormed off muttering things that sounded suspiciously like obscenities.

  Willow yelled after him, “How about ‘Casa Del Carcass,’ you like that better?”

  Then she turned around to face me again and said, “Now where were we?”

  I told her, “Arnie would have embalmed Canfield, so there’s no way he’s alive.”

  She told me. “I’m going to change my will to stipulate an open coffin so I can scare the shit out of my relatives.”

  Before I could answer her, my attention was drawn back to the grisly spectacle of Canfield gnawing on his wife because the sound of him slobbering over her entrails had been replaced by loud, aggressive snarling, as though someone had taken an ill-tempered dog’s favorite bone.

  Sonny Peterson, a big burly car salesman and former high school football star, had caused the commotion by prying the old man off his wife. He managed to hold J. J.’s growling, thrashing corpse away from Cora for a few moments. But when Canfield got a mouthful of Sonny’s arm, Sonny let the old man go and backed away, and old man Canfield went back to eating his wife, enthusiastically ripping out another piece of Cora’s insides with his teeth.

  Although the sight made my insides churn Willow’s next comment sounded decidedly nonchalant. “The guy’s like a kid on a sug
ar high tearing open his Christmas presents.”

  With most of Cora’s insides outside, J. J. slobbered blood all over her dress and his suit while he gnawed on a piece of intestine. I had foolishly considered helping poor Cora, but if Sonny, who was twice my size, couldn’t hold onto Canfield’s corpse without being bit, I certainly couldn’t.

  Just then, a man wearing overalls forced his way through the knot of people gawking at the grisly spectacle. Judging by his well-worn working man’s clothes, long hair, and bushy beard, I figured he was probably one of the local survivalists we occasionally hear about but rarely see.

  A big, heavy-set guy whose beard hid his facial features except for his flattened nose and gray eyes, he walked right up behind Canfield, pulled out a handgun, and shot him in the head. When the old man’s corpse rolled off Cora, he shot her in the head too.

  Sonny, who was holding his bloody arm, yelled, “Jesus, Ruben.”

  After glancing at Sonny’s arm Ruben asked him what had happened.

  Sonny had barely gotten the words, “He bit me,” out before Ruben shot him in the head.

  The crowd gave Ruben lots of room while he looked over the rest of us. Apparently satisfied that none of us had been bitten, he explained why he’d shot Cora and Sonny. “I knew when I saw Canfield sit up he was one of the Devil’s disciples, and when nobody else did anything I knew it was up to me. As for Cora, I put her out of her misery. And as for Sonny, if you get bit by one of them, you become one of them.”

  A woman somewhere in the back of the crowd yelled, “Isn’t anyone going to arrest him?”

  “So Ruben,” Willow said, frowning as though deep in thought, “why would the Devil make old man Canfield eat his wife?”

  Apparently, Ruben thought Willow actually believed his nonsense because he started spouting more senseless drivel with the enthusiasm of a religious fanatic. “The end times are upon us. That’s when God, the Devil, and the Antichrist finally slug it out. The Devil’s bringing back the dead to kill us because all of us humans will side with either God or the Antichrist.”