9 Tales Told in the Dark 21

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  He pressed himself against the door and began to squeeze through, the handle pushed painfully into his side, then worked itself through his belt, hooking him fast.

  “Shit...” With his left arm stuck and his body unable to turn he tried to wiggle his right arm in pull the belt over the handle to free himself.

  The door suddenly pushed hard against him as something heavy crashed into the other side. He could hear hard breathing and grunting. Panic swelled up immediately. Pushing back as hard as he could, he managed to get his right arm in and unhook his belt. The pushing and grunting continued against the door. Jimmy smirked to himself. Infected weren't too bright, it was probably just wondering why the door had moved. All feral instinct and no common sense.

  He writhed out of the door and it slammed shut with the weight of the infected against the other side. There was no way he could go without that ammo though, he picked up the shotgun and turned to face the door. Bracing himself, he held it up to the middle of the door, breathed out a small breath, and pulled the trigger.

  The sharp kick he felt all through his torso was accompanied by a bright muzzle flash and a good quarter of the door disappearing into splinters. When his ears returned to normal volume, he could hear the heavy breathing had become gurgling. A decent hit.

  Peering through the door Jimmy saw the filth that was the Infected's home since it'd turned. Edging towards the door, he tried to see through to where the Infected had fallen. There was blood and the strangled wet grunting grew louder as he got closer. From the amount of blood he could see, it must be dying.

  He gave the shotgun the crunch-crunch pump and pushed the muzzle through the hole in the door. There was no time to react as an arm grabbed his hand and pulled hard towards blood stained teeth. He shouted in surprise and yanked both arms backwards, bouncing the head of the Infected off the remains of the door. He changed angle, pushed the muzzle back in and fired straight at the Infected's face, head partially dissolving in a crimson pulp.

  Crunch-crunch. He fired again. Now there was nothing left above the neck.

  He slid down the nearest wall until he was sat on the hallway floor, dropping the shotgun beside him. His arm felt sore where he'd been grabbed. His heart was beating in his chest and butterflies the size of horses flapped in his stomach. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let his heart rate drop and his breathing slow.

  Pain blazed through his arm as he tried to push himself up from the seating position. He raised it see where he'd been grabbed and saw the deep bite wound.

  Mind blank, he sat there and stared for a moment. The blood was a deep dark red. Jimmy felt dizzy, whether through shock or Infection it was difficult to tell, surely it didn't work this quickly?

  He stood shakily and spotted the backpack on the floor. Frank would need that bag. He put it over his shoulder, picked up the shotgun and turned around.

  He quickly left the shop, heading for the alley.

  Jimmy stumbled a little when he ran into the alley. He turned to see what he'd tripped on but there was nothing there. It must just be the darkness, he thought. His arm itched like crazy and his head swam, but he couldn't remember why.

  “Shhhh! You're making enough noise to bring every Infected in the whole damn county!” Frank. He stood at the end of the alleyway half inside a doorway there. There was something important Jimmy had to tell him, but he couldn't concentrate. He slowed to a walk and dragged his fingernails across his forearm. “Fuck's the matter with you?” Frank's voice was urgent.

  Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks, more of a lurch. The shotgun slipped off his shoulder and clattered to the ground. He shrugged the backpack off his shoulders and tried to throw it to Frank, but his waning strength let it fall halfway between them.

  “Go, Frank. That's what Eddy asked for.” He gestured at the bag.

  Frank raised his torch and shone it straight at Jimmy, making him wince and raise his arm to shield his eyes. The torch was lowered slowly.

  “Holy shit, you're infected.” Frank's voice was quiet and Jimmy barely heard it over the sound of the rain. He looked at the bite mark on his arm, angry blood seeped from the wound. Jimmy noticed that Frank had shouldered his rifle and was slowly walking over.

  “Focus, Jimmy. How long ago? We can get you back... the arm will come off but you'll live...” Jimmy was already shaking his head.

  “I'll never get back into quarantine. If they find me, they'll kill me on the spot. And they should. We've talked about this.” He spat the saliva out of his mouth, only to see that it was slick with blood. “It's too late for me.” He laughed at the cliché then immediately winced as pain shot through his jaw.

  Frank walked past the bag and towards Jimmy who started backing away.

  “No Frank. Take the bag to Eddy, he'll kill you if you go back without it.”

  “You think I'm gonna leave you out here, little brother?” The confident big brother voice, but Jimmy could hear the pain in it. His arm itched.

  “No choice. I can't come back now. And you can't stay out here, I'll be gone in a few hours and you're safer in quarantine.” He spat again. Blood. Frank continued to walk towards him as if to ignore him but when he got close enough to see the deep bite marks in Jimmy's arm he slowed. The uncertainty clear on his face.

  “It's okay Frank.” Jimmy continued to slowly shuffle backwards. The infection took people suddenly, man to monster in the blink of an eye. If that happened, he wanted Frank to at least have a fighting chance. “Take the bag. You don't need to see-” he vomited suddenly, dropping to his knees.

  “Shit! Shit shit shit!” Frank ran over to the bag and threw it over his shoulder. “I'll be back with medicine, I'll buy some off Eddy. I love you little brother...” He paused, looking back, then ran for the door, slamming it closed behind him.

  A loud bang. He tried to look around to see where it came from but all his muscles hurt. He's wet and he feels heavy. Can't see much here, can't smell much either. He turned and walked slowly at first towards the opening at the end of the alley, he sensed movement out on the street. He's supposed to avoid them, but he shambles towards them anyway. He stumbled, fell, and as he tried to stand up he caught a glimpse of his ravaged forearm. He stood, and looked around. His arm itches. Hungry.

  THE END.

  THE RED RED ROSE by Karen Bovenmyer

  You spend most of your time alone. This is okay. When you see the others in your village, they do not understand you anyway. You are the dirt girl. The animal girl. You spend most of your time watching a spider spin a web, or describing in long phrases the bend of wheat in the wind. You do not speak in ways they understand. They do not speak in ways you understand.

  You have two older sisters. They have failed to teach you the proper ways to behave. They can cook and clean, so you have never needed to. You have never done this well anyway. You are separate. Different. But everyone goes when the carnival visits, even you.

  It is, of course, best to go at night. You run through the tent of mirrors three times more often than your sisters. You love to see how things are distorted, changed by metal buffed so bright it weirdly reflects noses, mouths. The lanterns cast strange shadows and you feel as though you can see through them into another world, a hidden place behind the one we live in.

  But by far your favorite is the fortuneteller's tent.

  The woman who gives others their futures is very thin and wrinkled. She is Gypsy, like the others, but she is so old she could be your grandmother, but she isn't.

  She crouches over the cards and casts her watery eyes at you, past you. You sit at the cloth-draped stump and wait for her questions. The backs of your hands tingle, so you fidget. Her tent smells like melted wax and dried roses.

  "Draw a card, little spider," she says to you. You don't know how she knows Father's nickname for you. The backs of the cards are blank, the edges grey and tattered from use. Anything could be on the other side.

  You turn a card over. Colors flash livid against the black cloth.
>
  "The Devil. Another."

  You draw again.

  "The Fool. Another."

  You turn over one last card.

  "The Tower."

  The pictures are strange. The first is a bestial man with goat legs and a triangle with horns branching from his forehead. The second is a boy dancing toward a cliff's edge. The third is a tall tower hit by a bolt of lightning, people endlessly falling, screaming, from its heights.

  "Beware gifts," she says cryptically. "Avoid stairs."

  You nod, as though this is wise. You see the fire-eaters next. By the time, you see the sword swallower, you have forgotten all about your fortune. You follow your sisters home, laughing, and are so tired you go straight to bed.

  You wake up thinking about the bestial man, the one with the steer horns and the goat legs. You wonder how he came to be. Was his mother the steer? His father the goat? You wonder if he could be real.

  The carnival is leaving in the morning, but you don't want it to. You visit the tent of the fortuneteller, but she is already gone. You wander past people folding tents, pulling up pegs.

  A woman wearing a colorful shawl stops you. "What are you looking for, little spider?"

  You squint. She is not the fortuneteller, but she could be her daughter.

  "I want to ask about the goat man."

  You do not expect the woman to know what you're talking about, but she nods. Her eyes are as green as a pond snake.

  "Take this," she gives you a red rose. "It will help you find what you need."

  You cradle the flower. You have already forgotten what the fortuneteller said about gifts.

  You take it home. You dump out your sister's daisies and put your rose in the vase instead. You put the vase on the windowsill on your side of the shared bedroom. It seems to drink the sun. You stare at it for a long time, the delicate spiral of petals. You imagine they are a stair leading down into a secret place, like the hall of mirrors.

  That night you dream again about the goat-legged man. He walks down a path choked with roses. He twirls his beard and watches you. His eyes glint in the firelight. You are dancing, dancing, thorns catching at your skirt.

  "New child. What will it do?" His voice is thick liquid, like mud.

  "What won't it do?" you answer.

  When you wake, you dance through the house. You are underfoot all day. Your sisters tell you to go to town to play.

  Geoffrey is in the square. So is Robert, the baker's son, and Alice. "Icky Isabelle. Icky Isabelle," Robert says. You ignore him and play by yourself, as usual, until he throws a chestnut at you. It stings. You spend your time gathering more chestnuts. You throw them at Robert. He chases you.

  You make it home safe, heart pounding, and you go to the window and stare at the red red rose and think about how much you hate Robert.

  That night you dream you're at a huge white banquet table with the goat-legged man. "What does it see?" His tongue is red with wine. He pours purple wine into a goblet for you.

  "What won't it see?" You are drinking, laughing, spilling your wine across the white cloth.

  The next day you open every door in the house. Your sisters yell that you are a nuisance. You go to town and see a pie cooling in the baker's windowsill. You steal it. Before you do, you see inside, the baker's wife and the parson. They are wrestling, faces pressed close together. It is a strange thing to see. You take the pie anyway.

  You find the baker. You tell him the parson was stuck to his wife. Your face and hands are stained with blackberries but he doesn’t say anything about the missing pie.

  That night you dream of the goat-legged man again. He is at the top of a tower, humming down a song with no words. You climb the spiral and you can feel the song marching with you.

  "What does it hear?" he says, as you reach the top.

  "What won't it hear," you answer. He takes your arm and spins you, and you twirl over the top step. Then you are rolling, rolling down, like a marble in a chute.

  You wake in the middle of the night and toss and turn. Your sister, the one that shares the room with you, is asleep. You creep out of the house, careful and quiet. You go to the baker's window—maybe they are still stuck together.

  You hear a wet sound. Chunk. Chunk. All of the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Chunk. Chunk.

  You go home and climb in your bed. This is the first time since you got the rose that you hope you don't dream of the goat-legged man. You dream of mirrors, noses and mouths, instead.

  The next day there is an upset. Everyone is talking, buzzing like angry bees. The baker is gone. His wife is dead. The parson is dead. The baker’s son Robert is dead.

  You wonder about the sound. Chunk. Chunk. You wonder. Like a chestnut falling.

  Today is the first day the rose has lost a petal. It is curled on the windowsill, cupping the sun's light. You put the petal to your lips. It is soft and you slip it between your teeth. It does not taste like much of anything and it is gone before you can chew it.

  That night you dream of the goat-legged man again. He is in a churchyard, weaving among the graves. There is a great shadow behind him that follows.

  "What does it say?" he asks. You run away from him, darting between headstones. You can feel the grave dirt tremble where his hooves strike. He is hunting you, snuffling somewhere behind the stones.

  "It won't say," you whisper. "It won't. Never, not ever."

  The shadow comes closer until it is over you. You feel the goat man's hand on your shoulder. "There are many petals."

  You wake, tangled in sweaty sheets. It is still dark. Though your hands shake, you take the rose from the vase on the sill and go, careful and quiet. The town is silent, and the silence feels like tears. You go all the way to the carnival grounds. The moon casts shadows where the fortuneteller's tent used to be.

  She is standing there, swaying in her shawls. You kneel before her. She points at the ground. She is young and old at the same time.

  You sink your fingernails into the dirt, crushing earth over the rose, sealing it in the ground.

  "What will it do? Little spider," she pats you on the head. Her fingers are in your hair. "Remember."

  Then she is gone.

  You go home, but you do not sleep. The next day you wash your hands, again and again. You are everywhere underfoot. Your sisters send you to town.

  Geoffrey and Alice are in the churchyard. They are quiet. You sit by them. They are too sad to throw chestnuts. You ask them what they liked best at the carnival. They both have something to say to you. For the first time, you understand them. They seem to understand you. You watch your reflection in Alice's eyes, twisting, turning, as if you are in another world.

  THE END.

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  HARMONY HOUSE by Sara Green

  The Harmon house sat at the end of Leach Run Drive. An old canal—and dry—canal ran through the first half of the front yard. It was a depression of four feet—a trench ready for warfare. A large metal culvert and a mound of dirt, grass, and broken slabs of slate was the only flat path from the sidewalk up to the front porch. They did not have a driveway, but their mailbox stood on its last legs at the start of the walkway.

  The house itself looked tired. With such a narrow path over the old canal there was no doubt that upkeep had been brushed aside over the consideration of carrying supplies from the street to the house. And if it rained, that canal, made of large concrete slabs would fill fast. Often, but only for the brief period of during an a few hours after a storm, did the canal run burnt orange/brown. But today it was dry. Dry with large cracks big enough to lose a wallet…or even a purse in some spots that weren’t bursting with crabgrass.

  It was the canal’s fault that Kenny Ford could not sell the Harmon house. Not at the price tha
t a four-thousand square-foot home normally went for in this area of Southside Richmond. He couldn’t mention the luxurious two floor master suite that included built in bookshelves, a 300 sq. ft. master bath, separate toilets and sinks and a walk in closet that was bigger than most bedrooms. Sure, the kitchen was dated. Sure, there was plenty of wallpaper that should’ve been removed in the various rooms. But all of that stuff was online. It was the canal when people drove up or bothered with Google Street View that they turned away.

  “It could be something,” he told his Labrador. The puppy was slightly larger than a cat, and looked as if he could pop out of small box on Christmas morning and bring tears of joy to an entire family. But all he was to Kenny was something he could get away with talking to—rather than talking to himself.

  His shrink had come up with the idea.

  Kenny had never met a shrink that was as busy as his was. All the way to the pet store, he thought it might just be a trick to avoid all of Kenny’s rushed appointments after a nervous breakdown.

  Kenny wasn’t crazy—just overstressed.

  “I mean, you could put up a white picket fence along the canal or plant shrubbery on either side.”

  The puppy knew its purpose. It didn’t even have a name yet. Its eyes let out a whimper—worth just one blink. It moved like an old dog already. It was scared of Kenny.

  Kenny had only tried to discipline it, and teach it tricks, but the poor puppy was broken in the process. Gone were its brothers and sisters and the piss drenched plastic pool he has spent his earliest days in. He smelled better now, but there was no playing and no mother’s milk.

  Kenny didn’t cheat with the puppy’s meal plan. He bought brand name food, kept a whole bag in his car.