Again and again, they breathed, they sucked the very life away. The light drawing from Carlos to the screen lost its color, faded breath by breath until it was nothing more than dim pale gray. The final essence of Carlos drifted across the small room into the glowing image on the wall.
The image faded to black. The projector shut off of its own accord. The room was quiet, empty.
After a few days, neighbors began to complain of the strong scent of vinegar emanating from the apartment.
Ben Monroe grew up in Northern California and has spent most of his life there. He lives in the East Bay with his wife and two children. His most recent published works are In the Belly of the Beast and Other Tales of Cthulhu Wars, the graphic novel Planet Apocalypse, and a number of short stories. Benmonroe.com.
Beer with Friends
Charles Maclay
Beer with Friends
Ralph tossed peeled garlic into his mouth like peanuts. As far as Peter was concerned, this was just another oddity to add to the list of oddities surrounding his old high school friend, although this habit was alarmingly new. He’d brought a whole bag of the cloves. Maybe it’s a new diet. One Peter hadn’t heard of. He drained his beer and set it down with a thunk on the wooden table. Ralph had been away for months but was visiting town for the holidays. For Peter, it just felt good to relax and catch up after getting off a twelve-hour EMT shift.
Strangeness aside, Ralph was an entertaining friend. He liked to war-game the impossible and practice martial arts. At over six-foot, wide enough and muscled enough to look taller, Ralph was a mean sparring partner. Like Peter, he was in his early twenties and should not have drawn any particular notice in the bar, but the bag of garlic ruined the look. Around them, half a dozen larger tables were filled with patrons that drowned out everything softer than a half-shout. The bar itself was dark. The drinks, taps, and countertops only dimly lit.
Peter wondered if the gin Ralph had been drinking went well with garlic but decided not to ask. He’d rather know why Ralph’s right arm moved stiffly—as though he’d injured it during some escapade. But they’d been catching up for hours and it hadn’t come up. Peter figured Ralph had something on his mind and that everything else would be preamble. Ralph had been thoughtfully holding his chin most of the night. When Ralph held that pose, he made a habit of bending the truth at right angles. When the truth came out, it would either be profoundly fun or profoundly troubling.
Ralph’s eyes roved the bar with a wild light. As he scanned the tables, he pulled an eight-inch blade from his left sleeve. The motion was so smooth it looked as if the knife had always been there. Ralph spun it once on his palm and slid it back into his sleeve as though it had never existed.
Peter’s pulse raced as he checked if anyone had noticed. The bouncers would ban Ralph and possibly Peter. Blessedly, no one had shouted about the blade and Ralph would just heckle Peter if he brought it up. They were in the clear. He returned his gaze to Ralph, outraged, ready to say something. Only he stopped at Ralph’s expression. The curly-haired fool’s eyes were intent as he completed his own scan of the bar and ate another clove of garlic. Was he trying to get a rise out of someone?
Ralph spoke, and his voice barely registered over the bar’s ruckus. “You hear about the Ester heist?”
“The jewelry store?” asked Peter. It wasn’t what he’d expected. The heist happened the week before, and Ralph had only just returned to town.
“Yeah, that,” said Ralph.
Peter frowned as he answered. “Not much. A little from the cops at an EMS meeting, but I shouldn’t repeat it.” They’d brought up anomalous diamonds and gold left in broken cases.
Ralph smiled knowingly. “I hear they only took the silver.”
Peter choked. “Where’d you hear that?” The cops had told him, but it had specifically been left out of the news.
Ralph stroked his chin while scanning the bar again. “I swung by the store, heard it from someone.”
Peter’s blood went cold. Ester Jewelers had been closed since the heist. Ralph couldn’t have visited it. To Peter’s knowledge, Ralph had never turned to crime, but Peter had often wondered if he would. It wasn’t just his fondness for knives. Ralph liked to free run, parkour, and prowl the night. In high school, he had always been up to mischief. For a while, Peter had figured Ralph would either turn to crime or end up in the CIA.
Finally Peter jokingly asked, “So, did you steal it and then hide out?” They’d gotten up to enough mischief together in high school, he almost figured Ralph would tell him straight out. Thievery would be a whole new level though. Ralph had to be playing at something.
Ralph smiled, drinking his gin. He set down the cup and lifted his hand to hold his chin thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t.”
Shit. No. No, I'm just paranoid. He—
Before he could ask further, Ralph continued, “So, do you think vampire hunters did it?”
The odd question snapped Peter’s attention sideways. Then he sighed in relief. It was like old times. Ralph was war-gaming, only with nosferatu instead of zombies. It wasn’t a big stretch, especially if he’d heard about the silver—somehow. Relieved that Ralph wasn’t asking how to fence silver, Peter went to sip his drink but remembered it was empty.
“I don’t think so,” he said, “no such thing as vampires.” And thank god this is what this is about. If Ralph wanted to talk vampires, the bit about the silver could have just been pretense.
Ralph nodded knowingly. “But what if there were? What would it take for you to believe?”
Peter pondered the question—not seriously, but as a logic problem. Proving the existence of vampires wasn’t a topic he’d contemplated. But if he didn’t give a passable answer, Ralph would keep pestering him until he did. It had been that way with the zombie questions—amusing and exasperating.
“Besides one living, breathing—well, not breathing, but lifting cars?” asked Peter. “Video maybe? Proof? Something that isn’t cosplay.” He laughed. “There’s nothing out there, though. It would be all over the web.”
“Ha, yeah,” said Ralph, going quiet. This was where he would normally start war-gaming silver sources for vampire hunters or discussing how to prove that enlarged canines weren’t fake. He didn’t.
“C’mon,” said Ralph. “Let’s see if there are any videos. Head to my place. I got a short-term rental. The bar is about to close anyway.”
Peter frowned, looking at his phone. The bar wouldn’t close for another hour, not with the crowd. “You have beer there?” he asked. Crazy questions were better with beer.
“Of course,” replied Ralph.
“Not the cheap stuff?”
Ralph gave Peter a pained expression and he remembered that Ralph never went for the cheap stuff.
“Right, drinks at your place then.”
Outside the bar the air smelled fresh and the night felt impossibly quiet. The only noise came from the nearby river, a gentle sound, even as they approached a trail that ran along it. Peter chuckled, reflecting on his concerns. I can’t believe I thought he robbed the store. He’s just looking for an excuse to talk vampires. Would he make up the silver detail? It seemed possible.
As they reached the low rises where Ralph rented, Peter wondered if his friend would leave him alone in the dark to scale some building and do a parkour flip. Whether it was courtesy or the sore arm, Ralph stayed on the ground until they reached the apartment.
The place was a mess. Clothes and boxes lay scattered everywhere and a heavy smell of garlic permeated the place. Ralph had also driven nails into the walls to hang swords and knives. It always amazed Peter that people still rented to Ralph. Amongst the hanging weapons, Peter looked for Ralph’s Japanese sword set. It consisted of three matching blades and scabbards. He spotted two of the three—the traditional katana and shorter wakizashi. The space for the tanto hung empty. It was more of an oversized knife, bigger than the knife he’d pulled in the bar, but still easily concealed. Peter looked at R
alph, trying to decide where the tanto hid.
As he did, Peter noticed a bit of fibrous tatami mat clamped horizontally onto a countertop. Normally tatami mats were rolled and positioned vertically for a martial artist to practice sword slices. This one was clamped horizontally onto the counter like an arm jutting forward. Within the mat he could see something else rolled up in the center, probably meant to simulate bone. He now noticed bits of the stiffer bone-core amongst the tatami slices. Ralph had cut the mat and bone-whatever into at least six pieces. Each time getting closer to the counter, until he’d cut a deep gouge into the woodwork. Peter leaned in to examine the cut.
“Come on,” said Ralph impatiently. “Let’s go to the computer.”
Peter pulled back from the counter and threw up his hands. “But where’s the beer?”
“In the fridge. Grab it yourself. Let’s go.”
Peter chuckled, took one last look at the counter, and went to grab two of the best bottles, just in case Ralph wanted one.
Ralph refused the drink when Peter proffered and instead pulled out a chair for Peter in front of the PC. Then he turned the room lights off before pulling up a file—not a web video, no search needed. The video player loaded up a crisp if oddly shaded image, a nighttime shoot with the camera working to compensate. It revealed city sidewalk, street, and low-rise buildings with few windows. Wherever it was filmed it was far from their hometown.
“Hey, Mia, who’s the new boyfriend?” said a voice from the video.
Is that Ralph’s voice? Is this a film project? Who is Mia?
The audio sounded scratchy, clipped, like it came from a bad microphone or rather a phone mic not shooting video. Garlic breath punched Peter’s nose as Ralph leaned in to adjust the volume. Peter held back a nervous shudder. Why do I let my tanto-wielding friend stand behind me in a dark room?
The video shifted as the camera pivoted upward, taking in the low-rise buildings, a few windows dimly lit, a darker starless sky. What wasn’t dark was overly bright and aglow as the phone tried to filter the odd contrast.
The frame shook from the amateur videographer’s steps. Then the view pivoted to an alley, dark but for a light illuminating a business doorway. Two figures stood in the lamplight, then shuffled into the darkness beyond.
“Aww, come on,” said the same voice as before. It sounded more like Ralph’s anxious cousin than Ralph.
The camera shook violently, pointed at the ground briefly, and revealed jeans and yellowish Nike free runs. The view re-centered, moving down the alley toward the now-shadowed couple. A siren sounded in the distance, possibly from a fire engine. The camera passed through the lamplight into the darkness.
The view faded to black, then blue-green tinged illumination returned, revealing indistinct forms in an embrace. A girl with long black hair latched onto a young adult male’s neck. He mouthed an ‘O’ and looked lost in ecstasy.
“Whoa, I guess this is a bit private,” said the obtrusive voice behind the camera.
That’s Ralph. Peter relaxed. Watching a home movie, even a bad one, was fine enough. He just wanted to key me up with the vampire questions and garlic. Jeez.
The siren blared louder and louder from the speakers. At the same time the camera moved down from the pasty-looking male toward the back of the girl’s head. A dark stain grew across the male’s shirt, away from the girl. What am I watching? Blood? It spread too slowly to be the carotid, but looked real enough. He’d seen plenty of bad special effects and too many real wounds as an EMT.
Ralph’s voice came out of the speaker. “What the shit? Say something, dude. Mia, what is this?”
Ralph’s concern sounded real. Peter’s heart raced. How real is this?
The siren blared, filling the small dark room and drowning out all other sound from the video. The black-haired girl turned toward the camera, her face flashing white and red from passing lights. A thick red liquid dribbled from her mouth and down her chin.
Shit!
The camera suddenly pointed vertically into the night sky, revealing the brick walls. The view jumped towards the bricks like the camera had been thrown. Red and white lights played across the brick. A body—Ralph’s body—flew airborne, separated from the camera.
How?
The camera dropped to the ground. Ground that now filled half the frame. The alley walls were more visible. The view shuddered, bounced, and then landed on its side pointing down the alley. Ralph crashed onto trash bags and rolled awkwardly. The lamp light, where he’d been thrown from, was twenty feet down the alley.
What the hell? Peter wanted to ask. There was no way that tiny girl could throw him. Did they have someone else working the camera?
She stood under the light and pivoted with her right arm outstretched; the other arm held the limp form of the young man. Blood dripped from where her right hand should have been. The red and white lights played across the alley, briefly illuminating it, then disappearing. The lamp was the only light remaining.
In his chair, watching the movie, Peter started to reach for the pause button but stopped himself. I’ll watch it straight through, once. It’s just a scare project.
A shaking left leg stepped into the camera’s sideways view, bright yellow with a white Nike swoosh. It took another step forward, revealing Ralph’s torso. His right arm dangled awkwardly askew. Peter looked away from the video, down and back at Ralph’s yellow Nike shoes. Even in the shadows the color was distinct, only a dark stain covered the swoosh.
“Keep watching,” snapped Ralph.
Peter’s eyes snapped back to the video. The girl, Mia, dropped the boy limply to the pavement. It didn’t move. The siren still overpowered all. Mia stooped, picking up something with her left hand. Her severed right hand, surprisingly clear under the lamp.
A prosthetic? He tried to think of how Ralph or some college kid could fake that, but the EMT had doubts. It looked so real.
Ralph’s yellow Nikes took two steps forward. A short knife protruded from his left fist, glinting silver, then shifted from view.
The tanto.
Under the lamp, the girl casually placed the severed hand on top of the stump. Her formerly severed hand clenched stiffly. She jumped into the air.
The screen flashed with light as she broke the lamp. Peter gripped his seat. The view returned to green and blue-tinged blackness. The siren volume started to drop. Two sets of arms flickered in motion above the Nike shoes, parrying and counter-parrying. Something small flew past the camera. A left hand, pale white, delicate looking, and with green-painted nails had rolled into the bottom right of the screen. A black closed-toed sandal followed, knocking the hand out of the frame.
The siren decreased, its wail fading.
Mia’s sandaled foot advanced, exiting to the left. Her right foot was bent forward, straining, pushing. There was a horrible slick and sliding sound, like a piece of meat being carved. Her leg buckled forward, and the siren sound vanished. He won.
He killed her!
Ralph stepped from behind the camera into view. His yellow Nikes almost stepped on the camera. The foot lifted from view. Something dark blocked the lens, rolling toward the camera, gaining definition, black hair, the girl’s head.
Peter gasped, clutching the chair. Her decapitated head had rolled in front of the camera—eyes wide, pupils indistinct, mouth open, still bloody, teeth white and gleaming. Her canines jutted forward, much longer than her other teeth. The phone, helpfully, auto-focused on her severed neck.
Peter took a deep breath as his eyes roved to the stump. He saw the detail, the excruciating detail, and remembered when a car had crashed into a barbed wire fence where he’d been first on the scene. The head had fallen into the guy’s lap, bone, windpipe, arteries all visible. No one could fake that.
It’s real. Really real. He stared fixedly at the screen, not wanting to turn and see his friend, a murderer.
The video was silent. The room was silent. No siren played. Peter said nothing.
&nbs
p; “Shit.” The words sprang from the speakers. It was Ralph’s voice, breathless.
Peter’s eyes fixed on the girl’s head. Her face did not shift or change, something he might see in cheap special effects that would indicate editing. Instead her canines just shrank. They didn’t retract. Their bases widened and they drew into her head until they looked normal.
No. No. No. Peter clutched his chair.
More cursing sounded from the speakers. The camera lifted into the air and righted. It pointed down at the girl’s head. There was a dark puddle where the neck ended. The frame shook with more violence and Peter felt bile rising in his stomach. Then the camera view tilted upward, revealing the narrow alley walls. The computer screen went black and a white play symbol appeared in the center of the screen.
Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. Ralph killed someone—Mia—whoever she is. Bits of the movie flashed before Peter. The man—victim-lover—his vapid expression, the blood running down his neck. She killed him. She—
The blood running down her chin. Her hand, cut off, reattached, moving again. The fangs. The fangs shrinking. Garlic. Silver.
Ralph’s voice intruded from behind Peter, the pungent garlic wafting forward with Ralph’s words, “Do you believe?”
Peter exhaled, trying to pull every ounce of breath from his body. He didn’t want to reply, but he finally took a deep breath and asked, “Where’s the silver?”
Charles Maclay is an enthusiastic writer, gamer, hiker, and skier—when he has funds for skiing. He is earning his MFA at Western Colorado University, studying genre fiction and screenwriting.
While Charles grew up on his family’s cattle ranch in Western Montana, he has also lived in a tiny Seattle basement and a surprisingly spacious apartment in Seoul. He’s done everything from wildland firefighting to playing chess while answering billing questions in a call center.
Monsters, Movies & Mayhem Page 26