by Shane Staley
Tonight, Jack thought. He could feel it in his bones, his body thrumming with the certainty of it.
He sat, chair pulled close to the bed, and waited.
“I’m Jack-I-am and I can take it all away,” he said as he stirred the dark gruel in the bowl.
There was a shifting motion on the bed. A thick, congested breath. “Jack,” said the old man. “He’s out there, Jack. He’s standing out in the black sea and the pier’s falling. He’s waiting, Jack, but the sea’s so cold, so black.”
Jack lifted the spoon to his mouth, swallowed the tar-like substance. Heard a distant voice he barely realized was his own. “No, Dad. He’s not in the sea and there’s no pier. He’s out there in the field.”
He set the bowl down and stood, paced over to the window.
The figure was out there, closer again and caught in the shadow of the house. Pale and patient in the light of the sickle moon.
Jack could see the knotted lumps that traversed its arms, tumorous growths or malformed bones bulging beneath the tight skin. Obsidian eyes that gleamed like polished stones. Lank streaks of hair pasted to its long skull with grease and grime. A mouth that opened like a fresh wound to spatter some dark viscous matter to the jutting chin.
The emaciated thing looked up at him and smiled with too many stubs of teeth set into its rotting gums.
“See? He’s out there, Dad,” Jack repeated.
The old man wracked a final hawking cough before looking Jack square in the eye. Eyes that had been cloudy and distant for days suddenly snapped into sharp focus. All trace of fever and rambling delirium gone. His voice was soft and quiet, unhampered by phlegm or bile or blood.
“Yes, Jack, he is. He’s out there and he’s coming for me.”
* * *
Jack took the soiled sheet from the bed, tossed it in the corner, and put down a clean one from the linen cupboard in the hallway.
Dad looked even smaller now. A frail, narrow shape in a bed that was too big, the skeletal figure of his father making almost no indentation on the mattress.
The rattle that escaped his lips as he passed away had chilled Jack to the bone and he had just sat for a while waiting for tears that never came.
Dull eyes stared up from a still, waxen face at the cracks in the ceiling. Jack closed them and fumbled in his pocket for loose change. He eased a penny onto each eyelid and pushed upwards on the open jaw to set the mouth shut.
Now the old man was gone, his pain over, maybe Jack would finally get some real sleep. Give in to the exhaustion that followed at his heels like a constant shadow and deal with the fallout tomorrow.
He pulled the fresh white sheet up over the dead man’s face. He couldn’t think of it as Dad any more.
He looked out of the window on his way out of the bedroom.
The figure was gone. Taken what it had come for and disappeared like smoke drifting away from a funeral pyre.
* * *
An unfamiliar sound woke him in the dark. Not the wind rushing through the eaves, not the creak and settle of the house in the night, not the call of birds in the trees, not the sharp needles of rain beating an insistent tattoo at the window like bone-fingers tapping at the glass.
What woke him and held him pinned to the bed was the clink and scuttle of two copper coins falling to the floor and rolling across bare wooden boards. The sound of something slowly rising from the deathbed in the next room and the slap of ungainly feet. The scrape of a door opening on rusted hinges. The measured tread across the hallway amid the groan of protesting floorboards. The rasping breath of whatever stood outside his room casting a long shadow beneath the door. The scrabble of strange nails on the gunmetal handle and the inward swing of the door.
“He’s here, Jack.” An excited whisper from the bed next to him.
The creature filled the doorway. A giant emaciated thing that had to dip its malformed head to enter the room.
Jack steeled a glance at Joe, at the smile on his young healthy face, before staring back at the creature that stepped towards them from the shadows.
It edged closer, bringing with it the unmistakable odor of spoiling meat.
A sacrifice, a compromise, a pact, Jack thought.
As he stared into its dark, unblinking eyes, Jack felt his hand swivel uncontrollably on his wrist, bone and tendon yielding with a sickening grinding sound. He didn’t struggle against it, just let the strange exhilaration course through him, as his body began to contract, the muscles stripping and wasting away, one arm inexorably clamping to his chest. He welcomed the pain as his legs slowly twisted and buckled, cramping to a new contortion on the bed.
His eyes filled with tears he couldn’t wipe away. “I’m Jack-I-am and I’ve taken it all away,” he managed to say. Each word less precise than the last, each syllable increasingly slurred until all that came from his mouth were unintelligible groans as his jaw fell slack and useless. A thin line of spittle crept down his chin as he began to buck and thrash on the mattress.
The creature perched itself on the end of Jack’s bed, hideous knots and growths swelling beneath its milky and pitted skin. It reached out one long finger and brushed Jack’s cheek, wiped spittle from his lips. Jack tasted the damp earth beneath its fingernail, breathed in the peaty smell.
It grinned, lips splitting its taut parchment skin, as a bird called out somewhere in the night. “Hear that, Jack?” it said in a gravel-filled voice.
Nightjar, Jack thought instantly, but couldn’t form the word.
The creature looked at both of its boys and opened the dog-eared book it held in one crooked hand.
“Time for a story, Team Rooker,” it said.
Winning Isn’t Everything
William R.A.D. Funk
“Hard four,” the dealer announced, loud enough for everyone to hear over the casino’s din.
Jacob repressed a squeal. He had money on four. The dealer slid his cash across the table. Throughout Jacob’s body, that electric joy tingled. He was a winner. He liked being a winner.
“Seven,” the dealer called the next roll.
Sighs of disappointment circled the table as the dealer swept everyone’s chips from the green felt.
Jacob felt only mild disappointment. After all, he still had one of five credit cards not yet maxed out. That meant more money to play. Aboard the cruise ship New Dawn, the craps table was open till six in the morning if players wanted. And, Jacob wanted.
To Jacob, it seemed logical that all he needed to do was win more. Then, he would put the money back on the credit cards and have plenty left over. It’s like they say, you have to spend money to make money. If only he knew the numbers in advance, he could win every time, electric joy and all. Jacob chuckled. He reckoned that would defeat the point.
He dropped more money on the table as a new player took the space next to him. An old man, thin and frail, his sunken eyes and gap-toothed grin warned of some uncertain illness.
“Three hundred on snake eyes,” he said.
Jacob’s mouth dropped. It was a one time bet on one of the least likely rolls. The pay was thirty to one.
Baseball cap at a jaunty angle, the old man gave Jacob a wink. Those teeth staring at him as the heavy-better smiled.
“Snake Eyes,” the dealer said, eyes wide as the dice settled at one and one. “Nine thousand for the new player. Count it out.”
Jacob watched the dealer’s assistant count out nine thousand dollars in chips, and then slide them across the table. He shivered as some of that winning excitement vicariously raced through him. Eager for a taste of his own, Jacob reached out to drop more money on the table.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the old man whispered.
Jacob hesitated.
“Seven,” the dealer called. With his thin wooden rake, he swept the table clean. The ring of people around the table let out their ceremonial moan of despair as their money vanished. Jacob was almost among them, the fifty dollars still in his outstretched hand.
“T
hanks,” he said.
“A pleasure,” The old man returned. “Name’s Derick.”
“Jacob. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands and returned their attention back to the table as an elderly woman plucked up the dice, ready to roll. Without turning his head to look, Jacob saw Derick reach into the pocket of his faded jeans and pull out something small and black. On the front, it had a small display and a single button.
Probably a pager or something, Jacob figured. He tossed money down on a safe bet.
The device disappeared back into the pocket. Derick’s lips crept up into a roguish smile.
“Five hundred on midnight,” Derick announced. He tossed five black chips in the center of the table for the dealer to put in place.
No one at the table made a sound. The little old lady on the other side held the dice, brows stretched up, stunned. Someone gave her a gentle nudge, bringing her back to the task.
The dice flew.
“Twelve. Midnight,” The dealer said. “Fifteen thousand dollars for the gentleman.”
* * *
Jacob couldn’t help but stare. His eyes followed the tall stack of chips go from dealer to Derick, and then disappear into the pockets of those faded jeans.
“It’s been magical,” Derick said, touching forefinger to the bill of his cap. “But, I think I’m done.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Jacob said.
Derick either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him as he continued toward the ship’s elevators. Jacob chased after him, forgetting his hundred dollars in chips on the table. Somehow they didn’t seem significant anymore, like dropping a penny in the street.
“Please, wait,” Jacob said again.
This time, Derick acknowledged him. He turned with a theatrical spin. “Yes?”
“You have to tell me how you did it.”
“Oh I do, do I?” Derick snorted, lips still curled up in a sly smile.
“Come on,” Jacob pleaded. “It seems to me, there’s enough to go around.” He tried to match the old man’s smile.
“I think you should keep to the safe bets, kid.” Derick turned away and pressed the elevator button.
Jacob’s smile vanished. He wanted that electric joy. Not sure how precisely, but Derick held the means to getting more. He could cover his losses in no time, if he could just get this greedy bastard to share the secret.
The elevator doors opened.
“Maybe, I should tell the dealer about that gadget of yours,” Jacob suggested.
Derick didn’t move. He stood in place. The doors closed.
“Okay, kid. You win.” Derick turned his head. That sly smile took a turn toward sinister. Jacob’s lust for winning prevented that observation from rising to the surface. “Let’s go for a drink.”
* * *
At the ship’s bar, a stone’s throw from the craps table, Jacob took a pull from his Screwdriver. He winced at the bitter blast of vodka. The bartender hadn’t stiffed him on the mix.
After a sip of his Jack ‘n Coke, Derick whispered, “Because you asked three times, I’ll tell you how it works.” From the same pocket, he pulled out the small black device and set it on the bar. With a cautious glance to make sure no one was in earshot, he slid it toward Jacob. “Check it out.”
It was small and black with a display. One round button dominated the center. It was as he’d seen it before, nothing new. He pressed the button. Nothing happened.
“Is this a joke?” Jacob said, feeling stupid, then irritated.
Derick shook his head. “Nope. It works for one person at a time. Right now, that’s me.”
“But, what does it do?” Jacob asked, his brow bent. “Does it change the rolls?”
Again, a shake of the head. “That would be cheating.” Derick curled up his lips a few millimeters to the right. “This is better. It tells me what the rolls are going to be…before the dice are thrown.”
Jacob snorted. “Yeah, and just how does it do that?”
Derick shrugged. “Do I look like an engineer?”
The question may have been rhetorical, but Jacob measured the man before him. He looked more like a scurvy-ridden sailor well passed his prime. An engineer he wasn’t.
“Maybe the guy who made it could answer that question,” Derick continued. “All I know is I got it from someone who got it from someone else. They probably took it off a dead guy.”
Jacob’s eyes lit up. The how it works no longer seemed relevant. He saw it work. Memories of that electric joy raced back into his mind.
“How do I get one of those?”
Derick chuckled. That subtle smile came out of hiding. Both corners of his lips rose as those sunken eyes thinned out. “I don’t think you have what it takes, kid.”
That sounded like a challenge. It took every ounce of Jacob’s will to keep his face from lighting up. “I have what it takes,” he said without thinking. A moment later, “what does it take?”
That smile rose a little higher. “This isn’t a one and done deal, kid. You have to want it. You have to be willing to pay the price. It’s got to be more than a healthy sense of greed. You have to keep playing.”
“I can do that.” Jacob’s voice rose an octave. “Just tell me what I’ve got to do.”
Derick pulled one of his thousand dollar chips from those faded jeans. “Call it, heads or tails. Get it right and it’s yours.”
“Really?”
To answer his question, the chip was in the air.
“Heads.” After he called it, Jacob wondered which side was heads.
The chip hit the bar and danced on its edge for a moment. It rattled to a stop with the one and three zeroes facing up.
“Heads it is,” Derick announced. His eyes appeared to have taken a yellow hue during their conversation. Those wrinkles seemed to have multiplied.
Jacob sat speechless. He half-expected Derick to say, just kidding or psyche.
Instead, “Congratulations, kid.” He slid the device across the bar again. “It’s all yours. Make sure you keep playing.”
Jacob picked up the device with reverence.
The old man sighed with what felt like relief. “I hope it serves you better than me, kid. Good luck.” Derick struggled to his feet. The Jack ‘n Coke appeared to have a harsher effect than Jacob would have figured. “Remember to keep playing.”
Jacob nodded without hearing the words. When he came to, Derick was gone. On the bar in front of him, the thousand dollar chip remained. He snatched it up.
Too excited to wait, Jacob ran back to the craps table and took his position. Someone had rolled a seven, leading to the crowd’s cry of frustration.
Jacob took the device from his pocket, careful not to be seen. He pressed the button. On the screen, two red dots appeared on the left with six on the right.
“Soft eight,” the dealer called.
Jacob gasped. It was better than he thought. It wasn’t the sum total of the roll, but the exact result of each die. He couldn’t miss.
Another press of the button gave him a four on each side of the screen. He tossed the thousand dollar chip in front of the dealer.
“Hard eight,” Jacob said. The crowd erupted in shock. A bead of sweat formed on Jacob’s temple. As thought caught up with action, he realized how much he dropped on a single bet. It was far more than the old man had. And, Jacob never asked if quantity affected the prediction.
The dice flew. No turning back.
“Hard eight,” the dealer read the dice. “Nine thousand dollars for the young man.
Electric joy was what winning felt like before. Jacob gripped the table’s ledge till his knuckles turned white. He won nine thousand dollars on a single bet. This was a lightning bolt to the chest. This was a gift from God handed down to him for whatever awesome deed he’d done. This was the greatest feeling he’d ever encountered.
* * *
At ten past seven in the morning, Jacob entered his cabin, two floors above the casino floor. New
Dawn yawed in long obvious stretches, making him feel drunk as he weaved from one wall to the next, heading for the single bed. He passed the mirror on the wall, catching his reflection. The smooth unblemished skin of post-adolescence stared back at him with its wrinkle-free youth. Dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes. He rubbed them with a forefinger. A few hours of sleep and he’d be ready to hit the tables anew.
Before his head hit the pillow, he dreamt of standing on New Dawn’s top deck, holding an umbrella. Rain poured. Only, it wasn’t water. Chips of various denominations fell from the sky, clattering against the ship’s deck. Some pattered against his umbrella. He held out his hand, but the chips passed through his palm as if he were a ghost, incorporeal. All those chips ever present, yet out of reach. All that winning money and he couldn’t feel it.
When he woke, Jacob struggled to right himself. His eyes felt as if he’d stared at the sun for the last four hours. His muscles were laden with some heavy substance, an ache deep in the bones.
He glanced at the clock. It read three in the afternoon. His winning streak had tired him out more than he imagined. Upright on the bed, he smiled at the memory of winning round after round. Every few rolls, he intentionally lost a handful of chips to throw off suspicion. The chips still clicked together in his bulging pockets.
He climbed to his feet. The tables should be open by now. In his pocket, the device pressed against his thigh. He made for the door.
On his way out, he caught his reflection in the mirror and screamed.
Crows-feet tugged at the corners of his eyes. Those dark circles looked almost black. He peeled back his lips to see why his gums were sore, and then whimpered when he saw they had receded, leaving small gaps in their wake.
He had spent many sleepless nights at the tables before, but never were the consequences as severe. At twenty-seven years old, he should have no trouble bouncing back after almost eight hours of sleep.