A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  “I’m proud of this one…it’s an old trick, making the trigger a syringe, but I machined it myself.” He patted Shep on the shoulder, though keeping safely behind him. “You’re in store for an ugly, painful death, Cowboy, which kind of pleases me after the screwing you gave me. Ever hear of an eastern brown snake? Australia has the best critters. The venom is available on the black market, if you’re willing to cough up the cash. I was willing, so you’ll be dead within the hour.” He set the Ruger on the table.

  Gwen’s body released a shuddering paroxysm and Kat hoped it was her last, for Gwen’s sake.

  “Three dead. Soon to be four. Two to go,” Vernon said.

  “They’ll find you,” Delanna said. “They’ll make the connections.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  His smug confidence disgusted Kat. She couldn’t believe she had once found it appealing. She recognized the certainty of her death, but she couldn’t accept the unfairness that her child would be cheated of a life. When she had announced her pregnancy three months earlier, Vernon had seemed so pleased and comforting.

  Beside her, Shep jerked in his seat. A fine sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

  “Won’t you help him?” Kat asked.

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re willing to let your baby die?”

  Vernon gave a scoffing laugh. “That’s the reason you’re here…well, it was the final straw. I don’t want no fucking kid, and I know you wouldn’t let me walk away, like I wanted to. You’d demand money and other shit and make my life miserable, like the rest of these pricks have.”

  “Who are you?” Delanna said, the thought contorting her face. “You evil bastard. I hope you burn in Hell forever.”

  Vernon snorted. “Maybe if I believed in Hell.”

  “So you feel nothing,” said Kat.

  “Nada.” He gave a sarcastic sorry shrug.

  “And for me?” Kat asked.

  “Especially not for you,” Vernon said.

  “Prove it,” said Kat. “Kiss me.”

  “What?” asked Delanna, unbelieving.

  “I can’t even stand looking at you, why would I want to kiss you?” asked Vernon.

  “If you really don’t love me, kiss me and prove it has no effect on you. You know you still care.”

  Vernon searched her sad eyes and looked behind him. Gwen was no threat. Shep sat across from them, staring blankly forward, his chest rising and falling rapidly. On the table, out of reach, were the Ruger and the box cutter.

  “Fine,” Vernon said, too arrogant to refuse the challenge.

  Vernon pressed his lips to Kat’s and she spit heavily into his mouth. She simultaneously dropped her left hand and drove her balled right fist into his throat. Even though the chains enfeebled the blow, it worked. Vernon stumbled backward, the impact of her small fist causing him to swallow both her spit and the little capsule she had popped into her mouth.

  Vernon recoiled, shocked, disgusted, and clutching at his throat. He collided with Gwen, swerved around her chair, and staggered away, trying to cough. Leaning his left hand on the back of Gwen’s chair, he glared at Kat who was spitting repeatedly onto the floor, praying she would be able to get rid of at least most of the residual poison.

  Vernon reached to gain his balance, but Shep, rattlesnake-quick, grabbed his wrist and yanked, pulling him onto his lap. The Texan wrapped his arms tightly around Vernon, trapping him.

  “Can either of you get to the blade?” Shep asked, his face contorting with the effort, his body shaking.

  “Just hold him! He swallowed cyanide!” Kat said.

  “No shit?” Shep asked, managing a grin despite his struggle.

  “He’s reaching for the stun gun!” Kat warned, noticing Vernon’s fingers working at his jacket pocket.

  Shep clamped his teeth into Vernon’s shoulder and bit down hard. Rewarded with an agonized wail, he clenched harder and held Vernon until his breath became labored, his limbs twitched, and ultimately his body went limp. Shep let him slide to the floor.

  “How in the hell did you pull that off?” he asked.

  “I was counting on his ego and that he’d look to see if he could reach the box cutter, and he didn’t disappoint. That’s when I popped the pill.” She spat on the floor again.

  “I think you’ll be okay. Those were capsules and the poison’s inside,” Delanna said.

  Kat looked at the inert form of her fiancé sprawled on the floor and spit again. The betrayal, the emotions, and the utter horror of what had transpired finally grabbed hold of her and she burst into tears.

  “Shep, oh my God, are you okay? Is it starting to affect you?” Kat asked, guiltily pulling herself out of her grief and back to the present.

  Shep flexed his hand. “Got the nervous sweats and a little burn where the needle bit me, but feeling no worse for wear. I’m thinking Vernon got played by his black-market friends. Either that or I’m nastier than that old snake. ’Course, he said an hour, so maybe it just hasn’t set in yet.”

  Kat pitched forward, bouncing her chair and herself toward the table in diminutive increments.

  Shep watched her for a moment then asked, “Where you off to?”

  “The hacksaw,” Kat said. “Might not cut metal, but if it’ll cut a bone, it’ll cut wood. We got to get out of here and get you to a hospital.”

  The saw lay on the table in front of Gwen’s slumped form, but at the rate Kat was moving, it would remain there a while longer.

  Shep took up after Kat’s lead, bouncing forward in small hops toward the table.

  “Don’t! You’ll speed up your circulation!” Delanna warned him and started bouncing toward the table, too, but Shep was quickly within reach of the box cutter and Ruger. Delanna and Kat both stopped bouncing.

  “I’m going to try to knock the saw closer to you, Kat,” Shep said. He took aim and slid the box cutter across the table. It careened off the side of the hacksaw, only managing to nudge it closer to Gwen. Delanna rolled her eyes, and despite the nightmare they had endured, Shep laughed aloud.

  “Well, that wasn’t worth its weight in shit,” he said. “Hang on.”

  “You’re the one who needs hanging on,” Delanna said.

  “I’m good,” Shep said. He repeated the process with the gun, which again missed the mark. “Fuck!” he shouted as the Ruger shot across the table, knocking the hacksaw even farther to the left.

  The gun plunged over the edge of the table, but Kat hooked the trigger guard with the tip of her ring finger in an impressive display of athleticism. She was saved from tumbling to the floor by the arm restraints, but not without a substantial dose of discomfort to right herself. Shuffling a bit closer to the table, she set the gun flat, aligned her sights, and pushed. The gun hit the intended target squarely and the hacksaw ricocheted perfectly into Shep’s waiting hands.

  “Show-off,” said Shep.

  

  The saw was indeed dull. By the time Shep made the four cuts necessary to free him from the multiple binding points on the chair, his arms and hands shook and throbbed, and a clammy sweat covered his brow. He sat back to rest a moment.

  “Still feeling alright?” Kat asked.

  “Yeah.” He flexed his hand again. It felt weak and was still vibrating, but he attributed that to the sawing. “Maybe Vernon’s venom was a dud, after all.”

  “Clearly, after exerting like that,” Delanna said. “You’re a lucky guy.”

  Shep rose, flipped his chair, and freed the chain. Fighting a bout of vertigo from rising too fast, he gathered the restraint over his shoulder and asked, “Who’s next?”

  “Forget that! See if you can find a phone,” Kat said. “Call the police.”

  “Maybe there’s a better saw around here somewhere, too,” said Delanna.

  Shep looked at them and huffed. “Smart ladies,” he said.

  He headed for the kitchen; if there was a phone, it would be in there, he figured. Legs numbed from sitting too long, he stu
mbled through the doorway and scanned the room, which was cluttered in a haphazard way that was indicative of intrusion, not of residence.

  A computer backpack lay open on the countertop beside an opened laptop. To the left, near the door, a landline phone was mounted to the wall, and to the right, two open clamshell containers, one of them still half-full of Chinese takeout food, an empty bottle of Corona, and a mostly full bottle of Diet Coke. Shep found this especially disconcerting.

  Dinner for two.

  He stood silently still and listened for evidence of another soul, then decided the best action was to get help as quickly as possible. As he reached for the phone, a sudden dizziness washed over him. He staggered to the counter, knocking the laptop’s mouse to the floor and awakening the computer display to a disturbing split-screen image of the dining room from either end, one facing Kat, the other facing Delanna. The cameras were black and white, which gave everything an ethereal, indistinct hue. The women’s eyes shone silver and Shep was taken by their vulnerability, chained to the chairs as they were.

  With a shaking hand, Shep lifted the handset, which slipped through his numbed fingers and fell to the countertop. His left leg defied him next, folding beneath him and dropping him to his knees in front of the laptop. The strength in his legs had diminished with unsettling speed, but it wasn’t his legs that stopped his effort to rise.

  On the small computer screen, Shep watched as a monochromic Delanna stood before Kat. Short lengths of untethered chain dangled from both of Delanna’s manacles, dragging across the tabletop as she picked up the box cutter.

  Shep corralled the phone handset closer to him and jabbed the break button. Once he heard the dial tone, he managed to depress 9-1-1 with barely responsive fingers.

  Ringing…

  On the screen, Delanna moved toward Kat. Shep’s chin hit the counter, and as he fell to the floor, awkwardly clutching the phone to his ear, Kat’s screams emanated from the dining room. He heard a voice that sounded miles away.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  TEACHER’S PET

  In Noel’s experience, few things compared with the first day of school, but root canals, third-degree burns, and amputation could be on the list. School held nothing redeemable for him; nothing to look forward to, for what was enjoyable about busting your hump to keep your head above water? He managed to maintain passing grades, but the phrase skin of your teeth was generous in his case. His parents accused him of being lazy and an underachiever. He figured, what was the sense in trying when even his best efforts were met with criticism?

  “A ninety? Why, heck son, that’s still ten away from a hundred! When I was a junior, a ninety would have been unacceptable because I was class president, captain of the debate team, and star quarterback on the football team…”

  …and I could juggle six double-bladed chainsaws while running full throttle and carrying three unconscious mountain climbers to safety from the stormy summit of Everest, Noel amended bitterly.

  In truth, his parents were average folk who cared for him deeply and wished him to achieve greatness. Truth was…Noel was lazy and an underachiever, but he knew that would all change once he escaped this crappy, mundane town. He thought if the world were to end right then, he would have wasted nearly his whole life in school.

  His classmate Kyle Grainger was a bit of a waste, but he had the right idea. He’d hit the road earlier that summer and never looked back. Noel dreamed about doing the same.

  He scanned his mindless classmates from his remote throne at the far back of the classroom. He had nothing in common with them and probably never would. Their juvenile ways irritated him, with their odd lingo and embellished gestures; it was all like some bizarre mating ritual that lowered the IQ. Sure, some of the girls were hot, with their overly made-up faces, artery-choking jeans, and skimpy tops that accentuated and manipulated their assets to the fullest effect… making mountains out of molehills. Besides, it was easier to hate them than to obsess over the reality that such girls wanted nothing to do with him.

  At the far wall, Ben Molina jokingly slapped a girl’s ass. The girl smiled prettily and fluttered cable-thick eyelashes, cranking up her feminine appeal. He could almost hear her pheromones kick into overdrive. If Noel ever tried anything that nervy, he’d be slapped right back. Hell, he’d be arrested.

  “Morons,” he mumbled.

  “Who?” asked a girl seated beside him.

  He recognized her from previous years but didn’t know her name. She was on the pretty side of plain, but wore simple clothing and used no makeup. Trowel on some Mary Kay, squeeze her into skinny jeans two sizes too small, and she’d go from not-so-hot to hot-to-trot, thought Noel.

  “Everyone. You’re all morons,” Noel sneered.

  She searched his face for a moment, rose, and moved to another desk.

  Good, he thought, tilting back in his seat. He was bored senseless. He wanted to be somewhere exciting, doing exhilarating things. He wanted adventure—anything besides whiling away another year in this abhorrent classroom, humiliated and hated…hating himself.

  And then…school got interesting.

  Everyone in the classroom went silent as she walked through the doorway, girls and boys alike. Even Molina the Weena stopped to watch her glide confidently past the teacher’s desk to the whiteboard. With tantalizingly long and delicate fingers, she lifted a marker from the tray and wrote Ms. Dewer.

  Oh, the implication of that name will be problematic, Noel thought. Sure enough, a few titters arose from the classroom. He wondered if her first name might be Ivana. Unperturbed, Ms. Dewer faced her new students.

  “Good morning, Homeroom 544. You may have noticed the new name on your schedules. I am she, and I might be your history or social studies teacher, as well. Before moving here in June, I taught for four years at Gray-New Gloucester High School in Gray, Maine. Gray’s sister town, New Gloucester, has only one claim to fame, the Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, which is the last active Shaker village in the United States. Both Gray and New Gloucester combined have about half the population of Taylors Falls, New Hampshire.”

  “Nowhereville,” someone said. Noel agreed.

  “Has anybody here been to Fryeburg, Maine?” Ms. Dewer pleasantly asked. When no one replied, she said, “I was born in Fryeburg, where there are more people than teeth. Now that is Nowhereville.” She smiled, flashing her perfect set of bright whites. Noel couldn’t look away.

  Her age was difficult to assess. She could be anywhere from twenty-five, to a youthful thirty-five. She had friendly, yet dark, penetrating eyes that demanded his undivided attention…as did the rest of her. She was an oddity, classy and exotic, unlike any teacher he’d seen outside of the idealistic realm of movies and television, and completely unlike any of those at Nottingham High. Thick black hair tumbled down her back in turbulent waves, contrasting nicely with her navy-blue dress, which was tasteful, fashionable, and subtly stimulating. The way the fabric sensually draped the smooth curve of her hips, accentuating her figure, was hypnotic; it beckoned notice but didn’t scream for it. She looked Hispanic, could probably pass for Selena Gomez’s big sister, but the name Ms. Dewer implied different.

  Abrupt laughter caught Noel’s attention and he noticed every eye in the classroom was on him. Humiliation warmed his face as he realized Ms. Dewer was talking to him.

  “What?” he asked, sounding daft instead of the cool indifference he hoped to display.

  More laughter.

  “Welcome back, cosmonaut, I’m sorry to interrupt your reverie, Mister…” She waited.

  “Knob!” someone said.

  “Uh, Noel Keating,” he said, ignoring the heckler.

  “See? That was practically painless,” she said. “It seems I’m having a hard time holding your attention.”

  “Got mine,” someone murmured, loud enough to be heard.

  “Get a napkin!” said another.

  Ms. Dewer ignored them, keeping her eyes on Noel. �
��Move here so you can hear me better, Mr. Keating,” she said, pointing to a seat directly in front of her desk.

  Noel considered refusing, but the prospect of being in close proximity to her had a definite appeal. He moved, trying to appear unbothered. He was no stranger to targeting by teachers who considered him a troublemaker. He didn’t think himself one, just a nonconformist, and a nonparticipant with zero desire to be present.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keating,” she smiled.

  Noel didn’t respond, which didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

  She was even better-looking from his new seat and he could smell her perfume, which was captivating to the point of irresistible.

  Noel lay on his bedroom floor, his head resting on a pile of discarded clothing and his feet propped on his bed. The thunderous riffs of Mastodon traumatized his eardrums through his headphones, cutting off anything outside his personal universe. He tried to disappear within the thrumming bass and machine-gunning drums, but he couldn’t drown out his fixation.

  He’d had crushes before—realistic ones on girls his age -—but this was over the top. Like Van Halen’s video “Hot for Teacher,” he had an all-consuming mega-crush on Ms. Dewer.

  This is insane! I’m hot for my history teacher! It made him laugh, especially when he thought of his prior history teacher, Mrs. Hurley, who resembled the love child of a Shar-Pei and a toad, somehow retaining bulgy eyes through her profusion of wrinkles. Mrs. Hurley would often joke that she was the world’s best history teacher, not because of her schooling, but because she had “been there,” and by gosh, you could tell.

  Noel removed his headphones, closed his eyes, and his thoughts immediately returned to Ms. Dewer. It was understandable. She was amazing, worthy of magazine covers or makeup ads. He fantasized about her clad in a minuscule bikini, lying on a beach beside him and sharing drinks in some tropical paradise.

  Noel rolled over, trying to return to reality. He needed a more realistic obsession, one where he had a sliver of a chance.