Ray circled around the wasp nest, edged through the trees and approached the stream. The old man with the fishing rod was still in the same place, the scene precisely as it had been before. Ray edged along the bank of the, searching with his eyes. He dropped the can of bug spray and knelt down, his determined eyes fixated on the old man with the fishing pole. He searched the freezing water with numb fingers until he found what he wanted: A rock, thick at one end and sharp on the other. It would make a decent weapon.
It was cold close to the water, and he was still half-naked. Ray shivered, although he wasn't sure if it was from the temperature, fear or shame. He only knew that he had to keep the sacredness of this place, his picnic area. Just Ray and his Grandfather's little secret. He'd only shared it with the four other young girls who were quite carefully buried here…and now with that little bitch Wanda. He could do this. Ray knew he was strong enough.
The old man's back was turned, after all. It wouldn't be sexually good, not like it had been with those young girls, but it would be easy and quick and then he would be on his way…
The old man moved.
Ray froze, heart in his throat. But it was just the pale left arm holding the pole. It had twitched a little bit, probably something involuntary, maybe because the old fart was fast asleep. Almost like a spasm of some kind.
Ray tiptoed down the bank and got behind the aged fisherman. He started to edge closer. His shadow fell across the water and part of the bank, and he knew if the old man was awake he'd see it and react and turn around and so Ray lunged forward; he raised his arm, the pointed end of the rock aimed squarely at the old man's neck. He gritted his teeth, brought the arm down as hard as he could…CRAAAAK.
His arm went into the old man right up to the elbow.
The skin just gave way like thin dry wall; white powder sprayed up and into the air and the old man started to fall apart, one chunk at a time. His jaw fell off into the water and then the head collapsed at the neck and the trunk split wide open. Something crawled out of a lump on that gray forearm and it promptly dropped the fishing pole into the icy stream.
Ray felt something bite him, again and then again. He shrieked and pulled his hand back out of the cavernous hole in the fisherman's back. Spiders? Hornets? They were all over him, little brown and gray and yellow things with hairy legs and wings; but they were like nothing he had ever seen before. In some calm, non-psychotic part of his mind Ray wished he'd held onto the bug spray, although he knew that it probably would have been useless. Because suddenly he realized the nests he'd seen back in Dry Wells had been gray, just like this old man's skin. And then it came to him that those ancient, motionless old people in the rocking chairs, they had been…inhabited.
A lump that squirmed ran into his mouth and bit down on his tongue. His mouth tasted copper from the fresh blood. Ray bit down hard in return and crunched it into furry guts. The open wound burned like something drenched in acid. He gasped and howled and swatted at himself again and again. When he tried to breathe, to shriek out his agony, a tiny one ran down his open throat, scraping the tender flesh with its feet. He tried to vomit but it held on tight.
Ray went completely, musically mad. He began to giggle and dance around. He fell flat on his back, rising screams of pain alternating with bouts of hysterical laughter. A strangely calm part of him understood that there was a kind of poetic justice taking place. He would soon be a hollowed-out nest.
And food for the young ones just hatching.
ROAD KILL
O'Brien sat quietly in the truck-stop diner near Bakersfield California, sipping his third cup of dishwater coffee. He studied his face in the chipped mirrored tiles that rimmed the pass-through from the kitchen. He looked harmless. O'Brien had short auburn hair, blue eyes and wore the black garb and backward collar of a priest. He watched the slender blonde waitress as she went about her rounds, a placid expression on her weathered features. His thoughts were feral.
"She's chilly."
Startled, O'Brien turned abruptly. Said: "What?"
"The weather. She's chilly." An old man, in his seventies maybe. He wore a turquoise cowboy string tie and had foul tobacco stains on his pale blue work shirt. "My bones say it's fixin' to rain shortly."
O'Brien remembered where he was. He forced himself to smile. "That so?" he said. "I always thought bones predicting the weather was just superstition."
The wizened man cackled. "Naw father," he said. It seemed strange to have a man this age call him that. "It's true enough. When you get on in years, you'll see. Rain is on the way."
Some thunder rumbled in the low foothills. The codger shrugged. "Told you so."
The old man got up and waved goodbye to the young waitress, leaving half a sandwich and more than two dollars in change on the counter. "Take it easy, father," he said. He limped away.
O'Brien watched him go then yawned, stretched and looked around carefully. He scooped up the money and the half-eaten sandwich and started for the door. The waitress called out: "Father?"
O'Brien stopped, the hair on his neck rising. He turned with a smile.
"Miss?"
"Coffee's on the house," she said. "Have a nice day."
"Oh, thanks," he said. "You too."
The little truck stop parking lot was nearly deserted. Icy rain began to fall in frigid waves. O'Brien pulled his coat up over his head and zeroed in on the 89 Mustang hatchback. Before he could step down off the porch a motorcycle cop pulled up, bike belching fumes. O'Brien forced himself to smile pleasantly. The cop smiled back.
"Get where you're going, father," he said. "This one looks nasty."
As the patrolman went inside the diner, O'Brien blew his breath out like a tired horse nearing the barn. That had been too close for comfort. He ran for the battered car, his heart pounding. He fumbled with the keys and got inside, slamming the door behind him. He swallowed the food in one gulp. The harsh rain had a noxious, highway smell. It had helped to hide the odor of decaying flesh coming from the Ford's locked trunk.
Twenty minutes later, O'Brien pulled off the highway and followed a dirt road into a grove of trees. He buried the real priest in a shallow, soggy grave and stopped to
gather his thoughts. He had now collected nearly fifteen dollars in change, enough to buy more gasoline and some cigarettes.
He filled the tank at the next station. The small television in the attendant's booth clicked over to the news, and he nervously listened to a fragment of a story about one or more serial killers loose in Southern California. O'Brien paid for the gas with his face turned sideways and drove rapidly away. He headed north and west, towards Los Angeles. He drove for hours. The storm was really pounding the roadway, now, and the white lines were blurred. He was forced to slow down a bit, which irritated him, but that figured to save some gasoline. O'Brien hadn't thought out his next move. When the prison van had spun out of control and flipped over, he'd been terrified. Seconds later, one of the cops transporting him was dead and the other was bleeding.
"Help me," the young cop had begged, as he tried in vain to stop the blood gushing from his throat. O'Brien held up his cuffed wrists. "Okay, but let me go first," he'd said. "Or you're a dead man." Once free, he'd let the kid to bleed to death, changed into the older cop's clothes and flagged down the first car that had come along. The patrolman's gun had made short work of the priest, and O'Brien was off and running. That was four states ago, and now he was hungry, exhausted and broke.
And out of smokes again. Squinting into the rainstorm, he almost missed the girls standing by the side of the road with their thumbs out. O'Brien rubbed his eyes. He passed them in a flash, but was certain one had held a purse. He hit the brakes, skidded for several yards and then came to a stop. He began to back up on the shoulder.
In the side mirror he could see them running to meet him. Two teenaged girls, short skirts and long black hair. They were moving awkwardly, as though wearing high heels. One had a newspaper over her head. He opened the passenger
door.
The first girl looked like someone dressed for Halloween. After a second, O'Brien realized she'd been wearing heavy make-up, and that it had smeared and run in the storm. She moved closer to him, and he caught sight of a luscious figure in tight black clothing. Her friend jumped into the back seat. In the mirror, O'Brien made out another beautiful body and clean, attractive facial features. Neither one of them looked much over eighteen. This was figuring to be his lucky night.
The first girl giggled, and pointed to his collar. "Like, omigawd, you're like a priest or something?"
O'Brien considered. He smiled. His fantasies were turning kinky. "Bless you, my child," he said.
The second girl broke out in a belly laugh. She opened what he'd taken for a purse and pulled out a small, digital movie camera. She started filming him. O'Brien turned the interior light off. He faced forward and away from the lens. He started the car and drove out onto the highway. "Where are you girls headed?"
"Hollywood," the first one said. "My name is Mandy."
"And I'm Candy," said the one in the back seat. They seemed to find the rhyme delightful, and dissolved into giggles again. "We were coming home from a Goth show, and our ride took off without us."
"A what?"
"A rock show," Mandy said. "You know, like Marilyn Manson, but not him."
"Where you dress up like vampires and demons, you mean?"
Candy: "That offend you, father?" She cocked her head and licked her lips and a thrill ran up O'Brien's spine. She's hot, he thought. This could be fun. He shrugged as he drove. Said: "To each his own, I guess."
Mandy rubbed his leg. "It's all in fun," she said. "I think people ought to be able to have a good time. Don't you think so, father?"
O'Brien swallowed. "I do, actually. Where did you say you were going?"
She started trying to get the radio to work. He knew it only coughed up static, but said nothing. After a moment she answered: "Hollywood."
"You live there?"
"No."
"So why…?"
"We're going to make another movie."
More chuckles. Candy grabbed the camera and started to play with it. The sexual tension in the car was palpable. They rode in relative silence for another few miles, until O'Brien turned off onto the Hollywood freeway.
Mouth dry, he asked: "A movie, you said? What kind of movie?"
Laughter. Mandy started to play with his leg again. She hiked up her skirt and let Candy take footage of her thigh and the darkness leading up to her underwear. Then
.Mandy put the camera near O'Brien's face, and played back the shots of her body through the little color monitor so he could see them close up.
He swallowed:"What kind of movie, my children?"
The girls started kissing passionately. They think they're corrupting me, he thought. The idea was enormously exciting. These girls had no idea what they were dealing with. O'Brien went into a fog of lust and boiling rage. His mind raced as he planned the rest of the evening. More miles streaked by in silence. They passed Highland Avenue and slipped into Hollywood. The weather started clearing.
"Get off here," the one in the back seat said. "As a matter of fact, let's all get off here!" More hysterical giggling.
"And make a movie?" His voice was thick with lust.
The girls squealed and nodded. Mandy stroked his face with her long, purple finger nails. "Yeah," she said. "You want to?"
He exited at Vine and drove down into Hollywood. Mandy and Candy directed him left onto Sunset and down to Selma Avenue. They passed rows of pimps and hookers and drug addicts on the prowl, plus the occasional overwhelmed patrol car. O'Brien was in his element, now. They'll never find me here, he thought. I'm free.
"There," Mandy said softly. "Go in there."
He yanked the wheel and rocked down a small alley into the steaming darkness. The rain had stopped. O'Brien decided to pull the cop's gun and tie them up. He would
kill Mandy first, and force the other girl to watch. Then he would film Candy right through to her last breath, before destroying the camera The scenario excited him enormously. His penis swelled and throbbed.
"This is it," Mandy purred.
O'Brien turned off the engine and reached for the gun, but then something acrid assaulted his nostrils. Candy had jammed a rag over his mouth and was pulling back sharply on his hair, while Mandy held his arms in place. He slipped away into blackness.
O'Brien's head hurt. He was under bright lights, and loud music was playing. He opened his bloodshot eyes to find himself in what looked like an abandoned garage. He was tied to some boards, his arms spread out as if in crucifixion. There was a dirty gag in his mouth, and it tasted of gasoline. The camera was now mounted on a tripod in one corner of the room.
The girls were naked, and made up to look like vampires again. They had spread a clear plastic drop cloth over the concrete floor. It moved in waves at their feet as they approached him, sharp knives in their pretty little hands.
O'Brien startled trembling. He wanted to scream, but he knew no one would hear him over the shrieking of the rock music. He chuckled bitterly instead, and tried to steel his nerves.
Because now he knew what kind of movies they made.
THE EASY WAY
(Orignially published in Cemetery Dance #52, 2005)
A black-and-white slowly turned the corner up ahead, oversized tires hissing in the rain. The balding cop in the passenger seat opened the window to dump steaming hot coffee onto the asphalt. Tom Garrett flinched, acutely aware of the loaded Smith & Wesson 38 that was hidden in the pocket of his yellow raincoat. The cop looked up with tired, roadmap eyes as if sensing the reaction and Garrett hunched his shoulders. He trotted towards a nearby liquor store with his head down and hands out of sight. He paused under the striped metal awning just as another wave of hale attacked like a horde of drunken Irish dancers.
A burst of static, two garbled voices. The siren howled anguish and the busy cops sped away. Garrett turned his back to the departing squad car and entered the nearly empty store, trembling right hand now caressing the gun. A motion detector pinged, the door closed behind him. Garrett could hear the faint sound of a classic rock station playing an early Eagles tune; the lyrics tugged his ear, but he couldn't place them.
Garrett took two steps forward, tennis shoes sucking the linoleum. He imagined how he'd look to someone else; a big, silver-haired man pushing sixty but still formidable if you knew what to look for. Old, I've gotten old…
The bored young guy behind the counter had a nose ring, some crude jailhouse tattoos and buzz-cut black hair. He picked imaginary lint from his tight black tee shirt before looking up and caught Garrett imagining him dead.
He saw Garrett's surly face and one hand slid beneath the counter, probably to clutch his own weapon.
"Good evening."
"Yo." Warm breath born of frost, the ticking of a wall clock. The kid looked nervous, forehead abruptly shining with sweat. "You going to buy something, ese? 'Cause we ain't running no homeless shelter."
For one long moment, Garrett tried to do it, meant to do it; ordered himself to pull the .38 and punch this guy's ticket, start a close-up, down and dirty fire fight. He fantasized about the mutually assured destruction and the way he and the kid would be photographed, sprawled out like fallen heroes in a western with huge, red stains splattered on their torn clothing. One move and it would be done.
Hell, he thought with a mental sigh, that would that be the easy way out. He loosened his fingers. It hurt.
"You hear me, pops?"
Garrett returned with one elastic, almost audible snap. "You got any beef jerky?"
"Right up here." The kid still had his right hand below the counter. His deep eyes were a bit too red and the pupils were dilated from THC. Garrett opened his slick raincoat as he walked. Now his tennis shoes made a high pitch squeak on the damp linoleum floor. He stood at the counter and looked down on the kid and his wares. Several kinds of plain and spiced
jerky were displayed on a wheel.
Ah, Christ…
A wave of blackness and grinding self loathing made Garrett feel like picking on somebody. This cherry would do. He allowed his eyes to bore in and manufactured a bitter smile that stretched his weathered face in odd directions.
"Which one's the best?"
Shoulders rolling: "I don't know."
"Pick one. Eat it."
The clerk blanched and he moved back a couple of inches. "No way, dude. I never touch the stuff."
"Relax," Garrett offered. That cadaverous grin was still in place. "Anyone ever tell you that you need to work on your manners?"
Darting eyes. "Say what?"
"You heard me. You're being rude to a paying customer."
"Uh, sorry. So, you want jerky or not?"
"Not."
"What's up, then?"
"I haven't decided yet."
Garrett kept up the thousand yard stare until the spooked kid made a small, whining sound in the back of his throat. Said: "You know something? Forget the food."
"What you want then?"
"Time."
"Say what?"
"Never mind. Give me a pack of unfiltered smokes, whatever's cheapest."
The clerk found some generic cigarettes, slid them over and rang up the sale. The weird, plastic grin never left Garrett's face. Money changed hands and so did a cheap pack of matches from a local strip bar, HOT GIRLS, LIVE ON STAGE. Silence fell hard, except for the distant, rattling gunfire of the rainstorm and the low moan of a grief-stricken wind.
"That's it?"
Garrett blinked. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Okay, then." The kid nodded, Adam's apple bobbing like a cork.
"Thanks," Garrett said. His weary voice had a faint scratch in it, like bony fingers on the velvet roof of a coffin. "Hey, you have a nice night." He backed away, without turning his back. When he left the store he heard the kid sigh for the joy of breathing.
Dark Thoughts Page 2