Group Hex Vol 1
Page 9
“Peace,” I said. “There will be peace. It is for the best. The council will not judge you harshly if I am gone. Nor will Jonathan.”
She nodded. She knew this, which was why she’d agreed to it. The only reason she’d agreed to it.
I drew the ritual circle in sand around Jonathan’s bed. I lit tiny fires in the appropriate locations. I placed a necklace bearing one half of the amulet around my neck, the other around his. I recited the incantations. Endless details, each of which had to be done in exactly the right order. Endless details that were etched into my brain, the memories of my kind, as accessible as any other aspect of my magic, but requiring Jonathan’s assistance. Or the assistance of his bodily form—hair to be burned, fingernails to be ground into powder, saliva and blood to be mixed with the powder.
Finally, as Catherine waited anxiously, I injected myself with the mixture. The ritual calls for it to be rubbed into an open wound. I’d made this one modernized alteration, and Catherine had readily agreed it seemed far less barbaric than the original.
Next I injected Jonathan. Then I began the incantations.
Jonathan shuddered in his sleep. His mouth opened and closed, as if gasping for air. Catherine grabbed his hand and wheeled on me.
“What’s happening?” she said.
“The bond is breaking.”
I shuddered myself, feeling that hated tie tighten, as if in reflexive protest. Then slowly, blessedly, it began to loosen.
Catherine began to gibber that something was wrong. Jonathan wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t he breathing? His heart-beat was slowing. It wasn’t supposed to be slowing, was it?
I kept my eyes closed, ignoring her cries, ignoring her tugs on my arm, until at last, the bond slid away. One last deep shudder and I opened my eyes to see the world as I hadn’t seen it in two hundred years. Bright and glimmering with promise.
Catherine was shrieking now.
I turned toward the door. She lunged at me, her crutches falling as she grabbed my shirt with both hands.
“He’s dead!” she cried. “You’re still here and he’s dead! Something went wrong.”
“No,” I said. “Nothing went wrong.”
She screamed then, an endless wail of rage and grief. I picked her up, ignoring her feeble blows and kicks, and set her gently in a chair, then leaned her crutches within reach.
She snatched them and pushed to her feet. When I tried to walk out, she managed to get in front of me.
“What have you done?” she said.
“Freed us. Both of us.”
“You lied!”
“I told you what you needed to hear.” I carefully moved her aside. “I do not want annihilation. I want what I was promised—a free life. For that, I need his consent and the council’s approval. There is, however, a loophole. A final act of mercy from an isha to his rakshasi. On his deathbed, he may free me with his amulet and the ritual. You will tell the council that is what happened here. The poison I injected with the ritual potion will be undetectable. We have used it many times without incident. They will believe he has unexpectedly succumbed to his injuries.”
“I will not tell them—”
“Yes, you will. Otherwise, you will be complicit in his death. And even if you manage to convince them otherwise, you will forfeit this house and all that goes with it. It is yours only if he dies and I am freed. They may contest that, but even if they do, you’ll have already removed the contents of his safe. I left everything for you.”
That was less generous than it seemed. For years, I’d been taking extra from our targets and hidden it away in my room as I’d used my computer to research life on the outside. I would not leave unprepared. I was never unprepared.
Now that the bond was broken, there was nothing to stop me from entering and exiting my apartment, and taking all I had collected as I began my search for Daman. I passed Catherine and headed for the door.
She was silent until I reached it.
“What will I do now?” she said.
“Live,” I said. “I intend to.”
MERCHANDISE
Karen Dales
Seven women in as many months and still they had no leads, not even a single body. Detective Sarita Taggert pushed her reading glasses back up her straight nose and flipped the sheets of information printed in the growing file. The news media called the rash of abductions The Barbie Doll Disappearances. Detective Taggert called it the case that would make or break her career.
“Anything new?”
Taggert startled and glared at Detective Robertson as she leaned against the wooden back of her chair. Despite his sparkling blue eyes, the mischievous curl to his lips belied any intention to be helpful. Taking the steaming mug of coffee out of his hand, Taggert took a deep sip of the bitter drink, the heat nearly scalding her tongue.
“How long have you been here today?” asked Robertson, concern darkening his eyes as he sat on the edge of her desk. The old beige steel desk slid an inch across the worn wooden floor, the sound scraping everyone’s ears.
Taggert glared at him and sighed. Robertson’s boyish good looks eradicated any irritation. “I’ve been here for” –she glanced at the smart phone sitting next to the opened file and placed the mug down–“eleven hours and still the only correlation between the abductees is their looks, ages and that they earned about the same income.
“None knew of the others, not even on social media sites. Combing through their emails revealed nothing. I feel like I’m at a dead end.” She raked her fingers through her shoulder length blonde hair. A part of her wanted to pull at the locks in frustration. “It’s only a matter of time before the perp strikes again.”
Robertson released a sigh and shook his head. “You’re not going to get anywhere studying paper and photos, especially after staring at them for so long.”
“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” she snapped. The coffee sloshed dangerously in the mug as she went to take another swig.
His strong male fingers gingerly took the offending cup from her before the white porcelain touched her lips. “How many of these have you had today?”
Taggert glared at him, her arms folded across her ample chest. “None of your business.”
Blue eyes never wavered from her glare as Robertson closed the folder. “Grab your jacket. We’re going out for dinner.”
“If this is an attempt to take me on a date, it’s not going to work,” she smiled slyly.
“Oh yes, everyone knows you don’t date guys from work.” Robertson rolled his eyes.
“You’re right.” Taggert stood up and flashed a beatific smile. “You’re a handsome man, I’ll give you that, but your bits are in the wrong place.”
Robertson’s deep laugh caressed her ears. “Too bad. One day you’ll make some lucky woman happy.” He rose to stand in front of her. “I wasn’t asking in that way, rather as colleague to colleague, friend to friend. A change of atmosphere can help.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” She shrugged into her jacket.
“Great.” Robertson placed the mug down on the desk, pulled his coat from the chair across the aisle and slipped it on. “Chinese?”
Taggert shook her head, freeing the locks from under her coat’s collar. “Japanese. I know of this great all-you-can-eat joint.”
“Lead on,” smiled Robertson, his hand outstretched.
“Oh my God! I think I’m going to explode!” laughed Taggert. She held her stomach with one arm, her other leaning on the black table.
“More saki?” Robertson poured the lukewarm clear liquid into her ceramic bowl.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Detective?” she laughed.
“Now why would I do that?” Robertson batted his brown lashes.
“I thought we’re going to discuss the case,” she smirked, ignoring the cooling beverage.
“All right.” He sat straighter and leaned on the table, dirty and empty dishes abounded. “Do you have a cursory profile set up yet?”
She shook her head. It would be so easy to come up with a fabrication, but it could be wrong, as were so many assumptions. “No one has reported seeing any of the abductions. The perpetrator is very wily about being seen. There’s nothing even on the security cameras as to where the women were taken. It’s like whomever is doing this is a ghost.”
“So no leads? Nothing.”
Taggert shook her head. “The only thing we know is that the perpetrator appears to know their schedules intimately. How is still a mystery.
“I’ve combed through the interviews of the victims’ male partners and there may be something there. I don’t know, but I think it’s a line worth investigating, one that no one thought to study.”
Robertson swigged back his full bowl of saki and place it on the table with a thunk. “So the connection between the women could be through their boyfriends.”
“Or husbands,” nodded Taggert.
Robertson pouted and cocked his head. “Interesting.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to start re-interviewing the partners.”
Blue eyes widened in surprise. “You’ve received permission?”
“Yep.” Taggert took a sip from her saki bowl. “Why? You wanna come?”
The playful expression normally on Robertson’s face dissolved into a cold frown as he leaned back from the table. “Thank you, but no. I have my own cases to attend to.”
“It’s me.”
“Why are you calling so late?”
“It’s necessary. The police have a new tactic to find the girls.”
“How is it different from the last one that failed?”
“It could expose us all.”
“Ridiculous!”
“The lesbian bitch just left. Questions are being asked, difficult ones, and if co-operation isn’t given freely I have no doubt she’ll go to the courts for search warrants.”
Silence.
“Orders, sir?”
“I’ll contact our business partner and see if he can make another shipment, even with only one unit. In the meantime, take care of her.”
“Shall I add her to the product line?”
“You say she’s lesbian, can she be used? Better yet, is she a virgin?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt, with her age and lack of experience with me, she’d fetch a worthy price.”
“I hate to dispose of potential wares, but sometimes one must remove damaged goods at the manufacturing level so that it doesn’t lower the value of the rest of the merchandise.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I want this taken care of before I have her on my doorstep. Oh, one last thing. Tell my last associate that payment will be deposited in the offshore account once the transaction is complete.”
Robertson hated coming here, but the necessity of it required sacrifices. The rewards for doing so ensured his avaricious dreams would come true. He looked out across the abandoned wood lot. Well, not so abandoned. His wife’s maternal grandfather had owned this land. When he fell ill, Robertson persuaded him to sell it to a developer. Since that transaction closed Robertson had followed orders in the thousand acres development.
This morning he had transported the goods from storage to the buyer. By now that single unit floated to the Far East as part of a greater shipment.
Now he returned to store the damaged merchandise in perpetuity. That did not sit so well, and he hoped the eventual decomposition would require a new storehouse. The worst was ensuring no one would find the goods he destroyed.
Walking toward the abandoned well, shovel in hand, Robertson knew the payment was worth it, almost as much for what he had received for his wife.
The freezing stone floor set off a spasm of shivering.
Taggert awoke, not sure of her surroundings, for they were as pitch. Panic set in. She had been walking to her car, the interview with Barbie Doll Number Three’s husband written into notes. The grand house in the woods, new to the distraught family, faded behind trees as she walked the length of the drive. She could not remember how she had gotten here.
Where was she?
Don’t panic, she thought in an effort to quiet her beating heart.
Turning over, she crawled on all fours, her hands burning on the cold as they fluttered to feel what she could not see.
Knees aching, her hands scraped against a wall as firm and steadfast as the floor. She whimpered. She needed to get out; needed to be free; needed to bathe in warm sunlight. Above all was the desire to seek revenge against whoever trapped her here, burned.
Following the curved right-angled path of the wall and floor, Taggert scrabbled to gain purchase of her surroundings. No sound except from her panicked breath, rasping clothes and tapping fingers, filled her consciousness. She flailed about, searching for a break in the wall, a difference between frozen stone and a possible wooden door, but found none.
Stumped, unknowing how many circuits of the small room she had spun, she grasped the brick wall and pulled herself up. If there were no indication in the blackness of a door near the floor, then maybe there would be one higher up. Again, hands outstretched before her, Taggert walked around the midnight stone room.
Nothing.
No door. No window. No way in. No way out.
How did I get here? WHERE AM I?!
A rasping sound, far above, followed by a chuckle.
Something hard hit her on the head before a wash of dirt cascaded, splashing over her. More laughing, deep, male and recognizable as another tumble of dirt struck her.
Her back sliding down against frozen stone, she crumpled to the chilled floor as more and more earth fell into the room. Hugging herself, tears mingled with dirt to eke down her face. She knew now her fate–she was Barbie Doll Number Eight. Far above, in the darkness, must be the door she must have fallen through into this dungeon-like place. It did not explain why she could not see, why all around her was inky-black.
Numb from the cold, her fingers brushed away a droplet threatening to fall in her eye and halted the motion at the strange feeling before her finger tips. Breath staggering, she brought both hands to her eyes and felt...
Nothing!
No glasses, no firm roundness.
Her eyes were gone!
Only empty sockets remained!
Mouth opening, she screamed into the darkness, to the man whose laugh belonged to Detective Robertson as he shovelled more earth into the pit. She wanted to call out to him, plead with him, but the words could not be formed.
Her tongue was gone.
ONE LONE ZOMBIE
Bill Snider
Part One: One Lone Zombie
One lone zombie, way out on the hill.
Standing solitary watching the trees rustle.
Cold and lonely, the figure remains.
One lone zombie, what will he do?
The air is frigid, the ground still solid.
Forlorn and forgot, the figure sways.
One lone zombie, a grave freshly quit.
Blood and organic bits loose in his skin sack.
Unconcerned by melody, he seeks his song.
One lone zombie, what motivates him?
The breeze it caresses, the snow it settles.
Blind to the night, he searches for answers.
One lone zombie, where will he go?
Secrets waft on the air, signals that aren’t there.
Tumbling uncontrollably, the figure falls.
One lone zombie, what does he want?
Emptiness, surcease, decay tools of the trade.
From out of the dark place, he arises again.
One lone zombie, how can he survive?
No heart that beats, just an imperative to feed.
Picking himself up, the figure moves forward.
One lone zombie, how can he exist?
Impulse, instinct, improbable lyrics floating free.
Out of the Woods, and into the lands of Man.
One lone zombie, how bad can it be?
Shuffling, stumbling, he gropes in the dark.
One lone zombie, when does the fun start?
Hunger, pain and tranquility, competing priorities;
Blood fills the night; screams follow bright.
One lone zombie, and now the changes begin.
Hear him roar; witness the crowd’s fear.
Loathe him, fear him, and know that he is death.
Sliding through the worlds of man, and nature.
Reactions born by instinct, predetermined.
Sealed by our own vanity, our own lack.
What pity give we, this deceased thing?
Wherefore is the mercy that we grant not our own?
This thing that confronts us, is the epitome of,
Our own fears and gross injustices, how could we not know?
We seek its’ demise, yet understand not that it already has.
We seek answers to the questions posed by improbability.
But are unable to bear witness to their meanings.
Great are we as a nation, a people to behold such blather.
But knowing full well that the Zombies are coming tonight!
One lone zombie, whither doth the wind blow?
Endless destinations and countless permutations;
Remorselessly, he lays waste to the unworthy.
One lone zombie, will the world survive?
Should it?
Part Two: End Of Times
One lone zombie, where oh where can it be?
Set adrift in a sea teaming with mediocrity,
He’s one loose bullet stumbling through the city.
One lone zombie, why can’t we see?
Softly he shambles from corner to corner.
Blindly are we, as darkness dooms us all.
One lone zombie, he’s not so alone anymore.
A scratch, a bite, a reckless little bit of spite.
The zombie brethren grow at a breakneck pace.
One lone zombie, ravenously he hunts in the night.
Speeding through, door-to-door, right-to-right.