The Death Panel

by Cheryl Mullenax (Ed)

  I didn’t stop until I couldn’t breathe anymore and my heart threatened to burst in my chest.

  I fell off of Eddie, exhausted. I lay next to his body and wept. I had two dead, headless bodies in my apartment. Two creatures that were supposedly supernatural, or at the very least from another world; one that I killed and the other that was murdered. It was so unreal, I didn’t know how to react, so I cried until I was all out of tears, and when that was done, I got up and found the bottle of whiskey and finished it.

  Then I made the call.

  * * * *

  Pro Wrestler and Dock Worker stood over the remains of Delilah and Eddie and shook their heads, in sync, over and over again.

  “An angel,” Pro Wrestler said.

  “And a demon,” Dock Worker finished.

  They both looked up at me.

  “You killed an angel,” Pro Wrestler said. I nodded.

  “We better call the boss,” Dock Worker said.

  * * * *

  Boss Satan showed up half an hour later. He had an array of demons at his beck and call. Three large guys, bigger than Pro Wrestler and Dock Worker, flanked his sides, wearing black business suits and black sunglasses. All were bald and none spoke; they just stood around, looking tough.

  In the middle was Boss Satan himself. I’d met him once, years ago when we set up the deal with my bar, but he didn’t remember me. Why should he? I was just another stupid, ugly human that worked his streets. He was the same as I remembered, though: tall, skinny but stout, the body of an Olympic swimmer and the grace of a ballerina. When he walked it was more like a performance than a simple act of moving from one point to another. He sweated grace and oozed charm. He was probably the most handsome man I’d ever seen, with a perfectly tanned face, cleft in his chin, dark brown hair styled in the latest fashion, and blue eyes, icy and hot at the same time. And his smile, well, it could charm the pants off the Pope.

  Boss Satan stood over the mess on my apartment floor, nodding his head.

  “Yep, it’s an angel alright,” he said. He looked up at me. If I’d been more sober, I probably would have shit my pants. “What did you say this was all about?”

  I pointed at Delilah’s dead body and then Eddie’s. “He slept with her and she broke it off. She threatened to blackmail him and he killed her and tried to kill me.”

  “But you killed him instead?”

  I said nothing.

  Boss Satan studied me for a long moment, a look of whimsy jitterbugging across his brow.

  “I’ll be,” he finally said. “How did you do it?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You know us humans. We have our ways.”

  Pro Wrestler and Dock Worker, both lower echelon minions of Boss Satan, had been standing in the corner, watching things. Dock Worker stepped forward.

  “Watch your mouth,” he said. “Realize who you’re talking to.”

  I smiled.

  Boss Satan grinned right back at me. He nodded his head and snapped his fingers. “It’s cool. I can dig it,” he said. “Me and you, we’ll have ourselves a little talk, once you sober up.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Boss Satan looked at Pro Wrestler and Dock Worker. “You two, clean up this mess. Bring me both bodies,” he said. “And get this man another bottle of whiskey. He’s earned it tonight.”

  And with a wink, Boss Satan was out the door and gone, like he’d never been there in the first place.

  * * * *

  I watched them clean for a while before I finally passed out, the whiskey doing its work. I woke up a day later, my mouth rotten to the taste and every muscle in my body aching so bad I thought I must have come back as a zombie.

  I got up and looked around. There was nothing left of the incident; they’d wiped the place clean. The only thing still around was Eddie’s sword, still stuck in the wall. I guessed it would stay there because the demons couldn’t touch it and neither could I.

  I walked over to my window and looked out. The sun was rising in the distance, painting the streets with a red-orange glow that made the city look like a giant Popsicle. I stood there for a while, thinking about things, what had happened and what was going to happen. I thought about Delilah and how I’d treated her. I wished I’d been nicer to her, despite her demonic nature, and I wish I’d had more time with her. And I thought of Eddie, and the kind of jealousy that can make even an angel kill. And I thought about how lucky I was to be alive.

  A tear ran down my cheek as I ruminated. I watched Brooklyn wake up and come to life, the citizens taking to the streets like ants marching off to war as the sun rose and the Popsicle sky melted and turned the prettiest blue I’d ever seen.

  I shrugged my shoulders and went downstairs to open the bar up.

  The Neighbor

  Brandon Ford

  * * *

  That was a scream. That was definitely a scream.

  Nora dropped the dish into the soapy water and peeled away the rubber gloves cutting off the blood circulation from her elbow down to the tips of her fingers. A few short paces from the kitchen sink and she was in the living room, where Lander lay passed out in his recliner, some post game wrap-up on the TV in front of him. Nora switched it off and listened with intent, her sharp ear picking up nothing but the sound of Lander snoring.

  “Shut up, you fat piece-uh crap!” she scolded in a loud, raspy whisper, giving his bald head a hard backhand. He, in turn, gave no response whatsoever. Just kept right on snoring.

  Nora groaned, rolled her eyes, and pushed open the screen door. She stepped out of the trailer and into the summer night. All around her, a multitude of crickets performed a moonlit serenade. Breath held, she inched away from the shoebox she called home. Flip-flops on her feet, she felt the long stems of wet, unmowed grass with every step. Felt the mosquitoes already feasting on her exposed thighs. Under the light of the moon, she tiptoed around neighboring mobile homes, hoping and praying she’d hear that scream again.

  When she felt something soft and wet poke her from behind, she gasped, covered her mouth, and spun around. Startled, but relieved at the same time, she found an old German shepherd who’d chosen to spend the last weeks of summer begging for table scraps all over this quaint little trailer park. She’d given him something here and there, so he knew she was friendly. But now wasn’t the time and so she shooed him off. He scurried away, both anxious and hurt.

  For a long time, she stalked about, like a predator waiting for just the right time to strike.

  Where could it have come from?

  How desperately she wanted to know. That shrill, frantic bellow hypnotized her, possessed her, rang inside her over and over again and all she wanted was to hear it one more time. Just once, so she could follow the sound. Track the source. Maybe even see … something.

  But all she heard were the voices echoing from multiple TV sets. Voices chattering on and on all around her. And the occasional electrified snap of a buzzing bug zapper.

  It was useless. She wasn’t going to hear it again. Defeated, she padded home, head hanging low. Falling into a torn and rusted folding chair, she lit a cigarette, and stared up at the twinkling stars.

  * * * *

  Hot damn, this one sure was cute! Sure was …

  Arnie couldn’t believe his eyes. Couldn’t believe his luck. He was on his way back from the bar, feeling good and buzzed after more than a few beers, and there she was. Just standing there in the middle of the road. Not a car in sight.

  As he slowed down and the lights of his pickup lit her face, he damn near collapsed with relief. When she leaned into the passenger side window and he saw her fresh little freckled face, he knew how young she was. Not a day over fifteen. On that he’d bet the farm.

  For a mile or two, he listened to her sob story. It was all so terribly clich?d, really. Parents didn’t understand her. Wouldn’t let her have a life. Wouldn’t let her have any friends. Wouldn’t let her do anything. She couldn’t take living under their roof another night, not wit
h all the rules they insisted she abide by. Naw, she wouldn’t take it any longer. She had dreams—big dreams—and was on her way out west to make ’em come true.

  When Arnie asked why she hadn’t bothered to pack a bag or at least have enough sense to dress in a few layers, she didn’t know what the hell to say. Didn’t have a damn clue. And so she just flashed him this big, stupid, wide-eyed smile, shrugged her shoulders, and turned to face the passing wilderness.

  Falling deep into thought, Arnie dreamed of all the things he’d do to that pretty pink flesh of hers. So soft and smooth … He was gonna have himself a fuck of a lotta fun tonight. Yessir.

  He reached for the six-pack lying on the floor by her feet, plucked one of the longneck bottles from the flimsy cardboard case, and twisted the cap off with his teeth. After chugging half the twelve ounces, he caught her eyeing him funny.

  “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to drink and drive?” she said and shifted uneasily in her seat.

  That was enough to give him one pause.

  If Arnie was a game-player, he might’ve appeased her. If he was a patient man, he might’ve tossed the bottle out the window, apologized, and told her there was no need to worry. He would’ve done all he could to put her at ease, tell her all she wanted to hear, and simply laugh on the inside as he bided his time.

  But Arnie wasn’t into games. He wasn’t a patient man. And he wasn’t fond of driving under the speed limit. So, when he jammed on the brakes, that pretty little piece shot out of her seat like a rocket, hit the windshield face-first, and put one hell of a crater in the thick sheet of smooth glass.

  Not to worry. He’d drive on into work tomorrow, tell the boys at the garage that he stopped for a deer in the road and forgot his toolbox was in the front seat. The boss would probably cut him a sweet deal on a new windshield. He just had to make sure he cleaned all the blood off.

  But later for that. Now was the time to have some fun.

  What the windshield did to her face was a shame, really. She was nowhere near as cute as she was when she first climbed aboard the pickup. Features all flat and dented. Like someone grabbed a frying pan and just took to wailing on her. And man, was she bloody.

  Later, when he was carrying her out of the truck and over to the trailer, he felt his pants tighten. Cowboy at heart, he had to stop himself from letting loose with a few joyous hoots and maybe a heel-click or two.

  Inside the trailer, he dropped her onto the kitchen table—the kind that doubled as a bed, can you believe it?—and went on over to lock the door. He’d just had all the blinds shut tight when she came to life with one hell of a shriek that stabbed into his eardrum like an ice pick. Thanks to all that beer, his bladder was full and weak and he quite literally pissed himself where he stood. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t pissed himself since pre-school. But there was no time to have a good laugh about it. He had to act fast.

  And so he reached for the hammer lying beside the busted microwave he’d been meaning to fix for the past three weeks.

  WHACK!

  The round end met her skull, crashed in deep, and that was all she wrote.

  He was a little disappointed she wouldn’t be alive for this. A little disappointed, too, that he hadn’t thought to use the hook end. But what the hell. He couldn’t complain. He really couldn’t. Her face was all fucked up, sure. She had no pulse, fine. And there was a hammer sticking out of her skull, okay. But she still had tits and a cunt.

  Right?

  Yeah, he’d be okay. She’d still be a bit of fun. But he couldn’t help wondering if anyone had heard that scream. Well, besides the few stray dogs that roamed the trailer park incessantly.

  “Party time, cupcake,” he sang through an animated grin.

  He unlaced his boots, kicked them aside, and, with roving eyes, once again made sure the blinds were shut tight. As he peeled away his paint-stained, piss-soaked jeans, he felt the warmth of his own fluids against his skin and contemplated a shower—a ritual he hadn’t performed for several days—before he made good use of Little Miss Sunshine over there. Hands on hips, teeth chewing his bottom lip, he silently considered, then finally decided fuck it. Why the hell do I need to impress her?

  And so he peeled away the yellowed and skid-marked briefs, tossed them atop a glowing lampshade, and scooted on over to her.

  * * * *

  Exhaling the smoke, Nora flicked aside the butt of her fourth cigarette, uncrossed her legs, and let out a sigh. She hadn’t heard a thing—well, nothing out of the ordinary, at least. It was business as usual amid these solemn and lonely grounds and so she stood, picked the bunching fabric from her buttcrack, and stepped back inside the trailer just as a nearby bug zapper claimed the life of another mosquito.

  When the screen door slammed, Lander came to life again, bursting into consciousness with a start big enough to knock the empty beer cans from his lap. Eyes wide, he looked from left to right before focusing on Nora.

  “Where’d ya go?” he said and yawned.

  “Nowhere.” Nora padded down the short, slim hall to their poor excuse for a bedroom, lifting the camisole covered in sweat over her shoulders before falling atop the mattress. Her bare breasts were still full and high, even without the aid of a bra. She allowed herself a moment to admire them, knowing she was doing just fine for 36.

  Thumbs slid beneath the waistband of her cotton shorts and they slid down her smooth legs. It was too hot to sleep any other way but bare-assed. Lander, the loathsome sack of meat, wouldn’t spring for a new air conditioner, or even get the old one fixed. And it was impossible to sleep with the windows open without being woken several times during the night by the couple in the trailer next to theirs. They screwed like bunnies and were very, very vocal, too.

  Already, Nora was beginning to sweat.

  The TV switched off and the recliner gave several loud and rusted squeals as Lander shifted, then pulled himself up—all 400 pounds of him. He grunted, groaned, and farted as he staggered toward the bedroom.

  Nora quickly rolled over onto her side and folded her arms to cover her breasts. Closed eyes facing the window, she cringed at the sound of Lander’s heavy footfalls and his boisterous mouth-breathing.

  “Don’t try giving me that shit,” he said, standing before the bed. “I know you ain’t ’sleep yet.”

  She exhaled. “Lander, I’m tired.”

  “Whatchu tired from? You ain’t got no damn job.”

  “And your fat ass is on disability, so don’t act like you’ve been working the damn coal mines all day.”

  He laughed. Belched. He’d always told her how much it turned him on when she was feisty like that. He loved it when she took him down a peg with one of her many quick comebacks. She knew she should’ve just kept her damn mouth shut, but being passive never was part of her character.

  It sounded like he was getting undressed. At the sound of his unbuckled belt, Nora died just a little more inside.

  When he planted his fat, probably naked ass on the end of the mattress, Nora felt her body rise at least two feet. Grimy hands felt her all over. He even pushed her arms away to give her breasts a good squeeze.

  “Lander, I told you I’m tired.”

  “Oh, come on now.”

  “Come on nothing. I wanna sleep.” There was heat behind her words and her eyes pinched at her mistake.

  He moved in closer and his stiffness prodded the small of her back. “Come on, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.”

  “Lander, stop.”

  “You have to give me one good reason why I should.”

  “Because I’ll chew your sack off if you don’t.”

  Again, he poked her with his erect manhood. “Promise?”

  Nora opened her eyes. Through the Venetian blinds, she saw a crescent moon surrounded by gray clouds in the blackness of the night sky. It was a challenge, but she forced herself to think before she spoke. Lips parted, she took in a breath, and in her sweetest, calmest voice, she said, “Not tonight, honey.
Please? I’m real tired.”

  And just like that, the little bit of pressure against her back disappeared and the mattress shifted as Lander rolled over and settled on his back.

  Victory.

  Nora closed her eyes and for the first time in days, she smiled.

  * * * *

  Chugging a cold beer, Arnie lay sweaty and spent. Beside him, torn and bloody, lay the still remains of … whatever the hell her name was. With a belch and a scratch, he stood, tossed the empty bottle into the garbage, and pulled for his soiled briefs. Their foul stench immediately repelled him and he tossed them into the garbage, too.

  “I hope you know I need my hammer back,” he said.

  With a swift, open-legged leap, he landed atop the padded seating, feet on either side of her. He wiggled both arms and bounced against the springs, like a boxer preparing for a heavyweight championship. Right foot firmly planted between her breasts, he reached down with both hands, fastened a tight grip around the hammer’s smooth wooden handle, and pulled with all his strengths. Eyes closed, jaw tensed, he grunted and strained. This was harder than he thought it would be.

  Pausing to regain his composure, he took in a few deep breaths, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried again. Muscles so tensed and tight it hurt, he put all of himself in that second attempt, sweat pouring down his chest and over his mountain of gut in buckets.

  With a sharp pop, not unlike that of a champagne cork, the hammer came free in his hands. In triumph, he laughed and admired his stained and bloody trophy. So proud and relieved, but only for an instant, for when he lowered his gaze, he found a fountain of red spilling from the open wound.

  “Ooh, shit!”

  It was a fright big enough to make him cry out. He leapt backward onto the linoleum and tossed aside the treasured tool he simply couldn’t part with. Heart pounding, he turned to face every angle, unsure of what exactly he was looking for.