When an unstoppable monument of flesh meets with an invincible bulwark of stone, what happens?
Today
The wall had probably marched five or six miles by midday. It wasn’t pretty—the bulwark caught up with gridlock on the northbound interstate, and entire families abandoned their SUVs, which were twenty seconds later swallowed entire. People on foot spilled into the shoulder but there’s only so much room on the interstate. Human sacrifice on a far grander scale.
But all that’s in the past. Some time near sunset, the pyramid will intersect with the bulwark. Nobody’s sure what will happen then—whether brick dust and mortar will explode into the air, or whether blood and gore will soak the earth. Perhaps both.
We watch, and we wait.
BUMPER CAR BANDIT
David Pointer
David S. Pointer has been publishing poems in the small press for over 23 years. He is a frequent contributor to his local paper on homelessness located in Nashville. His most recent poetry book is entitled Oncoming Crime Facts sold through www.lulu.com. David can be reached at [email protected].
I’m the bumper car bandit
fast around this track-tell
your monsters it’s me
when they feel the whack
I’m the bumper car bandit
speeding through the black
tell the werewolves it’s me
when they feel the smack
It’s true, this car, I
didn’t build it, rent it
or plan it, but I came
here first to man it
You see, I’m not 48
inches tall, so I snuck
in under the height sign
then climbed up a wall
I’m the bumper car bandit
quick on this track-tell
every demon spawn you know
I’m brave, I fight back
NO LIMIT
Peter Giglio and S.S. Michaels
Peter Giglio is an active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and a Pushcart Prize nominated writer. He is the author of several novels, novellas, short stories, and has edited three anthologies. With co-writer Scott Bradley, Peter is actively shopping a feature-length screen adaptation of Joe R. Lansdale's "The Night They Missed the Horror Show," and Sunfall Manor, one of Giglio's novellas, is currently under option with a screenwriting team based in Los Angeles.
S.S. Michaels is the author of the novels Revival House and Idols & Cons. She has lived abroad, traveled widely, jumped out of an airplane and driven a race car. She has worked in film and television, read slush & wrote overage on film scripts, worked as a production coordinator, and finally served as a TV network financial analyst. She lives on the Georgia coast and is a member of the Horror Writers Association.
Orson brought home a lot of strange winnings from his grifts: The life-sized papier-mâche Egyptian sarcophagus (which now served as a coffee table), the slightly used glass eye with a sizable chip in the iris, and how could Tara forget, the aborted fetus in the pickle jar. But Mr. Twinkles would prove the strangest of the lot.
Tara, having not yet met the aforementioned prize, perched on the edge of the orange Goodwill sofa, leaning toward the prosaic infomercial on the new fifty-inch TV (one of Orson’s more useful winnings). She puffed on a Marlboro and absently rubbed her temple, wondering when the hell he would come home. He routinely jaunted into the living room sometime between Family Guy reruns and Robot Chicken.
This lateness wasn’t normal.
The sky grew pink. Early birds chirped for worms. A hefty woman lectured Tara on the simplicity of making the “world’s best Paninis” with a “remarkable new invention” for only $49.95 . . . No, $39.95 . . . No, $29.95 . . .
What if something happened? Christ, why couldn’t he just take that job at Daddy’s office . . . ?
The deadbolt suddenly rattled, causing Tara to jerk with a gasp. She fumbled her cigarette, which burned her palm before falling to the carpet.
The door creaked open.
“Orson, where have you . . . ?” Tara’s mouth stopped working as soon as she saw the fat, furry bundle that hid her husband’s narrow chest and bearded chin. Her hand went to her throat, fluttering in an attempt to coax out some more words: “What . . . what is that?”
Orson kicked the door shut behind him and smiled at her. Then he looked down and took notice of the smoldering butt on the carpet next to several burn marks. “One of these days,” he chided, though not angrily, “you’re gonna torch this place to the ground.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to clean up the offending blunder, “but you startled me. I just didn’t expect—”
“Now, sweetheart, I know what you’re going to say, but . . . ”
The ball of gray fur turned in Orson’s hands, its steely eyes scanning the room before settling on Tara’s pale face, pinning her to the floor.
“You know I’m allergic.” She looked away from the beast and crushed the Marlboro in her overflowing ashtray.
“Aw, there are pills for that.” Orson’s smile widened as he dropped a plastic shopping bag to the floor and raised the cat to his face for an affectionate nuzzle. “Isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Pills? Did he really expect her to take pills just so he could keep a damned evil-looking cat? Mr. I-Don’t-Even-Take-Aspirin-For-A-Migraine wanted to put her on allergy pills? Tara couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Not really,” she said, “no.”
Orson stooped, placed the cat on the floor, then strode over to her. “Well, you still like this, don’t you?” He dropped a thick wad of cash on the Egyptian sarcophagus and wrapped his arms around her thin waist. “The cat—this gorgeous creature—was a bonus. I won so much dough tonight that our host ran out of cash. He had to put Mr. Twinkles here in the pot.”
He laughed. She didn’t.
“Mr. Twinkles?” she said.
“I thought about renaming him on the drive home, but—”
“Orson, you’re going to have to take that thing back. Look . . . ” She held out her forearm, showing him the uneven red splotches already forming.
A cloud passed over his sharp features before he trotted toward the bathroom, talking at her over his shoulder as he went. “Sweetie, this is no ordinary cat.”
Medicine cabinet creaked open. Shaken pills rattled from their bottle. Medicine cabinet creaked shut. Tara watched the cat sniff around the over-stuffed kitchen trashcan, swishing its wide, coon-like tail. Water ran in the bathroom.
“Yeah,” she said, watching the cat spring onto the crowded kitchen counter, narrowly missing the strainer filled with clean dishes. Repulsive. “What’s so special about it?”
Orson came tripping up to her with two pink tablets and a tiny paper cup. “Look . . . just look at that roll of cash.” He gestured to the wad on the casket-cum-coffee table. “I’ve never won so much in a single shot in my whole life.”
Tara only listened absently as he continued to brag about his exploits. He had cheated at card games since he was old enough to sit at the table, and she’d heard all she cared to. What she was ready for was something approaching stability. The life he’d promised. A normal existence. “Once there are enough steaks in the freezer,” he’d said. But when would enough really be enough? She wanted to know the answer and didn’t.
“So, what?” she said. “The cat’s like a good luck charm or something?”
Orson grabbed the purring lump before it could leap onto the aging Formica kitchen table. “Yeah, I think he is.” He settled on the sofa with the cat on his lap, scratching behind its ears. “I mean, I knew this was going to be a tough game—you know who was there?”
Tara shook her head and snatched the cash. She wanted to count it. Much as she hated to admit it, she liked the money. Against her better judgment and the constant echoes of her parents’ warnings, she also loved Orson.
“Okay, well, you know Dean, that guy I told you abo
ut?”
“Is he the one you lost all that money to at the Magic Castle?” Tara could hear the cat purring like a hell-born motorboat from across the cramped living room, pressing her nerves closer to the edge of reason.
“Yeah, damn near everything we had toward the house.” He scrubbed his hand over his face then returned to stroking the cat. “Well, he was there. This guy, Tom, was there with all this lucky voodoo shit. Some guy wearing a Rolex was there—and, yeah, it was real.”
Tara thumbed through the folded stack of bills. A lot of twenties, some fifties, a bunch of hundreds. It really was a good take.
“And it was at this Russian guy’s mansion, about half an hour from here. And I mean, this place was a real mansion. Like, you know, that place in Eyes Wide Shut where Tom Cruise has to have a password to get in? Like that.” The cat jumped from Orson’s lap and began kneading the arm of the sofa, pulling loops of thread out with a popping sound.
“Hey! Make him stop that,” Tara said. The cat turned, locked eyes with her, and yowled. Orson nudged it away from the sofa with his worn out Mizuno running shoe.
“Anyway, there were some other guys there—some came in limos, some in Jaguars and Porsches. Real nice crowd. Big money. And the owner of the place must’ve been some Russian mobster or some shit because he was loaded and he wouldn’t say what he did for a living. I mean, that’s not too unusual, but he was real secretive about his past, you know? I had enough sense not to push him, but some of the other guys . . . they seemed to get under his skin.”
The cat rubbed against Orson’s shin, leaving a swatch of gray fur on his neatly pressed khakis.
“So, okay, good crowd, yeah, what about the cat?”
“Well, I wasn’t doing so hot at the beginning of the game. I was down about two grand, even after pulling the extra aces out of my sleeve. Thought about bagging the whole game. Then this cat comes out of nowhere and jumps on my lap. And I’m thinking it looks just like the cat I had when I was a kid.”
“You had a cat when you were a kid? You never told me that.”
“Well, yeah, I did. Loved that thing. We used to let it outside to roam around, and one day it just didn’t come back.” Orson walked across the living room to the door and picked up the plastic shopping bag. “So anyway, I’m petting this cat and I win the next hand. Didn’t think much of it, but then I win the next hand and the one after that.”
“Well, maybe your luck just changed.”
“Exactly what I thought at first, but I know it was the cat because he left the room for a few minutes and I started losing again. Then he came back and I won, again and again. The Russian guy got really pissed off. He ran out of money, so he bet the cat. Said it used to belong to his wife. I guess she’s dead or something.” Orson laughed, then pulled a litter box from the plastic bag and set it on the floor outside the bathroom.
“Oh, God, a litter box? Orson, do we really have to keep this cat?”
He grabbed a bag of litter from the bag, ripped it open, and poured it into the box. “Oh, honey, come on. They’re real easy to take care of. And this guy’s going to help me get the rest of that down-payment for that real nice bungalow of yours. Gonna get us to the other side of the tracks.” He kissed her pocked cheek on his way to the garbage can where he stomped the over-flowing trash down with his foot to make room for more. “Besides, every magician should have a cat. It’s practically a rule.”
She knew arguing would get her nowhere. Orson never argued; he just did what he wanted to do. That’s how she wound up living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment with a professional con man. She just went along with the plan.
“Honey, I have to get some sleep. Big show tonight, remember? You coming?”
“You know I never come to your shows. I don’t like magic. I hate being lied to and tricked.” Tara thought Orson looked pale. “Do you want anything to eat before you go to bed? You must be starving. I can make you something. I know you don’t eat when you’re working.”
“That’s okay,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “I actually did eat at the Russian palace. We had caviar and some little pancakes called blinis. Not bad.” He grinned at her.
Tara walked over to him and threw her arms around his neck. “You know I worry about you. And not just about the eating. What if somebody catches you at one of your games? You said all those guys carry guns and stuff.” She ran her fingers through his thinning hair.
“You worry too much.” He kissed her without much passion. “Everything is super-cool. We’re almost there. This is almost over, I promise. But I’m really tired right now.” He kissed her again and removed her arms from his neck.
Tara sighed and looked at the cat, which was now sitting on the windowsill, batting at the stained curtain with a fat paw. “Can you take that thing into the bedroom with you?”
“Sure thing.” Orson crossed the room and scooped up the cat. “Come on, Mr. Twinkles. Good night, honey.” He kissed Tara again, went into the bedroom, and shut the door.
Tara thought she should probably get some sleep, too, but she didn’t want to waste her day off work. Not having to go into the store was a rare treat. But how would she spend her day? She walked to the kitchen, pulled a coffee filter down from a shelf, popped it into the coffee maker, and filled the pot with water.
Thump.
Tara turned around, sloshing water out of the coffee pot, and found the big gray cat on the counter behind her. But . . . how did he . . . ? The bedroom door was shut tight. Maybe Orson let him out?
“Well, Mr. Twinkles, looks like it’s you and me.” She turned on the coffee maker and gingerly waved at the cat, trying to get it off the counter. Mr. Twinkles did not move. He glared at Tara with his strange silver eyes. “Heh. Okay, then.” Tara turned to leave the kitchen. Maybe she’d watch some more television. She sat down on the threadbare couch and looked over her shoulder into the kitchen. The cat was making his way slowly down the countertop, sniffing and examining everything in his path. Tara turned back to the television, but seconds later she detected movement out of the corner of her eye. The cat was perched on the counter, ready to hop onto the kitchen table. She wanted to stop him but was afraid to touch him. Her hives had gone, thanks to the pills she’d swallowed, but she knew they’d be back as soon as she came into contact with a single hair from Mr. Twinkles.
The cat sailed onto the table, knocking an empty cup and Tara’s cell phone to the floor. He swaggered in a circle and seemed to be looking at yesterday’s mail. Tara stood. The cat pawed at the stack of torn envelopes and unfolded bills, pausing to study each one. Tara could have sworn the cat was reading the mail. She shook her head and walked over to the mess.
“Shoo!” She waved her arms at the beast. It crouched. “Get off the table.” It flattened its ears. “Go on.” Its paw flashed out at her, catching one of its claws on the pink fleshy rim of her lower eyelid. For a long second, the cat’s front leg was stretched, pulled straight as Tara’s head retreated. The flesh gave way and the cat’s paw fell to the table, leaving a small spattering of bright red blood. Tara’s hand flew to her eye and she cried out, stumbling away from the table. “Orson!” She stumbled to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and grabbed a hand towel. “Shit.” Blood ran down her cheek in a thin trickle. Just a scratch. She cleaned it with the towel and went to the bedroom. “Orson!”
He answered with a loud snort. Once he was asleep, he was gone. And if she woke him, she knew he’d never get back to sleep. It was only a scratch. They could talk about it later. Damned cat.
Tara shut the bedroom door and went back to her spot on the sofa. She looked around for the cat but didn’t see him. The apartment was small and there was nowhere for him to hide. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Good, maybe he’ll drown in the toilet.
Pots and pans crashed in the kitchen behind her.
Tara got up and peeked around the breakfast bar. Mr. Twinkles sat in a frying pan, pawing at a large roll of cash that had somehow fallen out of an old cookie
tin. Their down payment. Tara grabbed a kitchen towel and waved it at the cat. She was rewarded with silence. She backed off, not wanting to get scratched again—she could feel her eye swelling from both injury and allergy. She stood and watched as the cat spread the money all over the dirty linoleum floor.
Orson would have to take Mr. Twinkles back to the Russian guy as soon as he got up.
Tara made her way back to the couch and stared blankly at the TV. The Panini woman had been replaced by a far-too-perky early morning talk-show host.
She tried to ease into the couch but was pulled a thousand miles from comfort by a loud yowl.
Damned cat.
The yowling turned into . . . yodeling?
Mr. Twinkles sat gazing at her, kind of (she didn’t want to admit this) singing to her.
Everything fell away except for Mr. Twinkles’ song.
Tara was mesmerized.
She finally shook her head and stood up. Not knowing what to do, she did what she always did when something alarmed her: she ran to the computer on the cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. She switched it on and typed “cat singing” into a search engine. A list of inane YouTube videos appeared, but something interesting followed: a link to a Russian legend concerning singing cats.
A Russian legend? Coincidence or . . . ?
According to the legend, an old Russian Blue cat called Siniy would visit those who were destined to face an untimely or tragic death, stealing into their homes by flattening out and squeezing through the cracks beneath their doors. If this mythical Blue walked in a circle around the would-be victim, their fate would be changed and they would live a long, charmed life. On the other hand, if the cat sat down and “sang” to them, their fate was sealed and they would indeed die an untimely or tragic death. Siniy would escort these unfortunate victims to the fabled ferryman at the River Styx, delivering them to an eternity of unrest in the underworld.
Bleed Page 32