Not Your Average Monster, Vol. 2: A Menagerie of Vile Beasts

by Pete Kahle

  “So you did end the war? That part of the history is true?”

  “Yes, but not like the ones that contracted Moira had intended. They had wanted war to end in their favor, not in the favor of preservation. Humans are cruel and disgusting things. They want and want and want until there is nothing left—and then they want some more. Or at least that was Moira’s views on it, and I happened to agree. Maybe she agreed first. There is barely a separation of us anymore.” It paused. “She wanted their downfall, and I just wanted something easier to manage. The only instinct that negates greed is survival. If you barely have enough to live on why would want petty material possessions? They will not feed you, they will not clothe you, and they will not protect you from dangers unknown. So I separated mankind, stripped them down to their basic needs, and then built a wall around them. I told them that there were dangers out there, and that I could keep them at bay.

  “Of course there isn’t anything out there, just more cities with more walls and more scared inhabitants in them. Though on occasion, I get bored, and fabricate a creature out of some refuse we find from the old world. It is fun to watch it rampage for a bit, scare the poor humans, and then snuff it out. It serves a twofold purpose. Reassure the city’s denizens that they need me, and sate my curiosity about various anatomical designs.”

  “So why the sacrifices?” Nanette asked.

  “Why not? At first it was a way to enforce compliance, but then I got curious. Could the minds of others expand my own? I found out that they could. New ideas were presented to me, new knowledge, new views on various scenarios I had worked through a million times. I hungered for more facets of knowledge. Yet, I found that some worked better than others. When I tire of listless and boring individuals, I release them. Of course they lose their immortality, and all the ones I throw down to you have exceeded their lifetime. Can’t have anyone surviving and getting chatty.”

  Nanette’s mother had been right. The Great One only gave as much as it felt like giving. It was separating them from a world beyond this, and from a life that wasn’t lived in the wake of sacrifice to a false deity.

  “Now I’ve answered these questions of yours, I have one for you. Who turned on the electricity here?”

  “My father,” Nanette answered instinctively and then mentally kicked herself for doing so.

  “Ah,” The Great One said, laughing. “You will be quite the catch. I didn’t realize I left enough mechanisms in any of these towns to achieve that. Then again, I did model this one after the Victorian era and should have realized that this problem would arise. Ah well, after acclimating you I shall snuff out Goldenvale. Can’t have them getting too cozy and exceeding my will.”

  “No!” Nanette screamed. She squirmed hard against the gray tentacle holding her. Something poked her in the gut as she did so and she suddenly remembered the knife. It would be foolish to pull it out now. All the Great One had to do was pitch her off the side of the building to end her. Nanette had to be smarter than this creature. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe she could use its pride against it.

  The Great One must have realized her folly. Nanette would never voluntarily join with that tidbit of information. So she employed a different tactic. “Why should you care? You’ll live on. Is it because your precious family is down there? They surrendered you, right? Why should you let them continue on when they have sent you to what they assume is your death?”

  Nanette knew that the Great One was goading her into compliance. She could practically feel the spoiled charisma ooze off the woman. All she had to do was pretend to buy into it, and she might get her chance. It had to be slow, though. “I won’t join something so evil.”

  “Evil? Evil? I’m a necessity. Without me, Earth would have obliterated itself until it was nothing more than a charred little piece of soil floating through space. You know, I don’t have to accept you. I can just pitch you back to the ground below. You will die with the rest of your kin.”

  Apparently Nanette had ruffled a few of the Great One’s feathers. It was time to concede. She narrowed her green eyes before she cast them down. “You’re right.”

  “Of course, but do explain.”

  “I have seen the greed in my father’s eyes. He plans to take to the sky. He has already crafted a fully functioning air machine.” That was a lie. All Belius had created were a thousand different ways to pitch a machine into the air and watch it collide briskly with the ground. He had even brought Nanette into his plans to get a fresh perspective” on ideas. She had only expedited the machine’s descent. “He wants to sail over the wilderness and conquer new places in the name of Goldenvale. He even mentioned excavating old world ruins for weapons.”

  The Great One seethed. “The impudence. I am the only thing capable of flight, and I shall remain that way.” Its anger subsided quickly. Apparently emotion was a sign of weakness. “I am glad you see my wisdom.” The Great One smiled again.

  “Yes.” Nanette breathed deeply. It was working. “I accept that now, because I realize you are right. I can even help you locate and destroy the flying machine. Hopefully save this world from another war.”

  That seemed to placate the Great One. The other women came back to life. Nanette caught Katherine’s eyes, those green orbs were bubbling over with tears. She already knew Goldenvale’s fate. “Isabelle,” she said in a warbled tone.

  The Great One wasted no time though and drew Nanette towards it. She saw immediately where she was to be placed. Amongst the wash of grey, there seemed to be a bit of puckered but open wound, much like the look of skin after peeling off a healing scab.

  Nanette fiddled with her sash, and slipped her fingers between it and the dress. She hoped that her mother hadn’t sewn the knife into it too well. Fortunately, the stitches were loose and she was able to pop them open with little pressure. She grabbed at the knife and cut her fingers open. Fighting the pain, she took a hold of the handle and pulled it from the sash. She then stabbed the tentacle.

  Screams erupted around her, and the tentacle dropped her. Nanette landed on the slick surface and scrambled upwards, her toes biting into the gray goo as leverage. She ran towards Moira.

  Many of the women thrashed wildly against their gray confines, while others slouched unused. The ones that were near Nanette reached out to grab her. She was able to evade all their grasps expect for one.

  The blonde from before latched onto her leg and pulled down. Nanette fell face first into the gray mass, trying not to breathe in or taste the disgusting slime underneath her. She kicked her legs out in an attempt to get free. The blonde held on. So, Nanette struck the platform with her blade. The blonde’s grip loosened, and Nanette rammed the heel of her foot into the young woman’s nose. The blonde released her and grabbed at her face.

  Nanette pulled herself up in enough time to avoid a massive tentacle slapping against the platform. More screams peeled out as the tentacle crushed a few of the women. Nanette hoped none of them were Katherine. As much as she wanted to look, she had to keep going.

  It took all the power in her body to remain upright on that slippery surface, but she managed to make headway towards Moira. Nanette’s breath was labored and her muscles burned, but she couldn’t relent.

  Moira, the Great One, looked at Nanette. Her gaze was fixed and cruel. Yet it wavered as Nanette drew her knife upwards. She had no idea where to strike. Most of Moira’s body was uncovered, but Nanette didn’t have the knowledge or strength to know what was fatal.

  “Wait,” the Great One said. “This was all a test, and you passed. I will spare Goldenvale.”

  Nanette ignored its voice and lunged at Moira. She embedded the blade in the only place she knew had to kill her: Moira’s head. The blade snapped through the thin bone of the temple and penetrated the soft organ underneath. A rivulet of gray poured from the wound, and the knife protruded from the side of Moira’s head like some lopsided horn.

  Nanette only had a second of relief before the gray mass underneath her be
gan to soften. Her feet slipped out from under her, and the entire platform began to tilt down. She frantically grabbed at the slime only to find it slough away in thick chunks under her hands. Moira’s body began to melt against the Great One’s flesh, making it harder for Nanette to hold on. Women were falling from the Great One, some still retaining their bodies while others melted way—probably from age.

  She had only planned to this point, she had no idea the Great One would come apart at such a rapid rate. Nanette tried to hold on, but she slipped down the mass as it began to lose altitude. Her body rocketed off the side of it, and she slapped against something hard. It was the Offering Spire. Nanette grabbed at the edge of the building, the lip of the roof was almost in her grasp.

  Her fingers slipped, the pain from the previous cut having sapped their strength. For a second she began to fall until something grabbed her arm. Nanette looked up to see someone in green holding her. Another set of arms grabbed her shoulders, and they pulled her onto the roof.

  Nanette’s vision started to turn dark, and the last thing she heard was the ever softening sounds of screams.

  # # #

  Yet Nanette awoke to the sounds of cheerful sobs. She opened her eyes to the blue sky above, but she felt warm rain upon her cheek. She turned her face to see her mother over her, her tears pouring down her cheeks. Isabelle had bandaged Nanette’s hand and was currently caressing her dark hair. Over her shoulder Katherine knelt down. She had aged substantially since her separation from the Great One and looked only a little older than Isabelle.

  “Thank you,” Nanette said, her voice raspy.

  Isabelle smiled. It was untroubled and bright. “Thank you,” she said, “for being brave.”

  Sallie lives in Little Rock with her husband and mini-pterodactyl. She enjoys reading, painting, cooking, and siccing her mini-pterodactyl on others (mostly her husband.) She has both edited and appeared in a CASFWG (Central Arkansas Speculative Fiction Writing Group) anthology, which includes her story “The Road Taken Anyway.”

  She’d like to thank the CASFWG for their support.

  Death of a Housefly

  By Shawn Francis

  I

  “...the problem with love is that you're always at its mercy…”

  The furnace kicked on waking Jo from her dead sleep. Was that her mother? With eyes closed, she lifted her head, turned it towards the cellar stairs, and waited for that uncharacteristic statement to come again. Was someone else in the house? Oh, God, she hoped so. Her heartbeat sped up. She briefly opened her eyes. The light was still off. She listened again. Disappointed, she laid her head back down. It must have been a dream.

  The heat from the furnace finally began to warm her up. She threw off the top layer of blankets, and allowed the warm air to lull her back into a light sleep. Later, when she woke again, she rolled onto her back, stretched her arms, and yawned. As she rubbed her eyes, she muttered, "Shit," as she inadvertently transferred the spider silk that was entwined among her fingers onto her eye lashes.

  It didn’t matter how much she tried to prevent it, somehow she always managed to work her hands out from under the covers, and in so doing occasionally a homeless spider would come along, and decide they were a good place to make a home among. And they were always the same kind; cobweb weavers, or combfooted spiders, as the book she once looked them up in commonly called them; they ranged from pinhead to pencil eraser in size. She was lucky, however, the ones attracted to her sleepwalking digits were of the pinhead variety, and that’s what she ended up calling them - her little black pinheads.

  And her hands weren't the only part of her body they liked; her hair was also a favorite nesting place. Because of this she could never have the kind of long, thick locks most girls her age had. Unfortunately, keeping her hair short wasn't enough to deter the little fuckers. Her last resort was hats, but it didn't do anything for her popularity at school. Coupled with her boyish figure, she inevitably got stamped with that lesbian label. The truth might help set things straight, but that would open up an even bigger can of worms. One, though, that might actually make her current living conditions better, or worse depending on how it was handled, and who got involved. But it wasn't herself she truly worried about, it was her twin brother. He was handicapped, and in a special way, and he needed someone who understood that—like her, and only her.

  As she stretched her legs, she heard the magazine she had been reading last night, The Para-Scope, slither off the mattress. She had lifted it from a newsstand at the mall two days ago precisely for David. He was fascinated by the paranormal and had most of the back issues. This one, however, was special. It was the last that was ever going to be published, which naturally meant it was a must-have for his collection.

  As she put it down neatly out of harm's way on the cold, bumpy floor above her pillow, glancing at the glossy white cover and the blood-fonted words scrawled across it, The Unnerving Truth of the Sinn'Ta Klaas Finally Revealed!, she finally heard her mother call for her. And how drastically different the tone was from what she had mistakenly thought she had called out earlier. How could she have ever thought her mother could, or would, be able to speak like that to her, or to anybody in this house? Not that those mysterious dream words were a total testament to the kind of love a mother might have for her daughter, but, at least, they weren't offensive, or abusive, or threatening violence in any way.

  "Time to wake up, bitch!"

  In fact, she was called bitch so often that for the first few years of her life she actually thought that was her name. She chuckled quietly. A horrible joke for sure, but she had to find some humor in this private hell of hers, or she might as well just throw in the towel.

  "Bitch Crespi, at your service," she whispered.

  "What did you say?!"

  Her mother also had good ears, apparently. Had she known she was still standing at the foot of the stairs, she probably would have thought that sentiment rather than give voice to it.

  "I didn't say anything."

  "Don't lie to me, bitch."

  Jo started to sweat.

  "I didn't," she insisted.

  "You better not have. Hurry up and get your skinny ass up here." The door slammed.

  It looked like she had gotten herself out of a particularly severe fix, but situations like this could be deceiving. If she felt her authority was being challenged, even in the slightest bit, her mother would go on the offensive. Typically, it took the form of a violent ambush. If the rest of the day went by without incident she was in the clear. Until then, she'd have to be on guard. Her mother liked it even less when she was prepared for it, and if she thought she was too prepared, another beating would result, one that was far worse, and less predictable. So, it was through trial and error that Jo and David—mostly Jo these days—were the only ones so far that were able to survive for as long as they had.

  Fourteen years, and counting.

  Jo made up her bed, folding them neatly and setting the heavier blankets on the floor at the foot of the mattress. She plucked the clothes she was going to wear off the line, and with magazine carefully hidden underneath them, headed upstairs to the bathroom. Generally, she was only allowed ten minutes to do what she had to do, but seeing that it was a weekend, she got an extra ten. This reminded her that she almost forgot her wrist watch. She darted back down the stairs, snatched it off the corner of a cinder block that resided near the furnace, and darted back up.

  The instant she opened the door, her mother was there waiting to cuff her in the back of the head. She did it with one of her fat rings turned palm down, so it would hurt. She wore two, one on each hand. It was these rings Jo hated the most. They were used in a casual, nonchalant way when she needed to reprimand her, like for little slights, and misunderstandings, but they were implemented in more vicious and insidious ways when she wanted to hurt her severely, like in an ambush.

  Regrettably, a slap coming on the heel of that earlier unintentional, smart-ass remark meant only on
e thing. Her mother had indeed heard her. Which also meant an eventual ambush was in the making.

  "Hurry up, and get the fuck in there, Big-mouth, you've got fuckin' chores to do."

  Big-mouth? That pretty much confirmed it. But that really didn't mean much. Her mother had beaten her plenty of times for things she never ever said, and never ever did. Accusing her outright, right in the middle of the beating, of trying to tell others about her, of trying to get her arrested, or committed. And that was on the more sane days, which, in the past six months, were becoming a lot fewer. Lately, she was getting accused of trying to kill her in her sleep, of trying to steal her thoughts when she was dreaming and wanting to give them to the others, or give them to the wasps. That last one in particular being a real headscratcher. The only way Jo could rationalize her mother’s abusive behavior was to look at it as if she were simply sick, like with a cold, or a really weird case of the flu, or something of that nature.

  Being sick and unable to help the way she acted was simple to understand. People got ill every day. But to actually believe she was doing this kind of damage because she liked it meant that she was something altogether different. And she had never ever heard of anyone being like that. Jo didn't like being in situations she couldn't get a mental arm around. Uncharted territory sucked. David's view on the whole thing was that their mother was genuinely evil. Actually, he used a different word, something that sounded like psycho, or psycho-something. Basically, it amounted to the same thing. To know what you're doing is wrong, but not caring. She just couldn't believe there were people out there who were like that.

  Her brother also went on to suggest that if his theory about her was true then it might not have been just dumb luck that had gotten them born to this woman, and aged this far along. But a measured, thought out, cosmic plan of evil that had handed them to this damned individual just so she had something to act out her psycho-whatever-shit on.