Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #12

by Apex Authors

  Dr. P put camera back in coat pocket & said: See you after meds. Good boy, Jonesy. Keep up good work. & left.

  Smarter person would have known what to do, but clearly, no stupider person than yours truly. Held C. tightly & wished for way out. Dotted lines appeared (wrist to elbow) w/word: C-U-T.

  Real? Imagination? Doesn't matter. Lost.

  * * * *

  Wed. 16 MAR, 20—

  Kill self = no big deal. Die for C. no problem. But kill C. = impossible. Hands won't hold blade steady, won't hold the pillow over face, even with words rippling over C.'s body like raindrops: do it, do it, do it, do it. Dr. P coming to C. again tonight to see how much pain C. can take before screaming. Doc wants to drill tiny-tiny hole in C.'s skull, measure brain waves while C. begging for mercy w/words on her skin:

  PLEASE STOP IT HURTS.

  Feels like end of world. Have to get C. out. Have to save C. from evil Dr. P. Have to do something, have to—gotta get

  * * * *

  Wed. 16 MAR, 20—

  World upside down. Snatched. Heart ready to burst & only thought in my mind = memory of wind in C.'s hair, w/top folded down in junkyard Cadillac. In motel rm. now, but headed south to Tijuana. Heard people live down there for next to nothing. Laid C. on hard Q. size bed like new bride & went to wash hands—washed hands at every rest stop since fleeing JPI, still hands feel dirty, but rewards promise greatness.

  Writing this while sitting on toilet, having real hard time w/new information about C. C—waiting on the bed, for yours truly. Want everything to be perfect, but shaking all over.

  Waited until D.'s shift before breaking into Dr. P's office for photos. Found thick folder full, naked shots of C. covered with pain & begging & foul names she called Dr. P while he stuck C. with pins & pinched her until white skin covered with bruises all blue & green & purple. Took pictures & put them in envelope addressed to Board, some to big newspapers & TV stations. With note from C. She wrote on belly, I wrote on paper, forged C.'s loopy cursive, pretty good I think:

  AWAKE & ALIVE & TORTURED BY DR. S. PRICE. DECIDED TO CHECK SELF OUT OF JPI & SEND YOU THESE AS GOODBYE GIFT.

  & signed: CLEMENTINE J. MCNAB.

  At C.'s urging, enclosed “C” charm & lock of blonde hair to D. w/message. SPEAK OF C. & JONES AT OWN RISK. & picture of C. w/hands outstretched, ready to strangle. Could hardly stand to look at it, but knew it was only way to keep D. quiet. As said already, D. = pussy. Easily influenced, or so we hope.

  Didn't see Dr. P on the way out of JPI. While D busy in bathroom, took C. through E-wing & down through F-wing, past solitaries in closed, padded cells. Out the loading dock & away in barely-running junkyard Caddy bought from old guy with handful of cash from savings. Suddenly no life = good thing. Lots of money for trip. Never had any reason to spend before.

  Once on road, bags packed, keys to apartment under mat w/a last payment & note to landlord—(strapped C. to passenger seat & put neck into brace so C. can see road through big sunglasses, lip balm and sunscreen making face radiant in light). Almost ran off road when spotted ghost of smile & when Caddy straightened out, smile was gone. C's stare = vacant, like expression just half-forgotten dream.

  —3 LOVE written across backs of both hands.

  Don't know what it means, & stomach all in knots. Just a dream, that smile? C. coming awake from wind on face? Or both of us trapped in coffin now, insane, side by side w/out hope?

  Head says: run, Jonesy, run. Heart says: love is love.

  Darling Clementine.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Solomon's Bad Luck

  By Brandy Schwan

  There are only particular colors it sees, and only particular numbers

  Solomon saw it as he sat on his couch, feeling oh so sorry for himself

  Candles lit, liquor consumed, sad music soon ran out—Brood and brood!

  He went on, hung his drunken head, thought thoughts of ending dread

  What images of people feeling regret while crying over his corpse?

  Too many pathetic images brought a thing to rap, rap at his door.

  He opened the door to that thing, it waited on his stoop, swaying, grinning

  The thing looked darn right happy ... in a morbid sort of way.

  "Solomon, invite me in. Let us get on with it.” It moved through the door.

  What strolled through his house sat down gracefully in a chair across from his couch

  It filled his glass full of clear liquor, began his sad music again, and with a flick of the wrist extinguished candles were lit. Question not the mood of a reaper.

  "Do not allow me to interrupt, dear” It hissed through pretty lips

  Solomon replied “You are not here to stop me?"

  The thing sat forward, met him eye to eye and answered

  "Now, why ... would I do a thing like that?"

  "Won't you show me the future, won't you show me the past, and tell me what beauty is to live for?"

  "For goodness sake, Solomon what do you think I am? The ghost of Christmas past?"

  The thing snickered under it's breath “Honestly, darling, you humans and your goodwill.

  It does not exist where I come from, and certainly not where you are going."

  "Dare I inquire I might request someone else to keep me company tonight?"

  He asked the thing.

  "I do apologize, Solomon. I am afraid all of the Saints grew tired of you, and left you to me."

  It sarcastically spat the words at him. “Have you thought over how you might go about this?

  I do have a few suggestions.” It glared and smiled.

  Uncomfortable silence lingered between the two, until the thing began to tap it's foot most impatiently, sigh and pretend to admire it's own long red nails.

  'Oh, cruel coy of the beast!’ Solomon thought to himself.

  Wouldn't you know, in that very moment the thing spun a ghostly noose around Solomon's head, watched him hang until he was dead!

  "So, I cheat on occasion” The thing said out-loud, as it left a brooding man with nothing more to dread...

  There are only particular colors it sees, and only particular numbers

  Solomon saw it as he sat on his couch, feeling oh so sorry for himself

  Candles lit, liquor consumed, sad music soon ran out—Brood and brood!

  He went on, hung his drunken head, thought thoughts of ending dread

  What images of people feeling regret while crying over his corpse?

  Too many pathetic images brought a thing to rap, rap at his door

  The thing, that sometimes cheats.

  BIO:

  Brandy Leah Schwan's first book was Grim Trixter—horror, fantasy, and erotic poetry published by Apex Books. Her second book, Catacombs and Photographs, will be released in November, 2008. Brandy's work can be found in the Dark Distortions anthology (www.scotopiapress.com) and in Apex Digest issue #7 and issue #9. Her official website is www.grimtrixter.com.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Cain XP11 (Part 4): The Wicked King

  by Geoffrey Girard

  * * * *

  Geoffrey Girard first appeared in Writers of the Future (a 2003 winner) and has since penned and sold more than sixty short stories of dark fantasy and horror. His latest book, Tales of the Eastern Indians, thirteen original tales blending history and Native American myths, was published last Fall. Find out more at www.GeoffreyGirard.com.

  * * * *

  This is the concluding installment of a four-part novella. The first part is available online at www.apexdigest.com.

  Zahir liked to watch men die.

  He specifically treasured the end, the exact moment when the doomed reached that unique awareness, helplessness, of having nothing more to give. Nothing. And then, suddenly, in that very personal and ultimate defeat, there was almost always a brief, final, and futile clench of life. A sudden gasp, an optimistic lunge, a defiant shout of fury or hope. And, whatever that gesture might become, the e
yes almost always showed all of it. It was glorious. No man was ever as truly alive as during his very last breath. And, looking into their eyes, it was the only time Zahir could truly see God.

  Now, he ran his fingers along the soldier's face. It felt slick with sweat and blood, and the man moved his head into the touch. Well trained, Zahir thought, and smiled. They're all so well trained. Where most would pull away from one who'd already brought so much pain, this one wanted the heft of reality against his cheek. He wanted something “real” to focus on. Zahir patted the man's cheek. “Soon,” he whispered, promised. “Very soon."

  Zahir moved toward his bench of tools.

  A rusted kerosene lantern cast fluid shadows along the cramped cave wall behind him, his own shadow noticeably grotesque as he hunched unnaturally under the low ceiling. The air was warm and sticky. He could hear some of the other men talking in the adjacent tunnels and holes. Someone's laughter carried over the hum of several generators and the single exhaust fan. This particular mountain den, a dozen dark hollows that stretched a mile into the earth, supported forty men easily. The whole place smelled of piss and sweat. And blood. He barely noticed it anymore.

  The first time he'd seen a man die, he'd been only eight. In Cairo. The car bomb had shattered half of the small outdoor market and, as he'd cowered on the ground with the others, a dark shape had stumbled toward him out of the smoky wreckage. Zahir was still not sure if it was a man or a woman he'd seen that day. There was too much blood and part of the head was missing. It lurched toward him as if every step might bring the final collapse, and the boy had wiped the burn of the smoke from his eyes to watch it all. He saw half a face, the right side only shards of bone and flesh and the skull behind almost completely lost. A lone left eye glared at him, yes, directly at me, with both amazement and resolve. Zahir knew then that the bloody thing actually wanted to kill him. That, even with half its face and brains splattered over the street behind, it had determined not to accept death alone. The man-woman lifted an arm at him, an accusing bloody stump that ended at the elbow ... then it had collapsed at his feet. Something wet and hot had splashed Zahir's face. Beside him then, the shattered jaw and what was left of its teeth gnawed slowly on a lolling tongue. Blood gurgled from the half mouth, the body's limbs twitching against Zahir's legs. Still, Zahir kept focused on the eager and knowing eye that watched him. The eye shone just like a star. The eye of God.

  He'd found the same look again six months later when he killed the old man with a brick. Then, again, when he strangled Ahmed's baby sister. And all the others. When he joined the Fatah al-Islam Jihad, it quickly became his sacred duty to hurt, to kill. One of the group, a wealthy girl who went to Alexandria University, had suggested his violent nature was surely caused by the trauma of that first car bomb, or perhaps the frequent beatings his father had given him. Zahir did not think so, and, as he raped and killed her, he told her as much. He simply enjoyed it, he told her. That was all. He'd enjoyed torturing the family in Herát, or the boy soldiers they'd kidnapped in Qal'at Dizah. More recently, he'd enjoyed killing the people in Towraghondi. So many, and all the time he needed to work.

  His team had captured the three Army Rangers outside of Towraghondi a week before and slipped them back across the border. No way the Americans would come into Iran for them. John Penn and George Clooney would never allow it. Zahir chuckled. It had been a good week.

  After much pain, and much blood, he'd already seen God twice. And he would enjoy this man's death, too. He'd already hurt him. Peeled flesh some, cut down to the bone here and there. The American soldiers were all so damn big, he'd wanted to see all that muscle up close. Truth told, he'd never been particularly interested in the politics, in the spiritual matters of his efforts. These were only secondary to his true passions. In that regard, he was probably no different from these soldiers that God had sent to him.

  He glanced over the two emptied chairs. Dark stains of torture remained pooled below each, the broken bodies of the two men dragged away the night before. Only their heads remained. Each one was propped on the small wood table. Watching.

  Zahir chose his favorite scalpel. The two-inch carbon steel BD Bard-Parker he'd lifted from the Red Cross tent. Nice cutting control and strength. Perfect to make some more shallow incisions along the chest and genitals.

  When he turned, the soldier started making garbled sounds with his mouth. They were not words anymore. Hadn't been for almost a day now. A pity. Zahir wanted to learn more about this man first. But, again, these were not normal people. These “Rangers” never once begged for mercy like the others, they only cursed at him and grew more angry. He had never even learned their real names, and there was no identification on men like these.

  This last man now glared angrily from his one good eye. The other was swollen over and crusted in dried blood from when Zahir had cut into his scalp. In the shadowed cavern, the eye looked almost like one he'd seen long before.

  No, the eye said clearly. Don't do this.

  So. It was not yet the true eye of God.

  Zahir stepped closer and pressed his thumb against the man's mouth to push back his upper lip. The man writhed in his chair, the blood-speckled ropes holding tight. The man screamed as Zahir raised the blade. He slowly brought the scalpel once more to the gums.

  Then he moved to his body again.

  He'd worked quietly for some time before gunfire erupted in one of the tunnels. The sound echoed into Zahir's tiny space like thunder.

  He stepped back from the American and dropped the dripping scalpel onto the table beside the two heads. Someone shouted somewhere. It was the sound of a man dying, and Zahir reached calmly for his rifle.

  One of the others, Hasib, burst into the cave, shouted something, and Zahir almost shot him. He grinned at the thought. “What is it?” he asked.

  In reply, Hasib lifted a bit into the air and then, like a ghost, he rose another full meter off the ground.

  Zahir stepped back in confusion.

  Blood splashed across the cave's grey-brown rock. Something shiny appeared out of Hasib's chest, then the man dropped again to the floor. Zahir squinted to focus his eyes. Something else now moved in the shadows. A thin, dark shape that drifted like smoke directly toward him.

  Zahir fired his rifle.

  He felt strong hands at his throat. And then something very cold sank deep into his stomach. He felt it move inside him.

  The shadow man stood before him suddenly, and Zahir gazed into the pitch black eyes. They shimmered like oil, like a demonic jewel. But in their dark reflection he saw his own eyes, too. Wide and shining.

  He recognized the sensation of his body splitting apart. He screamed, an almost joyful sound, and then, finally, in the reflection of dark man's eyes, his own eyes shone like stars. The eyes of God.

  Then, nothing.

  The dark thing turned next toward the man in the chair.

  * * * *

  The cave was gone. And the Arab man's screams.

  The black thing was gone.

  The pain lingered, however, and Becker absently touched his mouth, and then moved down to his chest where his fingers easily found the thick scar tissue. Both familiar and alien.

  He sat up once more at a small desk over a closed laptop and his notes. A gooseneck lamp cast the only light in the motel room, and it glowed hotly, like a rusted kerosene lantern.

  Becker leaned forward and put the heels of his palms against his eyes to rub away the sleep, the memory. His fingers wrapped around the sides of his head. From afar, Becker often thought, it probably looked as if he were literally holding himself together. Maybe I am. He felt the cool air of the room move across his back and shoulders.

  He pulled his hands away and sat back. Checked his watch. 02:36. He couldn't quite remember when he'd dozed off. He remembered noting 01:00 clearly and reading more of Jacobson's damned notes. He picked up the open notebook from the table and read.

  From the letters of Jack the Ripper: You an me kno
w the truth dont we. ha ha I love my work an I shant stop until I get buckled and even then watch out for your old pal Jacky. Ps Sorry about the blood still messy from the last one. What a pretty necklace I gave her.

  'Your old pal, Jacky.'

  Becker turned the page and reread the words of Ted Bundy: We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.

  He ran the words through his head again. The boys truly had a whole country in which to hide. They had transportation, money. No ties to real people beyond the historic files of the killers they'd been cloned from.

  We are everywhere.

  The proverbial needle in the haystack would prove easier. And as to the last...

  Becker's mouth went tight. How long did the boy really have?

  And were there really any answers he could find in the notes of this madman? Any clues as to where Jacobson's creations might have gone? Or was this only more of the same lunacy? The same that had driven the eminent geneticist to such horrors in the first place.

  Becker could hardly think anymore. He checked his watch again. Time had become a damning factor. It had been less then forty hours since he'd walked out of the Winter Quarter mine. Jacobson was dead, murdered by the thing from Becker's dreams, the same “dark man” he'd seen in the cave just two years before. A stress-induced delusion he'd been convinced was only in his mind until he'd shot it dead moments after it killed Jacobson.

  And the boy ... Jeffrey.

  He closed the notebook. Stared only at the dark wall over the desk. He felt he should get up and drive somewhere to do something. But where? And what? He was too alone now. As wanted by the Defense Department, perhaps, as the psycho killers he'd been tasked with bringing in months ago. And even with the full support of Command, there just wasn't time.

  Becker pushed back from the table and rose for the first time in hours. He moved slowly toward the mirror in the dim light. Then, he looked up.

  The pale scars almost completely covered his stomach and chest. The marks criss-crossed the defined muscles in continuous disfigurement and design, wrapped over his shoulders and arms. Many letters were Arabic, naturally. Others were something else, symbols no one had ever determined. The man had cut snakes and trees into him. And eyes. Staring eyes. Etched in flesh.