Tar: An apocalyptic horror novella

by Iain Rob Wright

  "Ben." She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  "My Girl" by The Temptations began to resonate off the darkened walls.

  "He'll wake shortly," the voice said, now much deeper. "The fall is harder on the men. I guess it's a weight thing. Do you like this song? It's my favorite."

  "Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?"

  The veins in Sarah's forehead bulged as she tried to lift the restraint from her thighs. The muscles in her forearms cramped when she exerted all of her strength. The bar didn't budge. It was as if it was now an extension of her anatomy.

  "I do it for love," the voice said. "I know at this moment this isn't much consolation, but he truly loves you. If he didn't the ride would have known. And you wouldn't be here. The ride can smell a rat."

  Ben started to stir.

  "And he's back," the voice said.

  Sarah flung her arms around Ben's neck; his fried-dough breath no longer bothered her.

  "What happened?" Ben asked, wiping the blood from his nose.

  "You're proving your love to Sarah," the voice said. "I kind of let the cat out the bag that you truly love her. So, Sarah, forget I said that." Shrill laughter again. "Let's pretend you don't know if he loves you. It's more fun that way."

  "Something's not right," Ben said.

  "That's perfectly normal," the voice said. "Your love for Sarah is taking over your conscious state. Possessing your soul."

  Sarah jumped, banging her knees on the bar when flames from sconces lit the black walls. The words 'Forever After Death Do Us Part' were written over and over again on the walls, in red. Blood? The bottom of the letters trickled down the walls like tears.

  "Shall we begin," the voice said.

  Sarah looked at Ben. His face had an orange profile from the hellish glow of the flames. A vacant stare turned his blue eyes to a dull shade of gray.

  Sarah screamed. "Let us out of here, you sick bastard."

  Her plea was ignored.

  "Sarah, Ben has chosen to ride the Tunnel of Love in an effort to prove his undying love for you. True love is made up of three components — mind, body, and soul. If one of the components wavers, the love isn't genuine. Ben's here today to risk it all for you. He will now begin the test."

  Between whimpers, Sarah pleaded for this to stop. "I know he loves me, please let us go."

  Her begging fell on deaf ears. The voice continued. "The first test is the mind."

  Sarah banged her firsts against the metal bar holding her in place and screamed. Ben stared, his eyes wide-open, covered in a thin film. Like cataracts of confusion.

  "Plato once said that when you're touched by love, everyone becomes a poet." There was a pause for the chorus of "My Girl." The voice sang along. "This song brings back so many memories. Anyway, Ben, show Sarah how much you love her. Recite a poem to her. Don't plagiarize. Make it your own."

  Ben faced Sarah. Terror spoke through his expression. He opened his mouth, his voice weakened to a whisper as he spoke.

  Romance is a dance

  A spiritual tango

  Two souls intertwined like twigs

  When rubbed together ignite a fire

  The friction creates a slight spark

  But soon becomes overwhelmed

  By raging flames

  The embers flicker in unison

  To the crackling sound of the twigs

  As if they were sharing the same breath

  Two bodies becoming one

  So close your eyes my dear

  And embrace the beat of romance

  As I ask one simple question,

  May I have this dance?

  A loud clapping echoed, drowning out The Temptations.

  "Bravo. Bravo. Color me impressed," the voice said. "I expected a Roses are Red poem from you, Ben. Not that. You must have given that some thought." More clapping. "True love is a beautiful thing. That has to warm your heart, Sarah."

  Tears leaked down Sarah's face. Her throat raged from the bile that was easing into her mouth. She held Ben's hand tight, pulling it to her chest.

  "All right, Ben, you passed that with flying colors, but now the tests get harder. Under the seat — there is a knife."

  Ben reached under the seat and pulled out a butcher knife.

  "No." Sarah cried and pressed her body against the side of the boat.

  "No need to be scared, Sarah. True lovers never hurt the one they love," the voice said. "They would give up their own life before hurting the one they love."

  Ben held the knife in the air. He turned his head, examining the sharpness of the blade. A sickening sparkle gleamed on the metal as "My Guy" by Mary Wells started to play.

  Ben mouthed, "No one can take me away." His voice was guttural. Diabolic. Like demonic possession.

  "The second test of true love is the body," the voice paused for the chorus of "My Guy." Sarah's tried to scream again. Silence. All the screaming had crippled her voice. Her throat was raw. The bile blistered like salt in a wound.

  "Van Gogh cut off his ear. Some say he was crazy. History buffs say he didn't cut it off at all, his friend Gauguin cut it off in a fight. For the sake of this test, we're going to say he lopped it off because he was crazy. Sarah, Ben is crazy in love with you. To show this, he will now cut off his ring finger. This is a testament of his devotion to you. No one in this life or the next will put a wedding ring on his finger. It belongs to you."

  Ben placed his hand on the metal bar. He spread his fingers and wedged the point of the knife between his middle and ring fingers. Sarah grabbed his wrist, but she was too weak. The possession was too strong. With at a swift downward motion, Ben chopped off his finger. Sarah closed her eyes and covered her ears so she wouldn't hear the sound of metal cracking bone. Ben didn't utter a word. Not even a moan.

  Clapping followed the amputation. "Look at that, Sarah. You've got a real winner here," the voice said. "But I do believe Ben just gave you the finger."

  Sarah leaned over the side of the boat. The sudden rush from the smell of stale water caused her to vomit.

  "Love sick, are we?" the voice said, followed by piercing laughter. "OK, now we've come to the final test. The ultimate gift of love. The giving of one's soul. I'm going to need your undivided attention for this, Sarah."

  She felt hands press down against her shoulders, pulling her back into the boat. But no one was there. Sarah couldn't control her body. Her face turned toward Ben. She tried to fight it, but the force was too strong. She didn't want to look at Ben. The invisible energy made her. Ben sat there, no tears, no expression of pain, holding his arm in the air. Blood flowed down his forearm and over his flannel shirt like lava from an angry volcano. Sarah tried to scream. She opened her mouth, but the only sound was Mary Wells. She was paralyzed.

  "The last and most important component of true love is the soul. Some might say the soul is a product of our brain. This is untrue," the voice said. "We think with our brains. We feel with our hearts. The heart is our soul. Sarah, Ben will now give his heart to you."

  Sarah tried to close her eyes. She couldn't. Her eyelids were being held open by icy fingers that were translucent. Blue blood pulsed just below the skin. She was forced to watch Ben bring the knife to his chest. He spun the handle around so the point of the blade was pressed against his sternum. Sarah tried to turn away. The fingers grabbed her chin making sure that she didn't miss one second of the show. Ben gripped the handle with both hands. His knuckles turned white, blood spewed like a broken water pipe.

  "This is the woman of your dreams, Ben. The one that gives you butterflies when she smiles at you. The one that gives you chills when she kisses you. The one you were going to propose to tonight at the fair. Now give her something in return. Give her the ultimate gift. Give her your heart."

  Ben plunged the knife into his chest. A loud pop bounced off the walls when the blade broke through his sternum. Ben hunched forward and with a sawing motion began to cut a clockwise circle in his chest. The sound
of metal tearing through skin and breaking bones made Sarah want to vomit again. But she couldn't. She had to watch Ben's final gift to her.

  He reached into his chest, pushing through the flesh and fragmented bone, and ripped out his beating heart. Crimson gushed between his fingers as his life pulsed in his hand.

  "Give it to her," the voice said.

  Ben dropped his heart in Sarah's lap and slumped over the metal bar.

  "He's a keeper," the voice said, laughing.

  Sarah felt numb. The feeling your foot gets when it falls asleep. She felt it all over. She was regaining control of her body. She looked down at Ben's heart flopping on her thighs like a fish out of water. The heart wasn't beating. Her legs were trembling. Wavy lines darted across her eyes. She felt dizzy. Sarah passed out.

  2

  September 1965

  BETTY KENDRICK HAD NEVER BEEN MORE beautiful. At least not in the eyes of Jeffrey Richards. Betty had turned eighteen, three weeks earlier. Jeffrey wanted to give her the ring on her birthday, but he couldn't perfect the once in a lifetime proposal. He hadn't asked her father for Betty's hand in marriage either. That was another hindrance. Betty's parents didn't care for Jeffrey. The boy that seduced their angel with the devil's song — rock-and-roll.

  Before meeting Jeffrey, Betty was the apple of Carl Kendrick's eye. Jeffrey was the worm, burrowing into the core, ruining his apple. Of Loving Faith Baptist Church, where Carl was a deacon and Margaret, Betty's mother, played the organ, had an aversion to spoiled fruit.

  Betty used to sing in the choir. A voice created by our loving savior, himself. When she met Jeffrey at Jake's Soda Shop in the summer of 1964, she stopped praising the Lord through verse and started to have a little sympathy for the devil. Her first taste of rock-and-roll came when she watched The Rolling Stones perform on a Dean Martin variety show. The Stones weren't that good, but she watched Jeffrey mouth the words, "I just want to make love to you" and shake his hair which was shaped in a bowl-cut style reminiscent of Brain Jones. She knew then that she was in love, both with Jeffrey and rock-and-roll.

  Betty still went to church, but no longer did she share her voice with the congregation, she spent the services doodling hearts with the name Jeffrey dissecting them in her bible. Betty was consumed with love. Her parents knew it. At first they forbade her to see Jeffrey. She would sneak out. Fearing for her safety, they finally allowed them to date. With stipulations. Stipulations that Betty found ways around. She kept a change of clothes in the trunk of Jeffrey's '64 Ford Fairlane. Usually a mini-skirt and go-go boots. Jeffrey loved her long legs.

  The fall air was a bit chilly for a mini-skirt. Betty hopped into the backseat of the Fairlane and changed into bell-bottoms and black vinyl boots. She was the girlfriend of a rock star. At least that's what she thought. Jeffrey played guitar in a cover band called Alternate State of Consciousness that covered The Beatles, The Stones, and The Who. If you wanted to catch them live, you needed to stop by Jeffrey's parents' garage on Saturday afternoons.

  This was the last weekend of the Cabarrus County Fair. This was the night that Jeffrey would ask Betty for her hand in marriage. He decided against letting her parents in on the secret. He was pretty good at keeping secrets from them anyway. Carl and Margaret knew that Jeffrey was older. It's another thing they didn't like. But he was twenty-one. Betty had told them he was nineteen. At some point he would need to be honest with them, better to be honest once she wore his ring.

  The weather, while chilly for a September evening in North Carolina, couldn't have been more perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. The constellations, in all their brightness, spelled out that now was the time for Jeffrey.

  After sharing a root beer float, Jeffrey found the quietest place, if you could call it that, to propose. Beside the exit to the Funhouse which was chock-full of screaming kids. In about five minutes, the spot would sound like a Beatles concert. He had a narrow window of time. Jeffrey took Betty's hand.

  "We've only known each other for a year, but I knew as soon as I heard your voice and saw your smile, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you," Jeffrey said.

  Betty started to tear. Her grin stretched her face. She knew what was coming, and she was ready to say yes. Jeffrey walked her to a bare area just outside of the foot traffic in case he hadn't gauged time right and kids came stampeding out of the Funhouse.

  Jeffrey dropped to one knee.

  "Betty Jean Kendrick will you…"

  Betty took a step back. This would be a moment she wanted to remember for the rest of her life. The heel of Betty's boot caught on something. She started to fall backward. Jeffrey jumped to his feet to catch her, but a spark from the ground stopped him. Betty had stepped on a faulty electric cord. Electricity surged through Betty's body, the jolt raced through leg to her heart — stopping it as Jeffrey's heart broke. Betty crumbled to the ground along with Jeffrey's future. The engagement ring fell next to her lifeless body.

  3

  December 1965

  BETTY'S FUNERAL was two months ago. The fair had long since packed up and moved on to the next county. Life went on. But the ache in Jeffrey's heart was a fire that time couldn't douse. It raged. He would spend Saturday afternoons at the campground where Betty took her last breath. Jeffrey would sit next to scene of the crime. The only remnants of tragedy were a few patches of charred weeds. The winter months would erase the evidence. Time tried to forget Betty Kendrick. Jeffrey was determined to not let that happen. He would get down on one knee and see Betty standing above him. The tears in her eyes. The smile on her face. The word "Yes" on the tip of her lips just waiting to put the biggest smile on Jeffrey's face. A smile that would never come.

  One cold December afternoon, Jeffrey got on one knee, pretending to take Betty's hand and asked if she would marry him. A rustling in the weeds startled him.

  "Yes," the high-pitch voice said, followed by piercing laughter.

  "Who's there?" Jeffrey asked.

  The knee-high weeds to the left of Jeffrey waved back and forth. He wanted to blame the wind, but the air was calm. More giggling followed.

  "Who's there?" Jeffrey asked again.

  A small chubby cherub stepped through the weeds carrying a bow and arrow. His curly, white hair looked like tumbleweed. His wings, tiny, fluttered like a hummingbird. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes. Blinked. Knowing the apparition was a figment of his imagination.

  "I'm still here," the cherub said. More shrill laughter.

  "What are you?" Jeffrey asked.

  "You know what I am. You know who I am," the cherub said. "Let's play a game. Tell me who you think I am?"

  "I don't feel like playing games," Jeffrey said.

  "That's too bad. I had a special gift for you. If you guessed right I'd let you see your sweet Betty again."

  "You're not real," Jeffrey said. His tone held resentment.

  The cherub laughed and shot at arrow into the charred weeds where Betty had died. A fog appeared. Through the mist Jeffrey could make out a silhouette. Betty spoke to him. One word. "Yes." Jeffrey couldn't see her, but he knew her angelic voice. Betty was there.

  "Cupid. You're Cupid. Now let me see Betty," Jeffrey said.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," the cherub giggled again. "But that game has expired."

  "You son of a bitch," Jeffrey said, kicking in the direction of the cherub who disappeared into a cloud of dust just before Jeffrey's foot connected. He pulled his leg back. It was covered in ash.

  "Now, now, now. Violence isn't the answer," the cherub said, materializing behind Jeffrey. "Hasn't there been enough pain?" Laughter. "There's another game we can play."

  "If I play will you show me Betty again?"

  "I'll do better than that. If you bring me ten lovers, I'll bring your dear Betty back to life."

  "Ten lovers?"

  "Ten women. I want women. Just women. No men. But there is a catch. True love has to be the bond between the lovers. Not lust. Not like. True love."

  "How do I do this
?" Jeffrey asked.

  "Do you agree? Say yes, and after the debt is paid, you will be with your Betty happily ever after."

  "What do I…"

  "Say yes first."

  "Yes. OK, yes."

  The cherub laughed hysterically and shot an arrow straight up to the sky. When it fell, a fog formed. The cherub blew, and the mist disappeared leaving a carnival ride in its wake. A red sign flashed "Tunnel of Love."

  "Bring ten couples that are in true love. That's important. If true love is not present the ride will know and it will not work."

  "And then what?" Jeffrey asked.

  "Then you man the ride. Once I have ten women, I will give Betty back to you."

  "What about the men?"

  The cherub giggled again.

  4

  September 2011

  THE THROBBING WOKE SARAH. It felt as though tiny demons were tap dancing on her temples. She opened her eyes, her cheek cold from sleeping against a concrete floor.

  "Where am I?" she asked, rubbing her head. "Ben?"

  "Ben was his name, huh?" a woman said.

  Sarah blinked fast, trying to focus. She could make out the outline of a person standing over her.

  "Sorry, I'm Ally. And you are?"

  Ally extended her hand, helping Sarah to her feet.

  "Sarah."

  "Nice to meet you, Sarah. So, Ben was your boyfriend, or your husband?"

  "Boyfriend. Where the hell am I?"

  Sarah's vision cleared. She was in a cell. Through the bars, she saw Ally, wearing bell-bottoms and an Eagles "Hotel California" 1976 tour shirt, her blonde hair hidden beneath a red bandana. Every direction Sarah looked, there were cells, each one housed sleeping women. At least twenty.

  "I'm the early-riser here," Ally said.

  "Is this jail?" Sarah asked, tracing the cold bars with her fingers. "I didn't kill, Ben. I swear."

  "Oh, honey," Ally said, laughing. "The first few days are the worst. It gets better. I promise."

  "But, I didn't kill him. Some sick bastard made him kill himself in front of me," Sarah said.