by A. R. Braun
A look of supreme anger formed on Jesus’ face. “Hath Satan filled thee with rebellion?”
“Yea.”
“Then what thou doest, do quickly.”
“Nay, I think I’ll take my time.” Justus hurled the hammer at the Christ before He raised His arm again. It flew through the air and then bashed into Jesus’ mouth, knocking out His buck teeth. Jesus howled in pain, then rose and ran away, the gashes in His back where the Romans had whipped Him still horridly visible. Justus cried out and threw the spike as hard as he could.
The superb throw hit Jesus in the middle of His back. It crippled him as it stuck into His flesh. Christ sank to His knees and cried out so loudly that Justus had to cover his ears—definitely a hallowed cry. Jesus sank to a sitting position and held Himself up by his arms. The ground shook and storm clouds rumbled overhead. Justus wondered what he’d do without Alexander if more stumblers came now that Christ approached death again.
I’ll worry about that later.
Justus rushed toward Jesus, pulled out the spike, turned Christ around and shoved it through His mouth until it stuck out of the top of His head, impaled upon the spike.
The glow left Jesus’ frame and the light from His eyes faded.
Justus fell to his knees again, this time shedding more tears than ever before. “I’ve killed the Savior!” He felt like another Judas. Then he reminded himself he’d done nothing but avenge the death of his friend. What was he supposed to do when God came back as a bloodthirsty monster? He wiped his eyes, stood and planned what he’d do next. Did he know enough to take over Alexander’s job after such a short time of training?
Groans from behind him made Justus’s eyes grow wide. The guttural sounds came from where Alexander lay.
This can’t be.
Justus shook his head in disbelief. What could he do, pray to God? The Lord lay dead in front of him. He thought about fighting off Alexander, now the living dead.
How am I supposed to defeat that bear of a man if he comes back?
He turned his head to behold Alexander rising to a sitting position.
Oh, nay.
Whimpering, Justus rushed to Jesus’ corpse. He pined for his sanity as his nerves spun out of control, now so much rubble as his mind squirmed with bugs. “Please, Lord Jesus, I’m at the end of my rope. Heal my shattered nerves and forgive me for killing you. But what was I supposed to do? You were undead.”
As he feared, no one answered his prayer, and Justus’s mind caught fire. Who would heal the sick now? Screaming, he grabbed the handle of the iron spike and pulled it out of the Christ, holy blood and water splattering his robe and the ground. When he turned around, Alexander’s corpse stood looking at him with that vacant look.
Justus mustered all the courage he could from his satanic heart, and his madness gave him forward motion.
“Aaarrrggghhh!”
He rushed toward his undead friend.
Alien Consciousness
Simon, steaming with rage, hammered a message in his website e-mail:
No, Miriam! I deleted you as a friend, and that’s it. Some people really do worship the devil!
Smiling, Simon clicked send. That’ll show that weird witch.
A few months ago, bored out of his skull at the United Methodist Church in Wampum, Illinois, Simon was ecstatic when they’d given him a handout about Wicca. Of course, the church did so to teach him about false religions and how dangerous they were, but Simon ate it up. He’d perused the website address they’d downloaded it from.
Boredom became commonplace for the balding, plump thirty-year-old, so he welcomed this respite with open arms.
It wasn’t long before he took a field trip to the witchcraft store in Mowquakwa, for Simon lived in a suburb called Wampum. He’d purchased all the tools for his altar from Miriam, the black-haired, plump witch that ran the shop, and had joined a Wicca 101 class to learn all he could about paganism. He’d cast protection, love, passion, and money spells.
They hadn’t worked.
That’s when he’d decided to become an atheist.
Simon turned off his computer as the last rays of the summer day’s sun peeked in his window. He rose and flicked the light switch, for the illumination in his house was dimming like his love for the occult. Simon shook his head while looking at the Courier & Ives knockoffs in his one-story house. His dog, Buster, barked and ran to him. Simon laughed and wrestled with the black Great Dane. He winced as the dog wrestled hard, but Simon didn’t show him fear or he’d lose the canine’s respect.
Simon walked into the kitchen to fill up Buster’s food and water dishes. He dove into the dog chow, practically inhaling it. Crunching and lapping sounds ensued.
What if Miriam cast a spell to bring my hatred back on me threefold?
Laughing, Simon shook his head. “What do I have to be afraid of? If my spells didn’t work, hers won’t.”
Feeling as if someone had balanced an armoire on his head because he was sleep-deprived, Simon went to bed early.
Simon’s alarm beeped at 7:00 a.m., warning him to get up and go to work at The Wampum Times, the local newspaper where he was employed as the entertainment editor. He blinked a few times at the light shining in his bedroom window.
When Simon rolled over to escape the sun, Buster whined, for he’d slept next to his master. Frowning, Simon rubbed his eyes. He pushed Buster away. The dog reluctantly jumped down from the four-poster bed.
Fear choked Simon like a serial murderer.
A large portion of unearthly flesh jutted out from his elbow, about six inches long. As Simon held it up before the mirror behind the pillows, it dangled stubbornly.
What the hell?
Simon blinked, holding it up to his face. It flopped against his chest a few times like a breadstick.
Simon dressed with haste, tucking the extra flesh into his silk shirt. He called in sick to work and rushed to the emergency room.
Simon frowned as a nurse pushed his wheelchair towards the X-ray room at Wampum Memorial. “I hope it’s not serious.” He smelled antiseptic and winced. The wheelchair stopped in front of a big room with glass walls showcasing a huge, white machine.
The nurse, a plump blonde, came around and looked down on him. “The X-ray tech will be here shortly, okay?”
Miserable, Simon nodded. She wouldn’t even reassure him. The nurse squished down the hall in her soft shoes.
A young male orderly with glasses and a medium build walked up to him. “Problems with your elbow?”
Simon nodded and held it up.
“Good Lord, that looks terrible!” the orderly blurted.
Simon shook his head. “Don’t hold back, now.”
The orderly walked behind him, pushing him towards the room. “Let’s get you in right away.”
A thin brunette tech had taken his X-rays while Simon told her he’d fallen on the ice. Now Simon sat in Urgent Care while the middle-aged bald man who had introduced himself as Dr. Barring frowned over his X-rays.
The doctor locked eyes with Simon. “It looks like when you fell on the ice, a piece of bone came loose, and that’s what’s causing the extra fluid in your elbow. I’ll write you a prescription for an antibiotic. Don’t do any heavy lifting, especially working out at the gym, and don’t lean on it. The swelling should go down in a week or two. Sometimes it goes away quickly.”
Simon smiled. “So it’s nothing serious?”
Doctor Barring waved him off. “No, it’s pretty common.”
“Thank God.”
“You bitch!” Simon cried into the phone. “You put a spell on me!”
“No, I didn’t,” Miriam, the witch that ran Mother Nature’s Sacred Space answered. “Calm down, hon.”
“Then why is my elbow bulging out?”
Miriam sighed. “I simply prayed to the goddess to take away your hate and bind you from spreading bad karma.”
Simon, shaking with anger, slammed the phone down in the landline cradle.
A week later, the swelling hadn’t gone down. The growth had stuck out an inch more per day. His elbow now brushed his feet.
A month later, Simon dragged himself into the kitchen. He keened.
The end of his elbow still lay in the bedroom.
Screaming, Simon grabbed and yanked the rest of the eerie, garden hose-like growth toward him until it coiled at his feet. He grabbed a butcher knife and yelled maniacally as he sawed below his elbow bone. Blinding pain assaulted him. The residue plopped on the floor, along with a large amount of dark red blood.
Simon’s eyes grew wide.
Mechanical-looking green insects flew out of the growth, their wings buzzing like a moped motor, some kind of sci-horror nightmare. The bugs filled the house.
Simon grabbed his head and shrieked. That’s when he realized Miriam had lied. She had cursed him. All witches were selfish, as The Satanic Bible said—another “false” religion he’d looked into.
Then the mechanical insects with razor-sharp teeth took him.
RSVP
(Co-written with Ro Van Saint)
You're probably not going to believe what I'm about to tell you. Technically, I'm not supposed to. But, come on—if THIS happened to you, you'd tell someone too.
I received the official invite last week, just as I was about to leave work. Without hesitation, I took my debit card out and made an online payment for $10,000 to secure my place. I'm not a wealthy man but, for this, I was more than willing to spend what was left of my savings. Sure, I was hoarding that money for my annual trip to the bunny ranch in Vegas, but this felt more important.
By the time I got home, the confirmation was already in my inbox—the receipt for my purchase, including an address of the event. It said to wear something appropriate or risk the chance of being turned away, and if you miss the date, you’re shit out of luck. No refunds, no excuses.
I sat in my living room, shirtless with boxers and black socks, my beer gut hanging over the sides of my shorts, eating delicious, day-old, leftover pizza and looking forward to this special event. I picked the crumbs of crust off my wiry chest hair and flicked them off, my cat more than happy to fetch and eat the bits on the carpet. I took another sip of my monster slushy soda, tangy and sweet. The television blared, but my mind wandered. I'd already bought an expensive, sleek suit. I hoped it still fit.
I may look like your average nobody off the streets, but I clean up well.
I may live in a shit neighborhood in a duplex that appears to be held together by craft glue and rubber bands, but the location saves me money.
The women at work may give me strange looks and giggle behind my back, but once a year for the last four years I’ve managed to scrape enough money to fuck:
a) Two porn stars at the same time.
b) An ex-model (centerfold of the year, 2001).
c) A twenty-year-old redhead who let me do that thing my ex-wife said no decent woman would do—twice.
Not bad for an overweight forty-five-year-old bank clerk.
You still with me? You’re not a religious fanatic, are you? Good. It gets better.
The day of the event finally came and I dressed like an international spy at large, the sunglasses completing the equation. My suit was snug, but it fit all right. I took a cab, paid the hackie, and made the mistake of hopping out a few blocks from the actual location.
I heaved ragged breaths, and sweat dripped down my balding head. By the time I got to the building, I wheezed, and sweat had slicked my whole body. Since this get-together was a top-secret sort of thing, being discreet was a necessary evil.
So, about this event: it's an exclusive, invite-only dinner party, an underground operation shrouded in secrecy. You had to be in with the right circles to even know it existed. After you made the initial contact, a rigorous application process followed. This was a big deal. The organization weeded out the weak.
Most people were curious and thought they wanted to try it but, when it came down to it, they lacked the intestinal fortitude to go through with the act. Most people won't even own up to exhibiting interest because it challenges the status quo. They're afraid their peers, family, and spouses will see them as freaks.
They're absolutely right.
If this is something you're into, you shouldn't be saying it out loud. Not everyone understands the craving.
I helped myself to my first taste of human flesh when I was a teenager, stumbling upon my brother's stash in the garage freezer where he kept the extra beer. He was pissed off at first but then figured it a good way of bonding with his kid brother—such a cool guy. I’d always wanted to be like him: taller, better-looking, drove a nice car and had a different woman every weekend. He gave me my first flesh mag. Then he let me watch his movies featuring his escapades with women. Those films taught me everything I know.
The police eventually halted my sibling’s killing spree. I miss the son of a bitch.
I’d developed a craving for cannibalism, you see. When I heard of this special event from a buddy of mine, I jumped at the chance of getting another taste. This became my mission, an obsession. It was all I could think about, and I was determined to be chosen. Whatever had to be done I was willing to do. And they’d taken me in, giving me a chance to know what it felt like to have all the pussy and human cuisine I’d ever wished for. Of course I wanted more.
The next thing I knew, I stood in front of the residential building in the upscale side of town, about to experience it all over again.
I wiped the sweat off my face with a white monogrammed handkerchief, straightened my shirt and jacket, walked up the stairs (all this beating feet is fucking killing me), and rang the bell.
The steel, rectangular slot at eye level slid open, and a pair of dull gray eyes locked on mine. “Password?”
I smiled as it came to mind. “Meat.”
The slot closed, and the steel door opened with a loud click.
The butler, adorned in a suit and bow tie, nodded. “Welcome, Charles. This way, sir.”
I was led through the double gold doors into a huge room with chandeliers, a full bar sporting neon lights, and, to the right, the long dining table which waiters and waitresses rushed to stock with plates, silverware, and matching silver goblets. To the right of that stood a stage and a dance floor.
Macy Mack, the decent woman who had let me do whatever I’d wanted, slinked up to me. Her long, curly red hair draped over her shoulders like dyed lace. Her conservative black dress hid all the lusciousness, but I knew what was underneath. Perky breasts—not too large and not too small—hid inside the sheer material. I could see the tops of the hooters, dotted with freckles. From underneath the conservative gown, the lower half of her milky-white legs—the bony calves sexy and inviting—stuck out, giving me a peek.
“Charles,” she said in a chirpy, high voice. “So glad you could come.”
I kissed her hand, the skin soft and carrying the scent of sweet perfume. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear.” Man, am I smooth when I’m here, unlike out there. “I’ll see you in room 2B afterward?”
Macy parted her full, glossy lips, smiling and showing me her pearly whites. “You know it, sugar. Buy me a drink?”
“I’d love to.” I took the crook of her arm.
Keith Kline, the newest, hippest rock star, cruised up after Macy and I took a seat at the bar crowded with businessmen and women, plus politicians and entertainers. The scent of bittersweet cologne wafted over to me. I recognized Miles Macabre, the prominent horror author, Bizz Boofer, an important jazz musician, and was that the vice president? Yes, it was!
The rocker—I called him KK—looked effeminate with blond tips in his spiked hair. He wore eyeliner and sported the porn stars I’d had at the same time: a stacked blonde on one arm, and a Double-D brunette on the other. They were so tanned it had to hurt, as always. Apparently, they were his tonight.
Keith clapped me on the back. “Charles, my man, I see you’re lookin to be hookin, as usual
.”
I shook with him. “You look smashing, KK.” I nodded at the starlets. “Ladies.”
“Hi,” they cried in unison, a siren’s song if I ever heard one.
KK smiled and pointed me out. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He chuckled. “Then again, what wouldn’t I do?”
The ladies busted out laughing, as if they’d better.
“Gotta go do a sound check,” KK added. “My band’s the entertainment for the evening.”
“Really?”
“Who else?”
I pointed at him. “Knock ‘em dead.”
“You know I will.”
Dirk Carnage, the famous action movie star, nodded and sat next to me. Muffy, the golden haired, 2001 centerfold who now introduced herself as Dirk’s wife, sat on the other side of him. She’d begun to delve into cosmetic surgery. Dirk’s tanned face highlighted his square jaw and dimpled chin. His muscles practically burst out of his designer suit, and his striking blue eyes pinned me. Expensive cologne again assailed my nostrils.
“Glad you could make it,” Dirk said in a husky voice. He shook my hand, crushing it, of course, and I was thankful when he let go. “Glad to see you had the cojones to come back for more action.”
I smiled. “If you think I’d miss this A-list party, you’ve got another thing coming.”
The gorgeous, teen bartender with a skinny body and jailbait tits sauntered up with a mischievous grin. She probably looked younger than she really was, as I had when I’d been a young man. The woman showed off a gothic mix of black hair with red streaks. “What’ll it be, boys and girls?”
“Vodka Gimlet,” Dirk blurted. “Three fingers, on the rocks.”
Macy nudged me. “You first.”
“Wine Spritzer,” I let out.
Macy turned toward the barkeep. “I’ll have a . . . Sex on the Beach.”
The bartender’s lips curled up into a wicked grin. “I’ll bet.” She laughed. “You got it.”