The Blood You Owe

by Ullery, D. S.

  2 STORIES BY

  D.S. ULLERY

  “THE BLOOD YOU OWE” is published in the US and A by MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright: D.S. Ullery for words and music, cover art and design, 2017. Fairly well edited and stage directed by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his various disjointed proclivities have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this dark, viscerally violent novel may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of The Reverend, D.S. Ullery, The Great and Powerful Oz and the Hand that turns the Big Wheel, except where permitted by law or whatever the hell you think you can get away with. But if you do, please be advised that you will incur the righteous disdain of The Reverend. And that is no Bueno, primo. The characters in this vicious tome are fictitious. Duh. Obviously. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, demons, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.

   MorbidbookS Is A Grotesque Bizarro Ballet Where The Most Profane Things Occur. An Impious And Perverse Dwelling Of Dark Revulsion. A Cozy Cottage Where Torture Porn And Brutal Bible Tales Are Devised. A Quiet Place To Relax And Spin Tales Of Depravity And Wickedness. A Halfway House For The Disturbed Where Rules No Longer Apply. A Safe Haven For Deviant Serial Killers To Hatch Their Wretched Schemes. Bring Your Pets. The Tasty Ones Are Always Welcome.

  Forward

  As I write this it is a little past 5pm on the evening before Memorial Day, 2017. The sun has been shining and the skies are a brilliant cobalt as far as the eye can see, unblemished by even a hint of clouds. It’s good weather, vacation weather, even if this has been one of the hottest days of the year thus far here in my little region of South Florida.

  It’s the kind of weather that might find a teenage boy exploring a wooded area not unlike The Green in “Song of the Earth, So Dark So Deep”. It’s also possible you’d come across a crew of crop workers chopping at fields of sugarcane like one at the center of “It Brings Out the Worst in You” on a day like this.

  The pairing of the titles mentioned above comprises the heart of The Blood You Owe, which is being brought to you by the good people at MorbidbookS. Guided by the hand of the wonderfully dark Reverend Steven Rage (Preach it Rev, testify to the horror!), within these pages you will find two dark tales of supernatural comeuppance arising via the natural world. It’s my hope you find the stories creepy, engaging and even a bit thought provoking.

  I would like to take this time to express my gratitude to author Terry M. West, a good cat and fantastic scribe who pointed me in the direction of the good Reverend. I’d also like to thank Steve himself for letting me know he enjoyed the stories and being willing to take them on and put this project out there. This is the first standalone publication of my work to be released specifically by an independent press. I’m thrilled it’s happening with such an original, ferociously twisted group of horror rowdies like the MorbidbookS family. There is nothing routine or ordinary about this crowd. I feel right at home.

  Finally, my enduring gratitude to you, the audience. If you enjoyed my fiction collection Beyond Where the Sky Ends, I think you’ll find this pair of terror tales to your liking. If this is your first time reading my work, I sincerely hope you enjoy these stories and will be prompted to seek out my other releases.

  So, come along, readers. We’re going on a trip to the great outdoors! But be careful: Sometimes nature doesn’t welcome visitors.

  D.S. Ullery

  5/28/17

  CONTENTS:

  ”It Brings Out The Worst In You” page 5

  “Song of the Earth So Dark, So Deep” page 94

  “It Brings out the Worst in You”

  by D. S. Ullery

  THEN:

  JUST AFTER A MIDNIGHT on a warm, moonless, summer morning in June of 1970, two men cowered inside of a small, wooden tool shed keeping a lonely vigil in the middle of a large field in South Florida.

  The men were not inclined to fear and their disposition in those dark pre-dawn hours was borne of circumstance, not timidity. They were being hunted, having sought the shelter of the tiny structure as a means of respite. Here they hoped to regroup and plan their escape.

  Panting as he crouched in one tight corner, Jean Baptiste stared into the claustrophobic darkness of the unlit interior. He could hear his brother Samuel’s labored gasps across the small space.

  “Shhhhh,” Jean implored in a low, urgent tone. “We don’t know if they saw us enter. If we keep silent, they may pass us by.”

  “They’re never gonna pass us by,” Samuels voice grunted from the shadows. “They know we work the fields, Jean. They know we know about this toolshed. They’ll be here and they’ll get us.”

  “Then we’d better get moving,” Jean countered, deciding it was foolish to argue. Samuel was correct. The men who were after them would likely make their way specifically to the shed to check and see if the two of them had done exactly what they were doing now.

  “I told you not to bid on this land when the government took it back,” Samuel chastised, his voice equal degrees bitter and scared. “Those redneck assholes won’t give a second thought to killing two Haitians. Not in a nowhere little town like this one.”

  “I had every right,” Jean shot back defiantly. “What business is it of mine of the man who owned this land can’t pay what he owes to the government? You and I worked this land for years, I saved my money and it was mine to purchase.”

  “This isn’t the time for this argument, brother,” Samuel said. “We need to get the hell out of here before they -”

  He was interrupted by movement outside. The faint, syllabic tones of multiple voices began to grow louder in the field beyond.

  “Pitit gason nan yon femél chen!” Jean swore, the Creole slipping out. “They found us!”

  He scampered towards the opposite wall of the shed, staying in his crouch as he hopped forward one foot a time, as softly as possible. Halfway across the space, his sneaker caught on the crook of Samuel’s knee, throwing him off balance. Jean toppled to one side with a heavy thud, striking a rake and a shovel propped in the opposite corner, causing them to slide sideways along the wall and land atop one another with a clatter.

  “Oh, dear God, we’re going to die,” Samuel moaned.

  Jean scrambled back onto his feet in a panic, pressing his face against the planks comprising the walls of the shed. He held his eye up to a tiny crack between two of the boards, trying to catch a glimpse of where their pursuers were. With no moon lighting the sky, he was unable to make anything out. They were too far from town and any sort of electric street lamps to see what was going on out there.

  “I don’t know where they are,” he murmured to Samuel. “On a quiet night, sound can carry out here. Maybe they’re further than we realize and we can make a run for it. What do you think?”

  There was no response, only his brother’s breathing, which had grown quick and shallow in the past minute.

  “Samuel?”

  A small sob drifted out of the gloom. The sound sent chills through Jean. His brother was one of the toughest men he knew. Samuel didn’t step back for any man. Hearing such a miserable, frightened noise issue from him was terrifying.

  He intended to call to this brother again, but was interrupted by a terrible whooshing noise, as if a singular blast of wind had struck the exterior of the toolshed and raced up all four walls in unison.

  The world lit up and an incredible, unbearable heat besieged them. Through a hazy, orange glare, Jean saw Sam
uel’s face, an etching of animal terror staring back blankly from the narrow corner his brother had pressed his body into.

  That look of mindless horror told the entire story with more power than any words.

  The men outside had set the toolshed ablaze and two of them were going to burn to death in here.

  Jean wept. He wept for his brother. He wept for the injustice of it all. He wept for those who had been murdered didn’t he name of hate before them. Before his eyes, Samuel caught fire and began to twist to and fro, shrieking as the flames first blistered, then cooked, his skin.

  Then he was burning. He could feel his clothes melting against his flesh, the agony of a thousand needles of pain searing into his nerves. The acrid sting as smoke choked off oxygen and filled his lungs.

  Sparing a final thought for the young son he would never see again, Jean‘s prayers ended.

  ***

  THE ORANGE GLOW OF the burning shed stood in stark contrast to the deep shade of night hanging over the fields, casting the four men standing around it in an amber glow. They watched the remnants of the shack snap and pop beneath the onslaught of the flames, transfixed by the angry, elemental beauty of the display.

  The four watched until the toolshed had been reduced to a pile of ashen embers, among which lay the blackened, smoldering remains of two human beings. One of the men signaled to two of the others and they nodded, capping the gasoline can and making sure the torch they had rendered form an old branch and oily rag was extinguished.

  The pair carried both items over to the metal hulk of a pickup truck parked in the shadows a hundred yards away, on the other side of the shed from where Jean Baptiste had tried to peer into the darkness. A few minutes passed and they returned, each carrying a pair of shovels. One of them held a pair of dark green, industrial sized garbage bags.

  The shovels were handed out. Two of the men set about breaking up the brittle foundation of the shed with the blades of their shovels, while the others began to dig the pit it would all be buried in. Before long, they were all pushing burnt wood and piles of ash into the ground.

  After that was accomplished, they filled the hole. Then, working in pairs, they set about loading the bodies into the garbage bags and tying them off. Later that morning (just before dawn), they would dispose of the remains in a swampy place where prying eyes would not find them.

  All four men exchanged a knowing glance. None of them had played host to any misconception of how this would end. There was nothing to say about it, nor would any word of it be spoken in the years to come. It was simply a job that had to be done to preserve the integrity of their community and keep the surrounding land under control by the proper people.

  They carried the bags to the truck, tossed them into the back along with the shovels and drove off, secure in their anonymity.

  Behind them, unseen in his hiding place among the sugarcane plants, a young boy watched the truck disappear into the distance. His eyes were wide and glassy with tears. But it wasn’t sadness radiating from those dark circles.

  It was hate. Pure, raw hate.

  That night, a young boy - who had seen his father and uncle heading toward the fields from his bedroom window in their tiny house at the edge of town and decided to quietly follow - prayed to the darkness for the first time.

  And the darkness answered.

  NOW:

  “SO, IS THIS IT? You’re giving me the silent treatment for the rest of the trip?”

  Peter Beckett considered a wide variety of scathing retorts to his girlfriend’s query (Correction, he seethed quietly, officially ex-girlfriend. It’s all over but the shouting). He opted instead to grip the steering wheel of the ancient, Cobalt Blue Grenada so tight as to turn his knuckles white. His jaw set in an iron grimace, he stared balefully though the windshield, refusing to even look at her.

  The rain was torrential now. When they had first encountered the weather, it had been a relatively mild drizzle. The sun hadn’t quite disappeared at that time; the last of its golden light deepening what patches of blue broke the cover of clouds into errant coral waves. In the dwindling daylight, both Peter and Jessie had been treated to one of the lovelier sunsets they had seen during the five years they had been together.

  The sky had darkened quickly, and not because of the sun going down. As they drove further north, hoping to reach the Orlando/Kissimmee St. Cloud area in time to settle into a hotel and catch a good night’s sleep, the moderately gray pall of the overcast had skewed to a malevolent black. Deep rumbles began to punctuate the air, accompanied by electric flashes setting the heavens ablaze intermittently.

  The downpour had begun not long after. The deteriorating conditions and reduced visibility as night fell had made driving a treacherous proposition, even after Peter turned the brights on.

  Their progress had slowed thus. Within the hour, Peter had finally grown so concerned for their safety; he’d pulled off to the side of the road so they could wait for the rain to diminish.

  They had been back on the road for ten minutes and though the rain was still bombarding them, it had lightened enough that he could maintain a reasonable speed. There were no other vehicles out in the mess, so traffic wasn’t an issue. In fact, Peter couldn’t recall having seen another pair of headlights since the storm had hit.

  That wasn’t surprising. In addition to the inclement weather, they were on a stretch of highway winding through miles of sugar cane fields and other quaint examples of Floridian farmland. Peter had family in Jacksonville but lived in Lake Worth, so the nature of the drive wasn’t alien to him, even if this corridor was. To see more than half a dozen vehicles on the same stretch of road was considered rush hour in forlorn areas like this.

  Tonight, he was grateful for the solitude. The absence of other traffic meant he’d have a clear shot at making it to their destination as quickly as possible. Now that the rain had subsided enough to allow them to make slower (but still steady) progress, he could see an end in sight.

  In more ways than one, he thought grimly.

  He looked over at the woman in the passenger seat for the first time in over forty minutes. Not that she noticed; Jessie had slumped to one side, her head resting against the window as she stared through the barrage of droplets at a landscape she couldn’t see. Even in profile, Peter could tell she looked tired and drawn.

  He stared at her, feeling his anger rise again, incredulous at the turn of events. How could so much change in an hour?

  He returned his attention to the road. Peter noted the rain had decreased to a steady, low key sprinkle. He dropped the speed of the wipers a few notches, the rapid, repetitive thump of the rubber blades slowing.

  “I don’t know why you’re acting like this,” his companion said softly. “Things haven’t been good between us for a while now.”

  Peter ignored her, afraid anything that came out of his mouth would be vicious enough to permanently destroy whatever brittle emotional thread still connected them. He was too angry to carry on a reasonable conversation and he knew it.

  And I should be, he fumed bitterly. It isn’t every day a guy finds out his fiancée and best friend have been fucking for over a year.

  It wasn’t even the admission itself that burned him up. He was pissed all right. Of that there was no question. But to have it blurted out so unexpectedly, while they were trapped on the side of the road in the same car, waiting for the rain to let up? It seemed almost grotesque.

  Even worse was the impetus for the conversation; Jessie’s bizarre, increasingly anxious behavior as they had waited for conditions to become passable. She had been fidgety and impatient, constantly peering through the windshield, up at the sky. As if she couldn’t get comfortable.

  When Peter had asked, what was wrong, Jessie had been curt with him, her tone hostile, as if she were exasperated. That, in turn, had set him off.

  The thought of the confrontation which had followed provoked a flare of new rage and Peter felt his face grow hot. Suddenly, he n
o longer cared about what degree of damage he might cause. He shot her an angry glare.

  “You don’t understand why I’m mad?” he asked flatly. “Really.”

  Jessie raised her head, staring back at him in surprise. Peter had to struggle to suppress the wicked grin trying to force its way onto his face. As he’d expected, her protestations had been a show. She hadn’t expected him to engage her. His response had caught her off guard.

  “Yeah,” she answered, her words underscored with defiance. “Really. Let’s be honest, Pete. We haven’t been on the same page about what we wanted from this relationship for a while now.”

  “Tell me, Jess,” he said. “If you were so unhappy- if you were so convinced you and I were in different places as a couple- why the hell did you get engaged to me?”

  Jessie stared at Peter as if he were a complete simpleton.

  “Why? Because I thought we could work through it!” she told him. “God, Pete, you’ve spent the last year and half since the proposal pushing us into what you think our marriage should be. The problem is, you never stopped to listen to what I think it should have been.”

  “You know what else I didn’t do?” he growled at her. “Cheat on you with your best friend. Not to mention you didn’t even have the guts to tell me honestly. I gotta find out because you’re freaking out inside the car, acting like a crack addict desperate for their next hit.”

  He shook his head, uttering a short, cynical laugh. “Classy, Jess. Real classy. So, what was the plan? Take Tim aside while I was visiting with Derek and Barbara and do him? Is that why you were so antsy back there? Because you know he has to be on an out of state flight by midnight?”

  Jessie glared at him with undisguised disgust.