Wake the Wicked

by Christian Baloga

  "What the fuck's that?" my client asked, glaring at my arm.

  "My daughter. You ass clown," I replied, setting up my equipment.

  "She a demon or something?" he asked, smirking like an asshole.

  "You fucking serious, man? You better watch yourself, buddy. I've got the needle here." I leaned in close to my daughter, her face twisted with fright. It brought me back to last night. I shook my head to try to regain my senses, but it made me dizzy.

  I needed to focus. Focus on the hungry cannibal. Focus on the hungry cannibal. Focus on the gold. I drew up a quick sketch and asked the fucker if it was what he had in mind. He agreed with a shrug, so I gave it more detail and made up the stencil for his back.

  I leaned in close to my machine, hoping I aligned the needle correctly. If not, any damage would serve this prick right. He was lucky I needed his back to win.

  I dug the needle deep into Ben's skin, and he coughed and wheezed and his back jiggled.

  To dull my own pain, I paid a visit to the back room a couple more times before I felt like I was making any progress on the tattoo. Two hours later, the camera crew went live, and they were in my face, asking questions I could barely focus on, let alone answer.

  "Dude, I'm workin okay?" I explained to the reporter. "I need to focus, man." I scratched at my arm. Dried blood flaked off, fresh blood smeared.

  "Okay, there you have it, folks," the reporter commented in a cheery voice. "They're all busy here at Blaquebird, and check this out." He pointed at the unfinished cannibal on Ben's back. "Scary stuff, if I say so myself. Could he be the winner? We'll see."

  Ben shifted toward the camera, and right before they were about to turn, he yelled, "Look it. This guy's bleeding all over me with that demon tattoo on his arm. Ain't there a health code around here?"

  I paid no attention to him because I felt the charred portrait shift under my skin, snaking over my brachioradialis, pleading for attention.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a microphone in my face. They must be waiting for me to answer another question. I pushed it away with my right hand.

  The portrait bubbled into life, more realistic than ever. I saw Rosa’s mouth open as if to cry out. Nothing sounded but I saw her screaming for mercy.

  "Rosa!" I cried, knocking the mic away from my face again. I reached for the drawer next to me and pulled out the scissors I'd used to cut out the stencil.

  I whispered to Rosa, "Sorry, sorry," and stabbed the pointed blade into my arm and began cutting away at my flesh, around the portrait, around Rosa, my ill daughter, my dead little girl. It detached in one wet chunk. The mic was no longer in my face, but all eyes were on me, and the portrait of my daughter, Rosa.

  END

  Savage Games

  Jill pattered at the edge of her desk with a No. 2 pencil, imagining bullet after bullet thundering through viscous, rotting flesh. It was all she could think about. She imagined it like it was happening. She'd drop coins in a rectangle slot, grab a firm hold of the machine gun, and fire away at flesh eating zombies.

  A muffled scratching from the loud speakers sounded. Jill sat at the edge of her seat, backpack on, ready to flee. A woman with a sharp voice like an ambulance siren announced, "Sixth grade may now be dismissed." Jill leapt up at once and sprinted down the hallway. It was crowded with other kids, big and small, all ready to go home for the weekend. Jill thrusted open a set of glass doors leading outside.

  It didn't take more than a moment to spot her mom's car at the right of a flagpole. Bill, her twin brother, moseyed a few feet ahead of her. She elbowed him out of the way. He yelped. Their mother had been too busy to notice. She had a magazine spread open over the steering wheel.

  The moment Jill took a seat in the old hunk of metal, her mom peered at her through the rear view mirror and stuck out a hand toward the back seat. "Let's see the papers." She reached back farther. The hip-hop pounding out of the speakers subdued her voice.

  Bill plopped onto the seat next to her and slammed the door shut. He saw his mom's chubby hand, open and grabbing at air, which distracted him from his anger toward Jill, for the moment at least.

  Jill and Bill rummaged through their backpacks. Jill was first to whip out her English test paper. She handed it to her mom. The paper read, "A+ EXCELLENT!" written across it in red ink.

  "Good job," she yelled, handing it back to Jill. "Bill, how about you?"

  Bill handed his over. She scanned it with one quick look and said, "Alright, you win. We're going to the arcade."

  Jill and Bill danced in their seats, singing a victory tune. Mom wiggled in her seat as well, and sang along with the lyrics of the music.

  "Seat belts on?" mom asked, but didn't wait around for replies. She pressed her foot down on the gas and their bodies slammed against the seat.

  "So are you going to get killed in the first thirty seconds again?" Jill taunted her brother.

  "I didn't get killed; I didn't want to play anymore. My hands were sore from last week."

  "Nuh-uh, you jus’ have baby frog nuts." Jill squinted her eyes and pinched her fingers together to emphasize the size.

  The bickering continued until they drove through the Noir Mall arches.

  "Park there!" Jill yelled over the booming music.

  "No! Up front. Park there!" Bill pointed out his open window. Mom didn't respond. She probably wasn't paying attention.

  Jill winced at Bill. She hated when he saw a closer parking spot, especially if mom listened to him, which she did. Once parked, the rusted car doors made a long, loud, whimpering mewl, like a hungry baby dragon.

  They crossed the street to the entrance of the arcade. Mom reached into her oversized purse and handed them each a roll of quarters. "See you two in a bit, time for mommy's up-do." She puffed up her hair and held out her hand, exhibiting a scruffy set of nails. She gave them both pecks on the forehead and stepped off in the opposite direction, clutching her bag close to her side as though the straps might snap off at any moment.

  Jill pushed her brother out of the way and ran toward her favorite game, a sit-down arcade cabinet called Pit of Zombies.

  The line was longer than usual, trailing past five arcade machines and a walkway. After a couple minutes, Jill tapped her feet against one of the machines until she couldn't take it anymore. With her arms crossed, she trotted over to her game and opened the door. "What’s the hold up?" she yelled inside at two boys firing off blue and red plastic guns at a screen full of blood-gushing zombies.

  Concentrating on the game, neither turned to see who was trying to interrupt their game play. "Uh, we're awesome, so get out and wait your turn," said the boy closest to her.

  "BILL," she yelled, her eyes glaring at the boy sitting at the seat farther away. "How did you get in before me? You idiot!" She slammed the door closed and it popped back open on impact.

  "Stupid idiots," she cursed and walked to the end of the line, unaware of the crowd looking and whispering around her.

  Jill heard jingling from behind her. It sounded like keys. A man dressed in a yellow and red one piece uniform doddered up from behind her. Jill had seen this big-eared man before. He was always drifting around the arcade, lugging around opaque yellow garbage bags.

  The man pulled out a coin from his breast pocket and whispered to her, "Here, filled it with toys a couple minutes ago." He pointed at the far end of the arcade. "The glass one, right around the corner. Go ahead."

  Jill looked at him, arms still crossed, and hesitated. "I'm not homeless, but I'll take what you got."

  He dropped the coin into her tiny hand.

  Another game of shooting zombies—here I come! she thought, displaying a devilish smirk.

  Jill squinted at the man and said in a matter-of-fact manner, "Your breath stinks like cat poop." She flicked the coin back at him. It hit his forehead. "Use it to buy a toothbrush."

  The man paused; his elephant ears simultaneously shifted toward the back of his head and he lifted one eyebrow. It seemed he w
as on the verge of saying something rude to the child, but instead, walked away with a smirk.

  She picked up the quarter from the red carpet and faced the line, which had gotten much shorter. She was next up.

  Jill used up every coin her mom had given her within 45 minutes. She had only reached level 10—level 40 was her average. "What’s wrong with this thing?" She stomped her feet up and down on the floor. The sound echoed off the inner walls and rocked the entire machine.

  The door opened, her brother stood outside. "Mom's here, we're leaving now. Come on."

  Jill threw the gun at the screen and climbed out. On the way out, she felt a tickle in her nose and reached inside her pocket for a tissue. Her fingernail tapped against something hard; the coin. She’d forgotten about it.

  "Be done in a little," she told her brother and sprinted to the glass vending machine where she examined the exposed mechanisms. It was a complex glass Rube Goldberg-like vending machine with shiny silver trim. Plastic egg-shaped capsules lay in a rainbow pile at the top of the tombstone-shaped frame. They were opaque, so no one knows what treasure or garbage lay inside.

  Regardless, Jill inserted the coin into a metal slot and cranked a lever, which turned a set of gears and started the contraption. A door opened at the top, allowing a single pink capsule out. It rolled through obstacle after obstacle, down level after level, and continued along a series of twisting and tumbling actions. Mesmerized, Jill stuck out her cupped hands and caught the pink egg.

  "Come on!" Bill grabbed her arm before she was able to open it and hustled her out of the arcade where mom sat on a bench chatting to another woman.

  Jill shook the capsule near her ear as if she’d be able to guess what’s inside from the noise it made. Her expectations were low nevertheless. A dumb bouncy ball, she thought, rattling it again in her ear. No, can't be, sounds plastic. Bet it's a tiny toy chicken or something stupid.

  She couldn't wait any longer. She popped off the top and took out a hinged heap of plastic. She unfolded it. A rubber band gun. Hmm...this is going to be fun, she thought, placing it in her pocket.

  * * *

  All was quiet in the classroom. Each student was busy taking a test, except for Jill. This'll be good practice, Jill thought, loading a rubber band on her new toy from inside her desk cubby. Her teacher was busy grading papers, and Jill made sure her eyes were still immersed in work before taking it out.

  Jill held up a piece of paper in front of the gun. She knew at once whom she wanted to hit, the teacher’s pet. Jill squinted one eye closed and aimed at a girl in the front row.

  The rubber band snapped off the girl’s back and landed on the floor.

  The girl jumped up at once and began swatting her back. "It bit me! It hurts! It hurts! Where is it? Look!" She went from desk to desk in a frantic craze. "Is it still on me?"

  The entire classroom began an uproar. They all flashed their eyes around the room, searching for any signs of bees, spiders, or rats. The teacher stood and inspected the class. "Sit. All of you sit down."

  Jill bit her lip so hard to stop giggling she tasted blood.

  By the end of the week, the entire classroom went from thinking they were all being stung by bees, to being bitten by fire ants living in the walls, to being confident it was human-eating moths.

  The class billowed in from a hot day of recess. Bill walked over to Jill's desk and continued to argue with her. "I'm not trading you my bog rat for this hairy werewolf. You made mom get it and now it's losing its hair. It's not my fault you left it in the pool all winter," he said, holding his toy close to his heart, and walked off.

  Jill took aim and, before he could return to his desk, she fired a rubber band at him. It stung the back of his neck.

  Bill rubbed his neck and turned around. "It was you the whole time!" he cried out to the entire classroom. He inspected his hand. "Jerk, I'm bleeding!"

  The teacher walked over to Jill's desk, her shoes clacking on the floor like an angry horse on pavement. She held out her hand. Jill hesitated, but handed over the gun. "You'll be staying in for recess the rest of next week," she said, turning her head toward the front of the room, "Jonathan, switch with Jill."

  Jill hated being a prisoner of the front row. She wasn't able to cause nearly the amount of trouble she found necessary to get through the day. And worst of all, her rubber band gun was taken from her. I'll get another one at the arcade! Jill thought. She had so much fun with the toy. She felt it was her only hope to get through the boredom she faced in the coming weeks. How else would she survive the front row? She'd have to be more careful next time.

  * * *

  It was Friday and her last class had been dismissed. Jill sprinted toward the car and took a seat. The music roared. Her mom peered through the rear view mirror and stuck out her right hand as far back as she could reach. "Papers," she demanded.

  Jill handed over a paper. Her head jerked, following the beat of hip hop jams on the radio. "I didn't do as good as last time, but it's good enough," she yelled.

  "B . . . you barely made it."

  Bill opened the creaky car door and sat down. "Look what Jill did." He stuck out a blood-smeared finger.

  Mom turned her head back, flashing a millisecond gaze. "Settle down and show me your test so we can get going."

  Bill seemed to know where the paper was, but took his time handing it to her.

  "The salon's not open all day," she whispered, tapping her finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the radio.

  He handed it over. "C-. This doesn't cut it, Bill. You'll be with me today."

  He stole the test from his mom, crumpled it in a ball and chucked it at his sister. Jill laughed as he catapulted his backpack to the floor.

  Jill's mom handed out the rolls of quarters. "See you in a bit," she said to Jill, but Jill had already made her way over to the Pit of Zombies. It wasn't as packed as last week.

  "Where's Bill?" a boy asked Jill a few moments later.

  "Getting his nails done with mom," Jill said, opening the door to the game and sitting on the hard plastic seat. "I'll let him know you asked about him, though," she said and shut the door.

  Not an hour later, Jill had spent all but one quarter, which she saved for the egg spitting out machine. There wasn’t a line for it. She’d never seen anyone at the game in all the months she'd been coming to the arcade.

  She tore open the bottom of the coin roll, releasing the last quarter. Without hesitation, she inserted it and cranked the lever. The machine started.

  It made a series of clicks and clanks.

  A red capsule worked its way through the maze of obstacles. "This better be another gun," she whispered to herself, her face pressed against the glass.

  The red capsule rolled out of the machine. She caught it and opened it at once. "Paper?" she said, emptying it onto her left hand. She unfolded the tiny piece of parchment. In sloppy writing, it read, "NO TOYS FOR MONSTERS!"

  Jill took a step back. She looked around as if she thought somebody was watching her, laughing at her as she read the note. But nobody was around. This must be a joke! she thought, but nobody jumped out laughing. There wasn't even anybody in that section of the arcade; there never was. She crumpled the paper in her fist, turned around, and stomped out of the arcade.

  Jill's mom sat outside with Bill. She put down her magazine and sniffed the air. "Chinese smells great. What do you say, let's get something to eat?" Jill and Bill nodded in agreement. They walked next door to the food court.

  "You two pick a seat while I wait for the food," Jill's mom stood in front of the cashier, reading a magazine with flashy cover lines.

  Jill and Bill took a seat at a table closest to the arcade. Jill watched the multitude of people walk in and out. One was the man in red and yellow.

  He noticed Jill. He smiled and waved.

  "He's coming over, don't look." Jill turned her gaze down, making sure her eyes didn't stray from the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bill turn hi
s head. "Idiot, stop looking around. He's going to come over here," she demanded, but he didn't listen. She kicked him hard.

  "Now why'd you do that to him?" The man staggered closer, half smiling the whole time.

  "Go away or I'll scream." Jill continued to keep her head lowered. She felt uncomfortable. Her eyes darted from one side of the table to the other. Her legs tapped against the floor.

  "That's not nice. You want another quarter don't cha? Come on inside, let's play another game. It's on me." The man hunched over, holding a quarter close to Jill—too close.

  "GET AWAY FROM ME!" Jill yelled. Her head shook from side to side.

  "Alright." He smirked. "I bet your brother wants to play."

  Bill wobbled his head in agreement and stuck out a hand.

  "HELP US! HELP!" Jill slapped the man's hand away. The quarter flew from his palm onto the floor. "HELP, HE'S TRYING TO HURT US!"

  Her voice echoed off every wall. People passing by slowed down. A woman seated at the next table over jumped out of her seat, startled by the shrill cry.

  The man giggled nervously. With his back crouched, he looked around at the many staring faces. His smile subsided, and he withdrew and disappeared around the corner.

  "Why'd you do that?" Bill whispered. "I could've used another quarter."

  A minute later, mom walked over with a tray of food. One of the fortune cookies fell into Jill's lap.

  "You two need to keep it down. I heard you all the way over there," Mom said, handing out trays of tofu and broccoli to each child.

  Jill saved the fortune cookie for the ride home. She cracked open the cookie, took out the paper, and threw the crumbs out the window. "Something you lost will soon turn up."

  The gun? she thought.

  * * *

  On Monday, Jill rushed to her classroom before anybody else and listened for any movement in the halls. When she realized all was quiet, she began peering into the teacher's garbage can; empty. From the wall behind her, she heard the clock ticking. I bet it's in her desk, she thought, feeling the pressure now to search fast. She slid open the top drawer; nothing but a pile of papers. She rummaged through the second drawer: paperclips, pencils, erasers, markers, and lip balm. The bottom drawer—bingo!