by Shane Staley
“You can come out of there once you’ve thought about what you did and apologize,” said Trey.
Trey hated punishing them, but he had to from time to time or else they would run the place, and he couldn’t have that. Without order there would be plastic anarchy.
He turned from the closet door and came face to face with Necky, whose eyes were slanted. His head was tilted menacingly on his lumbering neck.
“Just what do you think you’re doing sneaking up on me like that?” said Trey. “Do you need to go into the closet too?”
Necky backed off as Trey stared him down, his normal jovial attitude now completely abated. Killa sat on the couch with Monkey Mike, an orangutan Trey purchased at the San Diego Zoo. They’d been staring out of the window when Trey got home and now they were staring at him, eyes afire just like Necky’s.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” Trey huffed.
He walked into the family room where more inflatables huddled together like a sports team discussing the next play: Tabby Kat, Freddy the Frog, Dino, Mr. Ruffs, and Stripe the Zebra. Not at all the way Trey had left them this morning when he went to work. Their rubbery eyes glared and their plastic mouths hitched up in uncharacteristic snarls.
Trey stood at the mouth of the hallway that led to the bedrooms, staring at the mélange of inflatable animals that had somehow become angered with him.
“Not you too,” he said.
Trey sighed and turned away.
As he entered the small hallway his heart warmed for he knew there was someone waiting for him who wouldn’t slant her eyes or grit her teeth at him. She didn’t even have teeth, but what she had she used oh so good. None of the others could do for Trey what she could and they knew it. They were jealous, but it wasn’t going to change anything. Trey just couldn’t figure out how it was they didn’t understand that he loved them all as much as he ever had. Sally didn’t change that one bit.
The last door before the master bedroom led into Sally’s room. Unlike any of his other inflatables, she had her own private domain and never associated with Killa, Necky and the others. How could she? Sally wasn’t like them at all. She was like Trey, and anatomically correct to boot.
Trey opened the door and flicked the light switch. Sally’s room was painted pink with a mirrored vanity and a four-post bed fit for a queen. She was lying beneath the covers just as Trey had left her this morning, her mouth perked into a welcoming “O,” eyes in a perpetual state of surprise, as if the size of Trey’s erect penis was always bigger than she expected. Trey liked that look. Made him feel like a man. None of the others looked at him that way.
“I knew you wouldn’t treat me like they did.”
Trey undressed and crawled into bed with his plastic queen. She made balloon noises as he rubbed his hand up and down her inflated body. He always made sure Sally was nice and firm. To lose even a small amount of air would cause her to become too soft, and that was no fun.
Looking into Sally’s wide baby blues, Trey smiled and gave her a kiss like he’d never given the other inflatables. She reciprocated with squeaking murmurs.
Trey remained in Sally’s room for another half an hour before he reemerged into the hallway, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed. He was thoroughly satisfied and hungry for dinner.
As Trey made his way to the kitchen, something from the open door to the master bedroom caught his attention. His head shifted and something round and shiny retracted into the room’s darkness. He couldn’t be sure, but it was the color of Dino the orange dinosaur.
Trey brushed it off and headed for the kitchen, but he made it as far as the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room when he saw the copse of colorful animals all staring at him expectantly. Their eyes were drawn on like cartoon villains and their teeth bared. They shuffled toward Trey, rubber bodies squeaking together as they tread the carpet.
“You get away from me,” Trey said, but they stared from eyes that couldn’t close, eyes that forever saw what Trey was doing, every moment of the day.
And they knew!
Dammit, they knew about Sally. They knew what Trey was doing in her room and they were jealous. He could sense it. His affection was directed toward her and her alone. The petting, hugs and kisses he’d once given Killa, Ally, Tabby Kat and the others had become fewer with each passing day and they were furious.
“Don’t get hasty,” said Trey as he instinctively backpedaled toward the front door.
The bubbly inflatable animals grew in numbers as they emerged from the hallway and the master bedroom to join their brethren, and then Trey’s worst nightmare came true. One of his largest inflatable animals—won at the state fair two years ago—turned the hallway corner. Tucked in one thick gorilla arm was Sally. Pinched in the other plastic paw was a goddamned big needle. A crochet needle of all things.
Trey gasped. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Where the hell did Big Paws find that?
Mike the Monkey covered the front door as the others crowded around Trey. Big Paws made his way through the crowd in a series of absurd flatulent groans like rolling around on a plastic-coated couch. He lifted the needle in a threatening manner.
“Don’t do it!” Trey pleaded. “Please!” He started crying and then jumped out of his skin when a sound came from inside the coat closet.
Trey looked at the closet door and then remembered that he’d put Ally in there to punish her.
He looked at Big Paws. “You want me to let Ally out?”
Slowly the congregation nodded their collective heads. It sounded like a chorus of clowns making balloon animals.
Trey opened the closet door. Ally Gator spilled out, gnashing her teeth. They were plastic teeth, and yet Trey leapt back as if Ally could actually draw blood.
“You can’t hurt me,” said Trey suddenly gaining some strength of mind. He scanned the foyer, eyes meeting every color of the rainbow in inflated animals. They couldn’t do anything to him, and why would they? He’d done everything for them.
“Without me you’re nothing,” Trey blurted.
Big Paw squeezed Sally tighter and shook the crochet needle.
Trey gulped. Sweat that had been beading on his forehead began to drip down his face. They were getting to him, and yet he knew that they were nothing more than plastic. Their lifeblood was air.
He looked at Sally. His heart dropped, for he didn’t want Big Paw to pop her. On the other hand, she was nothing more than an inflatable love doll, just like the box he’d bought her in said. He could buy another Sally if he wanted to. He could buy a fucking harem of Sallys.
And he could pop every last one of these animals and there was nothing they could do about it. Nothing.
Trey lunged, grabbing Ally. The gator snapped, but her jaw did nothing but smack Trey’s arms with hollow bites. Trey grabbed Ally’s neck and ripped the plastic apart. It didn’t take much effort considering how old she was. The plastic separated and her life force escaped in a hiss.
Big Paw went into action. Sally’s death came in a loud pop that blew quite a hole in her chest where the ape slammed the needle.
Trey screamed and lunged forward but was retained by Dino, Mike and the rest of the gang. Only one or two of them and he would have had a fighting chance, but all of them at once was a force to be reckoned with.
Sally deflated in the gorilla’s fat, bulbous paws, hanging like a plastic beach towel. Mike the Monkey’s dexterous fingers latched onto Trey’s jaw and yanked it down. Trey screamed, but there was nothing he could do to defend himself.
Big Paws lifted the floppy plastic doll and approached Trey as if making an offering.
* * *
Mail had begun to gather in a pile at Trey’s front door before the mailman notified the post office about it. The neighborhood children passed by his house like frightened mice. They didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary since the animals in the picture window were rotated daily like some ridiculous neighborhood watch.
The water deliver
yman noticed a horrible odor at the front door, put two and two together with the pile of weathered mail and called the police for a welfare check.
When the police forced the door open they were faced with something that they would never forget. On the floor was a pile of green plastic that somewhat resembled a toy alligator. A mass of inflatable animals surrounded the green heap as if in mourning.
The odor came from the coat closet where the police found Trey’s putrefied body. His flesh was sticky and blackened from rot, his throat and cheeks bulging. The flaccid plastic hand dangling out of his absurdly stretched mouth was pink and delicate with red painted nails.
The Intruder
Wilfred R. Robinson
Self-awareness crept in like the high tide, slow, almost unnoticeable. It brought with it that morning’s epiphany of existence. He was still in the pre-boot sequence, the part where the rest of the human-machine starts turning on before the operating system loads. On most mornings, that goddamn alarm clock cut this process short, but not this morning. He assumed it must have been a weekend morning. At the moment, he lacked full cognizance, but he knew that was only temporary.
Next came the triggers, the sensations that allowed him to know where he was, the mattress he lay on, the pillows beneath his head, the thin sheets covering him from the knees down. He slept on his stomach, legs apart, fingers laced together under the pillows.
He took a deep breath of the morning air. The room smelled of lilac and hyacinth, the scents wafting in from Shauna’s garden outside. Shauna, the thought of her made him smile. He smacked his lips, the taste of last night’s stout, and pub-food, still lingering under the morning dryness. It wasn’t unusual to find Shauna out there toiling away, making something grow from nothing. When it came to creating life, Shauna had gifts. He wondered if she was out there as he slept, pruning some flower or herb before making them breakfast. Somehow, he didn’t think so. She was pretty drunk last night as well. He thought he could feel her weight next to him, but he wasn’t sure.
There was a dull throbbing ache in his groin, another trigger. Like the food, it was a leftover sensation from the previous night. They didn’t bother to turn the lights on when they got in. He led her by the hand up the steps. They clumsily, drunkenly, stripped away each other’s clothes, pawing their way through the darkness. He threw her on the bed.
Shauna once told him, “A good night leaves its mark.” He reached from under the pillows. His fingers lightly traced a line of scratches that originated somewhere on his back, and came around to his chest. Waves of tender pain exploded from the lacerated welts. He wondered how the bruise around her neck looked. He hoped that her clothes could cover it. The memory made him smile again. It was a good night.
He felt something small and warm nuzzle into the base of his back. Probably Cullan, their four-year-old Bichon. Shauna must have retrieved the dog after the sex. He could never recall much after he finished, maybe a few scattered emotions, or a word or two. More often than not, he was usually asleep within moments. Shauna preferred it that way. It gave her the freedom to do whatever she wanted, which usually meant just cuddling up to him, but not always.
That’s when he felt her press her breasts against his back. It must not have been Cullan after all. She threw an arm lazily around his shoulders. He snuggled back into her, stroking her arm where it rested just underneath his chin. She placed a leg between his, pressing her knee against the back of his exposed testicles, crushing them on the mattress.
“What the hell are you doing? “ He said without opening his eyes, “Trying to turn my balls into jelly?” They had been with each other long enough to know where the limits were. She knew he didn’t like his testicles handled roughly.
He pushed off his stomach, rolling over to his side. As he did so, she retreated slightly, relieving the pressure on his balls. He considered turning into her, but she steadied him with a gentle hand. He would have been well within his rights to berate her for crossing that line, but that might cause an argument. They were both, strong-willed, prideful, and short-tempered enough that an argument usually turned into an all day affair. He had no interest in dealing with that kind of fight. Not for what could amount to no more than a simple errant placement of her leg.
Before he could make up his mind, she threw her leg around his body, wrapping it in such a way so that it hung across his stomach. She wormed her other leg between him and the mattress, locking the back of her knee with the bridge of the hanging leg’s foot.
Shauna was never one for Mixed Martial Arts, or television wrestling. She often referred to the latter as “wrasslin.” When she was in the room, and it was on, she usually buried her nose in an E-book. She must have picked something up from all those nights, however, because she had the makings of a pretty good Rear Naked Choke.
He relaxed into her, his hand rubbing her thigh. He considered tapping out, but didn’t think she would get the joke. In one motion, she sprung, locking the choke around his neck. His eyes damn near popped out of his skull as she pulled the choke so tight that he could feel his windpipe on the verge of collapse. He rocked against her, grabbing futilely at her arm, trying to pry it away from his throat. Her breath felt hot on the side of his face. She let out a giggle as he struggled against her. He could feel her panting with a nervous excitement.
He tried to spin around, to face her, but she held him like a rider holds a bull. How was this happening? Why couldn’t he move? He outweighed her by sixty pounds. Reaching his arm back, he grabbed onto her skin at the shoulder. His fingers dug deep into her flesh. From beneath his probing digits it pulled like soft elastic. It felt insubstantial, not like skin, more like uncooked dough. He shifted his weight. He meant to throw her off the bed. She held her grip as he bucked. With one final thrust, he turned his body. She shifted her own weight in the same direction as his, forcing them both to roll off the bed together.
Before he went over, he saw something that caused an eruption of fear to explode from somewhere inside of him. He couldn’t help but let out a small mewling cry of unbelief as he looked at Shauna sleeping comfortably on the far side of the bed. Her head cocked to one side, her mouth open as a small amount of spittle ran down her face. Her exposed breasts rose and fell like two buoys on an unsettled body of water as she breathed. Cullan lay curled into a ball at her stomach.
Then who, or what, was on his back? He pulled hard at the chunk of shoulder he held in his hand. It ripped away from the bone with nary a sound, separating from whatever was on his back as if it were made of nothing more than clay.
“Shauna!” He screamed at his wife. “Shauna help me! Shauna!”
As soon as they hit the floor, he intended to spring on the intruder. If he could get out of the chokehold, he was fairly sure that he could get the upper hand. He felt the impact, but it was a soft, spongy, impact. It didn’t feel like they hit hard wood, but more like the surface of a bouncy castle. The floor stretched, accepting them like soft mud accepting the wheel of a truck. It became a steady, slow, sink down into whatever depths this thing dragged him. He grabbed at the sheets on the bed in a last desperate attempt to hold on, but his fingers slipped away from the soft fabric. He passed the lip of the hole. A slick, black, earthy substance, like oil mixed with mud rose up around him. He could still see his bedroom, but he was slipping away from it.
The earth closed in around him as he dug his fingers into the oily walls, but he couldn’t get a grip on anything. He only slid farther down that dark, slimy corridor. He felt as though he was looking out from the bottom of a grave.
He continued to yell to his wife, “Shauna! Shauna!”
He should have been in his living room by now, but he wasn’t. There was only more of that oily earth, and the thing with the terrible grip around his throat.
“Shauna!” He screamed for his wife to save him. “Shauna!”
Buried Soldiers
Keith Deininger
“After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow falte
red, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge.”
—Richard Matheson, I Am Legend
I. BURIED
From the safety of the bushes, Grady watched the two kids playing in the street. One was a boy, the other a girl. The boy had been lethargically kicking a soccer ball around, but now he sat with the girl in the yard across the street. They were facing each other, and playing with various things scattered before them.
“I left the lawnmower on all night and it drove the neighbors crazy,” the boy said, holding up a doll of some sort, trying to make his voice as deep as possible.
“I’ll bake some cookies,” the girl said.
“Then I’ll build the fire.”
“Okay.”
The boy began to dig in the dirt between them with a stick. When he’d loosened the dirt enough, he scooped dark wads free with his hands and flung them over his shoulder. When dirt from his vigorous digging sprayed up into the girls face she said, “Hey!” And the boy laughed.
The girl at first continued to play with the dolls, making them talk to each other, mumbling inaudibly, but then she grew bored and began to help the boy dig. She began to scoop up the now-muddy earth and pack it into little cakes with her hands. “We need something to put these on,” she said.
The boy sprung to his feet. “I know,” he said, and ran to where debris from the crashed car that lay at the end of the cul-de-sac had scattered. He kicked at things in the dirt, found something, and ran back.
The boy dropped a relatively flat piece of fractured plastic fender before the girl, and then plopped down where he’d been sitting before.
The girl nodded and began to arrange the mud cakes on the “baking sheet.”
The boy rocked in place, excited, snatching the stick and digging, getting to his knees, flinging dirt behind him from between his legs like a dog. He laughed. “He called it a pillow light,” he said. “When daddy went to light it, he blew up.”