Treasure Chest

by Adam Bennett

  “We?” asked Tim.

  “Like I’m going to let you wankers mess this up,” said Gerald.

  “I think I know,” said Gary. “But we need to make a few stops first.”

  ***

  Gary, Tim, and Gerald crowded around the door to the creatures’ lair. It had been nearly closed in the boys’ absence. Tim peeked into the room beyond it.

  “OK, you guys,” Gary said. “I’m pretty sure we’re only going to get one shot at this.” He put both hands on the door and pushed. “Gerald, let’s go.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Gerald said. He used his left hand to help push, the rusted hinges moaning their displeasure at being forced to move. “Ugh! Smells like shit!”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Tim said.

  A small shaft of light streaked along the floor for a few feet, then gave way to utter darkness. The three boys slid through the doorway, walking slowly: Gary in front, holding a gym bag; Tim next, carrying the beer; Gerald in back, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder. They stopped when they lost the light.

  “Can you hear that?” asked Tim.

  Gerald said, “I can hear something… breathing…”

  “Cool; that’s probably Lewis,” Gary offered. “Alright, you guys know what to do.” He set the gym bag on the floor and opened it. Tim and Gerald moved toward the back of the room while he removed a short pair of scissors and a set of night vision goggles. He put the goggles on top of his head so he could easily flip them down to cover his eyes when they were needed. The scissors went into the back pocket of his jeans. He reached into the bag and brought out the camera.

  “Ready?” Gerald asked.

  “Yeah,” Tim answered.

  Gary said, “Now or never.”

  The room was suddenly filled with the brilliant white light of the camera’s flash. The boys could see the door to the abandoned office and quickly moved through it before the afterimages faded. Another flash; the locker room. Gary moved to the front of the group and donned the goggles. He could see quite well, everything illuminated by a pale green light. There was another doorway on the other side, flanked by tall cabinets with built-in combination locks. He took three long strides and stood in the entrance.

  When he looked into the next room, he saw Lewis, still bound to the chair. His friend squinted his eyes, trying desperately to see what was happening, the duct tape across his mouth pulsing with each laboured breath.

  “Dude, we got this wired,” said Gary. “Hang in there.” He stepped back and grabbed Gerald by the collar, dragging him inside the room where Lewis was trapped and positioning him just inside the door. He raised Gerald’s arms, baseball bat ready for action. Then he rushed over to where Tim was standing.

  “Can you see ’em?” Tim asked.

  Gary looked around. “Not yet, but I can smell ’em.”

  He took Tim by the arm and led him in. Lewis made a muffled cry as the creatures entered from the other side. There were four of them, approaching cautiously. Gary pushed Tim forward. “Take the beer out and hold it up.” Tim did as instructed, dropping the plastic bag on the floor and holding the six pack over his head. The creatures all scuttled toward him, almost knocking Lewis over.

  “Gerald, now!” barked Gary. “Twelve o’clock!” Gerald stepped forward and swung the bat down hard, hitting one of the monsters on the arm. It howled and they all stopped, confused, looking at each other for support. Gary grabbed Tim, pushing him over to the far corner of the room. “Put it right here.” Tim squatted down and set the beer on the floor. The boys moved away. It only took a moment for the beasts to regain their courage and flock to the six pack. They each grabbed a bottle and twisted off the caps, gulping the foamy brew.

  Gary stepped closer to Lewis and said quietly, “This way, guys.” Tim and Gerald shuffled over until they were back to back with Gary, Gerald holding the bat in front of his face, Tim crouched down, arms wide, ready to pounce. Gary ripped the tape from his friend’s mouth.

  “Ow!” yelled Lewis. “What took you guys so long?”

  Gary said, “You’re welcome.”

  He made short work of cutting through the duct tape holding Lewis to the chair, then grabbed him by the shirt and started leading him to the doorway, the other boys keeping contact with them as they made their escape.

  The creatures stopped drinking as soon as they noticed the boys edging their way out of the room. One of them let out a loud belch and they all rushed forward. Gary pushed his friends through the door, using the camera’s flash to momentarily blind the monsters. There was an afterimage of them trying to shield their eyes.

  “Move!” Gary shouted. Everybody made a crazed dash through the locker room, past the old office furniture and toward the exit, the creatures right on their heels. Lewis was first to reach the stairwell, followed by Gerald, then Tim. Gary was almost out when one of the monsters grabbed him by the leg. He screamed, “Shit!” and put both hands on the door jamb to pull himself through. Tim turned around and grabbed his arm, pulling him farther out the door.

  “Hang on, dude!” Tim yelled. He looked at Lewis. “Give me some help here!”

  Lewis took hold of Gary’s other arm. The monster managed to pull Gary back a few inches. Then the boys got the upper hand, yanking Gary almost completely out of the room. The beast would not let go. It growled as its head poked through the doorway.

  “Oh, no!” screamed Lewis.

  Suddenly a black, cast iron frying pan came down on the creature’s head, knocking it to the ground, where it lay unconscious. Standing over its limp body was Mrs. Willard. “I knew this would come in handy,” she said, hefting the pan.

  Gerald yelled, “Let’s go!” from the top of the stairs. Everybody ran toward him as the monster was dragged inside by its cohorts.

  ***

  “You boys are lucky to be alive,” admonished Mrs. Willard as she walked down the sidewalk outside Lewis’s house, the frying pan under one arm, a length of rope coiled around the other. Tim was halfway to the front door, Gary and Gerald right behind him. Lewis brought up the rear.

  “That was so cool, Mrs. Willard,” said Gary. “Wham! Right on the melon!”

  “Laid that thing out cold!” Gerald said.

  They gathered around the old woman when they reached Lewis’s front porch.

  “Thanks for everything,” Lewis said, giving Mrs. Willard a big hug.

  Gary removed the night vision goggles from on top of his head and handed them to the old lady. She let go of Lewis and took them.

  “Now you boys have to promise me that you’ll never do anything like that ever again.”

  Tim said, “Sure, Mrs. Willard.”

  “Oh, yeah,” piped in Lewis. “There’s no way we’re going back in there. Right, guys?”

  “Of course not,” said Gary, although not very sincerely.

  “That’s good,” said Mrs. Willard. “I used to get up to some shenanigans when I was a girl, but those days are long gone. I’m a little too old for this kind of thing. And you’re a little too young to be out this late. So… it’s off to bed for all of us.” She looked at each boy in turn. “Alright?”

  The boys mumbled, “Alright.”

  “I can’t hear you,” she said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Willard,” they answered in unison.

  “That’s better.” She toddled across the front lawn to her house, waved a hand and said, “Pleasant dreams!”

  “See ya!” said Lewis. He stepped up to the front door, put his key in the lock, and turned to face the others. “You guys want a soda or something?”

  “What’s your mom gonna say?” asked Tim.

  “She’s in bed by now,” Lewis answered. “She won’t even know.”

  Gary said, “Nah, let’s go back to the Stop ’N’ Go and get some pizza.”

  “Yeah,” said Gerald. “I’m starved.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Tim said, and the three boys headed back out to the street. “See you tomorrow, Lewis.”

 
“Later, dude!” Lewis went inside and shut the door.

  “That was wild,” Gary declared.

  “I thought you were nuts bringing that old bag along,” said Gerald.

  “She wouldn’t let me have those night vision thingies until I said she could come.”

  “Crazy old lady,” said Tim.

  “She saved my ass,” said Gary.

  “Sure as hell did,” Gerald agreed.

  The boys walked down the middle of the street, not saying anything, lost in their own thoughts. As they passed under a streetlight, Gary perked up. Smiling a devilish grin he turned to the other two and said, “I wonder what’s in that old schoolhouse out on Sandhill Road…”

  Gotcha! was first published in FULL METAL HORROR: A Monstrous Anthology along with 34 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  Pastrami

  Donald D. Shore

  “What do I care, Jimmy? Fuck you.”

  Jimmy Clovis levelled his cool, violent eyes on Frank Tucci, and Frank knew right away he had gone too far. Jimmy cocked his head as he stared, like a puppy dog who doesn’t quite know what to make of what his eyes are telling him.

  Frank shook his head, his teeth biting down on his lower lip. He felt the sweat forming on his temples and slowly slide down his pudgy cheeks. He held up his hands, palms facing Jimmy as if surrendering.

  “Hey, Jimmy, you know I didn’t mean it. Everybody knows I let my mouth get me in trouble.”

  Jimmy’s eyes narrowed. He enjoyed making people sweat. He ran his tongue along his lips like a serpent tasting the air.

  “You know what I think, Frank?”

  Frank shook his head. “No, Jimmy. What do you think?”

  “I think you say things like that because people have let you get away with it. Because of who you associate with. Am I right?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “I don’t know, Jimmy. Could be. I said I was sorry, can’t we just let it go?”

  “No, Frank. We can’t just let it go. That’s my point. You say these things and get away with it, makes you think you can run your goddamn mouth off to anyone. Isn’t that right, Frank? Tell me I’m right.”

  Frank looked around the deli for help but there wasn’t anyone in there he knew. Just some old schlub in the back-corner table eating a pastrami on rye, and the jerk behind the counter who knew how to mind his own business.

  “All right, Jimmy, you’re right, okay, can we forget it now and move on? We got work to do.”

  “No, we can’t move on, Frank. This is about respect. You show me some goddamn respect, you understand? If I tell you you don’t wear that tie around me no more, you don’t wear that tie around me no more. You listening to me, Frank?”

  Frank let out a sigh that came from deep inside his overextended gut. “Jimmy.”

  “Take it off or I swear to God I’ll cut your god damn throat and throw you in the county reservoir, Frank. Take it off.”

  Frank shook his head, his eyes cutting to the side. Slowly, he raised a thick hand the size of a chicken quarter and loosened the knot.

  “Tell me ‘fuck you’, you piece of shit,” Jimmy went on as Frank pulled the tie from his collar and rolled it up in his hand. “Who do you think I am, some punk you can talk to like that?”

  Frank slipped the tie into his inside jacket pocket, the side where his holstered .45 hung pressed against his ribs, and said, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, Jimmy. It’s just the way I talk. You know that. You know I don’t mean nothing by it.”

  “The way you talk. The way you talk. You don’t talk to me like that. I tell you your tie looks like trash you say, ‘Yes, Jimmy’ and take it off. You don’t talk to me like that, you understand? What the fuck you wearing a tie like that around me for anyway. Fucking tie with little fucking fishes on it. What the fuck, Frank? I got a reputation to uphold. I can’t be seen walking around with a schmuck wears a tie with little fish on it. Jesus Christ. What would they say down at the hall I show up with you wearing that tie? What they going to say when we make our rounds? ‘Who’s the gimp with the fish on his tie? Why we got to pay these guys? Couple of schmucks don’t know how to dress like grown ass men.’ That’s what they’re going to say.”

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy. My kid gave it to me for my birthday.”

  “What do I care your kid gave it to you? You don’t show up to work wearing a tie with little fucking fish on it. What’s that supposed to mean? You bury people with the fishes? That what it means? You think anyone is going to take you seriously with a tie like that? You got to think, Frank. Jesus. Wearing a tie like that around me.”

  “It don’t mean nothing, Jimmy. Kid just gave it to me, that’s all. What am I supposed to do? The kid gave it to me.”

  Frank reached for his sandwich and put it down again as Jimmy went on, bubbles of indigestion rising inside his stomach with every word. Another ulcer forming every time Jimmy hit the waxed tabletop with a tight fist to keep Frank listening.

  “I don’t care your kid gave it to you. We got a job to do and you show up looking like that. You think anyone’s going to take a man seriously who wears a tie with fish all over it? I swear to God, you show up looking like that again and I’m going to shoot you, Frank. Right in the fucking head. Right between the fucking eyes. Jesus. You’d probably survive, the amount of brains you got in there.”

  “All right, Jimmy.”

  “All right. All right. Jesus, now you got my heart rate up, Frank, you son of a bitch.”

  “Excuse me,” said the old man at the corner table.

  Jimmy looked over Frank’s shoulder and Frank turned in his chair to see the old man. He wore wide frame plastic glasses beneath a brown derby and a grey moustache hovered just below a long-hooked nose that jutted out past his shrunken, shrivelled face. Frank noticed the old man wore a plain white tie.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Jimmy said.

  “I was wondering if you have some mustard at your table. I don’t have any mustard over here.”

  “Mustard. What the fuck do I care about mustard? Who the fuck is this guy, Frank?”

  “Yeah, we got some mustard over here,” Frank said.

  “What the fuck, Frank?”

  “Would you mind helping me out?” said the old man. “I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

  “What the fuck, we look like we work here old man? Get your old boney ass up and get it yourself.”

  Frank groaned out a sigh as he scooted back his chair and picked up the bottle of mustard. He carried it across the deli and set it on the old man’s table. Frank nodded down at the old man, feeling some small relief just to be away from Jimmy for the moment.

  “Thank you, son,” said the old man. “Pastrami isn’t any good without mustard.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Frank.

  “Jesus Christ what am I going to do with you?” Jimmy said as Frank lowered himself back into the chair across from him.

  Frank wrapped the rest of his sandwich in its paper wrapper, giving up hope Jimmy would let him eat in peace.

  “You just want to go?” Frank said.

  “Go?” said Jimmy. “I haven’t finished my sandwich yet.”

  Frank rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t you fucking roll your eyes at me, you fat son of a bitch. Jesus Christ, Frank, you’re just asking for it today. I swear to God, you say one more god damn—”

  Jimmy and Frank looked up at the old man standing beside their table.

  “What the fuck do you—”

  The belch from the pistol in the old man’s hand cut Jimmy off. The back of his head exploded and splattered the wall behind him with wet brain matter. Frank flinched as sudden, warm gore sprayed into his face. He reached for the .45 holstered inside his coat.

  “Don’t do it fat boy,” said the old man.

  Frank froze.

  “Carefully, so this old man can see you, take the tie out of your pocket and put it back on your neck.”

  Frank l
icked the sweat from his lips.

  “Do it,” said the old man, thrusting the smoking barrel of his pistol toward Frank.

  Frank took the tie out of his pocket and slid it over his head and tightened the knot.

  “Okay,” the old man said. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

  Frank stood up from the table and went for the door.

  “Hey,” the old man called. He aimed his pistol at the table, where Jimmy’s blood was slowly covering the waxed plastic top like spilled ketchup. “Don’t forget your sandwich.”

  Frank nodded, shuffled back to the table, grabbed his wrapped sandwich and made for the door, fresh sweat trailing down his puffy cheeks.

  “Get someone in here to clean up the mess, Sam.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sam said from behind the counter. He went around and locked the door and switched the sign to closed and made the call as the old man sat back down to finish his sandwich.

  “I swear, Sam,” said the old man, “these punks start talking about respect, it makes me sick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All that foul language. They wouldn’t know respect if it bit them in the ass.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man took a bite of his pastrami sandwich. He set it down and licked the mustard from his lips.

  “That’s a good pastrami, Sam. You done good.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Pastrami was first published in GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM: A Hardboiled Anthology along with 21 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.

  Joey

  James Pyles

  Six year old Joey tripped and skinned his knee just as the high school exploded two blocks behind him. Crying, panicked, he looked back to see the alien machine fire another volley of plasma bolts, this time blowing up a church. It was so big. Bigger than the library and the school put together. Its six metal legs made it look like a spider.

  “Mummy, Daddy, help me! Its big eye is staring at me. Somebody help me!” He forced himself to get up and run, his white soled sneakers clawing through gravel, barely giving him traction. Everything was on fire, lighting up the night sky, his whole town, all the buildings. Even the roads were hot and sticky. He tripped again and fell, but this time it was on top of someone.