Blood Mountain

by J. T. Warren

  This Mercy’s mind flooded with blood-soaked fantasies. This Mercy was a danger. A genuine threat. She recalled her old self, screaming and beaten, and knew that the voice was right: what she was about to do would define her for the rest of her life.

  Victor wobbled but kept his balance enough to wave her on.

  As Nietzsche said about the abyss, when faced with evil like this, there was only one thing to do.

  Mercy smiled as best she could and charged right at him.

  SIXTY-NINE

  The bitch knocked him backwards onto the steps and half on top of Lionel. Her hands clawed at his face, tore his nostrils, ripped the corner of his lips.

  He tried to punch her but his left arm was useless and his right was crushed between them. He tried to push her off but she was too heavy. No, that wasn’t right. She wasn’t too heavy; he was too weak.

  As blood slipped from him faster and faster, his strength dissipated. He couldn’t even scream. He laid back and let her tear at his face. She pierced one of his eyes but the pain was slight and numbed, as if it were happening to someone else.

  She was screaming enough for both of them. Her hands fell away from his face and a calm, soothing coldness took its place. Like sliding into a pool on a hot day. He could let himself fall into this pool and it would be grand. He had failed in his quest as a cleanser, but he would find peace in this pool. All was not for nothing. His reward was coming.

  He was sure of it.

  When Mercy’s hand drove into his bleeding wound, however, Victor was yanked from the pool as if a predator had spotted his vulnerability and snagged him in its jaws. Now it was dragging him off to a hot, empty desert where it could feast on his organs so Victor could watch his intestines dangle from its massive jaws before finally dying while the hot earth burned his flesh.

  Hot breath against his face, the beast spoke. “Now, I rape you. How’s it feel to be penetrated? You like it when I do this?”

  Her hand pushed deep inside him. Pain like an earthquake that ruptures the ground rocked his body in a spasmodic shutter. Through pulsing flashes of bright white, he saw her arm thrust into him, faster and faster. Blood splashed up her white arm and across her face.

  “You stupid bitch,” the beast said. “Take it all.”

  Please, he tried to beg. Please stop. Please, Mommy, make it stop. Mommy, please, make it stop!

  I can’t help you, Mommy said. Her severed head rolled through the leaves. Something had chewed off her ears but her eyes were still there, still staring at him, and her mouth moved. Her voice echoed to him.

  You’re Mommy’s little angel, she said. I’m waiting for you, baby. I’ll open my legs for you. I’m going to swallow you deep inside me. Mommy’s going to keep you warm, angel.

  “Fucking like it,” the beast said. “Don’t you?”

  Fingernails scraped the inside of his ribcage and the vibration shook into his jaw. This could not be what the universe wanted. He could die and be content but not like this, please dear God, not like this.

  Scream all you want. But for Christ’s sake, be tough about it.

  He tried to scream and couldn’t. Couldn’t release any of the pain.

  “What’s it feel like?” the beast hissed. “Is it a good fuck?”

  A flash of white like an electric zap directly into his mind and there was Mommy and Daddy in the bedroom, naked, Daddy’s thing deep inside her. Get out of here, you little perv, Daddy screamed. No, let him watch, Mommy said. He’s curious. Daddy flipped Mommy on her stomach and attacked. Her screams sounded like he was ripping out her insides.

  Yet, he couldn’t turn away.

  “Fuck you till you bleed.” Who was that? Daddy? Mercy? “Then fuck you some more.”

  Mommy and Daddy vanished in another explosion of light and there was Mercy’s bone-white arm pumping at his guts--slap-slap-slap.

  The world faded at the edges and tilted as if about to fall off into nowhere. Mercy’s face tunneled toward him. Blood poured from her mouth. The beast was eating him.

  “I hope that was good for you,” the beast said.

  The world fell into the Dark Time.

  The jaws came free and a moment later something hot and wet splashed against his face. The beast sauntered away but the pool did not return. He was alone in this barren world. Eventually, death would come for him. But not soon enough.

  Not soon enough at all.

  SEVENTY

  Mercy pulled her arm free from the gaping hole in his midsection and tossed a handful of red guts on his face. She had no idea what it was she had pulled out of him. She had been trying for his heart.

  She walked up the steps leading into the kitchen. Her arm was sopping blood all the way to her elbow. Blood dribbled over the concrete.

  She stopped at the kitchen entrance, her back to Victor. There would be time, too much time, for her to reflect on everything that happened. She couldn’t go back down the steps and ask him why he had attacked her, why he had devised a scheme to rape and kill her. He was almost dead and out of his mind in agony. That was good. She didn’t really want answers. She also didn’t want to go back in time and undo everything. That was the pathetic wish of cowards. No, Mercy wanted only to rescue her father and then sleep for several weeks.

  Behind her, crows cawed, wings flapped, and the feast began.

  She didn’t watch them swarm over Victor Dolor and ravage his flesh but she smiled when he managed a scream.

  He said people would die. Billions of people. Systematic murder. A necessary cleansing of the world to prepare it for the Great Change. Caleb had been in on it. And the goddamn cook. Could she trust anyone? Maybe the universe was conspiring to show her something. Maybe the Great Change was approaching and the coming days would be dark.

  She walked through the kitchen and into the open diner. A waitress stood at the far end of the counter, phone in hand as if she might use it as a bludgeon. A man was seated at the counter, head on his arms. He could have been dead and it wouldn’t have surprised Mercy.

  She continued toward the front of the diner. Her bare feet made wet slapping noises on the floor. She tracked blood footprints next to Victor’s boot marks.

  “The police are coming,” the waitress said.

  Mercy turned to her. The waitress pressed the phone to her breast.

  “You think there’s a purpose to anything that happens?” Mercy asked. “Some grand plan for each of us?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said as if Mercy might kill her for the wrong answer.

  “I just killed a man with my bare hands. You think the universe wanted me to do that?”

  “I’m sorry?” the waitress said as a question.

  “I’m not,” Mercy said. “He deserved it.”

  The man at the counter had raised his head. Creases from his sleeve imprinted his forehead. “Jesus,” the man said. “You’re one tough bitch.”

  The waitress stepped back until she was against the wall.

  Mercy smiled real large. “Toughest bitch I can be.”

  She turned back to the door and walked out. When she made it onto the outside walkway, the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles broke the dark horizon.

  The Dark Days weren’t coming; they were here--they were now. It didn’t matter if the universe wanted Victor to attack her. It didn’t matter if she was destined to kill him from the beginning. He was psychotic and she had survived. He was cancer and she was life. Sometimes, even in the darkness, there’s hope.

  Mercy Higgins grabbed the cold railing and refused to let herself fall down. Blood Mountain hulked over her as a giant, black beast. The tears began to fall and soon the emotion was so great that she couldn’t see or hear anything but her own grief, yet she remained standing. Nothing was going to knock her down.

  Not ever again.

  THE END

  J.T. Warren was born on Halloween, a few months after his mother saw Jaws at the movies. His affinity for horror can be traced to an early age
when he built a coffin out of cardboard and pretended to be a corpse, much to the concern of his parents. He can still be found in a coffin on Halloween when he gets into the spirit of the season. He is a public school teacher and has successfully lured thousands of students into literary waters through works of horror. He hopes his writing will further encourage interest in the written word.

  Connect with J.T. Warren through his website, on Facebook, on his blog, or on Twitter to learn more about him and find out when his next books are available.

  www.wix.com/JTWarren/JTW.com

  www.authorjtwarren.blogspot.com.

  J.T. Warren is the author of Hudson House, The House on Mangle Lane and Calamity.

  J.T. Warren is the pseudonym for an even creepier guy.

  As a thank you for reading, here is a bonus short story, “Flies.” It’s a tale Victor would have loved.

  Enjoy.

  J.T. Warren

  FLIES

  I didn’t hate my wife. No matter what they say, my feelings toward Clara had nothing to do with what happened. It was the flies, of course. That may sound crazy; maybe it is, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It was the flies and it started with just one.

  An ordinary house fly, not especially large, like the ones that came later, but not small enough to be confused for a gnat, was on the granite countertop, nearly blending into the swirling patterns of grey and black. It stood two or three inches from my wife’s hand. Her ring finger was bare.

  Her rings were not there because Clara had removed them, as was her wont whenever she needed to have a serious discussion with me and had to make it perfectly clear that she wouldn’t hesitate to leave me. Removing her rings was her way of showing how serious she was, how very serious. She loved that word, very. Used it all the time.

  And what did she want to discuss that was so very important while I was staring at a stupid house fly?

  “You just don’t seem to care,” Clara said. Her voice had adopted that higher-pitched I’m-talking-to-you-so-you-better-listen tone that made my heart race and my blood pound in my ears. “You’re very distant.”

  I nodded. There was no point engaging in conversation with her. If I started to defend myself or explain my behavior, I would only be giving her more fodder for her diatribe, a speech she had, no doubt, been stewing over all day at work and finalizing during her hour-long commute home.

  “Tyler,” she said, sounding like the crack of a whip.

  But even that I’m-really-serious-now voice wouldn’t sucker me into her trap. Besides, the fly was much more interesting. It had not moved from its spot, but it was moving, rubbing its tiny front legs together and then over its bulbous eyes. I could almost see the sheath of mucus glistening on its alien face.

  “You’re just proving my point,” she said. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you won’t even look me in the face. It’s like I’m not even here. Is that what you want? You want me to leave?” She paused. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not leaving this spot until you start talking to me.”

  The fly stopped at her pinkie, head twitching side to side as if checking for danger, and then tested the finger with its two front legs. It climbed onto the finger and paused right beneath her knuckle in the little tuff of blonde hair that grew on her finger like mold.

  “You’re not even paying attention,” she said.

  I grunted. The fly walked over the gap between the pinkie and ring finger and stopped right where her rings would have been.

  The fly glanced at me with its bulging, compound eyes. I almost laughed. It was her ring--the perfect one for her: a living fly that could disgust and annoy all at once.

  Clara grabbed me under the chin with her other hand and roughly snapped my head up. Something cracked in my neck. She stared at me with her large, grey eyes (almost like a fly’s, I mused) from beneath her slanting eyebrows. She shook her head slowly back and forth.

  I yanked out of her grip.

  The fly was gone.

  “This is because you have women issues,” Clara said. “Your mother warned me. Your testes didn’t descend properly.”

  “What?” For the moment, I forgot the fly.

  “When you were born, your testicles were inside your body. The doctor had to surgically drop them.”

  Something was ringing in my ear.

  “It’s quite common, but it is also normal for males who start that way to have male-related problems.”

  “I don’t have problems.”

  She tilted her head; Oh, really? that tilt said. “You know what tonight is?” she asked.

  The fly buzzed past me, slicing through the air. It swooped around and landed on Clara’s right shoulder. It rested there like a little pet. Clara the Fly Mother.

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  The fly twitched its head at me as if nodding. Even the damn bug knew it was Friday and even it knew what the hell that meant. The fly rubbed its legs together and cleaned its eyes while it waited for me to admit that I knew it was Friday, too.

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  Her face softened, but not too much. “It’s very important we’re consistent.”

  “Right.”

  “Try not to think about the testes thing. It’ll ruin your ability.”

  I nodded and waited for the fly to nod back.

  * * *

  Once we were together in our weekly act of sex, I thought of that stupid fly again. She hadn’t even noticed it when it was on her finger. Hadn’t even glanced at it as if she hadn’t felt it moving through the hair on her finger.

  The average house fly can carry over one hundred different pathogens. It can transmit cholera, salmonella and tuberculosis.

  I was near the end, Clara whispering in my ear that I was a big man, oh, yes, indeed, no little testes-boy here, when a fly landed on my back. The fly, I was sure.

  I pushed off of her and slapped at my back frantically. The fly was long gone, of course, buzzing off to safety.

  Clara looked at me with disappointed eyes, like I was a little kid who had spilled his milk on the floor. “We’re not done,” she said. “Not yet.”

  At the base of her throat, a patch of white, dry skin had started to peel. It looked like scales.

  I got out of bed and pulled on my sweat pants.

  “Don’t be so afraid,” Clara said. “Nakedness is natural.”

  The fly swooped past me again and landed once more on my wife. This time, it favored the spot on her right breast above her nipple. She made no move to swat it away.

  Flies live off of organic waste and human excrement, even sweat. They excrete saliva to predigest food and then slurp it back up like a liquid carpet cleaner. And because they are constantly eating, they are also constantly shitting. They leave their invisible crap everywhere. That’s how the diseases spread. Like typhoid and cholera.

  “A fly,” I said and pointed.

  She checked herself, found the fly and brought her hand to it--slowly as if it were something poisonous that should not be startled. She cupped her hand around her breast, circling her nipple with thumb and forefinger. The fly walked across her breast and onto her hand. She brought her hand up slowly to her face.

  She was going to eat it; I could already see it happening.

  She waved her hand and the fly flew off.

  The fly trailed over my ear with its ever so tiny and ever so delicate little legs. The sensation sent chills down my side.

  Every fly is covered in hair-like projections that make them look like flying warts.

  I swatted at the thing and it went right into my ear. Its buzzing echoed through my head loudly and furiously. I clawed at my ear with both hands, pulling and yanking at my ear while trying to work my fingers into the canal, but none of them could fit. And still the fly buzzed on. Burrowing toward my brain.

  I ran for the master bathroom. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clara naked on the bed, hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  The bu
zzing got louder and louder until it was the only thing I heard, even while I flung open drawers and knocked items out of the medicine cabinet while I tried to find the damn Q-tips. They were underneath the sink, buried beneath boxes of tampons. I ripped open the back of the box. Q-tips spilled all around me. I grabbed one and jammed it into my ear. For a moment, the buzzing got even louder and then, mercifully, it stopped. My hearing went fuzzy.

  The end of the Q-tip was tinged yellow and green. I used a bulb syringe to flush my ear. Greenish black mush seeped out of my ear and dropped into the sink with a soft splat.

  Flies can also transmit parasitic worms that eat away at your insides.

  * * *

  Clara made me try again and I finally did what she wanted. “You’re such a very good little boy,” she said before turning away from me and going to sleep. She had made sure to slip her engagement and wedding rings back on.

  I couldn’t sleep for a while. I could still hear that insane buzzing in my ear, though it was distant, a memory of discomfort, and my ear was wet and moist.

  Clara was soon snoring.

  A fly shot past my face, just above my nose.

  I threw back the comforter and got out of bed. I wore boxers and an undershirt.

  The nightlight in the bathroom cast the room in a greenish, sickening haze. I stopped at the open doorway and listened. Only Clara’s gentle snore came back to me. I waited.

  No fly flew past, but I could hear it. That quiet buzzing sound, almost like a bee. And the more I strained to listen, the louder the buzzing became. There wasn’t just one more fly, but at least two, maybe a few, maybe more. All of them hiding in the dark of my bathroom.

  Waiting.

  I reached my hand inside the door and slid it up the wall to the light switch. Just before I turned on the light and stepped into Hell, I felt a fly crawl over my hand. Only it wasn’t a tiny house fly or even one of those bloated black flies that are easy to kill but so full of gooey guts; no, this fly was bigger, much bigger--beetle-sized bigger.

  My scream of surprise was swallowed in the vibrating hum of thousands of flies crawling all over the bathroom. They covered the mirror and sink. They obscured the flower-print wallpaper and even surrounded the vanity bulbs above the mirror, shadowing the bathroom in blobs of darkness. They covered the toilet completely, inside and out to form one grotesque living chamber pot.