by Steve Wands
“Help!” J-Bone screamed.
His echo ran away. No one replied. No one came.
“Help!” J-Bone screamed again to no avail.
He heard footsteps behind him once again and then a voice.
“You done screaming yet?” A voice asked.
“Not till you get me the fuck down,” he threatened.
“I’m real scared, boy,” the voice replied.
“You should be mothafucka!”
“Why were you decorating my bridge?”
“Your bridge? And the who the hell do you think you are?”
“Don’t matter who I am. So, you like spray-painting huh? You think that makes you an artist?”
J-Bone didn’t reply.
“I used to think I was an artist. Went to art school…almost graduated too, then I found out what real art was. You have to suffer to make real art. You have to bleed and labor and sacrifice. You have to make a statement. You think throwing colors on a wall is art?”
J-Bone didn’t know what to make of the angry man behind him. He didn’t want to show his fear, but he had never been more scared in his entire twenty years on this earth.
“Well, let me tell you. That isn’t art,” the man said, jabbing him with a sharp instrument.
J-Bone screamed. His back felt warm with blood. “What the fuck, man, stop!”
He didn’t.
“This is art. Suffering!”
The man kept stabbing and stabbing J-Bone with his sharp instrument and J-Bone bucked and writhed and spun around, swirling his blood around a canvas that lie beneath him that he didn’t notice till now.
“Do you see it yet?”
“P-Please…s-st-stop…”
“Open your eyes and look around you!” The man yelled.
J-Bone listened to him. He looked around the room, and this time, instead of noticing his belongings, he noticed the lampshade made of skin; a picture frame made of human bone; a candle sitting atop a small skull. His vision grew blurry once more, but he fought for consciousness.
“You can see now can’t you?”
J-Bone could only see swirls of color, he couldn’t focus and he felt like he would soon see only blackness, but then he began to see as if he were looking through a kaleidoscope. It was more vivid and far trippier than any drug-induced oasis he’d experienced. Aside from the agonizing pain, it was beautiful.
“I knew you’d see it. I knew,” the man proclaimed.
Then J-Bone saw blackness once more.
When J-Bone awoke he was in the hospital. His mother and a few of his friends were sitting around looking grim, but they didn’t look like he remembered them. They were colorful and abstracted and for a moment he thought it was the morphine drip attached to his arm but then he remembered the old man who taught him how to see, and he was thankful for the pain.
*
Versions
*
Arlen wanted to see the beast known as Bigfoot ever since the first time he’d heard his father tell his version of the story. He was no older than eight when his father took him camping for the first time and tried to scare him with his tale of Bigfoot. Arlen’s father was a bit disappointed when his son was entranced rather than being frightened. He wanted to give him a scare, not wet his appetite for a lifetime’s worth of what-ifs and maybe-so’s. But that’s what happened and that’s why Arlen is now handing over the better part of twenty dollars to some pimpled-face kid to see what remains of Bigfoot at some backyard-sideshow.
The kid took the bill and handed him back a few singles and some grimy coins. The kid opened the fence to the backyard and a man wearing a sweaty gray shirt and dirty overalls walked over.
“Welcome, sir. Come to see the Bigfoot have you?”
“I have,” Arlen replied.
“Right this way then.”
The man walked him over to a large worktable that had a few sawhorses and planks of board atop them. Arlen’s eyes followed the table up to what lie on top of the hobbled-together gurney. It was a massive shape, draped with a painter’s drop cloth. The thing, whatever it was under that cloth, stretched out longer than any man he’d ever seen up close.
Arlen began to shake nervously. He’d dreamt of the day where he could come face to face with Bigfoot. He just never thought the beast would be dead had he ever had the chance. He tried walking slow, but before he knew it the man in overalls was pulling back the cloth. Flies were buzzing all around the beast and maggots were crawling in the nooks of his eye sockets. His hair was matted, graying in spots, and filthy in bugs. Did Bigfoot get mange, he wondered. The stench alone was staggering.
“He’s a big son of a bitch, eh?”
“Yes indeedy. At least what? Eight feet?” Arlen asked.
“Shit…I measured him when I first shot the bastard, a lick under ten.”
“You shot him?”
“Yep. Me and Bobby over there were walking to the creek, and out of nowhere this hairy beast come running at us. Luckily, I always carry my double barrel—shot ‘em right in the chest. See, right there,” he pointed at a large wound in the center of his chest.
“Damn,” Arlen said, mournfully.
The man smiled, and nodded his head, “kill or be killed, I always say.”
Arlen touched Bigfoot’s giant hand. His hand looked like a kids hand in comparison. It felt as real as could be. His skin was rough to the touch, and as cool as the air around them. It had to be Bigfoot, he thought, and this damned yokel killed him.
“Want me to take a Polaroid of the both of you?”
“No, thanks,” Arlen declined.
“You sure? Only five bucks.”
“I said no.”
“Suit yourself, pal.”
Arlen looked over the bulking remains and couldn’t help but think of how the moment so punctuated the sentence of his life. Adulthood had been nothing more than a depressing dream-killing journey to this point, where yet another of his childhood dreams met a vicious end.
“You can see yourself out when you’re done,” the man said, leaving him to greet a handful of new curious customers.
Arlen stood there for a minute more, and before the newcomers ruined the peaceful moment, he left. His cell phone began to ring. He fished it from his pocket and checked who it was before answering. It was Laura, his wife. What does she want now, he wondered.
“Hello?”
“Hey hon, what are you doing?”
“I told you I was visiting a friend today. What’s up?”
“Well…I just…I want to tell you some news. I couldn’t wait for you to get home. I’m pregnant!”
“What? Are you serious? That’s great honey!”
“I know. I can’t believe it. After all we went through and now for this to just happen…it’s crazy.”
“Yeah, oh my God. When can we find out what it is?”
“Not for a while yet.”
“Okay, okay. Listen, let me go. I’ll be on my way in a bit. See you in a few hours. Love you.”
“Okay. Bye, love you too.”
He drove away from the place, filled with many mixed emotions all competing to rise to the surface. He managed to smile as best he could. Arlen always longed for a child to call his own but his wife was always unable to carry it to fruition—
Something darted in front of his car. He swerved, almost veering off the road. He looked to his left. The trees and shrubbery shook as a large burly beast pushed through them. It was sniffing the air as if in search of something.
“Bigfoot,” Arlen whispered.
Then from the other side of the road came more Bigfoot-like beasts. Some of them carried spears while others carried makeshift axes. Arlen couldn’t believe his eyes. One of the beasts glared at Arlen, then continued on his way. Arlen waited in his car, the window rolled down. He knew where they were going. Just a few more minutes, he thought.
Arlen could hear the screams behind him; he heard the roars of the beasts; the screams of the customers; a single shotgun b
last; and then… silence. He waited twice as long for them to come back, but they never did. No cars passed him, and he couldn’t hear any other screams. He debated driving back there, but figured some things were better left unseen. He drove off and couldn’t stop thinking of the day when he could take his son or daughter camping so that he could tell his story of Bigfoot.
*
TV Casualty
*
“…but you’re always busy,” Billy whined.
“I know, sweetie, just give mommy another hour and we’ll do something together okay? Just go watch the television.”
“Fine,” he huffed, walking into the other room toward the couch in front of the television.
Jane returned her attention to her work while her son pulled the remote out from in between the couch cushions. He pressed the little red power button and the familiar hum of the television calmed him down. He surfed the channels looking for something to watch. Many of his favorite shows were on, but they were repeats, so he continued surfing. Then all of the channels turned to static. He continued surfing, looking to see if there were any that weren’t. Then he began to see images in the static; symbols and faces that he didn’t understand or recognize. He could hear a strange sound interwoven with the static.
Billy put down the remote and stared intently at the screen.
Jane wrapped up her work almost two hours later. Billy had behaved so well, not bothering her once. She felt bad about constantly working but couldn’t find any other way of paying the mortgage and the rest of the bills. Things would get easier over time, she figured, but they didn’t.
She walked into the other room and noticed the static-filled television screen. She looked at Billy who stared unblinkingly at the screen. His expression was sullen and his jaw hung slack.
“Billy? Are you okay?”
He didn’t respond.
Jane walked over to him, touching his shoulder gently, “sweetie…?”
He continued to stare straight ahead.
“Don’t be mad at me. How about we get something to eat. Do you want to go out for ice cream?”
Billy stood up and turned toward his mother. He looked up at her with vacant, unflinching eyes. He raised his hand and moved it in a ‘come closer’ manner. Jane bent over with a smile, she expected her son to smile back, but he didn’t.
He whispered, “I want to eat your brain,” then lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her neck and biting into her cheek. She screamed and fell as Billy clung to her neck, knocking her off balance and pulling her to the floor. He continued to bite at her face and once he bit her neck she stopped struggling and proceeded to bleed out.
Billy sat around his mother, pulling her right eye out so he could get to her brain. Unsatisfied with his results he went into the kitchen and came back with a spoon. He jabbed the spoon into her eye socket and scooped out a spoonful of brains, eating it while he stared at the static-ridden television.
“Yummy,” he grumbled, wiping blood and bits of brain from his chin. “I love you, mommy,” he said.
“I know, sweetie, she replied as she opened her eye, “I love you too. Do you want to get some more brains with mommy?”
“Yes!” Billy exclaimed, “brains are yummy!”
*
The Last Broadcast
(a Stay Dead short story)
*
The station was set to go off the air at noon. Station Manager, Morgan Latch, had sent everyone home yesterday with the exception of a skeleton crew. Amelia, the sweet, sultry voice of New Jersey on the Airwaves, NJOA 101.9 for short; Patrick, the audio engineer, who started as an intern over a decade ago. They were all he needed for one last broadcast. Morgan had updated all of his emergency information including a list of all Safe Zones. He had the most recent press releases from the CDC, FEMA, Homeland Security, DERA, ETO and every other combination of letters known to the general public and then some. He gathered what information they could on the local traffic situation, which was dismal. Patrick interrupted the regularly scheduled Breakfast with The Beatles slot to air a few pre-recorded emergency preparedness segments passed down from the mother and sister stations. NJOA was the ugly stepsisters friend in the broadcasting family tree. The one not pretty enough or slick enough for a fancy office in the big city, which is why they were the last station standing. Every other station on the east coast was off air, sure some of them had old news and top 40 countdowns on loop, so if you tuned in you’d think things were okay. If you heard the same 40 songs over and over again you might just think they were good too, but you’d be wrong. You’d be dead wrong. All you had to do was look out any window and you could see that everything was not okay.
Amelia stared out the window with her giant-sized headphones covering her ears and framing her apple-shaped face. Her eyes were dark with bags like tire tread-marks hanging below them. As if her sanity drove off in a hurry and left her eyes behind, like misbehaving kids on the side of the road. Outside the window was pure horror. Plumes of smoke tried to smother the sun. The roads were full of cars going nowhere fast. Most bizarrely were the things that used to be people, given an extra dose of life with the unnatural side effect of an unending appetite for human flesh. They were our bad habits come to life, only they were so much worse. Amelia was convinced that her multiple affairs caused the wrath of her God, and that this was her punishment; to be working with the two men she chose to screw instead of her husband. Neither man knew that the other had the same taste in forbidden fruits. They were so different in life but all the same underneath Amelia’s thick hips. All yeah, yeah, yeah and fuck I’m gonna cum. She prayed over and over again saying each time was the last and it never was and now she was sorry. Really sorry, this time, honest, she swore. She sat down and closed her eyes, her bee-stung lips parted as she took a deep breath.
“In 5, 4, 3…” Patrick remained silent after three but counted down with his fingers and mouthed the remaining numbers. 2, 1, she’s on.
“I wish I could give you my usual happy entrance, New Jersey, but I can’t. The sun shines on another day of absolute terror as our loved ones and neighbors return to a state of living death. If you’ve looked out your window lately you know the deal and if you’re alive then you’re doing better than a lot folks out there,” she nervously wrapped and unwrapped the headphone cord around her fingers.
“This is our last broadcast and when it’s over me and the boys are heading back to our homes to wait this thing out. So, clear the roads so we won’t have to play bumper cars later,” Amelia gave a nervous laugh.
Amelia continued her one sided conversation for hours. Every fifteen minutes she would read off the list of Safe Zones and emergency information that Morgan prepared earlier–there had not been any updates–and every hour she replayed the pre-recorded segments. She announced a music break and left the listeners to hear Strange Days by The Doors as she pulled a cigarette from a box in her purse. She lit it while leaving the sound room, pulling a deep hard drag of menthol down into the pit of her lungs. Morgan and Patrick followed right behind her, lighting their own brands. Morgan was a Marlboro man, reds only, none of that pussy shit. Patrick was a fan of Camel Joe; otherwise know as that pussy shit. As they approached the doors going outside they could hear a scraping noise on the double doors. Amelia dropped her cigarette. Ash spun off the twirling cylinder as it found it’s home on the floor. Both men bumped into her, neither of them loosing their smokes.
Beyond the double doors, scraping at the glass was a horde of the undead and leading the pack, with visibly slit wrists, was Amelia’s husband. He moaned and the noise created an icy cactus where Amelia’s spine used to be. She stepped backward, her eyes welling up with tears. It was all her fault, she thought. She never told him, but somehow he knew. He knew she hadn’t been faithful, but he believed anything that came out of her mouth. She made everything sound great–her voice could put him at ease no matter how bad a day he had. Even this morning when she chose work over staying home in his
safe embrace. She didn’t know it, but he followed her to the station, just to make sure she was safe. He didn’t like the idea of her traveling around when things were the way they were. When she pulled into the parking lot Morgan had been waiting for her. He smiled like he was impersonating a shark, then wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her deep. She grabbed his crotch and they walked inside in a hurry. They would’ve gotten in a quickie had Patrick not beaten both of them to the station. Robert, her husband, parked the car next to hers and popped the trunk. He pulled out a screwdriver, a tire-iron, and a box-cutter.
He punctured Morgan’s tires with the screwdriver. Then violently smashed in his car windows, his chest heaved with rage and his eyes fought back tears. His blood continued to boil, even after demolishing Morgan’s car. He needed more to destroy, his eyes fixed on the car he bought for Amelia. He saw his warped reflection in the window and smashed it into tiny jagged pieces. When he was done, he sat in his car. His hands had cuts and scratches, the tire-iron and box-cutter sat by his side. He tuned the radio to his favorite station and waited to hear his wife’s voice. He wanted to hear her say good morning one more time, but the words never crossed her lips. He took out his wallet and looked at a picture from their cruise last year, her voice filling his head, but he didn’t find it as beautiful as he once did. Thoughts of killing her crossed his mind, but he thought it would be more fitting if the blood were on her hands.
*
The Car
*
It drove past, cool and slick, the color of wet night speeding down the drag. The shore kids looked to see what metal beast roared, but all they saw was a blue-black blur, but they could hear its engine purr.
Sally didn’t turn. Cars weren’t her thing, and that was just fine. She was fine, no, better than fine. She might as well have been Miss America but she wasn’t. She was the girl next door. She was the girl who wanted ice cream at the boardwalk and Tom was the guy who took her there. He’d take her anywhere she wanted. He was good like that and she appreciated it. They were good kids, but the boardwalk was full of the other kind; the kind that gawked at Sally and said nasty things while she licked her ice cream. Assholes, Tom thought. And he was right. They were just two kids looking to have a decent time on a nice night and not be bothered with asshole kids and bullshit antics. But life didn’t always work like that, life did whatever the hell it was going to do and you either got on board with that or you let it go by. They weren’t given much choice.