Fetal Bait Apocalypse: 3 Collections in 1

by Joel Arnold

Rick froze.

  “I let him stick his penis in my mouth. I sucked it until he came. And then—”

  Silver’s throat hitched. Rick watched as tears filled the man’s eyes.

  “—and then I let him fuck me again.”

  Cassie kept a diary?

  Silver read the last line again, this time the tears audible in his voice.

  “I let him fuck me again.” The book snapped shut. “How could you?” Silver asked. “How could you soil my sister like that?”

  All Rick could say around the barrel of the gun was “Nnnggg.” He tried to shake his head. His gag reflex kicked in.

  “Nnngg. Nnnnnggg!”

  It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. She fucked me. She fucked me.

  The wind scraped across his face cold as cadaver fingers. His jaw ached from being open so wide and so long. The saliva, the blood, made it hard to breathe.

  Each time his throat muscles constricted out of reflex, it pushed the barrel of the gun into the roof of his mouth.

  Bruce bit his ear, then raised his head up and sniffed the air. “He fuckin farted! Ha ha haw!”

  A sound came from Silver’s throat, a gurgling sound like a boat motor starting in a bay of seaweed. The motor revved into a roar, and Silver pulled the gun all the way out of his mouth, screamed, Silver’s tonsils, tears, and eyes all glistening with the moon, a scream that ripped through the night like a chainsaw through bone, and Silver pumped the shotgun.

  And Rick remembered.

  Cassie telling him after she swallowed for the second time…

  “You can’t tell no one this. You can’t tell no one. You gotta promise me. Especially don’t tell my brothers. You understand me? Especially not my brothers.”

  He never did tell them. She told them. Through her diary. Didn’t she know that’s what brothers do? Didn’t she know all brothers look through their sister’s goddamn diaries?

  Silver’s scream echoed through the woods. The crickets stopped. The wind surrounded the trio like a lasso.

  “Give it to him.” Bruce’s voice was like an ice pick in Rick’s ear, his hot breath like nails piercing his neck.

  Rick closed his eyes. Felt Bruce behind him in perfect line with the direction the bullet would take.

  Yes, give it to me. Give it to me you dumb ignorant fucks.

  He tries getting the words out, the words erupting as grunts around the gun’s barrel.

  “Nnngghh! Nnngghh!”

  Give it to me now!

  Silver gives it to him. The gun explodes in his mouth. The bullet shreds its way through muscle, bone, skin. And out the back.

  Out the back.

  Don’t tell no one. Especially my brothers.

  Out the back.

  The only one who ever swallowed.

  Out the back and into nothing. Into blackness. Into air.

  Bruce ducked.

  And in the split second between the release of the bullet and the onslaught of nothingness, Rick heard one more set of words surrounding the laughter still flowing from Bruce’s mouth.

  “That’s one down, Silver. Only twelve more to go.”

  Twelve more to go.

  All because she swallowed.

  All because she swallowed.

  She swallowed.

  And then

  nothing.

  Sitting Ducks

  He was used to the ribbing he got from Chuck and John about his bow. He was used to being called Papoose and Dances with Drunks and Little Big Gland. Hell, he got to the point where he didn’t feel quite right if they didn’t tease him a little. They had the high-powered rifles, the telescopic sites, the camouflage vests, the duck blind with the beer cooler. But Brent was taught to respect what he was hunting, make it fair, so he always used a bow. His father taught him that, and using a rifle with a telescope didn’t seem as much of a sport as bow hunting.

  “That’s why they had their land taken away,” Chuck said, jabbing him in the ribs as they drove to Belly-up Lake. “We had the guns.” Chuck was the largest of the three, his jacket tightly hugging his ample gut.

  They had never been to this lake before, but Chuck heard about it from an old guy he sold life insurance to. The old man said it had more ducks than mosquitoes. Enough ducks to stuff a thousand feather beds.

  John blew on his duck call, making Brent jump in his seat. “It’s magic,” John said. “I carved this puppy myself, and it’s pure magic. Last time I went out with it, a mallard dove out of the sky and started humping it. I could’ve reached out and broke its neck if I wanted to.”

  “You didn’t?” Brent asked.

  “Naw,” John said. “Rather see the feathers fly.” The call was on a leather strap around his own long, skinny neck, and he tucked it back in his shirt. His hunting hat was too big on his head, and the earflaps looked like mutant sideburns. Whenever he’d turn his head, the hat refused to follow.

  Chuck leaned over the steering wheel, squinting. There was a slight wheeze in his voice. “Where is this place?”

  “Look for the sign that says ‘No Trespassing’,” John joked. “Look for the sign that says ‘Explosives Used Here.’ You sure this guy wasn’t pulling your crank?”

  “Sounded legit to me.”

  “Remember, you were his insurance salesman. Some people think you’re only one baby step above lawyers when it comes to morals. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting there in some tree, nose of his rifle aimed right at your meaty red ass.”

  “Fuck you.” Chuck slammed on the brakes, cringing with the effort. “Whoa — here it is.”

  They turned down a narrow dirt road, dark with the shade of tall deciduous trees, their leaves the color of rust and orange juice and coffee stains. It was a crisp fifty-two degrees.

  “How’s Blackie doing back there?” Chuck asked.

  Blackie was Chuck’s black lab. Eight years old and still loved to retrieve game.

  John looked over his shoulder into the back of the truck. Blackie sat, tongue hanging out, tail flailing like mad, looking in the rear window of the cab at the three men.

  “Your dog’s retarded,” John said.

  “Don’t talk about him like that.”

  “Okay, he’s mentally challenged. No, seriously, he’s the dumbest thing I’ve seen on four legs.”

  “You’re the dumbest thing I’ve seen on two legs. Never had a dog as good as Blackie, so you just watch your mouth.”

  “Hey,” Brent said, pointing through the front window. “Look at that.”

  Chuck leaned forward. “Aw, sheesh. Wow.”

  John, in the back, pressed his head against the glass, trying to look into the sky. “What?”

  “A whole shit-load of birds,” Chuck said.

  The sky was filled with ducks, flying high over the truck in the opposite direction the trio was headed.

  “Stop the truck,” John said, still straining to see.

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “Come on, let’s get out and start plucking a few out of the sky.”

  “There’ll be plenty more where they came from.”

  Duck poop splatted on the hood of the truck. Another big glob landed on the window.

  “White gold,” John whistled.

  The sound of their honking filled the air seductively.

  John lifted the duck call to his mouth and gave it a honk.

  Waaahhh!

  “Put that away, you moron,” Chuck said. “There’ll be plenty.”

  Chuck and John had been hunting together since high school, and Brent turned it into a trio four years ago. Still, he was the new guy. Add that to the fact that he used a homemade bow, and Chuck and John couldn’t help but tease him.

  “Hey, Cochise,” Chuck said. “Reach in the glove compartment and pull us each out one of them cigars.”

  Actually, Brent was mostly Norwegian; his closely trimmed beard the color of rusting tin. But he had about a toe’s worth of Pembina Sioux in him from some tryst far back in his fa
mily tree. “Okay, Kemo Sabe,” Brent said, opening the glove box. They were cheap cigars, the kind that cost less than a dollar each. The kind that reeked and clawed at the throat. But hunting without sucking in at least a couple of them was unthinkable. Brent handed them out.

  “And here we are,” Chuck said, slowing to a stop and drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

  The road ended, narrowing abruptly into a short walking trail lined by dogwood and gooseberry bushes overseen by aspen and red pine. Blackie jumped out of the pickup, his tail swinging with a mind of its own. The men got out and stretched.

  “So where did all the ducks go?” John asked, squinting disappointedly into the sky.

  “You scared ’em away with your damn whistle,” Chuck said.

  They unloaded their gear from beneath a dark green tarp. Chuck and John put on waders, checked their rifles, and loaded their hunting vests with bullets. Brent strung his bow and gave it a pluck, the sound of the string like a high note on a washtub bass. He kept on the worn out sneakers he came with and slung his father’s old leather quiver over his shoulder.

  Chuck nudged John and nodded toward their companion. “He’ll probably bag a few birds just because they feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch.”

  Brent laughed. “If they feel sorry for anybody, it’ll be for your wives.”

  “Hey!” Chuck said.

  They carried their gear down the narrow trail, unlit cigars clenched in their mouths, while the dog raced ahead to the lake.

  “Blackie, get back here,” Chuck hollered. “You’ll scare away everything.”

  They heard a splash.

  “That’s one fine hunting dog,” John said, lighting his cigar. A grimace shimmered across his face, then turned into a smile.

  “Blackie, get back here, damn it,” Chuck called.

  Blackie swam jerkily among the cattails that lined the edge of the lake. The water surrounding them was covered with green algae, which disappeared about fifteen feet from the shore.

  Blackie gave a yelp and turned back, snout pointed in the air. When his feet touched the ground, he leaped up, splashing water, and then took another leap onto the shore. He shook himself frantically and started to whimper.

  “What’s the matter with your dog?” John asked.

  “Aw, sheesh. He’s just pissed because I switched from canned to dry food.”

  Brent leaned over and stroked the dog’s wet chin. “What’s the matter boy? What’s bothering you?”

  Blackie licked the back of Brent’s hand, then ran in a circle and stopped at the edge of the lake, giving a quick bark. The dog look backed at Brent.

  “Just ignore him,” Chuck said as he helped John set up their blind. “He just wants the attention.”

  Brent looked out over the lake. The water was as still as tar. On the other side, which was only fifty yards away, the rocky shore erupted abruptly from the water. The trees shivered like cold old women in the wind. The sky made Brent think of light blue cellophane. He turned his attention to the trees on this side of the lake and spotted a good one to climb and wait in. Everyone settled down, even the dog, and the only sounds for a good while were the sounds of carbon dioxide shishing out of freshly opened beer cans.

  Twenty minutes later, Brent’s cigar was near its end, and he mashed the ashes against the tree truck and stuffed the butt in an empty beer can. He allowed himself only one beer on these outings, occasionally a second one when they were finished. He had appointed himself designated driver. If it wasn’t him, it wouldn’t be anybody.

  He straddled a big branch about fifteen feet off the ground, his back against the main trunk. So far there had been no ducks since arriving at the lake. But he didn’t mind. He wasn’t here for the ducks.

  He breathed in deeply the fresh air and the smell of the fall leaves. Not a better smell in the world, he thought. In the distance, beyond the trees across the lake, the ground sloped upwards a bit, and he could see a large cornfield covered with driven over, withered stalks. The lake in front of him was small, but looked deep, the water in the center black and impenetrable.

  Like Sheila’s eyes, Brent thought. It was hard to ever know what she was thinking. They had been married six years, but she was still a mystery in a lot of ways.

  When they were first married, he’d go hunting by himself. Not to actually kill anything, but more as a way to get out into the woods, breath in the smells, take in the sight of the fall leaves. Meditate and think. After two years of doing this, he realized it was upsetting Sheila. As if it was his way of saying he wanted to get away from her.

  It wasn’t so much that he wanted to get away from her, it was more like he wanted to be alone. He had been alone a long time before he met her, and he still liked the occasional solitude.

  He looked down at the duck blind. Could hear laughter coming up softly from below. He didn’t know how they did it, how they could stand each other down there. But they had been doing it forever. And they were a good excuse to get out into the woods. Instead of getting away from Sheila, now he was just going out hunting with some buddies. Buddies who insisted he come along. What was he to do? They insisted, for goodness sake.

  Brent thought he heard a plane flying toward them, but quickly realized it was coming from below. It was Blackie. He was growling.

  Chuck’s voice came muffled from the duck blind. “Hush, Blackie.”

  Brent looked out over the lake, trying to figure out what Blackie was growling at, but the lake was still, and he couldn’t see anything on the other side. But something was definitely bothering the dog. Blackie didn’t get riled too easily.

  Chuck and John’s subdued voices rose up to Brent.

  “Blackie, hush!”

  “What’s the matter, boy?”

  In the distance, the unmistakable sound of a flock of ducks could be heard. Brent spotted them first. Three large V’s.

  Blackie growled louder, sounding like a car trying to start on a cold winter morning, then slunk out from behind the blind.

  “Hey!” Chuck whispered harshly. “Get back here.”

  Blackie trotted to the edge of the lake, sniffing the ground. The ducks were almost overhead.

  They’re not going to land now, Brent thought, chuckling. He whistled at the dog, but Blackie ignored him.

  John started in on the duck call.

  Waaahhh! Waaahhh!

  “Might as well forget it,” Chuck said, not bothering to whisper any more.

  “Blackie. Hey, Black!” Brent called down from the tree.

  Blackie stuck a paw in the algae coated water. Then he leaped in and began swimming toward the other side.

  “Stupid dog,” John said. Then he laughed. “What the hell’s gotten into him, Chuck?”

  “Hell if I know.” Then Chuck called, “Get back here!”

  “Just let him be. He’ll be back soon enough.”

  Another V of ducks flew overhead. Brent counted thirty of them.

  Another group followed.

  And another.

  Brent watched, scratching his head. He looked down at Blackie.

  Blackie swam in circles in the middle of the lake and started barking.

  Chuck and John got out from behind their blind. Chuck walked to the edge of the shore.

  “Come on, you stupid mutt. Get back here.” He looked up and saw the ducks in the sky, flying low overhead, their squawking echoing and mixing with the barks of the dog.

  “Jesus, look at all of them,” John said. He gave two frustrated honks on his duck call. “Blackie, damn it!” Then he said to Chuck, “Looks like you’re buying pizza again.”

  Brent watched another V of ducks fly in low overhead. But this time, a couple of birds veered off and flew down over the lake.

  Chuck scrambled for his rifle, which he’d left behind the blind. John was about to give another honk on his duck call, but decided against it.

  Brent knocked an arrow and sighted one of the ducks.

  They dove at the lake and l
anded on Blackie’s head.

  “Hey!” Chuck yelled. “Get off him!”

  Two more ducks dropped out of the sky and landed on the other two.

  “Hey!”

  Blackie’s barking stopped as he struggled to stay above water.

  Chuck stepped into the lake, aiming his gun at the ducks. But Blackie was thrashing around and there was no getting off a good shot without risking the dog’s life.

  John fired his gun in the air, the sound like a slap in the face.

  The ducks jumped. Chuck fired and knocked one out of the air, but the other three dropped back on Blackie’s head.

  Two more ducks swooped down and landed on the dog.

  “Aw, sheesh.” Chuck pumped his shotgun. “Get the hell off him!” He fired into the air. This time the ducks barely flinched. Blackie could no longer be seen among the wings and beaks and feathers.

  Two more ducks dove in, their quacks sounding gleeful.

  Chuck dropped his shotgun to the ground and walked out into the water.

  Brent wiped sweat off his brow. He felt helpless. What could he do? He didn’t trust his aim.

  “Stay on the shore. The water’s too cold,” John said.

  “I gotta go in,” Chuck said, tossing his vest onto the shore. “They’re killing him.”

  Blackie was about thirty feet from the shore.

  “Take off your damn vest then.”

  Another duck dove from the sky. John fired at this one before it landed and knocked him out of the air.

  Two more ducks replaced it.

  Chuck belly-flopped into the water. He began to swim through the cattails toward his dog. “Blackie!” he called. “Hold on!”

  Once he got into the open water, it was obvious that he was in trouble. Despite taking off his vest, he was still weighed down by too much clothing. It was like wearing an anchor. But Chuck strained and struggled against the suck of lake bottom gravity and managed to keep his head above the surface.

  When he was ten feet from the mound of ducks, they gave a communal quack and lifted into the air. Brent let an arrow fly and knocked one down. John blasted another one in two. But that was all.

  Blackie had disappeared from the surface. Chuck was working too hard to call out anymore. When he got to the spot his dog had been, he managed a weak, hoarse cry.