by Jason Tucker
Martin grunted as he fell to the floor and the air burst from his lungs. Cooper was suddenly on top of him with bony hands trying to wrap around Martin's throat.
"Knew you'd try something, boy," Cooper said in a growl. "Your daddy said you weren't right in the head."
Martin grasped Cooper's hands and squeezed his wrists. He pushed upward with his left hand while pushing his right hand along with Cooper's across his body. This unbalanced Cooper so Martin was able to push the elderly man off to the side. Martin was quick to get on top of Cooper and press his weight down on the old man. After a few minutes of struggling, Cooper began to wheeze and choke on his own spit. Martin laid his forearm across Cooper's throat until the man was unconscious.
Martin rolled away and lay in the bacon grease on the dirty floor, breathing heavily.
Just kill two men.
Cassie made is sound so easy.
8.
Both of the soon-to-be victims were there now. They lay in the same shed where they and his father had raped and then killed his sister when she was sixteen. Martin watched them wriggle and try to escape from the bonds around their wrists and ankles. They reminded Martin of worms.
The work light that hung over them was intense enough to chase away all the shadows in the shed. It offered an almost antiseptic feel although the shed was filthy and covered in years of dirt and dust. Cassie stood over them, looking angelic in the bright light that shone through her.
"It's time," she said. "Ask them if they remember this place."
Martin nodded and asked the question.
"What the hell are you talking about, boy?" Cooper asked. He squinted at Martin, the light obviously too much for his cataracts.
"He's crazy," Bertram said. Both dried and fresh blood coated his wrists from where the handcuffs had dug into him. His eyes had the glazed over look of an animal that had just enough intelligence to know that the end was near.
"I'm not crazy," Martin said. He opened a small blue toolbox and pulled out a high-tension hacksaw, a hammer, and an eight-inch chef's knife. He made sure to lay them where Cooper and Bertram could see. "She told me everything that you did to her."
Cooper started laughing until he began to cough. It took him a few seconds to calm his breathing down to the point where he could speak again. "So that's what this is about?"
"Shut up," Bertram said to Cooper. He turned his attention to Martin. "Look, you should just let us out of here so we can talk about all this. You've got problems, but we can work this out."
"He's trying to talk you down," Cassie said.
"I know what he's trying to do. Don't worry, I've got this," Martin said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. No sense in letting Cooper and Bertram know this was his first time.
"Who in the hell are you talking to?" Cooper asked. "Son, your daddy was right when he said you had problems in your brainpan."
"Remind them of how it happened," Cassie said. "Tell them what I told you. I want them to know why you are doing this."
"I think they have a pretty damned good idea of why I'm doing this, Cassie," Martin said. He snatched the hammer in one hand and the knife in the other.
"Shit, he thinks he's talking to his sister," Cooper said. This brought another fountain of laughter and coughing.
Martin looked down at Cooper. "What made you hurt her? What happened in your minds to make you think it was okay? Don't you regret what you did to her?"
"It was your father's idea," Bertram said. "You know what kind of guy he could be. He made us do it."
"Fuck, Bertram, don't you try to say you didn't enjoy it," Cooper said. His eyes glazed over as the memory took hold. "We all did. And one of us must've smacked her too hard because she stopped moving. That didn't stop us though. When we were done, we cut her up and tossed her in the river. You’re the only sorry sack that actually missed her. So no, I don't regret what I done."
"We didn't mean it," Bertram said. His breathing was rapid and shallow. "We didn't mean for her to die."
Martin raised the hammer and hesitated. Once he swung, there could be no going back. There were no exits or detours from that path.
"You ain't got it in you, boy," Cooper said. "We should've saved your father a lot of grief and killed you when we –"
Martin brought the hammer down, striking Cooper's left kneecap. He heard it break and felt it shatter beneath the blow. Cooper howled and cried. Martin smashed the other knee.
The path was set. Martin knew he'd made the right choice.
Bertram tried to squirm away, crying and invoking the name of God as he rolled his thick body away from Martin.
Martin followed Bertram and tried to shut out Cooper's cries. He drove the blade of the knife deep into the back of Bertram's thigh and withdrew it slowly. The wound sucked at the blade as though it didn't want to leave the flesh. He stabbed again, this time into the other thigh, and again into the buttocks, and then once more into the lower back, letting the warm blood splash onto him. He let the knife stay this time, sticking out of Bertram's bulbous, quivering body. He turned his attention back to Cooper and worked his way up the body with the hammer. No matter how hard he struck, Cooper remained conscious and uttering obscenities the likes of which Martin had never heard. Cooper kept yelling right down to the final blow that caved in his skull.
9.
The shed was a red mess.
Martin fell against the wall, breathing heavily and shaking, completely covered in blood. He'd have to burn his clothes. Not that it would stop them from catching him. The police would eventually figure out he was the one that killed Bertram and Cooper, even if they never found the bodies. It wouldn't take much to sleuth out the information, and he was sure there were enough physical traces here to tie him to the murders. Of course, if the other cops in Silver Point were anything like Bertram, he might not have to worry for a long time.
The tools he used for the job still lay on the plastic sheets next to Bertram and Cooper's bodies. The blood was starting to congeal already. He needed to figure out a way to get rid of the tools too. He'd already dug a grave for the men, and he thought he might as well just toss the knife, hammer and saw in there as well.
He started to breathe through his mouth so he didn't have to smell the blood. It was overpowering. Mixed with the scent of urine and feces – all the nastiness that humans expel when they die – it was too much.
"You did great," Cassie said. She was examining the parts and pieces of the men who had raped and killed her so long ago. Her ghostly fingers touched the remains and passed through them. Her ghostly form seemed to shiver as she did. She smiled and seemed satisfied, almost radiant.
"I'm glad it's over," he said, hauling himself back up on unsteady legs.
"How did it feel?" Cassie asked.
"What?"
"Murdering them? How did it feel?"
"It felt like the right thing to do," Martin said.
"Like the right thing to do, or did it just feel right?"
Martin shrugged and focused on the bodies again. "What's the difference?"
"When you were little, you were different," Cassie said. "I always thought it was because Dad was so mean. I thought maybe something inside your head was broken because of the things you saw, the way he was."
"Way to spread the love, Sis," Martin said. "You think I'm a sociopath?"
"Did you like it?"
How was he supposed to answer that? Did he like killing people? He thought about it for a moment and felt a tingle at the base of his skull when he realized the answer. "I did like it. It felt like it was something I should've been doing a long time ago."
"That's real good, little brother, because I've got someone here I'd like you to meet."
The faint outline of a small child appeared next to Cassie, slowly coalescing into being… or ectoplasm. Martin wasn't entirely sure. The new ghost was a small, dark-haired Hispanic boy who looked to be about nine or ten years old at most. He stayed close to Cassie. She too
k his hand into hers.
The boy didn't seem to notice the bodies. Or at least he didn't pay any attention to them. His dead eyes stared at Martin instead.
"This is Micah," Cassie said.
Martin nodded at the boy. He knew what was coming next. "What's your deal, kid?"
Micah didn't say anything. He just looked up at Cassie, who smiled down at him.
"Micah's parents had a friend named Xavier," Cassie said.
"Let me guess," Martin said. The smell wasn't bothering him as much now, and he was already trying to figure out the best way to get blood off of knives and saws. He'd need them. "Xavier was not a nice man?"
"He lives in San Antonio. Micah says Xavier stashes cash at his house from drug sales. It'll be enough money to last you for a long time so we can keep this up. We could drive there in a few days; the three of us," Cassie said. "Then take care of Xavier."
"Like an undead family road trip," Martin said. He walked over and started to gather his tools. He thought it odd that he was already thinking of them as his tools. Working as a serial killer for hire in the service of vengeful ghosts was going to be a dangerous business.
Rorschach's Vampires
Inky blobs hovered in the periphery of Gordon's vision, becoming clearer and more stable as each second passed. Stringy tentacles dripped viscous ink onto the break room's shining linoleum floor. Gordon swallowed hard and watched the hypnotic dance of the floating things: they moved and shimmered as the light hit them. He could almost hear them whispering to him.
Shelly couldn’t see them, of course. At least Gordon didn’t think that she could, because no one else had. If she had been able to see the globules, he was sure she would've mentioned them. After all, it wasn't everyday that shape-shifting inkblots filled the office lunchroom.
"Shame we had to come in on a Saturday," Shelly said. She stirred her coffee and looked at him with dull eyes. It was just the two of them in the office today.
"It happens," Gordon said. "It could be worse."
"How are those little ones of yours?" Shelly asked. She took a big, noisy slurp of coffee that Gordon was sure had more sugar than liquid in it. He'd seen her dump at least a dozen spoonfuls of sugar and about a quarter cup of creamer into it.
She took another gulp while she waited for his answer. This time some of the coffee dribbled down her chin, where it slithered into the thick folds of her neck. She didn't bother to wipe it away. An inkblot that resembled a pig hovered near her left ear, dripping gobs of black ooze onto her pink blouse.
"Gordon, I asked you how the little ones are," she said again. Her words were louder and slower this time, as though he were too dense to understand her. "The babes… how are they?"
He realized she meant his children. He'd almost forgotten all about them. They were gone, that's how they were. The hungry ink demanded it. They'd been marked just like the sow Shelly was marked now.
God, he hated small talk, and that's all office life was. No one really cared how other people were doing. They just asked the same inane questions day after day and made the same observations. Of course no one liked sitting in a cube. Of course everyone wanted more money. Of course everyone wanted better healthcare. Of course everyone wanted to be someone and wanted recognition for something beyond how well they could file paperwork. Bitching about it every damned day in the office wasn't going to make anything change. Gordon knew that. He knew that he had to make his own changes. The ink showed him that much. The ink showed him lots of things.
A dripping ebon skill flickered to lift in front of his eyes and then drifted over to Shelly's shoulder, where it absorbed the inky pig. Gordon knew that that meant. It was time to get to work.
He fingered the knife in his pocket. It was still sticky from the babes, as Shelly had called them. Gordon smiled at Shelly: she smiled dumbly and blissfully back at him. The ink began to quiver with what Gordon imagined was excitement. They knew what was coming next, and Gordon suddenly realized that he was shaking as well.
The smile remained on Shelly's face until Gordon sliced into her. He spent a good twenty minutes cutting through her fatty tissue and slicing open arteries and veins so she could bleed out onto the floor. The blood pooled around her and the ink went to work lapping up her blood. The more they drank the larger they grew, and now Gordon could hear them whispering more clearly.
Yes, Gordon thought as he listened. The ink was right. A few more like Shelly and the babes, and he would certainly get recognition for more than just his filing skills.
Worst Thing I Ever Did
I've done rotten things. I've cheated at cards, and I cheated on my first and my third wife. I even stole a car once. Hell, the car thing was right after the undead started all their shit, so you really can't blame me for that. I imagine just about everyone who is still alive stole plenty. Everyone was looting. It was just the new nature of the world, man. That's all. So I never really did feel too bad about any of that. I mean, it isn't as if I felt like I needed to confess to those things or anything like that. They were just part of who I am, good and bad, warts and all.
I never really did think I was evil though: at least, not until a few hours ago. Don't worry; I'll get to the meat of it quick enough.
This morning, I headed out of the bunker to scavenge for grub with Spanks. It was our turn. You know Spanks, don't you? He's the greasy little guy with the doughy face and the droopy eyes. We went out toward the East Side, where we thought that maybe some of the stores would have a little something left. We never got that far.
About half a dozen rots came tearing out of the deli over on Altamont and that coward Spanks turned and ran. I'll be honest. I thought about putting a bullet in his back for leaving me like that. It turns out I didn't have to do anything. The fool ran right into the clawing arms and gnashing teeth of another zombie that he didn't even notice. The rots that were after me must've thought Spanks looked more appetizing, because they let me go and tore into him instead.
I left the idiot to die. The damn zombies already bit him, so what could I do to help? Everyone knows that after a bite the virus hits the bloodstream fast. He would've turned into one of those things in a matter of hours.
Yeah, I know it was probably a shit move on my part. But that wasn't the worst thing I ever did.
You see, when I was tousling with the rots up there, one of them bit me too. I didn't even notice it at first. It's just a little bite, a love nip really. I covered the wound before I came back to the shelter and you let me in without checking me. Thank you for that, by the way.
But I can already feel the virus working inside of me. You can lie and tell me that it's just my imagination, but we both know better than that, don't we? I mean, I already tied you up before I told you my story. I have an urge to bite you, but I'm doing my best to fight it. Honestly I am.
So, now you know the worst thing I ever did.
Hey, now that I think about it, I guess letting me back inside is the worst thing you ever did, isn't it? I never thought I'd have something in common with my food.
God's Food: A Twisted Fairy Tale
(Based on the Brothers Grimm story of the same name)
1.
Once upon a time there were two sisters. The youngest of the sisters was a widow, and she spent her days caring for her five children in a ramshackle cottage deep in the Great Wood. Her name was Bonnie. Her elder sister Griselda was childless. She had married a wealthy man and moved out of the thick and tangled woods long ago.
Widow Bonnie loved her children deeply, but finding food was difficult. The forest had not been offering its usual bounty and Bonnie could not forage enough to satisfy her little ones' hunger, nor the gnawing pain that tore at her own belly. It was a dark time for her, but she was sure that her sister would show her kindness. One should always be able to rely upon their own flesh and blood for help.
Bonnie set out from her little house in the late afternoon with her five children following along behind like emaciated duckling
s. They arrived at Griselda's manor house and sprawling grounds shortly before the sun started to set and great black clouds filled the sky. They heralded the approach of a storm.
A servant in a coat with gold frocking answered the door, but he did not let Bonnie and her children inside. Instead, he told them to wait on the step and he would fetch the lady of the house. Griselda came to the door bedecked in jewels, wearing a sneer on her skeletal face.
"My children and I have nothing," Bonnie said. "We are suffering from the greatest hunger we've ever known and we will certainly die without your help."
"I've nothing to give," Griselda said.
"But you are rich," Bonnie replied. "You must have a mouthful of bread for my children at least. They are your nieces and nephews."
"You are a wretch, and they are nothing but brats who will become dregs much like their dead father. I've nothing for any of you. Go back to your hovel where you belong and never return here."
With tears in her eyes and pain in her stomach, Bonnie led her starving children away from the manor and back along the trail in the woods. The clouds above grew darker and ate away the last remaining bits of sunshine.
2.
Perth Innes, Griselda's fat and wealthy husband, returned home a few hours later and brought with him a ravenous appetite. Thunder rumbled in the distance: rain would soon begin to fall. He arrived at his doorstep just in time to avoid the heavenly downpour.
Griselda told him about her sister's visit to the house earlier and together they laughed at her misfortune.
"She never should've married a woodcutter," Perth said, and Griselda agreed. It was Bonnie's own fault that she and her brood were without a father and husband to provide for them. The wolves were to thank for that.
Perth laughed again when he thought of the raging storm outside and of his homely sister-in-law stuck in that little shack, which he imagined was full of leaks. He chuckled merrily as he cut into the loaf of bread that he and Griselda were going to have with their dinner. As the blade bit into the crust, the bread began to bleed. The blood oozed out freely, covering Perth's hands and the table.