“Christ! Another one who doesn’t believe in cash.”
Disappointed by the small booty, he took the cash and hoped for better luck tomorrow. He stuffed the wallet down the front of the man’s shirt.
He picked up the body easily as if it was a bag of groceries. His strength always increased after a kill and the tall man was not a burden. The Whistler tossed the body into the dumpster with the trash and slammed the lid closed. He walked out of the alley into the street and disappeared into the night.
The following morning, a squad car spotted the abandoned Porsche in the alley on routine operations. They ran a check on the license plate and placed a call for a tow truck to remove the car. The tow truck driver found the abandoned car between the two derelict buildings and cursed the scumbag winos that had left the broken bottles in the alley. He picked up the broken glass and tossed it into the nearby dumpster. The driver did not see the car owner who lay on a bed of filth inside. He just got on with his task. He loaded the sports car onto the truck and drove it to the city impound lot.
The day came to an end and a new night began. Paul Thompson awoke from his slumber in his rancid coffin. A shudder ran through his body, ending in a scream. Enveloped in blackness, he remembered the attack. Frightened, he burst from the dumpster like a jack-in-the-box and sent a couple of rats scurrying for cover.
He clambered out of his place of rest and stumbled away, falling to the ground on the other side of the alley. His hand clutched at his throat for the mortal wound but found a healing scar. He looked at his lacerated hand and saw a jagged line carved into his palm. He realized he stunk like a shithouse mop and probably looked one like as well. His clothes were dirty, stained with wine, blood, and filth. The smell was of stale sweat, alcohol and garbage. He saw his car was gone, probably stolen by his attacker.
He was hungry like he had never been before. He was so hungry that his stomach felt knotted. He wanted to get cleaned up but he needed something to eat, so he went into a McDonalds. The people looked at him and wrinkled their noses at the sight and smell that greeted them. The muffled sounds of discontent reached the night manager who came from behind the service counter.
He confronted Thompson and refused him the right to food because of his condition. The architect turned to his fellow diners for support but they looked away or at their food. Others called for him to be thrown out. The manager who wanted no further disruption to his restaurant took a burger from a rack and thrust into Thompson’s hand.
“It’s on me,” the manager said bitterly.
Thompson wanted to pay. He felt guilty for causing so much commotion and did not want to take charity. The manager did not care and pushed him out onto the street and sent him on his way with a “fuck off.”
Thompson walked away from the fast food joint with the food he needed and the meat he had to have. He made large, untidy bites into the sandwich and had made two swallows before he had an idea of the food’s flavor. This is revolting, he thought. It was not that the food was spoiled but that it was repellent to his palate. It was as if what he was eating was rancid and everything tasted that way—the meat, bun, the cheese, and the ketchup. He dropped the half-eaten burger onto the sidewalk.
He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich. Peasant food, he thought. He felt that this crap was inferior to his hunger. This was not the type of food that he desired. Arrogance filled his empty belly; he was worthy of better. He went to grind the burger into the concrete with his heel.
He doubled up in pain as his stomach rejected the food. He vomited over the discarded burger. His stomach had not digested the food so it pretty much came back out as it went in. Mucus-coated chunks of chewed food splatted hard against the sidewalk. He was disgusted with his lack of control. His arrogance got a slap across the face and was put back in its place. He left his mess where it lay.
He went in search of a cab to get him out of the city. He wanted to get out of this place to seek solace in the comfort of his own home. After many cab drivers refused him, he eventually convinced a cab driver with the story that he had been mugged but that he had money. He paid the cabby with the money he had in the house.
He bathed, removing the grime of the street and the memory of his misadventure. He decided not to call the police in, he had not been hurt badly and they never found these people anyway. He listened to his messages. He had one from the office that wanted him to call in to make sure he was okay. The other was from the police who had his car impounded. At least that mystery’s solved, he thought. He would deal with those problems tomorrow, right now it was time to raise the drawbridge and post the guards. He drew the curtains, locked the doors and went to bed.
He awoke to a world that was already in full swing. He lay in his bed listening to it, reassured by its existence. The waves crashed onto the beach and were sucked back into the sea with a tinkling wheeze. People walked along the beach, spoke about their lives and the beautiful day, and played with their pets. Surfers completely oblivious to the ways of the conventional world spoke of the cool waves they had caught. Children played imaginatively in the sand and surf.
Partially dressed, he left his bed for the living room. The drapes did their best to cloak the room in darkness but failed to hide the daylight entirely and shadows stretched across the room. A shard of unhindered light only helped to make the model look all that more impressive.
Stopped in his tracks, his breath was taken away by its beauty. His latest project sparkled on the living room table. An overwhelming sense of pride filled him. I created that, he thought. He crossed the room to be close to his creation.
He held out an affectionate hand to touch the warmth of the sun on his model. His hand dipped into the pool of light; he cursed and retracted it at great speed. His arm shook with pain and he held it to him and stared at his injury. The light had burnt his hand as cruelly as if it was a branding iron. His flesh sizzled like meat on a grill. What is happening to me, he thought, how could the light burn me? His beloved pet had bitten him. He ran for the bathroom.
He removed the first aid kit. He looked at the mess that was his trembling hand. The puckered skin was a barbecued red and an odor like charred pork rose from it. His world had turned itself on its head and he did not know when it would right itself. What else could happen to me? he asked himself. He hoped that he had reached the final rinse and spin of the cycle and that his bad luck was over. He bathed and bandaged his hand as best as possible.
He went back into the living room and put his hand on the cord to the drapes to open them. It struck him like a blow to head, like the blow he took last night. Christ, this will burn me! He thought. Suddenly it all started to make sense. A conclusion dawned on him like a rising sun. His hand snapped away from the cord like it was a venomous snake.
He crashed onto the couch in shock. He recounted the series of events that occurred since leaving Grapevine’s—the Whistler, the attack, a hunger for an unknown food, and his burnt hand.
It can’t be true, he thought, am I a vampire? The evidence led him to a conclusion that he could not accept. He felt his world was a house of cards and he had just removed the wrong one. Craving a drink, he went to the refrigerator.
He surveyed the items in the refrigerator—milk, orange juice, mineral water, wine, but nothing appealed to his thirst. He gently fingered the steak under the plastic skin before he dug his fingers into the artificial membrane and scraped his nails across the meat. He removed the steak and threw it into the sink where it splatted against the stainless steel surface. He gulped down the watery blood in the base of the packaging. It was bitter like unripe fruit but it was enough to go somewhat towards satisfying his hunger.
He collapsed to the floor with tears running down his face. It’s true, he thought, I am. His life was over, as he knew it. The penny dropped and he understood the bad joke; he was dead and he was last to know.
Why couldn’t I have just died, he thought. He knew that his life had the prospect of being the Whis
tler’s, a killer’s life, having to exist off the living during the night. In this new world, he would have to use the power of darkness to succeed.
He moved to the living room and saw the muted light breaking through the curtains. “You bastard,” he screamed at the light.
His thoughts were of the world that was on the other side of that window. He desired the pleasure of basking in the world of light. He did not want to skulk in the shadows scavenging off of the weak and the unwitting. His rage turned to the model that glowed on the table. He snatched up a college award from a shelf and stormed over to it. He decided he would smash the fucking thing that mocked him. If he could no longer enjoy the things he made, then they would not exist. He drew his arm back like a major league pitcher but hesitated and he let his arm drop to his side, the award still clutched in it.
He saw again the beauty in his creation and not the spite that he had thought was there. This is beautiful work, he thought, and how he wished he could touch it right now. He smiled in admiration of his achievement and his mind was awash with a flood of memories of his past accomplishments. There was good in his work that came from the gift he possessed. He would be a fool to destroy the memory of his work. The spoilt child within him grew up into the adult he was and returned the award to its rightful place.
He sat staring at the shadows cast by a descending sun. He would not see tonight’s sunset and thought about the times he had watched it from here. He realized that he had never seen the sun rise from the sea like he had seen it descend. He had one wish, and that was to see the sun rise from the sea to give birth to a new day. He decided he would be a genie for a day and grant himself his wish. He flicked through a portfolio of his work and occasionally gazed at his model that changed in color with the sun while the night dropped from the heavens.
When it was dark, a cab drove him to San Francisco International airport. He paid the cabby a tip that he would never forget and that Thompson would never remember. He went from ticket booth to ticket booth of the various airlines. He wanted an overnight flight to the East Coast. American Airlines Flight AA476 would get him to Miami an hour before sun up. He purchased a ticket and checked in. He was asked if he had any luggage and remarked he had everything he needed and tapped the sunglasses in his lapel pocket.
The flight was uncomfortable. He could not sleep and hunger gnawed at his belly like it was an animal trying to eat its way out. He refused the food offered by the stewardess, as he only desired the food that sat in the seats around him. The flight landed on time and he left his fellow passengers at the baggage claim as he exited the deserted airport. He hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the Cuban asked.
“The beach,” Thompson said.
“Which one? There are lots, there’s the-”
“The closest one,” Thompson interrupted.
“Okay.”
The Cuban tried to engage his curious occupant in conversation and wondered what this man would want with the beach at this early hour. Thompson dismissed the questions; this was not the time for a life story. The cabby stopped curbside and Thompson gave him the last of his cash.
He had made it just in time—the sun was not far away. A faint orange glow emanated from the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. He walked onto the deserted beach, kicking up sand that crept into his shoes but he ignored the irritation. The sun had already filled the sky with light beyond the horizon and it would not be long before it did the same on the beach. He knelt down in the sand. He put his sunglasses on and hoped they would give him protection against the light as he eagerly waited for the show to begin.
The sun broke the surface of the water. A brilliant light was cast over the sea and land like a fisherman’s net. He watched the wondrous sight that blinded him even with the sunglasses. His smile was as bright as the sun that crept over the sea. Beautiful, he thought.
He had granted himself his wish of the perfect sunrise. He felt the sun on his skin and it immediately blistered wherever it was exposed. Tears of joy ran from his eyes even as they formed cataracts and it was not long before he lost sight of his final wish. His tears bubbled, evaporating into steam on the super-heated flesh of his cheeks.
The sun continued to climb from the depths of the ocean spreading more light. Paul Thompson’s light-sensitive body burned like a torch on the beach. His smile disappeared in the flames, as did his undesirable future.
THE END
Learn more about the author at www.simonwood.net
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###
THOUGH THY LIPS ARE PALE
By Maria Alexander
For youth is youth, and time will have it so,
And though thy lips are pale, and thine eyes wet
Farewell, thou must forget.
—”Good-Bye” by Anonymous, 15th Century France
Painful sunlight, cold air blasting between my raw lips. My head lolls forward wearily, the bells of Prime clanging faintly from the Abbey. Men in ivory belts and mail coats shing shing shing from horse to chateau, squires scuttling like brown spiders behind their dirty gold spurs. Gripping the prayer book tucked in my muff, I am wondering which horse’s back holds my dowry. My thousands, our salvation. My life is not where I stand but strapped to a beast in a precious coffer I have never seen....
Three days ago my virginity was but a shadow that would darken another cloister wall. How swiftly this change of fortune visited me. I never dreamed I would be betrothed but assumed I would remain a wilting maid my whole life. My sisters were married but I was told there was nothing left for me. Perhaps I misunderstood. I sift through every handful of spilt words these last months but I remember nothing except the endless procession of ministers, priests, and manor lords come to counsel my father on the spoiled crops, uprisings, and political strife as he remains loyal to Paris. I do not recall hearing of a marriage contract, nor what might have been the visitors who would bring the bride price. Then three nights ago, Mother’s proclamation of betrothal came to me in my bed chambers like the Angel’s annunciation to the Virgin. I am to wed the son of a Duke in the Duchy of Normandy.
I have only thirteen Yuletides.
As Mother and I walk into the weak light of morning, my companions weep piteously from the chateau gate. One secrets a small bottle of rose, cardamom, and cumin in a silk handkerchief as a parting gift. We had whispered excitedly about the marriage: Would I run a big household? Would I have lots of children? Is my betrothed handsome? My friends assured me that with my flaxen hair and azure eyes I was pretty enough to love. And I believed them. For a moment, at least.
Mother sees my distress as I leave my companions and places a hand on my cheek, withering resignation in her touch. “Worry not,” she says. “In your trousseau are great swaths of Italian damask that are blue as robin’s eggs, linen fair as fresh cream, velvet black as a murder’s wings, and fine woolens to fend off the damp chill of Normandy.”
I do not recall seeing these fabrics in my trousseau much less the armoire that holds them. Only the carefully wrapped packs of heavily salted fish and pork, the bulky sacks of trancheor loaves, jugs of cider, dried cheese rinds and other rations. Far more than four day’s travel. I suppose one cannot underestimate the appetites of men.
Wrinkled red faces peer from the kitchen. Breezes nuzzle the beech leaves overhead as I am lifted into the gaily colored cart and seated amongst plentiful furs, which I gather around me. I find some toiletries and a few small bundles of rations buried in the furs. It is eerily quiet. No saltarellos, singers, or noisemakers to celebrate my fortune and wish me well.
“Where are the men who serve my betrothed?” I ask Mother. “Why do they not retrieve me as they did my sisters?”
“We must hurry,” she says and withdraws her regard. I fall voiceless.
Leaves crackling beneath their knees, the men in ivory belts brandish their swords, swear oaths to great angels and troth fealty
to my mother’s amaranthine beauty. My heart floats like cobwebs on a breeze when I hear such words. I sit motionless, suspended in the rapture of their praise for Mother’s spiritual and physical perfections. Then, they mount their horses with a shout, heraldry held aloft. The horses clop clop clop and we move away from the chateau.
I brush away the silt of confusion. I am excited to one day soon have the service of such fine warriors who speak words of admiration, to one day inspire the good deeds and thoughts of a man who fights for both me and mild mother Mary. One day soon, I will be the one protected and honored. (Then again, the wedding might be some years from now. No one can say.) In the meantime, I can write letters to my mother and sisters, and I love my books. Surely I can have more of those, too.
After some distance, I gather my courage and skirts to crawl forward to the curtains. I part them on the far left side to reveal the patchwork bocage of Bretagne passing behind us. The black hedges of oak quilt the borders between great squares of dark verdant grasses dotted with the ashy broom bushes and the feathery heads of heather wearing tiny jewels of dew. My tongue curls over my lips as if to taste the succulent vegetation. Then the sour stench of the horses worms into the feast as one cantors up to my cart. The squire runs alongside to catch up. The man riding the horse is layered in chain mail and a bright red poplin tunic swathed at the waist with the ivory belt. I am frightened by the breadth of his meaty jaw, the cruel squint of his eyes and the faded mulberry scar ripping the bridge of his nose. A thin veil of benevolence spreads over his otherwise dark face as he speaks to me. “Hail, little one. It goes well?”
I nod.
“You are sick from the cart, no?”
I shake my head.
He raises his head to speak to the others. “Hitch a cart to this one! She is strong as an ox!”
Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set Page 20