by Jeff Strand
"Yes!" said Hector, making a gesture of victory.
Hector ran around the corner as Charlie stood there, thinking about the fact that having nails stuck in his face kind of hurt. How had Hector been able to get that bucket set up so quickly? This must’ve all been prepared beforehand, in case of incompetent burglars.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, then cautiously moved up the wooden stairs, plucking out his facial nails along the way. A couple of them were rusty. Wonderful. He certainly didn’t need a case of tetanus on top of all of this.
Turning the corner, he saw Hector standing at the end of the hallway, in front of a large window. Dozens of marbles were on the floor in front of him.
"I’m not going to hurt you," Charlie insisted. "I just want to say ‘booga-booga’!"
"Come and get me," said Hector.
Charlie quickly stepped forward. He’d been distracted by the marbles, and so the thin layer of clear grease on the floor came as quite a surprise. As Hector stepped out of the way, Charlie began to slide, arms windmilling, and let out an undignified yelp. Then he hit the marbles, slipped on them as well, let out another yelp, and went flying through the window.
At that moment, time conveniently seemed to slow down. He registered the fact that the broken glass had left some nasty cuts on his chest and face. Then he registered the even more unnerving fact that he was falling toward a picket fence around a doghouse.
He hit the fence, slicing his body neatly in two at the waist. The top part of him dropped to the ground, his face landing in a half-eaten bowl of Alpo.
Grrrrrrrrrr…
It wasn’t necessary for Charlie to lift his head to discover what that sound meant, but he did so anyway. Perhaps it would be a nice Chihuahua.
It was not a nice Chihuahua. It was a very large Doberman with white foam around its mouth and a collar that read "Blood Hunter." Charlie would have wet his pants had his groin still been attached. Instead, he settled for screaming.
The dog pounced, digging its teeth into his arm and shaking its head back and forth, growling all the while. Charlie let loose with several cries of "Nice doggie!" but they didn’t seem especially effective.
As the dog began to drag Charlie back to its doghouse, Hector emerged from the house and hurried over to the fence, his eyes wide with shock.
"Help me!" Charlie pleaded. "Don’t let him eat me!"
The boy just stared at him.
"I’m here because the Devil sent me!" Charlie shouted. "If you let me die, he’s going to come and get you!"
If he hadn’t already been condemned, Charlie knew he’d get in some serious spiritual trouble for saying that. But the dog was hurting him, and he was desperate.
"What should I do?" Hector asked.
"Feed him something!"
"I don’t have anything!"
"Use…" Charlie frantically glanced around for something, "…my legs!"
Hector looked over at the severed lower half of Charlie’s body with some displeasure.
"Do it now!"
Hector lifted the legs and dangled them over the fence. "Here, Blood Hunter! Here boy! Come and get it!"
At the sight of the fresh drumsticks, the Doberman released its hold on Charlie and bounded over to the legs. It grabbed the left leg by the ankle then dragged the pair to a corner, snarling as it began to feast.
Charlie pulled himself toward the fence door, pain shooting through his savaged arm. His hand came down on a freshly placed and not very firm pile of dog shit.
He wanted to go back to Hell.
"Son, what are you doing?" demanded a loud, male voice in the distance. Charlie looked over and saw a man, probably Hector’s father, striding towards the dog pen.
Hector rushed over to the man. "Look!" he shouted. "There’s a thing in there with Blood Hunter!"
"Son, I’m getting a little tired of your stories. And I damn well better not find out that you fixed up the house again while we were gone."
Then the man noticed Charlie. Charlie forced a grin and tried to give him a friendly wave.
"What the hell is that thing?"
"He says the Devil sent him here!"
"Devil, my foot! That thing is a zombie! Hector, go get my rifle!"
As Hector ran off, the man swung open the door to the dog pen and stepped inside. He grimaced as he saw the dog chewing on the legs.
"Sir, I can explain," said Charlie.
"You shut up," the man told him. "I don’t talk to unnatural beings."
A minute later, Hector returned with the rifle. The man took it from him and motioned for him to stand back. "I thought that zombies were all made up," he said. "Should’ve known that those Hollywood people couldn’t come up with anything original. Now when you’ve got a zombie, son, the only way to get rid of it is to shoot it in the head."
He pointed the barrel of the rifle at Charlie’s head and fired. Charlie’s forehead exploded, filling the air with stuff he didn’t even want to think about. He worked his mouth back and forth, but couldn’t find his voice.
"I’ll be damned," said Hector’s father. "Didn’t work."
"Maybe you should shoot him in the heart instead!"
"That’ll do it. Thanks, son."
He pointed the rifle at Hector’s chest and fired again. Charlie managed to locate his voice and used it for the express purpose of shrieking at the top of what remained of his lungs.
"Damn. Missed."
The man fired once again, this time hitting the heart. Charlie continued to scream.
"Okay, this isn’t working," said the man, setting the rifle aside. "I think in this other movie, they just chopped the bastards up. Son, go get my axe."
Ten minutes of hard labor later, Charlie was lying in twenty-six pieces, excluding the gnawed lower half of his body. He wondered if the drowned boy’s soul was getting pissed.
"Know what?" asked the man. "I forgot that in the movie the zombie pieces kept moving, too. You’ve got to burn them. Son, go get my can of gasoline and some matches."
««—»»
Charlie had been a pile of ashes for about an hour when he finally reappeared in Hell, seated on the edge of an enormous pool of fire. He had returned to his soul body, and rubbed his head just to show how much he’d missed it.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," said the Devil, who was seated next to him, cooking a hot dog over the flames. "A shoddy performance on your part."
"What’s going to happen to me?" Charlie asked.
The Devil thought for a long moment. "Despite the rumors, I’m not a total cretin. I must say that I rather enjoyed watching you being mangled beyond recognition. Perhaps we’ll try it again sometime."
"I think I’d rather just burn," Charlie admitted.
"Yeah, that’s what they all say," the Devil remarked. "Well, that can wait. You hungry?"
"Starved."
"Good," said the Devil, handing Charlie a stick with a fresh hot dog stuck on the end. "Let’s just relax for a while. Spend some quality time together. What would you like to accomplish during your time in Hell…?"
The hot dogs were delicious. Charlie and the Devil talked and sang blasphemous campfire songs into the wee hours of the night, as the tormented souls around them howled in their ceaseless misery.
Quite a Mess
It started, as usual, with a severed head flying through the air. The head was soon accompanied by two more. They were newly decapitated and, one assumed, blissfully unaware of their projectile status.
Most of a left arm sailed across the room, followed closely by a right arm, although they belonged to two different people. What little remained of a foot was also airborne, four of the toes skeletal, a silver ring on the still-fleshy big toe.
It was when the intestines started flying that things really got out of hand. Moments after the first length of bowel struck its target, the air was instantly filled with lungs, stomachs, livers, and whatever other guts were handy, along with more than a few bones.
Everybody was l
aughing, but Henry shook his head and sighed. Once, just once, he’d like to enjoy a cannibal feast that didn’t turn into a food fight.
I Hold the Stick
I wipe my perspiring hands on my pants, not wanting to get sweat on the Stick. The Stick is the source of my power, and I want it kept immaculate. Perhaps it does not look truly impressive, as it is nothing more than a wooden rod, exactly forty inches tall, the diameter of a quarter. But the Guests know its purpose, and to meet my stare is to realize that there can be no argument.
I watch the Guests with a mixture of disdain and anticipation. They walk past me, sweltering in the savage heat, filled with desire to satisfy a thirst that must go unquenched for much longer than they expect. Many of them have excitement in their eyes, believing their journey to be near its completion.
But I know the truth.
I stand in front of the Great Deception, the false cathedral. The entrance seems to lead into a cave of treasures, with sparkling jewels adorning the walls, but once the Guests have crossed the threshold they will find that the path they follow is but half-over.
That is, if I allow them to pass.
I continue watching the Guests, desperately seeking out those unworthy to proceed. Though I know it is not true, to my eyes the Stick seems to glow with an almost otherworldly white light. I have not been able to use my power all day, and am desperate for release.
Then I see one. She will not reach me for another ten minutes, but I am certain she is unworthy. She yawns sleepily, as do many of the unworthy at this point in their journey. I guess her age to be six. Her father, thin and bearded, also appears weary.
The Guests proceed forward. I wait, never removing my gaze from the child.
She will not pass. I am certain of it.
I want to grin, but control myself, as I have done so many other times.
By the time they reach me, I am clutching the Stick so tightly that my hand aches. I stare directly into the girl’s innocent eyes and place the Stick next to her.
She is unworthy. In fact, the Stick exceeds her height by a full inch.
"I’m sorry," I say, keeping my ecstatic giggle in check. "You’re not tall enough to go on The Hidden Treasure Ride. You’ll have to exit through the door to your left."
"What?" the girl’s father exclaims, his eyes flaring with fury. "We’ve been waiting forty-five minutes!"
I give the man a false sympathetic smile. "The sign at the beginning of the line clearly states that you must be as tall as Pirate Pete to ride. You should have checked."
"But…but…can’t you just let us through this one time?"
I love the pleading. I shake my head slowly. "If she isn’t as tall as my stick, she can’t ride. It’s as simple as that. Please use the exit to your left. You’re holding up the line."
The man starts to say something else, then curses loudly and drags his daughter through the exit. I feel warm. Sated.
The Guests continue moving past. Those who witnessed the exchange have varied reactions. Some smile as well, some give me dirty looks, and some whisper uncomfortably amongst themselves.
But they all know who has the power.
They know who holds the Stick.
Scarecrow’s Discovery
Completely shredded.
Arms and legs torn from the body, leaves scattered everywhere, the burlap head impaled on a wooden stake—the scarecrow had been mangled beyond repair. Ray stared at the mess for a moment and sighed.
"Guess some crows were kinda ticked," Hank said, grinning. Hank was his best friend, though Ray had no idea why.
"Shaddup." Ray shook his head in frustration. "Lousy kids. No respect for a man’s property. Third one this week."
"What kids? Haven’t seen any kids around here since your Johnny started serving his five-to-ten."
"Shaddup." Ray bent down and yanked the scarecrow’s head off the stake. "Look at this twisted stuff they did. Like one of them pagan ritual sacrifices or something."
"Those pagan ritual sacrifices are always getting in the way of crow control."
Ray tossed the head back on the ground. "It’s not losing the scarecrows that bugs me; it’s that these kids need to learn respect. Between the ages of twelve and seventeen, might as well just lock them in the basement."
"I know. Darn kids."
"They need punishment."
"I know. Darn kids."
Ray glared at him, and Hank grinned again. "So how’re you planning to teach these whippersnapper rapscallions a lesson?"
"Charlotte’s got an unstuffed scarecrow inside that she made to replace the first one. Tonight I’m gonna wear it like a costume and just wait out here. Once those kids show up, I’ll jump out at ’em and scare the livin’ pee out of their rotten little disrespectful bladders. They won’t be back."
Hank chuckled. "You’re actually going to stand out here all night?"
"If that’s what it takes."
"What if they go after one of the other scarecrows?"
"I’m takin’ the others down first."
Hank shook his head in mock sadness. "Ray, I hate to be the one to tell you this, what with us being best friends and all, but you’re an idiot."
"Shaddup. Now take your lazy butt over to the barn and let’s finish up for the day."
««—»»
After three hours, Ray was starting to get really sick of waiting. The scarecrow costume was itchy and uncomfortable, his back was getting sore from leaning against the wooden post, and he was falling asleep. Since he had a perfect view of the road from here, there was no need for him to be completely motionless, but nevertheless his muscles were starting to stiffen.
But it would all be worth it if those kids showed up.
He estimated it was around midnight when they finally did. He saw them off in the distance, two figures, probably young children, both carrying flashlights. As they got close enough to be illuminated by the streetlight he saw that they were children—a boy and a girl, no older than six or seven. Far too young to be doing stuff like this. If this was the future, society could kiss itself goodbye.
They headed right for him, the boy carrying a small grocery sack. They stopped about five feet in front of him, and the girl wrung her hands together in excitement.
"Give me the drill," she said.
"You got the drill last time," whined the boy. "It’s my turn."
"Fine, be a big baby. Give me the cleaver, then."
The boy took a large, shiny meat cleaver out of the bag and handed it to her. She smiled, and then took a step toward Ray.
He suddenly lurched forward, arms outstretched, and let out a horrific moan. "Leave me aloooooooooone!"
Their first reaction, terrified shrieks, was exactly what he had expected. Their second reaction, the girl slashing his leg with the meat cleaver, was not. Ray dropped to the ground, gritting his teeth in pain but forcing himself not to cry out. He quickly pulled off the scarecrow mask.
"Wait!" He winced loudly. "It was just a joke. Just a mask, see?"
The children stood there, staring at him as if unsure whether to run or not. Ray tried to stand up but the pain in his leg was too great.
"I need you to do me a favor," he said. "Go over to my house and knock on the door—get my wife, okay?"
The children were silent.
"C’mon, hurry up! I’m really bleeding!"
Finally, the girl’s face broke into a wide grin. "This is great! Tonight we don’t have to practice on those stupid scarecrows! We can do it with a real-live person, just like Mommy and Daddy showed us! Won’t they be proud?"
The boy nodded, the drill started to whirr, and Ray began to scream.
A Double Feature of Shamelessly Silly Holiday Nonsense!
"Howard, The Tenth Reindeer"
Followed immediately by
"Howard Rises Again"
You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen, though you’d probably mess up the names and embarrass
yourself if somebody asked you to list them. And of course you know the mutant. But there is another reindeer whose story has yet to be told.
This is the tale of Howard, the tenth reindeer.
Howard lived up in the North Pole, and had just barely missed the final cut for Santa’s team. During try-outs, he’d choked and let three presents fall out of the sleigh, including a Snotty Susie doll, the second most popular toy that year, which could say one whole sentence if you squeezed its nose for thirty seconds ("I’m calling social services on you, buster!") Fortunately he hadn’t dropped the most popular toy, a Hurt Me Elmer, which said "Thank you sir, may I have another?" when you spanked it, or he might have been banished altogether.
So he’d been given a job as Comet’s understudy, which meant he’d never get to pull the sleigh. Every once in a while Blitzen would overdo it on the eggnog and be incapable of fulfilling his duties (thus his name), but Comet was always ready for action. The only reindeer who couldn’t be accounted for with any regularity was Vixen.
This was a terrible disappointment to Howard, because there wasn’t much for a reindeer to do if he wasn’t on Santa’s team, besides watch Bambi for the 79th time. He could give rides to the elves, but they had an annoying habit of tugging on his antlers and shouting "Faster, horsey, faster!" All he wanted was to help make Christmas special, but he didn’t know what he could do.