Standing, he loomed over Freka.
“What did you do that for?” Lendor growled.
“You were touching her,” Freka screamed. “Enjoying her!”
“Yes, I was enjoying her,” he said. “You gave her to me to enjoy, didn’t you?”
“Not like that,” Freka huffed. “To feed, not to fondle!”
Lendor’s hand shot out and gripped Freka’s neck, lifting her off the floor and cutting off her air.
“I have no need of a jealous woman,” he snapped. “I won’t be controlled by you or anyone else. If I want to enjoy another woman, I will, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
He dropped her to the ice floor and stomped over to the little girl. He grabbed her, picked her up, bit her neck, and sucked the life out of her. Once she was drained, he dropped her limp body and wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned to leave the room.
Freka gasped for breath, her anger growing with every intake of air. She couldn’t believe he would treat her with such disrespect. Standing, she raised her hand and slammed the door shut in front of him, her ring glowing so bright that the entire room became red.
Lendor bowed his head for a moment before he turned. He faced her and looked her straight in the eye as he walked toward her. He stopped when they were six inches from each other, his eyes ablaze with anger.
“Open the door,” he said in a low menacing voice. “I’m not in the mood to play your games.”
Freka didn’t say anything. She just stared back at him.
Before she knew what was happening, Lendor grabbed her head, jerked it to the side, and bit into her neck.
She clawed at his face and tried to push him away, crying out in pain and fear.
He tightened his grip the more she fought.
Gradually the light in her ring faded and went out. Her arms hung limp at her sides.
Lendor dropped her dead body to the floor and left the room. He stopped suddenly in the hall as he felt the castle shudder around him. From below he heard the howl of a werewolf, the moans of a zombie, and the thundering roar of a dragon. Something occurred to him, but it was too late. Freka must have had all the beasts under her control. Now there was nothing to stop them from tearing him apart. Quickly, he headed for the main entrance of the castle, but not quickly enough.
***
Gox roared as a black fog cleared from his two minds. The walls surrounding him made him feel hemmed in and uncomfortable. He thrashed around and his tail hit the chain that held Jotan the zombie to the wall, freeing him to roam the ice castle.
Rearing up, Gox’s head hit the ceiling above him, breaking through. His fire head became stuck and he tugged it back down frantically, trying to free himself. He shot fire and ice all around, hitting everything. Flames sizzled as they fought with ice.
Finally freeing his head, Gox pulled down a large chunk of the frozen floor and Lendor with it. Knocking him out as he landed in the cellar.
***
Jotan moaned and shuffled around, not really aware of the danger he was in from the thrashing Gox. Sniffing the air he smelled blood, human blood.
Slowly he hobbled toward what his nose told him was food. He fell on top of the prone body of a weird smelling man. Following his nose, Jotan found the human blood he’d smelled, all over Lendor’s neck and hands. He licked the body, confused by the smell of the vampire. When it turned out to be what he thought it was, he dug right in, biting Lendor’s neck and tearing it wide open.
Lendor came to screaming. He looked at the zombie who was happily munching on him and hissed; his expression of anger didn’t faze Jotan a bit as he went in for another bite.
The vampire lunged forward and ripped Jotan’s head off, throwing it against the wall as hard as he could. He then quickly rolled out of the way of Gox’s tail that was whizzing through the air toward him.
Standing, Lendor clutched his bleeding neck. He glared at the head of the zombie that was now rolling around on the ground, dented, but still chewing. He headed for the exit that was across the room, dogging Gox as he slashed, butted, and slammed into everything around him. Chunks of wall and ceiling were raining down like giant hail.
Just as Lendor reached the doorway, Yito appeared in the opening with a menacing growl, blocking his path.
The vampire hissed and the werewolf snared as they stood looking deep into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to make the first move.
Lendor, tired off all the chaos, lunged forward to grab Yito’s neck.
Yito dropped down on all fours, avoiding Lendor’s grasp, and bit into the vampires leg, sinking his teeth to the bone.
Lendor shrieked, cupped his hands like claws, and thrust them into Yito’s back, grabbing his spine with both hands. With a sharp upward yank, he removed the spine from the neck down, leaving it dangling outside Yito’s body.
Yito screamed and groaned in pain, but he didn’t let go. His head was the only part of his body still functioning and he wasn’t going to give up easily.
Lendor reached down and took hold of Yito’s powerful jaws, pulling as hard as he could.
Yito growled.
Lendor groaned from the effort, but finally Yito’s jaw gave way with a snap.
Yito yelped and moved no more. He was now just a dead lump of fur.
Lendor bent over to examine the damage to his leg and while he was distracted, Gox finally tore a hole in the wall big enough for him to escape.
Gox threw aside the last chunk of the ice wall that blocked his freedom, which landed on Lendor, knocking him over and pinning him to the floor. With a jumping leap the dragon perched for a moment in the opening, breathing in the predawn air, his tail slamming into the floor, gouging it in his excitement. He didn’t notice Lendor and didn’t see that he’d chopped him to bits, killing the vampire that he’d once seen as his master.
With a final roar, Gox took flight, spinning and weaving through the air, traveling far from Evil Mountain where “the evil” now lay dead in a crimson lake of blood.
About the story from Rebecca Besser:
“Evil Mountain first appeared in the Monster Mash anthology in 2010, from Pill Hill Press. The guidelines for the stories included in this anthology stipulated that you have to include a certain amount (I think three) of horror creatures. I went above and beyond and tried to include as many as I could.
I love dragons, so obviously, I had to let the dragon live and have its freedom.”
THE HEART OF HEROISM
By Rebecca Besser
“Take that crap off!” Mr. Harper yelled. “Why are you always dressing up in stupid outfits? If I ever catch you out wearing something like that, I’m gonna burn all of your comic books! Every last, damn one!”
“S . . . s . . . sorry, Dad,” Billy Jack said, pouting as he shuffled back to his bedroom. He stopped just inside the door and looked at himself in his mirror. The aluminum foil he’d used to make a lightning bolt on the chest of his red flannel union suit twinkled in the overhead light and made him smile with delight. He giggled. He ran his hands over the B and J he’d cut out of stick-on felt and applied to the suit on either side of the bolt, and imagined himself as a real live superhero. “Super Billy Jack,” he sighed.
“Hurry up!” his dad yelled. “We have work to do and I don’t have time for any of your shit!”
Billy Jack’s bottom lip quivered and tears welled up in his big, blue eyes as he peeled his costume off and slipped on a worn, stained pair of blue jeans and a plain, dark blue T-shirt; the cloth of the T-shirt was stretched to its limits over the bulky muscles of his chest. He sniffed loudly, looked at himself in the mirror again, and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles like an upset toddler.
“Are you ready yet, you dumb oaf?” his dad yelled.
“Y . . . y . . . yes,” Billy Jack answered and hurried back out to the living room of their tiny, basement apartment. “I’m ready to w . . . w . . . work. What’s broken t . . . t . . . today?”
> His father didn’t answer right away. He just stared up at his mammoth son who towered over him with his six foot, four-inch height.
“Were you crying?” he asked Billy Jack. “Were you crying like a little sissy baby again?”
Billy Jack bit his lip and shook his head, fidgeting with the front of his shirt, stretching it to the point that the material was see through.
“Yes, you were,” his dad said, scowling. “You have to quit acting like that, and you have to quit dressing up in those prissy outfits. Do you want people to make fun of you?”
Billy Jack sniffed and twisted his shirt nervously. “N . . . n . . . no. I just want to b . . . b . . . be a superhero.”
Mr. Harper growled and ran a hand over his balding head. “You’re never going to be a superhero! You’re just a stupid nobody and always will be!” He sighed and shook his head. “Get your tool box. We have some plumbing to fix on the ninth floor.”
“The n . . . n . . . ninth?” Billy Jack asked, letting go of his shirt and knuckling his eyes again. “Can I v . . . v . . . visit Mike? He’s my bestest friend in the w . . . w . . . world.”
Mr. Harper groaned. “Yeah, you can visit your friend if you do a good job, but if you give me any trouble, you won’t be allowed.” He yanked open the door to their apartment and stomped out into the hall, throwing an impatient glance back at his son.
Billy Jack shuffled forward and lifted the red, four drawer tool box sitting beside the door without much effort at all. He rushed out into the hall, following his dad, almost tripping himself in his hurry.
“Shut the door!” his dad hollered over his shoulder, stomping down the hall toward the elevator.
“O . . . o . . . okay, sorry,” Billy Jack mumbled and turned, shutting the door before advancing down the hall as fast as he could. Without noticing, he started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting and tugging it out of proportion. Just as he reached the elevator, where his dad was waiting, the cold, metal door slid open with a dull ding.
“Up we g . . . g . . . go!” Billy Jack said, grinning. “Can I push the b . . . b . . . button, Dad?”
Mr. Harper sighed. “Sure.” He stepped inside without looking at his son and slumped against the back wall.
“Yeah!” Billy Jack screamed, practically bouncing into the elevator. He pressed the appropriate button – the one with an L on it for “lobby”; they would get off there and use the stairs the rest of the way. There were other elevators in the building leading higher, but most of them were out of service because the building owner didn’t consider fixing them worth the money. Mr. Harper always refereed to him as a “Slum Lord.”
In just a few seconds the door was dinging open to present the small, dingy, poorly lit lobby. The tight space held the tenants’ little, square mailboxes along the far wall, which were covered in gang graffiti. Billy Jack thought it was beautiful and mystical, appearing out of nowhere after he’d scrub it off once a month. He imagined something magical lived inside the bank of mailboxes and that it would reveal itself a little at a time. When he washed it, he pretended the turpentine he used was a drug that put it to sleep for a time. Today, it was freshly painted with bright green and orange spray paint.
“The b . . . b . . . beast is awake,” he whispered and stepped out of the elevator cautiously, pressing his body tight against the wall, watching the mailboxes across from him like they were going to swallow him alive.
Mr. Harper rolled his eyes and stepped out of the elevator, shaking his head. He ignored Billy Jack and walked to the stairwell, opened the door, and went inside, letting the door swing closed behind him.
“No!” Billy Jack screamed and ran forward, ripping the door open and entering the stairwell too, pulling the door tightly shut behind himself, breathing heavily.
His dad laughed and ascended the first flight of stairs.
“It’s n . . . n . . . not funny, Dad,” Billy Jack pouted. “You’d f . . . f . . . feel bad if the monster a . . . a . . . ate me.”
“I would miss you so,” his dad responded sarcastically.
Billy Jack smiled, thinking his dad really meant it and hurried up the stairs after him. “Whose p . . . p . . . plumbing is broken?”
Mr. Harper sighed. “Mrs. Willis’ again.”
“She’s a n . . . n . . . nice lady,” Billy Jack said, struggling with the tool box in the narrow stairwell, but keeping up nonetheless. “S . . . s . . . she makes good cookies.”
“Yes, she does,” his dad replied absently, limping slightly. He’d injured his knee when he was younger and it bothered him more and more as he grew older, and having to traverse many flights of stairs on a daily basis didn’t help. The pain it caused made him wish he was sitting downstairs in his recliner, drinking beer.
They made it to the landing of the fifth floor and Mr. Harper inwardly groaned. It was the one with the different colored tiles, because he’d had to replace some a few years back. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.
“Dad!” Billy Jack cried out. “Be c . . . c . . . careful! Only step on the white and b . . . b . . . blue tiles. The red o . . . o . . . ones will wake the d . . . d . . . dragon!”
Mr. Harper growled and marched around to his right to the next flight of stairs. Behind him he could hear the metallic rattle of the tools in the tool box as Billy Jack bounced it while trying to hop from one small square to another, missing the red ones that made up most of the floor; he reached the stairs with a sigh of relief.
“Dad, y . . . y . . . you should be more careful,” Billy Jack admonished with solemn eyes. “S . . . s . . . someday the dragon m . . . m . . . might get you. You’re l . . . l . . . lucky I know the r . . . r . . . right tile combination to l . . . l . . . lock his cage back up.”
“It’s thoughtful of you to save my life,” his dad said and continued to climb, wincing in pain as his limp became more pronounced.
They made it to the ninth floor of the “castle” as Billy Jack called it. It was easier for his mind to wrap itself around the occurrences and the strange people in his living environment to think of it that way. He pretended the building was a cursed castle and that he was the only one who would know how to save it when the curse became too strong for everyone else. Super Billy Jack would save the day! He didn’t realize that he lived in the middle of the slums and most people living in the building were drug dealers, users, or prostitutes and that was why they acted the way they did.
Mrs. Willis’ plumbing didn’t take long to fix and soon Billy Jack was standing outside apartment 947, waiting for someone to answer his insistent knock. He fidgeted with his shirt, twisting it this way and that while he glanced at the hall around him, imagining all kinds of sinister things lurking in the shadows.
He jumped when the door opened.
“Oh, it’s you,” a woman with ratty hair, smeared makeup, and a cigarette in her hand said. “Mike, your friend’s here to see you!” she screamed as smoke waft from her nose and mouth; she walked away, leaving the door standing wide open.
Billy Jack smiled nervously, still glancing around him and twisting his shirt. But Mike’s little, smiling face appeared from around the corner and his fear melted away.
“Billy Jack,” the five-year-old boy squealed and wrapped his skinny arms around Billy Jack’s leg, hugging it tight. He looked up at his big friend hopefully. “Did you come to play?”
He nodded and let the little boy pull him inside by his pant leg, shutting the door quickly behind them to keep the monsters out.
“I w . . . w . . . was a good w . . . w . . . worker today,” Billy Jack said. “So, I was a . . . a . . . allowed to come and v . . . v . . . visit you!”
“Goodie,” Mike said cheerfully. “I have a new toy!”
“Really?” Billy Jack asked. “What i . . . i . . . is it?”
“I show you!” Mike squealed and darted toward his bedroom with his big friend trailing after him.
Billy Jack made it to the door to see Mike proudly holding two s
mall plastic boxes with thick, black wires sticking out of the tops.
“Walk-me, talk-mes!” Mike yelled, waving them at Billy Jack. “My daddy gave them to me. He came to see me.”
“Th . . . th . . . those are very nice,” Billy Jack said solemnly. “What d . . . d . . . do they do?”
“I show you,” Mike said, sitting on the edge of the bed and twisting the knobs on the tops of the plastic boxes causing brief bursts of static noise to come from each of them; he handed one to Billy Jack. “You sit!” he ordered and pointed to his bed as he stood. “I’ll hide in the closet.”
“Okay,” Billy Jack said, sitting on the edge of Mike’s tiny bed; it groaned under his two hundred plus pounds.
Mike giggled and darted across his room and into his closet, closing the door behind him. “Test, test, one, two, three . . .”
Billy Jack jumped as Mike’s voice came blaring out of the plastic box in his hand. He held it closer to his face, almost pressing his nose against it while he took a better look at the device. “H . . . h . . . how’d you get i . . . i . . . in there, Mike?” he asked the part with the little holes and heard a giggle come from the closet.
Mike opened the door and peered out at Billy Jack with a broad smile on his face. “I not in it, silly. I do this!” He pressed down the button on the side of the plastic box and talked into it again, rubbing his lips on the speaker because he was holding it too close to his mouth. “Test, test, one, two, three . . .” He giggled again and shut the door, hiding once more. “You do it! You do it!” came out of the box Billy Jack held.
He grinned and pressed down the button, holding the walkie-talkie close to his mouth. “H . . . h . . . i there, Mike. How’s th . . . th . . . things in the closet?”
Mike squealed with laughter.
They played for hours, taking turns going into the closet and outside the bedroom, talking to each other through their own secret system.
Billy Jack was stepping back into Mike’s room after his turn in the hall when he spotted the clock on the dresser. He gasped.
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