Mad Stacks: Story Collection Box Set

by Scott Nicholson

  But the corpse only peeled up to the beginning of Roger's hairline, where the skin grafts stopped. Then the dead thing gathered the loose skin in its arms and stepped away from Roger's bed. It stood for a moment under the fluorescent lights, its gleaming flesh in contrast to the pile of pale material clasped to its chest. Its eyes met Roger's, and there was no relief or gratitude in them. Nothing.

  As it turned and shuffled back into the shadows, Roger realized that the naked corpse had recovered only a portion of its skin, that it still wasn't dressed for heaven. It would have to make other stops.

  Roger closed his eyes and practiced praying.

  "Very good." Dr. Ghalani put the bandages back in place. Another doctor stood beside her, tall and with a thick mustache. He looked and smelled expensive. Two doctors for the price of three, probably.

  "Good?" Roger thought she would notice that the skin grafts were gone.

  "Yes. Your own skin is growing back. The graft is sloughing off."

  "Sloughing?"

  "The body always rejects foreign skin. It's only a temporary cover to give you time to heal."

  Foreign skin. If that was good news, why wasn't she smiling? Did the insurance bills not clear?

  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

  "Fine." Much better, now that the corpse was gone. Now that he had only his own skin to worry about. "Except I'm a little tired."

  Dr. Ghalani frowned. "Yes. Something showed up in your tests."

  "Tests?"

  "The metabolic strain from the burns. Your regulatory system was severely damaged. We've moved fast on this. You're luckier than most."

  Roger tried to swallow, but felt as if a pill the size of a football was lodged in his throat.

  "I'm afraid there's been permanent liver damage."

  Roger looked from Dr. Ghalani to the new doctor.

  "This is Dr. Wood," she said. "He's here to talk to you about your transplant."

  Roger's scream awoke a donor's gutted corpse six hundred miles away.

  THE END

  Gateway Drug Table of Contents

  Master Table of Contents

  ###

  THE HOUNDS OF LOVE

  By Scott Nicholson

  Dexter licked his lips. His stomach was shivery. October was brown and yellow and crackly and tasted like candy corn. He knelt by the hutch that Dad had built back before the restraining order was filed.

  He touched the welt under his eye. The wound felt like a busted plum and stung where the flesh had split open. Mom had accidentally left her thumb sticking out of her fist when she hit him. She hadn't meant to do it. Usually, she was careful when she punched him.

  But one good thing about Mom, she didn't hold a grudge for long. She'd turned on the television and opened a beer, and after the next commercial break had forgotten all about him. It was easy to sneak out the back door.

  Dexter poked some fresh blades of grass through the silver squares of wire. The rabbit flashed its buck teeth and wrinkled its nose before clamping down on the grass and hopping to the back of the hutch. It crouched in the shadows and chewed with a sideways gnashing of its jaws. The black eyes stared straight ahead. They looked like doll's eyes, dead and cold and stupid.

  Dexter's stomach was still puke-shivery. He opened the cage and snaked his hand inside. The rabbit hopped away and kept chewing. Dexter stroked the soft fur between the rabbit's eyes.

  Gotta tell 'em that you love 'em.

  He snatched the leathery ears and pulled the rabbit forward into the light. He held it that way for a moment, like a magician dangling a trick above a hat, as it spasmed and kicked its four white legs. This was October, after all, the month when anything could happen. Even stupid old magic, if you dressed like a dork in a wizard’s cape for Halloween.

  Dexter looked over his shoulder at the house. Mom was most likely passed out by now. After all, it was four o'clock in the afternoon. But Dexter had learned from his dad that it never hurt to be paranoid.

  He tucked the rabbit under his windbreaker and crossed the backyard into the woods. When he reached the safety of the trees, he took the leash from his pocket. This was the tricky part. With his tongue hanging out from concentration, he squeezed the rabbit between his knees.

  He pressed harder until he heard something snap and the rabbit's back legs hung limp. He almost puked then, almost wept, but his first tear rolled across the split skin beneath his eye and he got angry again. "I'll teach you better than to love me," he whispered, his breath ragged.

  It was the rabbit's fault. The dumb creature shouldn't have tried to love him. The rabbit was trying to get him, to play the trick on him, to make him care. Well, he wasn't going to belong to nothing or nobody.

  Dexter used both hands to attach the leather collar. The collar had belonged to his little redbone hound. Uncle Clem let Dexter have the pick of the litter. Dexter had chosen the one with the belly taut from milk that wagged its thin rope of a tail whenever Dexter patted its head. Dexter had named it Turd Factory. Well, stupid old Turd Factory didn't need the collar anymore.

  Dexter fastened the collar and let the rabbit drop to the ground. It rolled on its side and twitched its front legs. Sometimes they died too fast, sometimes before he even started. Dexter headed deeper into the woods, dragging the rabbit behind him by the leash. It was a hundred feet to the clearing where he liked to play. There, the sun broke through the tree-limbs and a shallow creek spilled over the rocks. Dexter squinted at the scraps of the sky, his eye almost swollen shut now. The clearing smelled like autumn mud and rot, the magic odors of buried secrets.

  Dexter tightened the leash around the rabbit's neck until its veins bulged. He put one hand under the soft white chest and felt the trip-hammering heart that was trying to pump blood through the tourniquet. The rabbit began kicking its front legs again, throwing leaves and dark forest dirt into the air.

  This was the part Dexter hated. The fear that came to the animals sooner or later as he tortured them, that little frantic spark in the eyes. The desperation and submission as they gave all that they had. Stupid things, they made him sick, they made him want to throw up. It was all their fault.

  Dexter opened the pocketknife and went to work. This one was a relief. The rabbit had started out scared and stayed scared, paid for loving him without a whimper. Dexter was blind from tears by the time he finished.

  He buried the carcass between the roots of a big oak tree. Right next to old Turd Factory. Dexter washed his hands in the creek. It was almost dinnertime. He turned and walked back through the clearing, past the depressions of soil where he had buried the other animals.

  His own little pet cemetery. He had seen that movie. It had given him the creeps, but not badly enough to make him give up his hobby. Plus, by the time he was finished with them, no chunk was big enough to stand up by itself, much less walk.

  Three cats were underground here, two of them compliments of dear old Grandma. She'd given him the rabbit as an Easter present. He'd swiped a rooster from a caved-in coop up the road, but he didn't think he'd be pulling any more of those jobs. The rooster had spurred him, plus the dumb bird had squawked and clucked loud enough to wake the dead. There was a box turtle buried somewhere around. But that had mostly been a mercy killing. Mom kept pouring beer into its water.

  Same with the goldfish. He told her he'd flushed them down the toilet. Goldfish were boring, though. They didn't scream or whimper. They didn't make him want to throw up while they bled. They were too dumb to love.

  Dexter giggled at the thought of a goldfish coming back from the dead and haunting him. He'd like to see that in a movie someday. The Revenge of the Zombie Fish. He wiped his eyes dry and headed down the trail to the house.

  Mom was boiling some macaroni when he came in the back door. She wiped at her nose as she opened a can of cheese sauce. The sight of her moist fingers on the can opener killed Dexter's appetite. He sat down at the table and toyed with an empty milk carton.

  She must have pas
sed out in her clothes again. They were wrinkled and smelled like rancid lard. "Where you been, honey?" she asked.

  "Out playing."

  "Where?"

  "Out," he said. "You know."

  She slid a plate of steaming macaroni in front of him. Dexter could see dried egg yolk clinging to the edge of the plate. "How was school?"

  "The usual."

  "Hmm. What you going to be for Halloween?"

  "I don’t know. I’m getting too old for dress-up and make-believe."

  "Whatever." She opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a dozen cans of beer, a wilted stalk of celery, and something in a Tupperware dish that had a carpet of green stuff across the top.

  Dexter watched as she cracked a beer. She was red. Her hands were red, her face was red, her eyes were red.

  "You not hungry?" she asked.

  "No. Maybe later."

  "Well, you need to eat. You'll get me in trouble with Social Services again."

  "To hell with them."

  "Dexter! If your Grandma heard that kind of language—"

  –the old bag would probably slap me upside the head.

  But the good thing about Grandma, she always felt guilty afterwards. She would go out and buy something nice to make up for it. Like the pocketknife or the BB gun. Or a new pet.

  He didn't mind if Grandma made his ears ring. At least with her, there was profit in it. With Mom or Dad, all he got was a scar to show for it. Maybe Grandma loved him most. He picked up his fork and scooted some noodles around.

  "That's a good boy," Mom said. She bent and kissed him on top of the head. Her breath smelled like a casket full of molded grain. "Your eye's looking better. Swelling ought to be down by tomorrow. At least enough for you to go to school."

  Dexter smiled weakly and shoved some macaroni in his mouth. He chewed until she left the room. The telephone rang. Mom must have finally had it reconnected.

  "Hello?" he heard her say.

  Dexter looked at her. He could tell by her crinkled forehead that Dad was on the other end, trying to worm his way back into the bed he'd paid for with the sweat of his goddamned brow, under the roof he'd laid with his own two motherfucking hands. And no snotty-eyed bitch had a right to keep him out of his own goddamned house and away from his only son. Now that it was getting toward winter—

  "You know you're not supposed to be calling me," she said into the phone. She bit her lip as Dad responded with what was most likely a stream of cusswords.

  That was the problem with Dad. No subtlety. If only he'd play it smooth and easy, pretending to care about her, he'd be back in no time. And after a few months of acting, family life could go back to the way it was before. Back to normal.

  But the bastard couldn't control himself. Why couldn't he just shut up and pretend to love her? It was easy. Everybody else was doing it.

  Riley Baldwin down the road said that was the secret. The word "love."

  "Gotta tell 'em that you love 'em," he always said, with all the wisdom of an extra year and two more inches of height. "Works like magic."

  Said love had gotten him a hand up under Tammy Lynn Goolsby's dress. Inside her panties, even. And Grandma said she loved Dexter. Of course, that was different, that kind of love gave you presents. Love got you what you wanted, if you used it right, even if it hurt sometimes.

  "Don't you dare set foot near this place or I'll call the cops," Mom screeched into the phone. Her face turned from red to a bruised shade of purple.

  She stuttered into the phone a couple of times and slammed the handset down, then drained the last half of her beer. As she went past him to get to the refrigerator, she didn't notice that Dexter hadn't eaten his dinner. He slipped away to his tiny cluttered bedroom and closed the door. He stayed there until Mom had time to pass out again. He fell asleep listening to her snores and the racket of the television.

  Nobody said a word about his black eye at school the next day. Riley was waiting for him when he got off the bus. Riley had skipped. Dexter wished he could, too, but he didn't want Mom to get another visit from the Social Services people, showing up in their squeaky shoes and perfume and acting like they knew how to run a family they didn't belong to.

  "Got my .22 hid in the woods," Riley said, showing the gaps in his teeth as he grinned. His eyes gleamed under the shade of his Caterpillar ball cap.

  "Cool, dude. Let me get my BB gun."

  Riley waited by the back door. Dexter dropped his books in a pool of gray grease on the dining room table, then got his gun out of his room. Mom wasn't around. Maybe she'd gotten one of her boyfriends to make a liquor run to the county line. A note was stuck to the refrigerator, in Mom’s wobbly handwriting: "Stay out of trouble. Love you."

  Dexter joined Riley and they went into the woods. Riley retrieved his gun from where he had buried it under some leaves. He tapped his pocket and something rattled. "Got a half box of bullets."

  "Killed anything with that yet?"

  "Nope. But maybe I can get one of those stripedy-assed chipmunks."

  "Them things are quick."

  "Hey, a little blood sacrifice is all it takes."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Breaking it in right." Riley patted the barrel of the gun. "Making them pay for messing with me."

  Riley led the way down the trail, through Dexter's pet cemetery and over the creek. Dexter followed in his buddy's footsteps, watching the tips of his own brown boots. October hung in scraps of yellow and red on the trees. The shadows of the trees grew longer and thicker as the sun slipped down the sky.

  Riley stopped after a few minutes of silent stalking. "What's up with your dad?" he asked.

  "Not much. Same old."

  "That must be a pain in the ass, seeing him every other weekend or so."

  "Yeah. He ain't figured out the game."

  "What game?"

  "You know. Love. Like you said."

  "Oh, yeah. Gotta tell 'em that you love 'em."

  "If he played the game, we wouldn't have Social Services messing around all the time."

  "Them sons of bitches are all alike. The cops, the truant officers, the principal. It don't matter what the fuck you do. They always get you anyway."

  "I reckon so." Dexter's stomach was starting to hurt. He changed the subject. "What was it like, with Tammy Lynn?"

  Riley's face stretched into a jack-o'-lantern leer and he thrust out his bony chest. "Hey, she'll let me do anything. All you got to do is love ‘em. I know how to reach 'em down deep."

  "Did she let you....?"

  Riley twiddled his fingers in the air, then held them to his nose and sniffed.

  "What about the other stuff?" Dexter asked.

  "That's next, buddy-row. As soon as I want it."

  "Why don't you want to? I thought you said she'd do anything."

  Riley's thick eyebrows lowered, shading the rage that glinted in his eyes. He turned and started back down the trail toward the creek. "Ain't no damned birds left to shoot. Your loud-assed yakking has scared them all away."

  Dexter hurried after him. The edge of the sky was red and golden. The forest was darker now, and the moist evening air had softened the leaves under their feet. Mom would be waking up soon to start on her second drunk of the day.

  They walked in silence, Riley hunched over with his rifle tilted toward the ground, Dexter trailing like a puppy that had been kicked by its master. It was nearly dark when they reached the clearing. Riley jumped over the creek and looked back. His eyes flashed, but his face was nothing but sharp shadows.

  Dexter hurdled the creek, caving in a section of muddy bank and nearly sliding into the water. He grabbed a root with one hand and scrambled up on his elbows and knees, his belly on the rim of the bank. When he looked up, Riley was pointing the rifle at him. Dad had taught Dexter about gun safety, and the first rule, the main rule, was to never point a loaded gun at somebody. Even a dickwit like Riley ought to know that.

  "You ever kill anybody?" Riley was we
aring his jack-o'-lantern expression again, but this time the grin was full of jagged darkness.

  "Kill anybody?" Dexter tried not to whimper. He didn't want Riley to know how scared he was.

  "Blood sacrifice."

  Riley was just crazy enough to kill him, to leave him out here leaking in the night, on the same ground where Dexter had carved up a dozen animals. Dexter tried to think of how Dad would handle this situation. "Quit screwing around, Riley."

  "If I want to screw around, I'll do it with Tammy Lynn."

  "I didn't mean nothing when I said that."

  "I can get it any time I want it."

  "Sure, sure," Dexter was talking too fast, but he couldn't stop the words. He focused on the tip of Riley’s boot, the scuffed leather and the smear of grease. "You know how to tell 'em. You’re the magic man."

  Riley lowered the gun a little. "Damn straight."

  It was almost as if Dexter were talking to the boot, he was close enough to kiss it. "Just gotta tell 'em that you love 'em, right?"

  Riley laughed then, and cool sweat trickled down the back of Dexter's neck. Maybe Dexter wasn't going to die after all, here among the bones and rotten meat of his victims. The boot moved away and Dexter dared to look up. Riley was among the thicket of holly and laurel now, the gun pointed away, and Dexter scrambled to his feet.

  He saw for the first time how creepy the clearing was, with the trees spreading knotty arms all around and the laurels crouched like big animals. The place was alive, hungry, holding its breath and waiting for the next kill.

  "Tell you what," Riley said, growing taller in the twilight, a looming force. "Come here tomorrow after school. Be real quiet and watch from behind the bushes. I'll get her all the way."

  Dexter nodded in the dark. Then he remembered. "But tomorrow’s Halloween."

  "What the hell else you got to do? Go around begging for candy with the babies?"

  He couldn’t let Riley know he was scared. "No, it’s just—"

  "Better fucking be here," Riley said.