by Various
The man put away his handkerchief and smiled. "Ah, the rape alarm. Don't you get it, you're drunk and this is a domestic. Nobody will come to your rescue."
Behind her, she heard a toilet flush and looked around as someone walked past the front door. He looked through the glass side-lights at her and she could see him clearly, his close cropped hair and glasses. She was convinced that he saw her too, but he shook his head and walked away, switching off the hall light in the process.
She couldn't believe it.
"What did I tell you?" asked the man and began to undo his belt.
Amanda pulled out the activator on the alarm and its insistent, piercing shriek bounced off the houses, painful in its intensity. The man looked startled for a moment and then he kicked it out of her hand. It bounced once and she reached for it, but he beat her there and ground it under his heel. The shriek whimpered once and died.
She looked around. Nothing moved - nobody came to their door or looked through a window.
"I think you're fucked," smiled the man and he punched her in the face.
***
She was vaguely aware of being carried and put down somewhere dark, the ground cold.
"Don't," she said, her voice sounding all wrong. Something cold and wet was on her top lip and chin.
"Hush now, it'll be nice, you'll see."
She heard the briefcase snap open and the man moved her legs apart and kneeled between them.
"Please," she begged. Why was this happening? She'd only come out for a Christmas party. Surely she'd wake up in a minute, in her own bed with Roger snoring gently beside her.
The man made a clucking sound. "Sorry, gone too far now."
He pulled her dress up to her stomach and put a hand into the waistband of her tights. She heard something click and felt cold metal on her belly. That moved and he was slashing at her tights.
"Please don't."
"I wouldn't worry, they didn't look too expensive. Anyway, I can't get in if you're wearing tights, can I?"
He peeled her tights off her legs, put the knife down and pulled at her dress. She felt it rip up to the neck and he parted it. "Has anybody ever told you that you're beautiful?"
"Shut up," she screamed and began to cry again, "just shut up, shut up, shut up."
He sliced through her bra and pulled each cup to one side. "No, love, you shut up, all right?"
"Help me," she screamed and he hit her again, her head bouncing off the ground, stars bursting around her.
Groaning, she closed her eyes.
***
She swam back slowly through the darkness, her cheeks stinging.
"Wake up, you bitch," he hissed and slapped her face.
Her body was riddled hot and cold, her groin and breasts feeling like they were on fire, her back, legs and arms freezing. She tried to raise her head, but a wave of nausea washed over her, making her groan. There was more of whatever it was on her face, cold and damp.
"Where am I?" How long had she been out? Had anyone come to see what was going on?
The man stood up. "You filthy cow," he sneered and did up his zip. "You disgust me."
With her left hand, she gingerly felt down her body. Her breasts, especially around the nipples, were very tender. She found deep cuts on her belly and her hand explored further, into her groin. Even the slightest touch seemed to stoke the burning that felt like it raged over the whole area. She felt more cold dampness and realized that it was blood.
She was hurt.
"See you later, you cheap whore," said the man and he picked up his briefcase.
"Wait," she gasped, reaching for him, "you can't leave me here."
He looked over his shoulder. "Why not? You should've thought of this before you came onto me."
She began to cry. "But I didn't, I didn't."
He shook his head and walked away, disappearing from view behind a wall.
Where was she? A high brick wall loomed up to her left and a wood panel fence ran alongside her right. Was she in someone's back garden? Had he dragged her into someone's garden, raped her and nobody had come to find out what was going on?
She tried to sit up, but her whole body seemed to erupt in pain at the movement and she was sick, not quite managing to get her head to one side. She felt the vomit splash her chest and arm.
Somebody walked up behind her and she whimpered, trying as best as she could to cover herself.
"Are you alright, love?"
It wasn't the rapist, thank God. She turned her head slightly and saw the man from the house, who'd used the toilet. He squatted beside her shoulder, away from the vomit.
"Is she okay?"
This voice was in front of her and she looked towards the street. It was the smoker, concern showing on his face. But there was something else there as well, almost relief that it was Amanda and not someone he knew.
"I don't know, I think so," said the man whose house she'd been violated next to.
A woman stepped around the smoker. "My God, she must be freezing. I'll go and get a blanket or something."
The smoker nodded at her. "The police should be here in a minute or two." He looked at the house owner. "I rang them when that rape alarm went off. I had no idea what it was, until Pat told me."
"You heard it?" sobbed Amanda.
The house owner cleared his throat. "I think we all did."
"So why didn't you stop him?"
"Jesus," said the smoker, "she's bleeding badly."
"Do you think we should move her?" said the house owner.
"Best not. We'll leave her like this, until they get here."
She put her hand to her groin, trying to ease away the pain. It was just like the rapist had said - nobody would come. She coughed and felt something dribble out of her mouth.
"Merry Christmas, you fuckers," Amanda said and closed her eyes, the sound of the siren a long way off, the ground very cold against her back and shoulders.
MARK WEST
lives in Kettering, Northants with his wife Alison. Since 1999, his stories have appeared in many small press markets, including Enigmatic Tales, Sackcloth & Ashes, Terror Tales, Horrorfind (including The Best Of Horrorfind), Roadworks and Tourniquet Heart. His first collection is due from Rainfall Books in September 2003 and Brian Keene called him "one of the brightest things in horror to come out of England since Clive Barker". His website, featuring news and on-line fiction, can be found at http://www.mwest1.homestead.com
Green Grow'th the Holly, So Doth the Ivy
By G.W. Thomas
Johnny Two-Feathers and I had just finished our Christmas Eve dinner of bannock and rabbit stew, when the door to Cabin Number Two flew open. It might have been the wind, for it was blowing apace outside, except that Johnny had just fixed the latch that morning. We both turned to look at the stranger in the door, wrapped in a heavy coat and a beaver hat.
"Got room for another?" he asked through frozen lips.
"Sure," I said. Johnny got up to fill the kettle from the bucket on the sideboard. The newcomer looked cold. He'd need something warm to drink. After the kettle, Johnny started setting up for another batch of bannock.
"Name's Llwewellyn," said the stranger, taking a seat close to the fire. He warmed his small hands and looked casually at our home. Not much to see except traps on the wall, a feed store calendar and a single picture of the Holy Mary that Johnny had bought in Edmonton. Cost him a big beaver pelt. I'm not much of the God-fearing type, so it was all the same to me. But Johnny loved that picture.
While the Indian took down the sack from the ceiling then picked the mouse turds out of the flour, I talked with our guest. He was a typical Welshman, shorter than me, dark hair, blue eyes with a sad quality to them. I found out later this was not sadness, but something else.
"So, Mr. Llwewellyn, what brings you to the wilds of Alberta?" I asked idly.
"Prospecting," he lied. He weren't no prospector. He looked city-born. I said nothing, just looked to Johnny. The Indian kept hi
s opinion to himself.
I noticed our guest's leg then. He was bleeding.
"We'll need to put something on that," I offered. He began to brush me off but when he saw how much blood was on his pant leg, he nodded yes. I got the kit out from under the bed. Johnny brought hot water from the kettle. Llwewellyn pulled the pant leg up to show five or six deep gashes. They weren't animal bites but more like when a man scratches his leg on a branch. Llwewellyn offered an explanation as I cleaned and bandaged the wound.
"Had a little accident on that beaver dam." He pointed in the direction of Blue Creek where the beaver were once thick. It was possible that he had torn his leg in an old beaver run. Just possible.
Soon Johnny had the bannock ready. Usually we bake it but since he was in a hurry he fried it in bear grease in a pan. There wasn't any more rabbit so the stranger had to make due with dried meat. Llwewellyn eyed the vittles on the sideboard.
"That's a nice turkey you got there," he said, like he was hinting for an invite. Neither Johnny nor I took the bait.
"For Christmas dinner," said Johnny. "Potatoes and cranberries." The Indian showed him a bowl filled with wild cranberries, picked in October but stored in our cold house.
"We traded a wild goose for that bird. From the Norwegians near Mayerthorpe."
Llwewellyn nodded, not really interested. His eyes kept turning to the door behind him.
The wind howled as it does coming off the Simmonette River from the Nor'West. Llwewellyn jumped, grabbing at his coat pocket.
"Easy," I said.
"Yes," he agreed, then forgetting about the door tore into the bannock, liberally smearing it with more bear lard. Johnny and I let him eat in peace.
After he ate all the bannock, Llwewellyn sat back and reached into his pocket again. This time he brought out an exquisite pocket watch with no chain. He clicked it open and music filled the walls of the cabin. I didn't recognize the tune but it was lovely.
"What time is it?" I asked. Neither Johnny nor I wore a watch. Mine was at home beside my bed. Johnny was too poor to own one. But in the Bush you didn't need one no how. You get up with the sun, go to bed when you're tired.
"It's ten-thirty-three, exactly."
"Really? I imagine my ma and sister are having eggnog with the neighbors right about now, singing them Christmas songs. This year it's just Johnny and me."
The big Indian didn't say anything, just looked at that picture of Holy Mary. If he was thinking of home amongst his people, the Cree, he didn't show it.
Llwewellyn looked bored.
"Got a place for me to sleep?"
"Sure, you can have my bed, if you don't mind the mice," I offered. "Only you'd probably be more comfortable up in the fur loft."
"We need water," Johnny said, holding the bucket.
"I'll go," I said. I have to admit our visitor didn't make me comfortable. He struck me as the kind of fellow who'd take your last bite of food and then complain about it. Any excuse to be away from him was welcome.
Johnny grabbed the axe. "I'll cut the hole."
We stepped out of the door with our coats done up tight, hats and mitts. We left our guest to curl up on my bed.
Johnny led the way down to the river. The ice was thick by Christmas so we had to chop out a small section once or twice a day. We both knew the spot well. I put down my bucket and waited for Johnny.
He didn't start swinging right away. Instead he said, "I don't trust him."
"Yah? Seems like a liar to me. He ain't no prospector, sure. See his hands?"
"He feels wrong." Johnny had passed sentence. I had come to trust Johnny's intuition in most things. He had a shaman's sight, for when Johnny was nine he had died. Struck by lightning he had lain dead for five minutes. Then just as sudden-like, he was alive again. After that, he had been different. Originally a rambunctious child, he became quiet, serious-minded. It was one of the reasons I wintered with him. He was quiet and serious about his work.
Johnny swung the axe expertly twice. Years of practice guided his hand and he knew exactly how to cut the hole to allow the pail to fill to the top. I dunked the bucket then pulled it up, brimming with clean water.
I was ready to go back as the wind was freezing my face. Only Johnny was standing still. I froze. A cougar or some other predator I wondered? "John-"
He just pointed out at the ice over the river.
My eyes are good. You don't hunt for a living if you can't pick a deer out of a thicket or a squirrel on a pine bough thirty feet above you. But in that moment I doubted my own ability to see.
The Simmonette is about a fifty yards across by Cabin Number Two. Less than half that far was a woman. She was made of ice. I could make out her long, dark hair, her beautiful petite face. I had heard the Indian legends, but this was a white woman's face. Where her legs should have been the ice came up in a frozen wave.
"What is it, Johnny?"
"Bad medicine."
"Surely, it's just a trick of the light -"
"Go inside, Ara."
"No, Johnny. I'll stay."
The Indian didn't say anything else. I could decide for myself. Johnny stepped around the hole and moved closer to the strange thing we saw.
The wind was howling. You have to understand that. I could hear Johnny singing in Cree. He had his medicine bag necklace out in his hand. In the other he still clutched the axe. But over the noise, I thought I heard something else. Another language. I didn't recognize its words either. Only the last part was in English. It was a refrain from a song that went: "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…" It drew closer.
Johnny dropped the medicine bag and raised his other arm. The single-bladed axe flew through the air to strike something that shattered into a million shards. The singing stopped and an ear-splitting crack ripped through the river like a living thing.
"Run!" I screamed as we spun and made for the home bank. The river ice separated into huge sheets as the concussion vibrated through the ice and into our legs. The surface in front of us broke, splashing freezing water all over. We jumped at the end, making the ground of the river bank. A last greedy wave pawed at us, trying to pull us back into the river, but we had made the willows by then, and hung on for dear life.
Johnny and I both ran for the cabin with the same thought. We had seconds to get inside and out of those clothes before they froze stiff, making it impossible to run. Every second counted. The longer we were cold, the more likely we were to get sick.
We piled in through the cabin door and began stripping instantly. Freezing cold water stings like fire burning your skin. Your fingers get numb and the buttons and strings become impossible. Stoking the fire up, we huddled naked around the stove, slapping our limbs to get the blood flowing.
Our guest rolled over, but said nothing.
Johnny crawled into his bed, leaving his clothes to dry by the stove. His bed folds into the wall, so he took it down and crawled into his thick blankets.
I had someone in my bed, but I didn't care. I was too cold. Llwewellyn complained when I jumped in. "You're freezing and wet!"
"Perhaps you'd be happier in the loft?" I barked, losing my civility at last.
"Maybe I would," he said. I pointed at the ladder that takes you up to the fur loft. Of all our cabins, only Cabin Number two had a loft. It's where we stored the hides and furs we caught during the winter. The ceiling is low so a man has to walk bent over but there is no bed more comfortable than that made of beaver and coyote pelts.
Llwewellyn disappeared up the ladder. The unspoken rules of hospitality said if a man needs a meal, feed him. If he needs to sleep, give him a bed. I had been a guest in many homes by the kindness of these rules but I have never made a nuisance of myself.
I forgot about our guest. It was Christmas eve after all, so Johnny got up and put on his second best pair of long johns and set the kettle to boiling. I followed his example, dressed, adding a pair of moccasins to my feet. Soon we were singing Christmas songs, eating a cake g
iven me by my ma, and drinking scolding hot coffee. We hadn't finished the first cup when we heard Llwewellyn scream.
Johnny went first, a long blade in his hand. I followed with the kerosene lamp. If I hadn't seen the lady on the river, I'm sure I'd have run screaming from that loft. Everything was in motion. In the midst of it, Llwewellyn fought and cried. For a second I thought two wolves had snuck up into our loft until I realized that these attackers lacked substance.
The furs, on all sides, from the smallest squirrel to the largest grizzly bear, were biting and clawing with absent fangs and talons. Like furry snakes the plews came at the Welshman with evil purpose. Some of the pelts were still on stretchers and unable to join in the fight. These mouthed grotesquely, "Green grow'th the holly, so doth the ivy…"
Johnny didn't wait like I did. He grabbed the lantern from me and swung it in a wide arc. The loft ceiling is low, so he did this on his knees, repelling the shadowy pelts with his light. The Indian swore at them in Cree, then in English to me, "Get him out, Ara."
I hobbled forward, bent over like an old man. Pelts scratched at me, flew in my face, trying to smother me. I pushed and clawed until I had Llwewellyn by the shoulder, then shoved him towards the ladder. Johnny covered our escape with the lamp.
Once downstairs I had to restrain Llwewellyn. He would have run out the door without his coat. I yelled at him, "Stop! You're safe here," trying to believe it myself.
We stopped and listened. All was quiet in the loft. The smell of singed fur was thick on the nostrils. We waited five minutes before I left Llwewellyn and climbed up the stairs.
Johnny lay on the floor under a mountain of burnt fur. He was clutching his medicine bag. He was dead. The boy who had come back to life was dead.
"Is it safe?" Llwewellyn called up.
I came back down, a black smoldering hatred burning inside me. "Tell me," was all I said.
"Tell you what?"
"Johnny's dead. Why did he die? Tell me." The look in my eyes told him what I'd do if he didn't.
The Welshman looked at the door, then me. It was as if he was wondering what his chances were of getting away. He made the right decision and sat down on the bed.