Stupefying Stories: August 2016
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STUPEFYING STORIES 1.15
August 2016
Editor: Bruce Bethke
Dotar Sojat: Henry Vogel
Editorial Minion: Katherine M. Karr
Missing, Presumed Fed: M. David Blake
Copy-editing & proofreading: Alicia Cole & Chris Bailey Pearce
Cover: "Destroyer of Worlds" by Luke Spooner, CarrionHouse.com
Published by: Rampant Loon Press, Lake Elmo, Minnesota
Special Thanks to: The Fearless Slush Pile Reader Corps. Guy, Barbara, Frances, Jason, Karen, Ryan, Arisia, and Alicia: we couldn't have done it without you. Thanks!
Copyright © 2016 Rampant Loon Media LLC
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August 2016: Vol. 1, No. 15
ISBN: 978-1-938834-90-5 (ebook edition)
ISBN: 978-1-938834-91-2 (print edition)
STUPEFYING STORIES is a production of RAMPANT LOON PRESS and is published in the United States of America by Rampant Loon Press, an imprint of Rampant Loon Media LLC, P.O. Box 111, Lake Elmo, Minnesota 55042.
www.rampantloonpress.com
Copyright © 2016 Rampant Loon Media LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photographic, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
The individual works contained herein are copyright © 2016 by their respective authors, unless otherwise indicated. All works contained herein are published by contractual arrangement with the authors. Stupefying Stories, Rampant Loon Press, the Stupefying Stories logo, and the Rampant Loon colophon are trademarks of Rampant Loon Media LLC.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright and Trademark Notices
From the Editor’s Desk
Contents
MAKING MONSTERS
by Sarah Read
AT WORK IN THE FIELDS OF THE LORD
by Edoardo Albert
PLEASE PASS THE PURVIEW
by Conor Powers-Smith
DESTROYER OF WORLDS
by Evan Dicken
THE SEVENTEENTH MEETING CONCERNING THE POSSESSION OF PATRICIA COTTON
by L Chan
URSA MAJOR
by Lynne M. MacLean
THE BOO HAG
by David Bowles
RECKONING IN SPOTSYLVANIA
by Ambrose Stolliker
ANTIMIRUS
by Mike Reeves-McMillan
About STUPEFYING STORIES...
From the Editor’s Desk
By Bruce Bethke
I’ll admit, I’m starting to develop a nervous tic over these introductions. Every time I announce that we’ve finally solved our behind-the-scenes problems and are back on schedule, Fate seems to take that as her cue to start chucking wooden shoes into the works again.
So today, let’s not talk about the future. Instead, let’s talk about this issue. In the pages that follow you’ll find horror; you’ll find comedy; you’ll find horror/comedy (we seem to be developing a theme here); in this season of electoral madness you’ll find some badly needed non-partisan political humor in the form of Conor Powers-Smith’s delightful short story, “Please Pass the Purview.” We also have two impressive novelettes, “At Work in the Fields of the Lord” by Edoardo Albert and “Ursa Major” by Lynne M. MacLean, and in our cover story, Evan Dicken’s chilling “Destroyer of Worlds,” you’ll learn the real reason why no nuclear weapons have been fired in anger since 1945.
In short, here’s a mixed bag of great stories. We’re proud of this collection, and we think you will enjoy it, too.
Cheers,
~brb
MAKING MONSTERS
By Sarah Read
My thighs stick to the hot seat; my fingers touch-tapping the baked vinyl of the wheel. My face tingles—feels stretched over my skull as the capillaries dilate in the hot van. The sun filters through the dirty glass. Bracelets of sweat form under the tight cuffs of my polyester chiffon blouse. I smear more Vicks VapoRub under my nose. Bet it’s shining like a star. But Dale’s starting to spoil, and I can’t take it much longer. I’m praying for the red truck to get here soon.
There’s nothing to see but rocks and brush, and I wonder why this place is called Red Rocks. The rocks aren’t red. Every shade of orange and pink—some almost purple, but no red. Should be called Tequila Sunrise, or maybe Barbie’s Deathtrap.
The small fuzz of a dirt cloud in the distance is getting taller, getting closer. I’m hoping it’s that red truck, and I’m praying it’s closer than it looks. I need to get this van moving—get the windows down and the wind over my face. Push this stink into the back, where it belongs. It was bad enough when it was the deer and piles of rabbits and armadillos—but, now, Dale… He reeks.
¤
In the East, they call them monsters. In the South, it’s devils. In the West, they all just assume it’s people from Portland. But here in the Southwest, it’s always aliens. In the microcosm of my van, they’re all a bit of this and a bit of that, stitched together. An armature of deer bone supporting a motley of beaver and bear; snakes and squirrel; alligator; coyote and rabbit. Dale. Whatever has been (or can be) hit with a van. But I know this is what he would have wanted. I know the man’s wants—know them every which way. And that makes it easier, the knowing.
¤
The dirt billowing off the back tires of whatever’s coming this way hangs in the air. If I listen, I can almost hear an engine. I’m hoping it’s not a crazy desert person. Praying it’s not the police. That would give the game away.
More Vicks.
I start the van. Maybe, if it’s not the red truck, I can outrun them. I check the mirror, and have to crank it to see past the deer strapped into the back seat, its legs folded in like a spider’s, past Dale’s head that bobs with the chug of the struggling engine. He’s wrapped in a white motel sheet that isn’t quite white anymore.
No cars behind. Just that cloud up ahead. In the sparkle rising off the hot pavement, a smear of red. And I thank God.
I fumble with my camera case. Hands are shaking—Dale always did the talking. I slip the strap over my neck just as the red truck pulls alongside my van.
The Ranchero leaves it running—right there in the middle of the dirt road—and walks over to my window. Oh no.
I pop the door, jump out, and slam it quick behind me. He gets a whiff. I can tell. His salt-and-pepper mustache does a dance under his nose, and he brings his thumb up and swipes it across his nostrils. Then he pinches the brim of his hat.
“Miss Ricky?”
I exhale and put on my best Miss Georgia pageant smile. “Mister Valez?” I hold out my hand—all sea-foam chiffon and powder-pink nails. He wipes his hand on his jeans and shakes mine. His hand is the texture of an armadillo shell, and just as dusty.
“I hope you brought a fast camera, Miss Ricky. No one ever seen ‘em more than a blink. Got a good trigger-finger for that thing?” He nods at the bulky camera hanging from my neck. The weight of it is pinching my curls.
“Only the best in the country. But you know that already, or you wouldn’t have called, right?” Pageant smile again, throw a shoulder forward, Marilyn laugh.
But he’s looking at my nose, not my cleavage.
Damn, the Vicks.
I scoop away the slimy layer. “Oh, sorry. Hit a fox or something
a few miles back—something smelly, anyway. Could hardly stand it!”
He smiles, then. Teeth bright in his dark face. Handsome. Too bad he’s the kind of nut-job who’d answer my ad.
“Follow me, Miss Ricky. The turnoff is hard to find. It’s why I had you meet me here.” He climbs back into his truck, and I slip back into the van.
We drive toward a dip in the pink desert rock. Bluffs rise all around us. In a low hollow there’s a splash of green. Neat rows of alfalfa surrounded by wild sage scrub. Barbie’s Oasis.
A stir of black cows crowds one end of the ranch. They’ve cleared the scrub around them, but they’re clinging to the fence—half a field away from a tower of fresh hay, nearly climbing over each other’s backs. There’s a heap of black at the base of the haystack.
“They got another last night,” Valez says, climbing down from his pinging truck.
I’m hoping the sweat from my hands isn’t going to damage my camera. Praying Valez doesn’t see me sweat.
His stare turns icy. It cancels out the heat of the sun. “I’ll give you five thou for a picture of what’s doing this to my cows.”
We walk over to the heap and I start snapping pictures. The poor creature is desiccated—shriveled and twisted, its insides on the outside, but all dry. Paler than the inside of a cow ought to be. There’s a smell of char and ozone.
“Have you had autopsies done?” I can’t help but wonder what a vet would think of the pile of organ jerky.
“Course, yeah. Unknown cause of death, apart from being in pieces.”
“It looks—and smells—like it might have been struck by lightning. Have you had any electrical storms?”
The Ranchero frowns.
I feel the heat again. “I’m sorry—it’s my job to investigate. Sometimes that means—” bat the eyelashes, lean a bit forward, “playing the devil.”
He nods, and looks down at the cow husk. “No storm. And no sign of lightning on the ground, here.”
He’s not wrong about that. I snap a few more pictures and tuck my camera away.
“I’ll need to get these developed and do some research on the area. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to start trying for that picture. You’ve definitely got something going on out here, and Out of this World Photography is prepared to document it for you. I’ve got a week before I’m due at my next assignment. I’m sure I can get something for you.” We shake again. That rough hand drives the rest of the spiel right out of my head.
“Can you find your way back to town?” he asks.
You drive forever on that one road, then turn right on that only other road and drive another forever… “Yeah—thanks.”
As I drive away, he’s standing over that cow, the dirt blowing up from my tires shrouding him in grit.
¤
The two-hour drive back to town takes six on account of all the snakes. Too many to pass up—too handy—and I pluck them off the side of the road, peel them up where they’ve gone flat under tires. It should always be this easy.
I’m sweaty, covered in dirt, and starting to smell like the inside of the van by the time I pull in to the lot full of storage garages.
The attendant stares at my van parked in a double-space garage. He side-eyes me. “I’m not saying you’re allowed to—‘cause I can’t say that—but if you’re planning on sleeping here, for the love of God, keep the engine off in the garage. For my sake.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and his shoulders shiver. The man’s seen things.
Marilyn smile, all my teeth showing. “Oh, I’m not sleeping here. I’m just running late for an art show. Need some space to work on my sculpture, then I’m back on the road.” Pull my shoulders back, tilt my head. My curls—all limp from sweat and dry heat—tumble over my shoulder.
The attendant just shrugs and hands me the key. Good enough.
Once the door is pulled down, the only light comes from a naked bulb with a rusty chain swinging from its base. It’s going to be hard to see my stitches. Dale usually took care of this part.
The old tarp—only barely blue anymore—sticks to itself as I try and spread it over the concrete. I weigh it down at the corners with hammer, saw, wrench, and sewing basket.
I unload my bag of snakes. The deer comes out in pieces, but that’s just as well. Saves me the trouble. My chiffon is destroyed, though. And before long, so is my manicure.
But the snakes are all skinned—the best bits laid out. The deer is deboned, and its long limbs are stripped and ready.
Ready for Dale. Dear Dale.
I can feel the sponginess of him through the motel sheet. The heat’s done him in. But he’ll be perfect. He’ll be a star.
I cut away a lot of what’s gone bad. How strange that what goes bad gets sweet… and I toss it into the muck bucket.
I sew the snakeskins over the stringy layer left behind—elongate his limbs with deer bone. Cloven feet. Snake spines for long fingers and an armadillo shell skull. All covered in rustling rattlesnake diamonds. I fill his mouth with snake fangs. No trace, now, of that sweet sideways smile he always had, even when kissing.
Shaping the brow and the space around the eyes—Dale always said that’s where the art is. I get it, though. Use a bit of muck from the bucket to fill it out. It’s all about the expression, really brings it all to life. Sells pictures.
I stand back, look him over. Can’t suppress a shiver. That’ll do. Dale wouldn’t say it, but I will: It’s better than the Giant Devil Bat of Baltimore we made entirely from squirrels.
¤
I’ve got to drive with the lights off—stupid, in a place like this—but there’s nothing for miles but ranchers looking for lights. Valez can’t know I’m back early; can’t know that the photo I’ll sell him will be sitting in my van the whole time I’m looking for his aliens.
I find the perfect spot, just off the far side of the bluff. The terrain will match, and he’ll never see my camera flash.
The night is damn cold—a shock, after the heat of the day—but the air is all sweet sage, and I can finally smell something other than Dale. Or Dalien, as I’ve called him since his transformation. He’d appreciate that.
I drag Dalien from the van and pull him into a boulder-strewn patch of tall grass. I drape a sandbag over the board at his feet and tug his arms up—wrench at the heavy-gauge wire wrapped round the bone inside, till he’s posed—snake spine claws up and fanged jaw gaping. The sealant that coats him is still tacky—still a slick shine. It reflects the moonlight beautifully. Makes him look wet. Like nothing in this rocky world. He’s perfect. He’d be so happy.
I kiss him one more time. Run my dry tongue over the stitches in his lips.
Rocks and weeds catch at my heels as I stumble through the dark. I have to get a good distance. The shot can’t be perfect. It can never be perfect or it will give the game away.
I turn and take a few shots. He looks good, but they aren’t quite right. More distance, more climbing over rocks—hoping I won’t fall, praying I won’t meet any live snakes. I finally find the perfect spot. A nice flat rock, still a bit warm from the sun. Just where I’d sit to watch for aliens. If I was looking for a monster.
I settle in, and point my camera back at Dalien. But I can’t find him. All the dark and tall grass—I zoom in and sweep the landscape, searching the side of the bluff. Nothing.
Goddamn.
The temperature is creeping up, though it’s hours from dawn. A bit of wind, too, like a storm is coming.
Must have gone too far.
I crawl back over the rocks to the grassy spot—I’m sure it’s the same spot—and there’s no sign of Dale.
I’m starting to sweat. The smell of the van is leaking out of my pores.
If someone found him and reports it…
I scan the field. The cows around the bluff are making a racket, stomping and bellowing. The air smells like ozone and charcoal. There’s a crack overhead. Lightning.
But then a crescent of lights flashes over the bluff—and the
re’s Dalien—suspended, caught in the glow.
My shutter finger flutters as the glowing ring of lights reaches an intensity like Dale’s old blowtorch and my eyes are squeezed shut and my finger just clicks and clicks the button till another crack sounds and the sky goes dark. Darker than it’s ever been. And every time I blink, I see that crescent of lights like it’s burned into me.
The cows are screaming, but the air is back to calm, back to cold.
I hear Valez shouting. I sink into the tall grass. The dry blades prick at my knees.
I’m thumbing through the pictures on the camera, hot breaths coming so fast they’re fogging the screen. Valez has gone quiet. The phone in my pocket starts to buzz—but I can hardly feel it. I’m numb.
Dale always said we might get lucky. He said, in the meantime, we’d make our own luck. Make our monsters until we caught one.
Dale, you always said you’d take care of me—and you have. You have.
My prices have just tripled.
Sarah Read's stories can be found in Black Static, Vine Leaves Literary Journal (where she received a Pushcart nomination), and in the Suspended in Dusk (Books of the Dead Press) and Exigencies (Dark House Press) anthologies, among other places. She writes, reads, and knits near Rocky Mountain National Park where she lives with her two sons and husband. She is an affiliate member of the HWA and is Editor in Chief at Pantheon Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @inkwellmonster.