Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination

by Dane Hatchell

  The bones and gore not consumed were scraped into plastic bags. Those that fed washed in the kitchen, and marched in silence out a rear door. Mark joined in with them.

  They stopped at a barracks full of military style cots, with almost half of them being full. The occupants were oblivious to the new arrivals. Mark took the first available cot and laid his tired body down.

  After one feeds, one must rest.

  ***

  His awakening coincided with those who had joined him in his digestion period, unaware that three full days had passed. Each pulled themselves up and staggered to the bathroom to relieve themselves. The water pressure was low but enough to evacuate the toilets and to provide cold water for the sinks. After changing clothing, Mark and the others made their way back to the main floor of the prison wing.

  There was no longer a need for words. Thoughts and feelings were transferred from one to another in telepathic bond. The group collective shared the greater goals. The individual sensed his designated duty. Mark and his group were hunter/gatherers, and something was very wrong with the food supply they had on hand.

  The humans in residence as well as most of the humans newly captured were sick. They would eat no food. Mark had a memory of hearing warning of a sickness passed among non-parasitical humans on the EAS back at the old farm house. Force feeding the sick humans didn’t work either, as they weren’t able to keep food down. There were a few new captures that were healthy, with nice plump meat beneath their water bloated skin. Mark and his team’s mission were to find more like these and to bring them back as quickly as possible.

  They separated into four groups of four and left on foot to search the town.

  *

  The sun was in the noon position as Mark’s group made its way into a small two street neighborhood. The old wooden frame houses had been built sometime in the 70’s, and offered nothing for the hungry pod back at the prison. The group searched in silence, scanning every direction for life. None was evident. The only movement came from wind rustling leaves in the trees.

  The sun crossed the sky and the group moved down a highway of abandoned vehicles. From up ahead a metal on metal clank filled them with hope. The four split in two groups of two and maneuvered using the vehicles to shield their approach.

  Two unaffected males were in front of an auto garage using a hammer and a screwdriver to knock a hole in the gas tank on an old truck. The main entry to the office was chained shut, as were the vehicle service doors behind them.

  Mark and his partner snuck toward the men as the other two approached from the opposite side. The men continued to work on the gas tank. The two groups stealthy moved wide out of detection and then doubled back to the unsuspecting prey. They positioned themselves for a two-sided attack, but right before the ambush, an unseen human yelped out a warning.

  The two men popped up from the truck and ran through an open single door that led into the auto garage’s service center. With unhesitant speed the two teams of parasitic cannibals joined as one in pursuit.

  The four ran head long through the door and into darkness, straight into a set of nets that fell from above. Before any had the chance to reach for a weapon, a number of humans came from all sides and beat them into submission with baseball bats.

  “Get their guns! That guy over there has two,” Jones called, a former member of the military police.

  “Any more coming?” asked Busey, a local high school football coach.

  “Just these four. The area is clear.” Jones lit a cigarette and held the match until it went cold. He hadn’t smoked in years. It helped him cope with events of the last week. “Get ’em on the stretchers and let’s move on back to the school.” Jones keyed his radio, and said, “We’re heading out. Fall back and cover our rear.”

  An elementary school served as a makeshift fortress for forty families. Concertina wire had been haphazardly stretched about to reinforce the chain link fencing that originally served to keep the school children from wandering off. Armed sentries manned strategic positions, with lookouts using binoculars to scan the area. Boys as old as twelve and women as old as sixty shared in the duties of running the school and keeping everyone safe and fed.

  The men arrived with the alien infested prisoners and were given passage into the compound. Wide eyes stared and stomachs churned as the bound, red skinned devils past. Jones was in the lead as they walked down the main hall. The low ceilings made him feel like a giant. The classrooms had been converted into living quarters, and multiple families had to share the space. He didn’t have any idea how long they would, or could, go on living like this. Life was so different than before. There was nothing to distract from the hardships of life other than the company of friends and family.

  The only information they had to live by was from the Government EAS. It had warned them of the rain. It had warned them of the parasitic invaders. And, it had warned them of the mutated virus that transferred from the hybrids to the humans. All of them suffered from the virus. They had been unable to keep food down for several days. But fortunately, a temporary remedy had been found. Scientists quickly had gone to work to find a cure and discovered an antibody to treat the virus until a cure could be found. Since the announcement two days ago, the forty families at the school had benefited from the treatment, and their stomachs were now able to accept food again.

  Jones and his crew rounded a corner and bounced a set of double doors open. Mark stirred a little and let out a groan. Someone said, “I think he’s awake.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Don’t hit him again. You might kill him.” Jones made his way past a line of people and the crowd assisted in placing a stretcher holding an alien invader on each table.

  Mark groaned again.

  “Hey, we got any more anesthesia? I don’t like it when they holler,” the preacher’s wife said.

  “No, we can’t waste any on them. We need to keep the medical supplies for ourselves,” Jones instructed. “Just put a few rounds of duct tape over his mouth and let’s get on with it. Reverend?”

  Reverend Pike nodded, and cleared his throat, saying a prayer in sync with the noise of duct tape pulled from the roll. “Thank you, Lord, for the many blessings You bring to us each day. Please instruct us in our time of need that we may learn. Please see fit to save us and to accept our praises to your glory. In his name, grant us a new way. Amen.”

  Mark was fully awake now. Air whistled faster and faster out his nostrils.

  “Well, they ain’t gonna eat themselves. Dig in!” Jones picked up a knife and fork and sliced off a thin piece of Mark’s thigh. Mark’s vocal cords rattled in his throat as snot ran out his nose onto his cheek, shrieking in utter agony as he was eaten alive.

  The rest eagerly followed, making sure to leave enough so that everyone would get a fair share. Two days before, the thought of eating a live person was unimaginable. But the mutated virus had altered the chemical needs of its victims. The red flesh of the hybrids was delicious and satisfying.

  “Hey, Dad. What happens if the scientists don’t find a cure for the virus?” asked Timmy, an inquisitive young boy. “If we need to eat the red guys in order to survive, what will we eat when they’re all gone?”

  Tim’s dad shook his head. “Don’t worry about that now, son. Shut up, and eat your meat before it dies.”

  The End

  The Garden of Fear

  Charles Duncan could see the brick piers and shattered chimney stack of the old cabin on the hill while standing by the tree where his grandfather was murdered. The eroding waves of time had left its mark without the broom of a caretaker to sweep it back.

  Magnificent Bald Cypress trees growing by Salt Bayou touched the western perimeter of the five-acre homestead. The cabin set on one acre. The other four were dedicated to growing sugar cane. It was some of the richest soil east of the Mississippi.

  His grandfather, Sylvester Duncan, was a proud man who earned his living as a laborer on a nearby farm. It was hard work,
sun up to sun down, six days a week. Coming home to his wife and four-year-old son made it worthwhile. The sugar cane went exclusively into the production of syrup. Sylvester cooked it the old-fashioned way in a large iron kettle and heated by a wood fire. The profits bought luxuries for special occasions, mostly gifts for his family during Christmas time.

  The cool autumn breezes rattled the leaves of a mammoth water oak. Charles let his mind drift back to the day when his grandfather hung feet first from a branch on the cypress towering fifty foot above. Such acts of vigilante justice had been common for years. Disobedient slaves from Africa the common brunt of impromptu judge/jury/executioners.

  His murder would have been deemed savage even if he had been guilty of his charge. The label ‘reprehensible’ paled to describe the wrong done to his grandfather that day. Not because he was treated no better than a pig gone to slaughter, but because his wife and two year old son had been forced to witness it.

  Mary Nettles, the farmer’s wife, had accused Sylvester Duncan of attempted rape. Jake Nettles and two sons had left the field early and happened upon Sylvester lying on top of Mary over a pile of hay, inside the barn.

  The two were struggling in an embrace. Mary cried rape as soon as the barn door opened and she caught the silhouette of Jake from the corner of her eye.

  Before Sylvester had an opportunity to speak out, Jake and his two sons pummeled him with fists, elbows, and kicks. Beating him to within an inch of his life.

  Mary lied that Sylvester followed her into the barn and tried to forcefully have his way. Of course she would say that. No one would want to hear the truth. No one would dare consider it. Even if Jake had known the truth the outcome would have been the same.

  Another farm hand, Ezra Collins, was busy in the loft when Mary entered the barn and struck up a conversation with Sylvester. He heard the sweet song of her voice and watched the way she leaned into Sylvester, attempting to rub him with her ample breast.

  He heard Sylvester say, “Please ma’am, no,” in a distressed voice before she grabbed the front of his shirt, falling backward as she pushed her open mouth to his. He was in the act of pulling away at the untimely arrival of the husband.

  Ezra hid in silence. It all happened so fast his mind fought to believe it was real.

  Sylvester was 23, nearly six feet tall, and blessed with the physique of an ebony god. Despite his strength, he never once lifted a hand against Nettles and his sons, knowing that no words would bear credence, and no act of defense justifiable in the eyes of a jealous husband.

  He gambled for mercy and lost.

  The men treated Sylvester no different than a sack of feed and tossed him in the back of a truck, and then hauled him to the homestead.

  Ezra calmed his fears and went about his chores as if nothing had happened, having a wife and four other mouths to feed to be more concerned with. It wasn’t until he was on his death bed several years later as cancer waited to ferry him into the next life that he confessed to Annie Mae, Sylvester’s wife, the truth behind the murder.

  With the shirt stripped from his chest, Sylvester hung from the tree with his face so swollen Annie Mae refused to believe it was her husband after she was dragged from the cabin while holding onto her son, and thrown to the ground before him.

  Jake Nettles remove his belt and beat Sylvester relentlessly. The pig iron buckle flayed the skin with each lash.

  Even though Charles’ father was only four, he remembered that day for the rest of his life. What he recalled was one frame frozen in time. It was a picture of his mother with the most horrified of expressions and splatters of fresh blood on her face. That feeling of loss had remained with him until he took his final breath.

  When Jake determined Sylvester was numb to the pain, he pulled out his pocketknife and dug the blade deeply across the man’s throat. Blood spilled quickly, painting the ground and the cypress knees standing as innocent sentinels below.

  Charles reached out and touched reddish-brown bark, running his fingers across the paper-like surface. This tree linked him in some spiritual way with his grandfather. A feeling some might find strange. But Charles was like that, living in constant fascination with things and events that occur over time, connecting the past with the future.

  Satisfied with his commune, Charles returned to his primary reason for the visit, and removed the handsaw from a sack. After stepping off a distance to ensure he was far from the critical root zone, he began sawing a suitable size cypress knee for his next carving project.

  *

  The overhead light dimmed in rhythm as a large brown moth circled underneath, seeking salvation from the confines of the shop. Charles opened Duncan’s Carvings and Crafts in a small strip mall about a year after retiring from the United States Postal Service.

  With the forty plus hours a week delivering mail a thing of the past, he filled his free time working on his hobbies. As his collection grew in number, his house began to shrink. With no family and only few friends he would see in church on Sunday, there was no practical outlet to share his passion. Opening a business was the answer.

  Woodcarving was his favorite pastime. He prided himself in attention to detail. Little things the casual observer wouldn’t even know to look for but would make his creation radiate with realism. Small carvings of birds were his favorite. More than five shelves displayed varieties such as the bright Red Cardinal, the soft blue Eastern Bluebird, the yellow Goldfinch, and the blue-head-yellow back-orange-breasted Painted Bunting.

  Waterfowl proved to be quite popular as gifts for the ‘man that had everything.’ Wood Ducks sold the most because of their eye-catching iridescent chestnut, greens, and purple feathers.

  Charles was hand polishing his latest creation with double-ought steel wool when the front door opened and a tall teenager stepped it. The boy wore a green hooded jacket three sizes too large and a pair of jeans with legs so long the cuffs dragged the floor. The hood shadowed his eyes. His lips were dry and chapped.

  Time had gotten away from Charles, it was past nine P.M., and the shop hours were until seven. He had been so involved with his carving he had forgotten to lock the door.

  “Hello young man,” he called from behind the counter. “I’m sorry you found the door unlocked. I’m closed for the night.”

  The teen stopped and slowly turned his head around the room. “I . . . need to buy a gift.”

  Charles wiped his hands on a towel, leaving his carving on the workbench. “Well, if you’re going to buy something, I guess I can stop what I’m doing long enough to get you fixed up. What did you have in mind?” He would have run the boy out if he were only looking for a place to kill some time.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know,” the teen said, swallowing dryly afterward.

  “What? Surely, you have something in mind. Who’s if for?”

  “M . . . my mom.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “The occasion?”

  “Yes son, the occasion. Do I have to pull everything out of you?” Charles glanced under the counter at the butt of his 357. It was in position to grab if needed.

  “Birthday . . . it’s her birthday,” he said with a nod of confidence. “I’ve saved up twenty dollars to buy her something nice.”

  The teen was lanky and frail, pasty white in color. He seemed sad, unsure of himself. Charles wondered if the kid had not been eating and saving the money to buy his mother a gift. It pulled at his heartstrings.

  “Well, twenty dollars should buy you a fine present that she’ll just love. How about a basket of flowers? I have several by the window. The baskets are hand woven and the artificial flowers will always look fresh,” Charles said.

  The teen craned his neck to look around Charles. “What’s that you’re working on?”

  “That?” Charles picked up his carving and placed it on the counter. “This, my son, is one of my signature garden gnomes. I was just giving it some finishing touches before I paint it. I’ve made a display over there if
you’d like to browse.”

  Charles pointed to a collection of the 20-inch tall forest creatures posing on a log. Each sported a pointy hat, and many had beards. Their warm smile eternally etched brought cheer to even to those with the surliest of dispositions.

  “We don’t have a garden . . . we live in an apartment,” the teen said, wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. “Do you have any jewelry boxes?”

  With a smile of delight, Charles raised his hands in the air. “Yes, yes I do. I have a number to choose from right here in the display case.”

  The teen stepped to the counter and bent over as he perused an assortment of jewelry boxes through the glass case.

  “Do any of these strike your fancy?” Charles asked.

  “How about this one. The one with the flowers,” the teen said, pointing.

  Charles removed it from the case and placed it on the counter. The teen ran his fingertips across the top along the small flowers dotting the branches.

  “The rosewood is imported from India. It may not look like it, but I have almost ten man-hours in that box,” Charles said.

  “Wow, that’s a long time.” The teen removed the top and smelled the inside, put the top back on, and set it on the counter next to the unfinished gnome. “How much is it?”

  “It goes for twenty-five dollars,” Charles said, reading the sticker on the bottom, following with a grimace.

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, I was going to put all the jewelry boxes on sale tomorrow. I can make an exception tonight and let you have it for ten,” Charles said.

  “Ten dollars? Really?”

  “Yes son, but you will have to promise me one thing.”

  “You want me to promise you something? What?”

  “When you leave here, I want you to stop off at a burger joint or someplace and get something to eat. You look a little green around the gills. A boy your age needs to keep a steady supply of fuel in the furnace while growing.”