Demons, Freaks & Other Abnormalities

by Michael Laimo

  I’ll continue by saying that Jorge was dead. Well, perhaps not dead yet, but in the process of being taken alive. One of the hatchlings in front had Jorge in its grasp, razored claws rooted into his shoulders, sharp fangs buried deeply into a great tear in his neck; hence we heard no scream, as it had bitten away his vocal chords. Jorge’s legs shot straight out in front of him like two planks, kicking up wildly as if electricity were running through them. And then the blood--so much of it, covering his mask of death and the mask of life of his attacker.

  Roberto took an angry step forward and began screaming in Spanish, and this time, I held him back.

  Thinking of my plan, I looked around and realized with horror that it was Jorge who had held the half-filled jug of kerosene. But it was nowhere near him--not that I could ever venture close to the horrifying scene to retrieve it.

  “Here!” I heard Roberto scream, and I saw him dart back towards the entrance where the container sat; Jorge had placed it down before approaching the vampire ovum. He immediately ran to the egg-collective and started splashing the fuel all over them, tossing the container back and forth in a heave-ho manner.

  At once, great screams echoed from the eggs, and they all began to tear open, quickly now, each and every God-damned one releasing its very own vampiric beast. Albino-like, tenebrous. Coated in embryonic wetness. Flattened wings, busily working their way free from their prisons into the new world.

  Roberto finished spraying the fuel and I walked over, holding my torch, preparing to set it down. But then something caught my eye, and I froze.

  One of the emerging vampires, freshly broken free from its milky shell, was staring at me.

  I felt my heart drop to my feet, heavy in pain. It was Juan-Carlos. Or what used to be him. “Lord have mercy,” I managed. “My dear friend, taken by evil.” The words came automatically as I stood there rooted watching my dear friend of fifteen years raise up and spread his wings out, a near six-foot span, and then launch a deafening roar along with the rest of the beasts: all of the missing people of Banalica.

  Roberto had been wrong. The people of Banalica had not perished. They had found new life.

  So I would be the one to put them to death, I thought, and placed the torch to the kerosene-drenched collective.

  I watched with awe as it went up in great flames.

  Screams erupted, pain, agony, bedlam, all evil things gone to hell and back, collected here in one single mass. I shielded my eyes as the flames multiplied, enveloping all the newborn vampires, watching in awe as their wings melted away. And then their fresh skins, sliding away from their bodies, and I held my breath as green smoke rose and the stench of sulfur filled the room. And through it all, I saw Juan Carlos’ face staring at me, staring at Roberto, and it seemed to me that he was pleading for mercy, begging for our forgiveness.

  I tossed my torch into the fire, forgetting all along my true purpose for coming here.

  It was standing behind us as we turned around to leave.

  The great vampire, the mother of all invention, looming over us, freshly awakened from a day of slumber only to find us--two priests--in its lair, burning its children. I tried desperately for prayer, but found no words of faith to break through my mortal fear. Roberto and I stood close awaiting the worst: our deaths.

  The vampire howled a shrill so loud my ears popped and I at once went deaf. I expected it to immediately trance us with its yellow gaze, take us for its children, and I watched its scowling visage in assumption that no other alternative existed for me. But then it turned its head, shielding itself with its wings. Still howling.

  Then I realized.

  The fire. It was afraid of the bright fire.

  Roberto still held his torch. He thrust it toward the vampire and it cowered, staggering backwards, wings turned. It staggered back through the cave and we pursued, realizing its vulnerability, chasing it out into the night where we saw it take flight like a giant bat, sending its dark wind into our faces as we stood by the cave’s entrance.

  Smoke filtered out behind us and we quickly made our way back through the jungle into Banalica.

  With the assistance of the townsfolk, we built a bonfire outside the church and spent the night there, watching the skies for the flying creature, knowing deep inside that Banalica would now be safe from harm’s way.

  ~ * ~

  It has been six months since my experience in Banalica. I have relocated my plight of God to Cocina, where many of its padres have perished in attempt to rescue the faithful from evil.

  With Roberto at my side, we wait, wait for word of some other villa that has been absorbed by evil.

  And then, in the memory of Juan-Carlos, we will fight again.

  The Layover

  US Air flight 1166 finally came to a stop at gate 18. Tony stood up as the FASTEN SEATBELT light went out, stretched out as best he could beneath the overhead storage bins, and let out a long sigh while awaiting those ahead of him to disembark.

  He was pretty tired. The original flight was delayed, then canceled, and then following four hours of waiting at the Will Rogers International Airport in Oklahoma City, he was finally rerouted on the red-eye to Boston's Logan, via a short layover in Pittsburgh.

  He yawned and rubbed a hand down the back of his neck as the twelve or so passengers began to file out. He had a pounder of a headache and another hour of waiting before his shuttle left for Logan. He looked at his watch. It was 1:30 AM.

  Twenty nine year old Tony Vintano had slept through most of the flight. At first he wasn't very sleepy because of the two large coffees he drank while holed up in OK City, but as the plane was taking off, napping became imperative due to undying circumstances: he had to take a shit, and the only way to avoid a visit to the claustrophobic confines of the “lavatory” was to sleep it off.

  He had not successfully visited the bathroom (in sitting fashion) since the previous night at home in Boston following a bowl of his mother's spaghetti; she always cooked him a big meal before business trips. Twice since then he'd tried to go, once upon arrival at the hotel and again at the airport prior to boarding the plane. All intentions were good, but nothing had come. The urge to go didn't hit him until he was in the air, safely belted in. Predictable.

  Once airborne, his diminishing comfort swiftly turned to agitation as the pressure in his posterior increased. He popped two nighttime aspirins in hope that sudden sleep would help hold in the four meals--big company expense ones--that he'd eaten over the past thirty six hours. It worked; he slept until the plane landed in Pittsburgh.

  Entering the waiting area of gate 14, he stopped momentarily at one of the blue seats there and checked his tickets for the departure time and gate of his connecting shuttle. Gate 16, 2:15 AM. Good. He was right where he needed to be and didn't have to haul ass across the airport like that guy in the rent-a-car ads. And the flight from OK City must have been a little late, so the layover was minimal now, just forty-five minutes.

  Then, the inevitable happened. A sour grumble emanated from deep inside his gut, pointing out to Tony that he had unfinished business. Those four meals that had sought escape earlier were back, knocking at his back door. He rubbed his stubbled face, then placed his tickets into his briefcase. He checked his watch again. 1:41. Plenty time to squeeze it out.

  He shouldered his case and walked away from the gate to find a restroom, watching a few tired travelers pacing and lazing about with no direction in mind. Looking back over his six years of travel experience, he realized that he'd never been in an airport at this time of the night. It seemed uncomfortably barren, like a mall before closing or Fenway Park towards the end of another futile season. Most of the shops were closed as well.

  Signs ahead to his right designated the restrooms. Tony advanced through the one labeled with the outline of a male.

  Inside the empty men's room, there was only one color: gray. The ceramic tile walls, the metal stalls, the stainless steel sinks and urinals, all similar dull shades. Overhead
, a single lamp threw a pallid sheaf of light over the stalls, casting shadows across the walls and floor like black blankets. The small room had an institutional aroma, like pine disinfectant; it seemed that it had been cleaned just a short time prior.

  Tony entered the last of the six stalls there, placed his bag down next to the toilet, dropped his drawers and took a seat. He always did most of his best thinking with his pants around his ankles. Tonight, however, he would have to make an effort just to keep awake; the drowsy effects of the aspirin still lingered.

  Some thirty seconds into his movement, Tony heard footsteps enter, that of dress shoes echoing across the tiles. They led directly into the stall next him, stopped, then turned to slam the door shut. Tony squirmed and rubbed his tired eyes, a bit aggravated, feeling a bit violated. Couldn't the guy sit a stall or two away?

  Suddenly, like a shotgun blast, the man in the stall next to him belched loudly, and vomited.

  The surge was a powerful one, a roar that echoed from somewhere deep inside his gut and possibly beyond. It connected with the toilet water full force, sounding as if it parted the porcelain-held sea straight down to the cesspool. In an instant, discomfort seized Tony and provoked him to clutch his shrinking crotch, which along with his colon involuntarily cut him off.

  Then another roar came, this one louder than the first, followed immediately by another torrent of puke.

  Tony sat still, quiet. He closed his eyes tight and prayed it away, wishing it all wasn't happening. He heard the trickling and spitting of saliva amidst pained random gasps and wheezes. He listened to the man's shoes scraping the tiles. Every nuance was there. And as the man heaved a third time, a stench exploded from the stall, sending Tony's nostrils to an unexplored territory that reeked of hard-boiled eggs and Romano cheese stuffed into sweaty sneakers.

  Tony began to sweat profusely. Eyes closed, he pulled a strip of toilet paper and wiped his brow. Meanwhile, the vomiter showed no signs of letting up; he carried onward, puking a forth, and then a fifth and sixth time. Each bellow seemed to increase in force, each extruding forth a voluminous amount of vomit that slapped the water as if the innards from a school of gutted dolphins were being shoveled into the toilet. Tony had never heard anything like it. His stomach clenched, his teeth too, and he had to force himself to gag back the contents in his stomach.

  He couldn't take it any longer. Shit or no shit, it was time to get out of there before he began puking too.

  And it was only as Tony stood to pull up his trousers--he did so quietly as he wasn't sure if the vomiter was yet aware of his presence--that things really started to get out of hand.

  The vomiter purged again, this time with a sound that was not present in any of the previous releases. It was a...gurgle, a low guttural moan strangely similar to the wail of a cat in mid-orgasm, only somewhat muffled. Also different was the sound of contact, for the water in the toilet was obviously mistargeted, and splash! was now splat! as the tiles were layered.

  Freaking out, Tony cowered back against the opposite wall of the stall, his growing fear and disgust causing him to breathe in audible pants. At that moment the vomiter became very quiet, stopped spitting and gagging as if he became aware of Tony's presence.

  Tony crouched down to pick up his bag, first twisting his head to peer into the shadows of the twelve inch space at the bottom of the stall wall.

  What happened then was something that he could not have foreseen.

  An ebb of blood swelled from beyond the confines of the vomiter's stall. At first he did not know what was happening. It started slowly, filling in the cracks between the tiles on the floor. Watching curiously, he neglected to move his bag before the red puddle poured forth like spilled paint, covering the floor, his bag, his shoes, all in its path.

  He pushed frantically against the door with a cry, trying to escape. It squeaked, but didn't budge. He turned back, groaning, facing the stream of blood.

  Now much more than blood was making its way over. At first glance it looked like streaks of wavering threads within the blood, but as he bent over to contemplate it further, he could only stare in shock. Flowing amidst the blood in an almost sensual slowness were what appeared to be veins, dark blue and gray, slithering over like dead snakes floating upon the surface of a pond. Amidst the veins, small meaty chunks came through like insects riding the surface of a rain puddle.

  Tony stepped back in horror and revulsion, fumbling at the door, feeling the warmth of the blood through his shoes. He finally pulled it in and escaped the confines of the stall, leaving his bag behind in exchange for his freedom.

  He moved to an area of the floor by the urinals that had not been tainted by the ebb--about three feet opposite the vomiter's stall--and stopped there. Dropping to his knees he again peered under.

  There weren't any feet.

  He stood back up, confused, scared. Then he hesitantly called out: "H-hello?"

  He waited, but no reply came. "You okay in there?" Absurd question. Slowly, he stepped to the stall and after a moment of pause, knocked. "Hey in there, speak up." No reply, however he could still hear breathing, a bit quieter than before. He looked to the restroom entrance, hoping someone, anyone would walk in, take over the responsibility of this frightening mess.

  Then, a loud knock came from inside the stall.

  Tony jumped back, startled. He leaned down again in search of feet, but still there were none. He pondered as to what his next move should be. Jesus, this was a health and safety issue now. The guy was obviously very ill, maybe about to pass out, maybe dying and in need of help. He could not leave him alone here. What if he did die? That was not an option. He couldn't live with himself if that happened.

  With no alert to the occupant of the stall, he stood, took two big steps, and kicked in the door.

  Shot with a bullet of terror, a staggering Tony struggled to bear the burden of his own weight as he attempted to assimilate the image before him.

  Hunched atop the toilet seat was a man, a...pilot. His uniform-clad body was splattered with blood from head to toe, a virtual puddle of gore saturating the chest through to his skin, the remainder of his body streaked in crimson like a finger painting. His face was a bloated visage that strained like an overfilled balloon about to burst, the veins at the forehead purple with pressure, both nostrils running thin trickles of blood over paled skin. The eyes, blackened underneath like two ripened prunes, bulged with dilated pupils that wavered atop the swelled whites like congealed drops of blood floating in yellowing pools of pus.

  A sudden agonizing screech came from the pilot, startling Tony like a wicked alarm in the middle of the night. He jumped back unblinking, his sweaty fingers groping for the stainless steel of the sink behind him. He failed in his quest for support and slipped down hard on his back end. At that point, all attempts to move seemed impossible. Every muscle straining, trying desperately to as much as twitch.

  Then the airman's teeth, previously clenched vice tight, started to chatter as if mechanical; he looked like a ventriloquist's dummy possessed by some malevolent evil. Through this oral din, through all the blockage gurgling in the back of his throat, Tony heard the pilot growl one word. He wasn't sure he had heard him correctly, but he had to trust his ears for there would be no opportunity for the man to repeat himself.

  Gremlins...

  Shaking uncontrollably, Tony managed to get to his feet, trying desperately to break his astonished gaze from the gnarled pilot. He crossed his arms in front of him, holding in the memory of the word before it escaped him.

  The teeth then stopped chattering as suddenly as they started, the mouth frozen in a wide open position. A little more blood trickled out down his chin. He made a short snorting sound and Tony leaned back hard against the sinks, trying to yell but unable to do so for fear stole his voice.

  Something began crawling from the pilot's mouth.

  His jaws had locked open because something was holding them that way. Two little hands the size of dimes, each wi
th four tiny fingers, prying the mouth open by the upper and lower jaws. A sucking noise sounded, similar to a dentist's mouth vacuum, and then a little...man, drenched with blood and bile, began forcing its way out. A tiny bald head emerged, as round and smooth as a cue ball. Looking out, its lidless eyes, each the color of dull pennies, bulged wildly like a deer's caught in the headlights of an speeding car. It looked like a mini-human with Progeria, like a six inch mutant Uncle Fester.

  Losing it, Tony lurched away as blood began bursting from the pores in the pilot's face. And upon finally exiting the bathroom, he repeated the word over and over and over...

  Gremlins...

  ~ * ~

  Tony was freaking, shaking in panic, his thoughts running amok as he took a first class seat on the plane. He'd immediately run from the bathroom to the gate where his plane had begun boarding. He counted the seconds as if they were hours, in sweaty prayer for his safe arrival home, or at the very least, away from the airport. He would concern himself with any mental therapy once he locked himself away in his apartment with a bottle of Tequila or Absolut.

  Gremlins. He remembered watching a program, on the Discovery Channel he thought, about WWII pilots' stories of little men that inflicted havoc by tearing apart the planes as they were in flight. Many had claimed to have seen them. But these were just stories, weren't they? Could gremlins be real, now attacking the pilots of the planes?

  The passengers--fifteen in total, all of them back in coach--had finished boarding, and the doors to the plane were shut. With the plane in taxi, Tony grew tired, mentally and perhaps physically drained from his experience, and closed his eyes. His mind, a serious mess, jumbled thoughts like an ocean wave churning the fine sands of a beach, mixing all reality with imagination and fabrication. And before Tony realized that he still hadn't completely relieved himself, he fell asleep.