Season of the Witch

by Charlee Jacob

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  The old guy looked up. As usual he had nothing to say. Yet Marty clearly heard: “Did ya know Rosie’s got stretch marks? I think she’s had a kid.”

  Chaz’s voice.

  Chaz said that the night he died.

  Rosie’s hips were immaculate. Marty had touched them, knew them. Her thatch was a twenty-four carat gold like the delicate silk in the negligee he’d just purchased. Not a single pucker, or stretch mark—only those lovely stumps. Her hips not flared, pelvic bones unmoved by the shifting tectonic plates-in-earthquake that was childbirth.

  Jazz lied to him. He’d never had Rosie.

  “Died for love. Poor Chaz died for love for love.”

  The teenager looked behind him. Nothing. He turned back and saw it: a burned boy, fat bubbling, creamy down his sides, arms and legs, standing in front of the mirror. It was Chaz, two beady embers for eyes.

  Dead Chaz indicated the looking glass. “When’ll it be my turn? To lose the baby fat like my brothers did?”

  Smoke puffed from his swollen lips, a flame in his mouth. Looking closer, Marty saw it was a snake.

  (Looking for rodents, itty bitty screams part of the thrill of swallowing…)

  The old man whined, he, too, seeing Dead Chaz. He tried to hide under the pile of horror works. They slipped and slid, unreliable cover from the boogie-boy.

  “Were ya there that night?” Marty accused the apparition. He clenched his fists. “Did you hurt Rosie with that explosion?” But he knew already. Just like he knew Chaz had lied about Rosie, then really hurt her. He also knew that Mr. Chisholm was being haunted by his son, scared shitless, that tinwhistle mewl the first noise he’d made in years.

  Marty heard a faint voice, a woman’s voice from inside the room: “…X-IS-THE-DARK. Your compulsions are what the night is made of. Do you wish to be encouraged or would you rather provoke shock?”

  There was a cellphone in Mr. Chisholm’s claw of a hand.

  He lifted the phone to his mouth. “I just want someone to listen as I pass from this world,” he said with a creak. His vocal chords unaccustomed to speech, it came out a hoarse whisper. “You know where I’m headed. Into chaos where hungry things wait.”

  Chaz moved. Marty watched as the burned boy tilted his head and a dark-gray-pink lump skidded out of one ear to plop onto his cremated shoulder. He held out his arms, the hands deformed. They were two red knots. Boy with matches. He gestured to a table, a book there: necrOmania seXualis.

  Chaz struck his hands against the wall, hauling them hard left to right. They ignited with a double snap. He bent to touch the paper covering his father, wet with lighter fluid.

  Whwhwhooooooshshsh! The elderly man shrieked yet didn’t get up. He flailed, trying to swim out of the grue-sex ocean, but it held him like quicksand.

  Marty reacted. He reached toward the man, to pull him from that burning mass of books, slick pages of vaginal monsters and cockatrice cock-avarice shriveling evil.

  But suddenly Chaz stood between him and the pyre, arms burning in two enormous matches, dripping foul wax onto the floor. Marty backed away, almost blinded by heat—hair singeing, skin turning red.

  But before fleeing the room, he grabbed the book off the table and tucked it under his arm.

  – | – | –

  Chapter 20

  This week’s ‘most talked-about’:

  A pair of rabids cruising malls, kidnapping at gunpoint from parking lots. They stuck a pistol out the car window and said, “Get in quietly or this goes off. Too nice a summer’s day to have your head turned into a bowl of chili. So don’t let panic be your epitaph.”

  Some line, huh? This was known because one victim had been standing at a buck-in-a-box, the ATM’s camera wired for sound. No decent picture of the perps but it recorded the words. Even the cops snickered at the words. The killers must’ve thought long and hard to come up with it. All that pride and imagination in their work, ha!

  They’d been busy last week, to the tune of four victims snatched at four different locations. But a schmuck-amuck overshadowed them early Tuesday P.M. when he opened fire at a Driver’s Ed school; racked up fourteen dead. Shown on ever-popular live coverage from an aerial copter. Cops showed up, now the schmuck-amuck was an obit, too.

  Andddd… back to the killer pair. A couple more this week. If they kept it up, they’d soon have their own trading card.

  What Major Spring Krizenesky of the U.S. Army couldn’t understand was why people got into the car, gunpoint or no. They must have some idea what lay in store. They should infer from a killer’s implication of force that they’d be led on an argosy of rape, sodomy, torture and mutilation—an endless array of cruel etceteras. They’d end up shot anyway. History upheld this.

  Why not walk off? she wondered. You stood a better chance than if you let them take you someplace secluded, infinitely dumpable.

  People could be so stupid. It dumbfounded her. Turn around and walk away. What could they do?

  Two possibilities.

  First. THEY COULD SHOOT. But would they? In front of witnesses who mightn’t notice anything amiss if you meekly climbed in to be chauffeured to Hell? All alerted by the gunfire’s crack and getting vehicle and perp descriptions.

  Second. THEY COULD DRIVE AWAY. Empty-handed, weenies shriveling. Eventually searching for somebody with fewer smarts. Someone they could grab unseen, and victimize for hours or days, the time it would take to establish the dominance and superiority these cruds hungered for.

  Spring considered the victims of the last two weeks: four women and two teenaged boys who’d been abducted in this identical manner from mall lots. The first week came and went in relative obscurity. The second week, however, the avidly sucking tabloids and TV anchorpeople got wind, having their teeth extra-whitened for the occasion. One woman and one boy were taken from this lot on Wednesday a week ago (unheralded by the news) and last Monday (docu-dripped in all media forms) respectively. They’d crawled into that car, murdered after many cruel etceteras had been inflicted.

  Had these victims believed they would be spared? Had they thought to outsmart their captors or tears-and-dimples beg, or give such fabulous sex that the grateful perps would let them go? Did they genuinely suppose they bought time getting into the car to be escorted to some serial killer’s basement Gomorrah?

  This was a war. Spring understood it. Those creatures were enemies of all life. As for the victims, you either acted like a victim—in which case they treated you like one—or you fought for your dignity and self with the battle cry of the four-square world pumping through your veins. You either showed what you were made of: willing to die to stay alive your way or to defend others—or the perps squashed you, and you became a casualty, a statistic, an object lesson and tear-jerking crime-to-be-solved by any number of real detectives, or some forensic cold case on real world cable Scare-Me’s.

  PERPS. Odd word. An abbreviation thanks to cop shows and certain forms of gore-happy genre fiction. It burbled with a noise of baby banana burps and Middle Eastern falafel belches and blowing oily psychedelic bubbles through plastic hoops. It didn’t remind the Major even faintly of the sound a bullet made striking bone, or a knife splitting layers of flesh and tendon, or of ligatures pulled snug at restraint points until capillaries squirted. It sounded not a thing like death or any process of dying, unless it was blue lung blood foaming, effervescing, perping from ruptures in the mouth and nose.

  Major Krizenesky had served with distinction in Desert Storm, Afghanistan, and Iraq. She knew death sounds. She felt sorry for these six victims. But honestly, how civilian.

  Spring thought about this, strolling to her car, toting Father’s Day purchases for her husband, Steve. One was a giant bottle of his favorite 100 Proof Peppermint Schnapps, the other was a T-shirt bearing the motto SCHNAAP til YOU DROP.

  It was a hot day, shoppers wilting in shorts and sandals. Spring felt fine. Anyone who’d ever had to survive in the desert, carrying a
heavy pack and weapons, dressed in fatigues, had no trouble with this weather. Besides, she wasn’t in uniform today. She felt practically naked in jeans and a tank top which showed off her sleekly-muscled physique, even after close to twenty years as career Army.

  She was instantly on guard as two buzzsaw-skulled young men slid alongside her, driving a gray-primered late sixties T-Bird. The muzzle of a Steyr GB 9mm appeared at the rolled down window.

  “Get yourself in the car quietly, bitch. This here’s a blowback action semi-automatic clip cunt-corpser. Don’t let panic be your epitaph.”

  Skinhead with a soulpatch. She almost laughed out loud, an oxymoron if ever there was one. Made her want to grab that inch-long patch of chin hair between her forefinger and thumb and yank.

  Spring knew she should swiftly walk away, even pretending she hadn’t seen the gun. She’d dart through the rows of parked cars where they couldn’t follow without getting out of the T-Bird. But, bitch? Really? The slur gnawed at her brain. She’d heard it in the service more than once, from guys who made it their personal testicular crusade to mock any woman who dared venture into formerly-all male territory. She couldn’t resist a snide comment.

  “Have I got a sign around my neck that says Standard Victim Mentality? You use that gun if you’ve got the balls.”

  Their jaws dropped. Both young men blinked and hesitated, vehicle rolling alongside her.

  “I thought as much.” Spring sneered as she walked away.

  “Smart-mouth slut,” the man with the Steyr declared as he jerked opened the passenger-side door and hopped out. The driver braked, an abrupt screech for both him and the tires.

  The Steyr Man ran up on silent crepe soles behind the Major, throwing an arm around her throat. He pulled backward until she lost her grip on her packages. He brought the pistol to her temple. Spring deflected the gun with a swift wrist wrench, then flipped him to the ground. Nothing special, just a simple first-level maneuver that anyone with three cents of martial arts training could’ve seen coming.

  She laughed. These boys were amateurs on top of being civilians. She kicked the pistol away from the downed, would-be assailant. It skittered a few uneven feet across the macadam.

  Spring turned to pick up her things. But the driver had exited the car and snatched the unbroken liquor bottle a second and a half after she lost it. He brought it down on her skull. Schnapps til you’re dropped.

  The two dragged Spring’s unconscious body into the car’s back seat and sped off, peeling ligament layers of black rubber. Five different observers snapped photos on cell phones, then dialed 911.

  ««—»»

  Two beast-faced men carrying garbage cans, slender female limbs stuffed inside.

  Ed looked again.

  Only upright dromedaries in suits, holding boxes of cigs.

  Long night he didn’t remember well, fighting with Renae. He’d slept in his car, was late picking up Tom for work.

  “Man, what happened to you?” his partner asked, leaning on the driver’s side window.

  Ed grunted, sunglasses on so Tom wouldn’t see his eye-bags.

  “Aren’t those the clothes you wore yesterday?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tried paging you last night. We interviewed Trip-X about Huon’s suicide. Weird. All Spunk spoke was in Latin.” Tom waved at his nose. “Whew! Man, you need a shower.”

  “Renae and I quarreled. I slept in the Chevy Motel.”

  Tom tried not to smile. “Tell you what. Why don’t I drive, so you don’t wrap us around a telephone pole? Musta been a helluva quarrel. You got gray hairs that weren’t there yesterday. White, actually.”

  Ed bumped over into the other seat without argument.

  “Geez, at least when the wife and I spat, I get a comfy couch,” Tom commented, then started whistling. Thelonious Monk. Blue Monk. He’d always been into this kind of jazz. Since the Trip-X arrest, he’d been—subconsciously—stuck on several of the composer’s numbers. Ed tuned out, gazing half-hypnotized as highway flotsam passed in and out of focus.

  Luminous severed breast on a billboard. Or a giant egg.

  No, a volleyball for a tournament sponsored by some trendy yuppie booze drink.

  Wind blew at him through the car windows. If he just had a couple hours to spare, Ed’d get the car’s air serviced. Probably needed just a quick shot of Freon. He hung his arm out the window. He stuck his head out as far as he dared, trying not to stare at roadside ads or junk decaled on buildings.

  Torsos, blood-spattered—dried gore so old it’s black, clotspots in rotting jots. Stabbed hundreds of times or peppered with shots. The victim begs to be covered with black eggs! A ritual thing?

  Just models in leopard skin bathing cooze, not a drop of red nor a dollop of ooze.

  Someone’s loading a handgun revolver colt Smith and Wesson Ruger shiny blue barrel flinty glinty, he’s not wrong about this one, boy!

  This ad really was of someone with a gun, but they’re loading it with a joint. Talking ’bout marah-gee-wannah and Russian roulette.

  Oh, Lord, what kind of sick city is this—things too far—though it has a certain charm—makes you WANT TO LOOK—as twisted fucks disseminate hapless fluffy white poodle atoms in microwave oven urban legend shtick.

  What had he said on the phone last night that upset Renae?

  Next billboard. A guy smothered in a plastic bag, bulging eyes, red-veined. Lips blue. Clear PVC. Ad for men’s cologne.

  What Ed saw was pretty much on the money. Except the guy’s eyes hadn’t popped, nor was the tongue swollen and cyanic. Model wasn’t dead… just kinky.

  Collectibles Cologne: FOR THE UNSTOPPABLE HUMAN.

  The only thing truly unstoppable was time. It pierced the cells, a deterioration of osmosis through the walls. Made a sickness older than history, passed in the perfumed kiss.

  There was an ad for perfume—that didn’t need misreading. It spoke with eloquence, athletic nudity… rapt faces and clinging forms. Except that the bizarre images were trailed and eerily underscored by: ARE YOU OBSESSED? DO YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO ACT OUT YOUR FIERCEST FANTASIES?

  The girls in popular jeans ads looked younger all the time, pleading with him… like the old joke…

  Stop.

  Don’t.

  Stop.

  Don’t/Stop. Don’t Stop. On and Off like a white hot light.

  It was the hottest day Ed recalled from his entire life. Humid, too, moisture from every armpit and groin in the city gathered, fermented. Had been getting hotter since mid-May and then bangdrip, he woke up that morning (in his car) to discover third-stage heat stroke had set in.

  Do you get the night sweats? 24/7, baby.

  Tom asked, “You okay?”

  Ed still wore sunglasses. He stuck a finger underneath to rub an eye. “Just hot.”

  “You sure? I mean I’m hot, but you’re about four shades shy of your usual complexion.”

  Ed closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see anymore billboard Rorschach shocks.

  The police radio sputtered info on a late-thirtyish, early-fortyish female being clubbed and forced into a vehicle… full description of car make and model including license plate number… by two young male Caucs… partial descriptions… last spotted/clocked 89 mph east bound 100 Fullbright Avenue… officers in pursuit.

  The detectives heard sirens. Tom accomplished a lucky U-turn, lefted against a light, narrowly missing a tan Mercury.

  ««—»»

  The T-Bird wasn’t a Thunderbird, its symbol of the American natives, totem of the Red Man. They called it the O-Bird. To them, it’s symbol was a German eagle. Sacred symbol of Odin.

  Jeder vernahm es mit SchFecken!

  Nobody could hear its name without terror!

  Sirens were two blocks behind as the O-Bird weaved in and out of traffic. Cops had been right on their asses til some Peterbilt cut ’em off. Just like in the movies.

  “We shoulda left the bitch,” Adolf fretted. He whiplashed his head eve
ry five seconds to see if the police were catching up.

  “Maybe we oughta dump her,” Rolf said, whole body thrumming from his foot hammered to the accelerator. “If they get close again, we’ll toss her fat ass. That oughta stop ’em long enough. And we’ll slide on oughta here.”

  Adolf fumed. “We’ll have to ditch the car, won’t we? I just rebuilt the engine. I was gonna paint it next week. Ain’t fair.”

  “The biz, kid,” Rolf remarked.

  “Never shoulda taken her.” Adolf glared at the unconscious woman. “But I’ll be damned if I’m takin’ lip offa bitch.”

  “Gotta dump ’er, our only chance. Would’ve enjoyed doin’ ’er. She’s got it comin’. Woulda made ’er an example,” Rolf said through clenched teeth, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  Some dumbass pedestrians started walking right out in front of him. They darted back, screaming. Rolf barely detected their cries above the engine’s gun. He heard a minor thud on the fender’s edge—someone’s shinbone. A glance into the rearview mirror showed an idiot crumpled on the asphalt. A couple others dragged this minor casualty to the curb.

  “Gotta crawl back there with ’er. Get ready to hoist,” Rolf said.

  “Wouldn’t it be cooler if we did it while tellin’ Val-Kiree?” Adolf suggested.

  Rolf smirked. Adolf punched the automatic dial on the cell phone, turning on speakers clipped to the dashboard. It rang and the dulcimer voice with the Austrian accent answered. It was always her, never asking anymore if they wanted to provoke shock or be encouraged. She knew what these boys liked. She was their muse during the cruise.

  “What are you two up to now? Tell me all about it.”

  With expert skill, Rolf latticed a pathway through traffic. He wheeled a sudden right, fishtailing slightly until the O-Bird’s bumper knocked over a mailbox. White envelopes scattered like broken teeth. He made a left two corners and a dead Bullshitz (half bulldog, half shitzu) later, then floored it up a ramp and onto the freeway.