13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series)

by Lynne Cantwell

  Julia screamed.

  SosweetthefearisSOSWEETittastessogooditmakesthisonestrongmakemorefearmakemorefearMAKEMOREFEARNOW!

  Suddenly, somehow, Julia felt something… it was a presence, as if someone was standing directly in front of her, leaning in close and staring into her eyes, so close that it seemed that she could feel the person’s breath on her mouth like a lover, yet no one was there.

  She closed her eyes and realized that she felt this presence not only in front of her, but all around her. It filled the house, like the sound of the music and the voice. It enveloped her like a whirlwind, like she was being swept up in a tornado of malevolent hate that was… feeding on her, somehow. After a moment she realized that as she began to seek to understand it, its effect on her seemed to diminish, despite the music that continued to play and the disembodied voice that continued to croon her name as if it were some sort of magic word, beginning with Adam’s lone voice and gradually adding more voices until there was a virtual choir of voices chanting her name: “Knock, knock. Juliaaa. JUUUUUUUUULIAAAAAA!”

  Julia was determined to break free of the fear. She sat down lightly on the sofa and began to speak to herself, first in a low voice, then gradually louder and bolder: “I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of you. I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU!” She leapt to her feet as she screamed it the last time.

  She felt a sort of hesitation, an uncertainty in the unseen force, and she pressed on, pushing, prodding, searching for this — this thing’s weaknesses, trying to break through whatever defenses it had.

  “You can’t touch me, can you? You’re so big and bad and goddamn scary, you think you can just freak me the fuck right out and feed off my fear, but it’s not working, because I’m not afraid of you any more!”

  Suddenly, the music and the voices fell utterly silent.

  Julia stopped short. The house seemed to echo with faint repercussions of the chaotic maelstrom of sound that had assaulted her before. She began to feel the tension that had knotted her neck and shoulders begin to gradually loosen. It’s finally over, she thought.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Every electronic device in the house — including the unplugged living room television and the shattered remains of the bedroom TV — began to scream an electronic noise that resembled nothing so much as the tormented wailing of a damned soul, and somehow, in that instant, Julia knew that that was precisely what it was. The fear came roaring back with a vengeance, stabbing her through the heart with a knife blade which had been forged from pure, unadulterated despair, tempered in the flames of fright.

  Julia screamed as well, a shrill born of fright like she had never known in her life. She had known fear a number of times in her life; once, at the age of seven, she’d been asleep in her parents’ bed when her mother had woken up screaming that she was being attacked by a man with a knife; in her confusion upon waking as well as her childhood innocence, Julia had come out of her own sleep gibbering and wailing, certain that she as well as her mother were about to be murdered in cold blood. It had taken her father five minutes to calm her mother, but more than an hour to convince Julia that there was no one attacking her mother.

  That event had always been the high water mark of fear for her; in the years since, nothing had ever really been able to scare her. As a teenager, she’d ridden the most frightening roller coasters and seen movies that promised to scare her out of her skin. In college, she’d gone bungee jumping, scuba diving, sky diving and cliff diving. She and Adam had been white water rafting, hang gliding, and driving on the streets of Paris.

  None of those experiences could compare to the mind-searing fear that arced through her now as though she had put her hand on a high tension power line. She felt her bowels turning to water as the maniacal laughter reverberated around her, no longer seeming to come from the speakers at all, but from her own lips as whatever malevolent entity was producing it seized control of her mind and she felt — almost heard — its thoughts:

  OhyesthefearsodelicateyetsoBOLDandsosweetsosweetSOVERYSWEETittastessogoodYOUTASTESOGOODmydearsospicyandsojuicyohyesohyesohyes…

  Julia shuddered, feeling violated, yet there was a strange tingling between her legs, as if her very nervous system was betraying her. She shook with incipient arousal, fighting the feelings, fighting against what this thing was forcing upon her.

  Whatever it was, a ghost, a spirit, a demon, or something else, it was forcing itself upon her just the same as if it was a man who had broken in to the house and raped her physically, but where a physical rapist could not force her to feel pleasure, this thing seemed to be hijacking the parts of her mind that dealt with sexual arousal and jumpstarting them, hotwiring them like a car thief bypassing an automobile’s starter.

  “NO!” she shouted, furious at the invasion of her mind. “No! Get the fuck out of my brain, whatever you are!” She felt the fear seem to melt like frost in the heat of her anger.

  “Julia,” her husband’s voice called softly. “Why are you angry with me? Don’t you love me anymore, honey?” Despite the fact that she knew that this voice was not coming from her husband’s lips, she shuddered and sighed and longed for him to wrap her in his arms. Then she realized what was happening and pulled herself together.

  Just then, there was a bang on the front door, as if someone were attempting to break it down. The next moment, there was the sound of someone rapping on the back door, then the bedroom window. The pattern went on for what seemed like several minutes. Julia ran to the small fireplace in the living room to grab the most efficient weapon she could think of, the fireplace poker.

  It wasn’t there.

  She looked around frantically, desperately seeking the heavy iron tool, but it was nowhere to be found. When was the last time they’d used it? March or April, perhaps? She wasn’t sure. Certainly not any time recently, in the heat of summer.

  Another silence fell. She sat crouched by the fireplace, waiting for whatever would come next.

  Suddenly she heard Adam’s voice again, but this time it sounded distant, as if he were out in the front yard. “Thanks for the lift, man,” she heard him say. Thank God! He was finally home!

  She ran to the door and fumbled with the lock. She felt an odd moan welling up from inside her, the kind of sound you heard coming from people who were completely overwhelmed and on the verge of breaking down in tears. She managed to get the doorknob and the deadbolt unlocked and threw the door open, eager to greet her lover and equally eager for this emotional nightmare to end.

  But it was just beginning.

  On the front porch, a nightmarish sight greeted her; Adam seemed to be standing there, almost as if he were a door-to-door salesman who had rung the bell and was waiting for her to answer.

  From his mouth protruded the dull black handle of a fireplace poker. The rest of the poker exited his skull in the back and the angled part of the business end of the tool was hooked on the edge of a board that ran along the inside of the porch’s roofline. The shaft of the poker was coated in blood and grey brain matter. Adam’s dead eyes seemed to stare accusingly at Julia.

  Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth gaped in a silent scream.

  She turned and ran to the bathroom, where she threw up the pizza and the wine, managing to get most of it in the toilet bowl. She stood up, bawling, and went to the sink to wash the vomit off her mouth and chin. She looked in the mirror and suddenly realized that her reflection was staring back at her with its arms crossed accusingly.

  “Wha—”

  “Julia, Julia, oh, Julia,” her reflection said in Adam’s voice. “You poor, dear thing. How could you do that to your husband?”

  That was the last thing she remembered before she woke up on the floor in the grey early morning light.

  ~~~

  Julia walked out of the vomit-spattered bathroom to see that the bedroom television was still shattered. She walked into the living room, quite certain that by now a passing neighbor would ha
ve seen Adam’s body suspended from the porch roof and called 911.

  The door was standing open, but Adam’s body was not there.

  She glanced toward the fireplace. The poker was in its place on the tool set, where it should have been. No blood, no brains, nothing. She looked outside; nothing seemed amiss or out of place.

  She looked toward the kitchen and saw that the message light on her phone was blinking. She picked it up and pressed the voice mail icon. “You have two new messages.” She pressed 1 to play the first one. It was dated three days prior.

  “Mrs. McMahon, this is Robert Lockwood at Adam’s office. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for hours; he didn’t show up this morning for the flight to Chicago. He’s not answering his cell, and I just ran across your number in his contact information. Please ask him to contact me ASAP. Hope everything’s all right. Thanks.”

  A wave of confusion swept over her. Not knowing what else to do, she proceeded to the next message.

  “Honey, why won’t you pick up the phone? I have to talk to you. You have to believe me… I love you. She doesn’t mean a damned thing to me. It was a one-time thing, I swear. Please. I’ll be home in half an hour.” Adam sounded frantic.

  Suddenly, a whole set of memories came flooding back, as if she was remembering them for the first time.

  Julia had only a vague recollection of hauling Adam’s body out to the car and loading it into the passenger seat. It took quite a bit of effort, but she’d managed. Then a quick drive up into the mountains, thirty minutes away, onto a deserted side road; moving the body to the driver’s seat, putting the car in gear and letting it go over the side of a cliff.

  If a car goes crashing off a mountain road into a deeply forested canyon, but there’s no one around who gives a shit, does it make a sound?

  It had taken her nearly ten hours to walk home, but she didn’t mind; it was well worth it, and she couldn’t afford to be seen hitchhiking.

  Then there was the experience she’d had last night; Adam’s voice, coming from the television sets, from the stereo, the phone. Real? Or just the product of her evidently deranged mind? After all, if she was able to do away with her husband and then conveniently sweep the memory under her mental rug…

  Now to finish up.

  She went to the fireplace and picked up the poker, walked out the front door and down the street to one of the neighboring houses. The one that belonged to that bitch named Cheryl, the divorcee that had run around in cutoffs and a bikini top all summer long, getting looks from all the men, including Adam.

  Knock, knock.

  AFTER ONE YEAR IN AUTAR:

  Regan Grier discusses her zombie neighbors.

  Joseph Picard

  It’s not like the movies, you know. Yes, there’s dead people that would like to chomp li’l ole me, and yes, it’s a matter of survival.

  I guess I’m lucky. The zombies lose interest after a couple hours and wander away when I hole up in my ‘house.’ In the movies, they never stop. Then again, in the movies, you can shoot them in the head, and they stay down.

  Overall, it’s not a bad neighborhood. For the city of Autar, anyway. I’ve been here for about a year, and I’ve settled in pretty well. There’s enough food around and there’s no other humans to compete with for it. Fresh fruit is a putrid memory, as are a lot of other things, but there’s a ton of stuff that doesn’t spoil. Water’s not an issue either. Other than damage during the evacuation, stuff doesn’t break much in this city.

  Lemme check my watch... 2 PM. Snack time. I pull the giant stone planter away from the door to the outside and peek around. No trouble out there right now, just sunshine. City-grade sunshine, but sunshine nonetheless.

  I walk on the overgrown grass. City parks aren’t cared for very well after the zombies move in. Going around the side of my building, I get to the canteen. It’s part of the same building, but you can’t access it from the inside of my ‘house.’ I keep my sweets here. Why?

  Because if I keep the sweets in my house, I’ll get fat. And it feels normal to ‘go to the store.’ It feels like a normal life thing to do. And the imaginary clerk is hot. She leans over all the time to let me see down her top. I imagine her in different outfits all the time, but they’re all really low-cut.

  She has freckles. Mmm… freckles. I take the day’s candy bar, and imagine that she tells me it was no charge, with a seductive wink. I haven’t decided what her eye colour is yet. Blue today? Nah. I imagine inviting my imaginary friend over for some fun later. To hell with it, I like the sound of a human voice, even if it’s my own. And I have a nice voice, if I do say so myself.

  “Mmm, you delicious thing, you,” I purr, “have you ever seen my shower?”

  I should watch what I ask for. A hand came up from the other side of the counter, its grey, dead flesh slapping down on the counter as the zombie pulled himself up. It groaned as they always do, and now I could smell it.

  “You son of a bitch! You ate the imaginary hottie!” Well, no, but I was motivated anyway.

  He struggled over the counter while I skipped back and double checked if we’d attracted others. Not yet. I pulled forward my trusty P90. (Laden with fun stickers, cuz it’s my lead-spitting baby!)

  “Come on, deadhead, I’m not gonna shoot ya while I risk spraying my canteen with your guts.” When he was far enough back, and he’d staggered into position, I ran to the side, towards my ‘home’ door, so that splatter wouldn’t land anywhere I needed to go. The zombies I killed rotted really fast. In a few days, there’s never a trace. I have theories about that.

  One zombie isn’t much of a threat if you’re armed and have some elbow room. Know how I said that shooting them in the head was useless? That’s not really true. They don’t need their heads to live, but they keep their eyes there. If they can’t see you, it’s harder to find you. They seem to still be able to hear. Can’t bite you with no mouth, but they can kill you with their hands. Rippy and painful.

  I took aim and pulled the trigger. Clumph. “Clumph?” That’s the sound of a trigger getting jammed on a sticker. I’d overdone the stickers and didn’t have time to fix it now.

  I’ve gone hand to hand with them before. My knife should be enough. I stowed the P90 and went in to take care of those pesky eyes.

  That was dumb. I had the knife buried in an eye socket, and he grabbed my wrist with both hands. As long as I held the knife with the right leverage, and the blade was in the eye, he couldn’t get his teeth on my arm.

  I yanked to get loose and re-focus my attack, but he held on tight enough that all my effort just sent us to the ground, with him on top.

  See, this is a movie moment. The monster on top of the girl, trying to kill, but the camera misses a lot. The smell, the eyeball innards dripping onto your cheek, the feel of cold loose flesh, stronger than yours, grabbing mindlessly.

  My instinct urged me to stick my free thumb into the other eye socket. That was similarly dumb. I’d been jaded by the gore long ago, but I’d never had my thumb in an eyeball. I was nauseous, and he was unfazed. Blindness didn’t affect him much, since he was on top of me.

  I needed to change that. He was strong, but he wasn’t heavy. I rolled us over, still careful to avoid his teeth. From there, I pushed down on his eye sockets, and pushed myself up to straddling him.

  Wow. I mean, WOW, am I glad I wasn’t going ‘commando.’

  One thing I’ve found out about these guys is that while their muscles are strong, their bones are not. While he grabbed at me, I pulled the P90 back around and mashed at his arms with the butt of it. A few good mashes to the face, too.

  I jumped off of him, and watched this ex-human try to stand with broken arms. To moan with half a head. I felt the thing’s blood dripping on me.

  In the movies, this is the moment when the hero sinks back, stares at the creature with pity and revulsion, sees the damage, sees the vitreous stuck to the knife. The hero looks at her hands and realizes how brutal they’d become, and qu
estions everything.

  In the movies.

  For me? It was Tuesday.

  __________

  This story was originally published on Morgen Bailey’s Writing Blog, August 30, 2013.)

  Terry Schott was a voracious reader right from the start. He says, “When I was in Grade 1 I blew through all the book primers the teacher had. In Grade 3 my teacher Miss Bentley gave me a copy of ‘How to Eat Fried Worms’ just because she knew I liked to read and she wanted to give me a gift for the summer.”

  His father recognized his love for reading as a good trait and said, “Son, I'm not a reader, but it looks like you are. You read them, I'll buy them for you.” Terry read them, and his father was as good as his word.

  A few years ago, he says, he began to find it difficult to read. Each trip to a bookstore brought the feeling that it was time for him to start writing books rather than only reading them; for the longest time, Terry says, “I would ignore it and read a book.”

  The feeling didn’t go away, so finally he gave in and began to write; first an easy little book about customer service entitled The Gold Apples, then a science fiction novel about a computer game, the kids that play it, and the world that watches with rapt attention as they play.

  That book, The Game, turned into a series, and more books keep coming.

  CHARLATAN

  Terry Schott

  “Excuse me,” Jake said. “I’d like a reading, please.”

  A plain white table separated the two men; the standard equipment given by the trade show organizers for displayers to use. Most of the booths were dressed up. Occupants brought their stages with them and did their best to stand out amongst the competition to either side of them. Examples of this included covering the tables with elegant coloured cloths and paraphernalia; pamphlets, crystals, binders with testimonials for the passerby to read, a small stand detailing rates and services for hire. Considerable time and effort was committed for designing a display that would hopefully bring eager clients in for a special ‘spiritual experience.’