Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  Maybe I’ll be an angel, she thinks, right next to God and Jesus Christ.

  What is perhaps the last and final tear she ever sheds trails down her face.

  Beside her, the heart monitor begins to flicker.

  It is time, she thinks.

  She is unable to watch the monitor for fear that she it will predict her exact moment of death before she ever actually feels it.

  Mary, she thinks.

  Harriet closes her eyes.

  Her heart begins to slow.

  One, two, three…

  The last breath is drawn, the last thought is sung, and the last words are spoken beneath her breath.

  The ultimatum of her existence has drawn full circle. She is the radius of life’s compass, the circumference of her past, the angle of her lifeless future, and in that moment she briefly entertains the idea that she may possibly survive as the light at the end of the tunnel begins to grow ever so near, as the vast darkness begins to turn to white and her heart begins to beat as fast as it has ever beaten before. It is her body, she knows, telling her that it is the end, that these are her final moments on this great world called Earth, and though she feels as though she can do nothing but allow Fate to take Its course, she knows that it is her time to die.

  The light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter.

  A figure—illuminated, with two great wings and a halo above its head—appears before her and spreads its arms.

  Come to me, it says.

  The heart monitor draws to a close.

  The line goes flat.

  Welcome to Heaven, she thinks.

  There is nothing.

  M

  To think that this small town had a mannequin population was astounding.

  Bronxville, Idaho—located ten miles away from the nearest big city in the southeastern part of the state, it is an equinox of a town that is not known for its discipline nor its diversity. In truth, it holds much more ignorance than one can ever truly amount to. By the year 2012, its population count has risen to around the four-thousand mark and is home to little more than a quarter percentage of ethnic diversity, that of which mainly exists within its Hispanic and slowly-growing black population, so to see a mannequin here is almost as bizarre as a cat barking like a dog. It was thought that, up until the Uprising, no such creature existed within this small town, as there seemed to be little-to-no preexisting population of them whatsoever. For that, it seems, seeing a mannequin walking the deserted streets of this near-ghost town is almost an oddity—a sight that, while somewhat-foreign, seems to make all the more sense considering the political climate surrounding such creatures and their newfound sentience, especially in those towns where the M-Population is growing and driving local real estate agents into the ground.

  In the crass orange-white light shining down from the lampposts that line the sides of the road, the creature makes its way up the major primary street throughout the small town swaying to and fro. It would have appeared that it was unable to retain its balance, as it continued to stumble every few steps, but its physiological structure was near-perfect and had not in the least bit been altered from its human form. Such a thing was common in small towns—for when cornered and exposed to open bigotry, they were often torn apart—but to this creature walking up the road, it seemed that nothing in the world was against it and it had no reason to be afraid, much less stumbling for no apparent reason at all.

  As it advances forward, occasionally tilting its head up to observe the purplish sky above it, its sex is revealed as female from the obvious swell within its chest. Its color—hot-pink, most likely originating from a high-end clothing store—reflects the light off its near-porcelain-smooth body and onto the windows in the shops lining the side of the road, creating a collage of light that seems to be all the more unsettling in the darkened road upon which no cars seem to travel. Its presence, of course, seems not to matter, as at this ungodly hour of the morning no one is awake, but what it travels toward cannot be determined, especially because it seems to bear no destination.

  In this M’s mind, of which is coagulated with slowly-accumulating thoughts of the world around her, there is a storm brewing—a conscience, they say, created by genetic memory that has existed for near a month now.

  Raising its head, the creature turns to regard her reflection in the mirror, then raises her hand to study her reflection.

  Me, she thinks.

  It is not uncommon for young Ms to find themselves in peculiar situations when wandering away from areas where they are unable to absorb the memories of their companions, so to see this creature studying its reflection is not an odd sight. It would, however, have been peculiar to anyone looking upon her, which is the exact and foremost reason why the men who are happening to watch her take note of the fact that she is young, open and vulnerable.

  From behind the bushes that line the side of the road, beneath which they are perfectly hidden, the group of three men watch as the creature continues to examine herself in the mirror. She starts forward, steps around the cars lining the business side of the road to avoid triggering the alarms, then presses herself up against the window, as if embracing her form, before she rears herself back to examine her featureless face.

  Given her lack of physical sight, it would have been miraculous had she been able to see the men advancing from the side of the road with their bats and crowbars in hand.

  “Get her!” one of them yells.

  Stunned, likely, from a noise she has never heard or comprehended before, the young M turns to regard the scenery before her. Her sight—which, in this orange-white lighting, is almost completely nonexistent—does not allow her to see the figures until they are past the parked cars and directly behind her.

  The first man shoves the M into the wall and knees her in the crotch.

  Immune to such sensation as pain, she merely flails as another strikes her in the head with his bat.

  Materialistic and made of fiberglass, the first strike creates an impression within her head that would have been akin to a bruise were she human and covered with skin and muscle and nerves.

  The second blow to her face caves in her nose.

  Frightened, now, for the fact that she is being violently accosted by three armed men, the M rears her head back and silently screams, desperate to find help of which does not exist within the area, before her legs flail out and strikes one of the men in the groin. He doubles over, groaning, before the third man who has yet to have entered the fray steps forward and strikes her face where her mouth would have been with his bar.

  The bottom half of her face cracks open.

  The M thrusts her head back into the glass.

  An impression is made on the store’s front window.

  The man holding her in place, likely fearing a security alarm, lifts her body into the air and casts her back into the street.

  She bounces, rolls, and comes to rest in the middle of the road—where, beneath the glowing lampposts, she appears to have lost her entire ability to function.

  “We got her,” one of the men say.

  A short moment later, the M raises her head.

  The three men rush into the street.

  They begin their assault by first bashing her legs apart to the best of her ability, which instantly explode under the pressure of the bats and crowbars and cascades through the air like bloody rain from a man who’s just been struck in the face, then by targeting at her arms—where, though feebly attempting to help her crawl away, are shattered near instantly.

  No more than a torso lying in the middle of the road, the M can now see the three men crouching around her, white apparitions against a near-blinding background.

  “Get her,” one of them said.

  The man wielding the one and only bat steps forward, over her body, then rears it over his head like a hammer.

  The strike caves the M’s head in.

  Without what could be considered her central nervous system, the M is unable t
o function, so in the half-reality she is currently trapped between, she is able to watch each and every attempt at her life as the men continued to break her apart. Her body explodes, shining through the air, and her torso whips back as if she were naturally gifted with a spine, almost as though she were a fish flailing out of water. The men around her—whom, up until this moment, have remained somewhat-quiet—begin to jeer, laugh and cavort, which, to her now near-shattered ears, sounds much like screeching brakes from a vehicle that has been forced to stop on a dime.

  “We’ve almost got her,” one of the men says.

  “Yeah,” another replies. “She’s gone for.”

  The mannequin thrusts her head forward one last time.

  Her forward momentum meets the bat head-on.

  The entirety of her cranium explodes upon impact.

  She is dead, they know, when she ceases to function. There is no twitch within her torso, no awkward movements within her neck, no desperate rise and fall of her chest as is she is breathing. She is, at this point in time, nothing more than broken fiberglass—a victim, they will eventually call, of a hate crime against inorganic individuals.

  In the aftermath of the assault, the men thrust their weapons over their shoulders and began to make their way up the road.

  They have done it.

  They have killed the M.

  The Charity Vampire

  No one is immune to its power. Not even I, something people believe to be invincible—a sort of mortal god that walks among us all.

  The power I speak of is one of the worst catastrophes ever to hit the human race, a power that cannot currently be conquered.

  Before I tell you more about this power, you will probably want to know whom—and what—I am. It is not an uncommon question, and though it is one I’m not willing to answer, I believe the time is right.

  To put it simply, I have been called many things throughout my life, but in our twenty-first century—a time when iron and metal rule the modern world—I have come to be known as Markus, or, better yet, Mark. I chose the name simply because it is common, but also because it cannot by easily remembered. If you met me on the street, you would be hard-pressed to remember it should a friend ask, and should our conversation have only been brief.

  What I am though, that is another story, one that would take a long while to tell. But instead of wasting our time with a long, drawn-out tale of how I was born, how I grew up, and how the happenings of my life shaped me into the being I am today, I will do my best to tell you the most condensed version I can.

  I was born in seventeen-century France on a small farm, where I lived with my widowed father and two older brothers. I breathed, ate and slept that life until I turned seventeen, when I left the countryside for the grand city of Paris.

  There, some would say, my tale turned tragic, while others would say I’d been blessed with the ultimate gift, one that would ultimately allow me to transcend the ages and tell you the story I now speak of.

  The moment I arrived in the city, I found a whole other world just waiting for me. Fine drinks, food, women—all existed on one place. And unlike the country, which smelled of burning animal skin and dung, the city held scents much more pleasant to the senses. The smell of bread wafting out of the bakeries, of alcohol from the bars, the fine, rich scent of a woman’s perfume. As far as I’d been concerned, I’d stepped into a piece of heaven.

  But, like all good things, it came to an end.

  One night, when walking home from the bar, I stumbled down an alley that had no end. Much to my grief, I growled, turned, and prepared to walk back out into the empty street, but stopped when a figure approached.

  “Excuse me,” I said, hoping to slide past without much trouble.

  I’d heard rumors of people stalking others in the night, cornering them in alleys and killing them with ease. But until that moment, I had never considered that it could happen to me. So while I prayed the stranger would leave me alone, I pressed myself against the wall and hoped that I would be able to leave without trouble.

  That didn’t happen.

  Instead of moving aside, the stranger stepped in front of me, barring access from the road. Then, when I tried to leave again—this time going right instead of left—he spread his arms to keep me from advancing.

  “What do you want?” I asked, reaching for my pocket.

  I had never been one to carry a gun, but I usually had a knife or something similar with me. If only I had just done what my father had asked and took his extra pistol to the city with me.

  “I want you,” the stranger breathed.

  The large male advanced until my back struck the brick that separated the dead-end from whatever lay behind it. He leaned forward, breathed in my scent, and pressed a hand to my back.

  At that particular moment, I had never considered myself an object of male attraction. But then, as he pressed his hand lower, sliding a thumb under the curve of my belt, I realized what my father had said—how I would make any woman fall to their knees with need, begging me to take them in the most violent and cruel ways I could. I imagined the way my eyebrows tipped the curves of muscle almost perfectly, the sharpness of my jaw, and how—on an ordinary, bright day—the stranger would have seen the hazel that made up my eyes.

  With nothing to do and nowhere else to go, I gave in to the stranger’s molestations, hoping he would not decide to do anything more than touch me. He seemed gentle enough—what with the way his hand slid into my pants and cupped the curve of my thigh—but something about the way he kept leaning forward and pressing his lips to my neck made my skin crawl.

  Had you asked me then if I had liked what the stranger did to me in the alley, I would have adamantly refused. But after almost two-hundred long years, I have come to learn that a man’s affection can be just as great as a woman’s, if not stronger.

  “Wha-What are you doing?” I gasped, grimacing when he pushed his body against mine. “I don’t want this.”

  “You do,” the stranger said, kissing my exposed collarbone, dragging his lips along the edge of my neck.

  “Please, sir. If you can just let me out of the alley, maybe we could arrange something. We don’t need to do this out in the cold. We…”

  Then, before I could finish, the most amazing sensation filled my entire being. He placed his lips to my neck and began to suck the flesh just inches above where blood flowed in my veins. Every part of me started sweating. My chest ached, my mind soared, my groin hardened, pressing hard against the fabric of my trousers. And for one brief moment, I felt more disgusted than I ever had in my life. How could I have been aroused by a man, and how could I have enjoyed the way he touched me, or the things he did to me?

  “Sir,” I gasped, trying to push him away. “Please, it…”

  I cried out as his fervor increased. Instead of simply suckling the flesh, he started gnawing at it, dragging the tips of his teeth along the length of the skin before pressing his lips against the scraped skin. The pleasure that coursed down my spine arched my back, pushing my body against his. He slid his hand out of my pants and brought both to my thighs, where he lifted me against the wall and pressed himself to me. His lips met mine in a sloppy but rough struggle as his tongue darted across my face before sliding into my mouth. He thrust against me, despite the fact we were both clothed, and ran his tongue along my face and down my neck.

  Just as I thought the pleasure would never end, he bit into my neck, forever sealing the bond between us.

  As I screamed in pain and pleasure, he tightened his hold on my thighs and pushed me against the wall, nearly squishing me between him and the brick. In my pleasure and pain-induced daze, I did my best to get him off of me—even scratching his back as hard as I could at times—but it was no use. Eventually, I became so weak that I stopped fighting and leaned against him, content in the fact that he had stopped feeding so violently.

  At the end of it all, he pulled me into his arms, carried me out of the alley, and to a nearby h
otel, where he paid for a room and abandoned me for the night.

  The following morning, just as I woke to the sun’s foreboding light, I realized what had happened.

  I realized what I’d just become.

  For the next hundred years or so, I walked the streets of the city as best as I could, eluding the eyes of both the common public and the things I knew sat higher above them. During this time, I did the best I could to learn about myself—both my character and the thing I had become. Between hunting, sleeping in the dark crevices of the city’s royal catacombs, and ultimately surviving day-to-day, I scoured the pages of books, searching for any and everything I could find about my kind. The Bible—though written in God’s word—did little, for every time I touched it my hands would burn and my skin would chafe, forcing me to drop the vile thing after only a short brief moment. The realization that I had fallen away from God—whom I had so devoted my life to before—sent me into a depression so deep that I walked into the sun several times, only to find I was too much a coward to actually end my meaningless existence.

  It would not be until almost a hundred years later—when I fled to America and the nineteen hundreds were just about to close and make way for the new millennia—that something so terrible and tragic would strike not only me, but the world.

  During the nineteen-eighties—just after pop had gone big and John Lennon had been shot—a strange illness reared its ugly head. This illness would eventually be known as the power, the one thing that I, nor anyone else, could conquer. This disease—this power—could dwell inside a human body for months, even years, before it decided to attack.