Doa Ii

by David C. Hayes

  Their daughter Eliza—just barely two—was between her mother’s legs. Her tiny toes dug into the lawn as she pushed herself forward, crawling back into her mother’s womb, already waist deep when Dan had seen her.

  Dan shook his head and pulled his mind out of the past. There was no time.

  “Oh shit, Dan. They’re…they—”

  Dan crouched down beside Simon who had Felicia McKracken’s body turned over. Dan knew it was Felicia’s body because of the flowery dress she wore, now drenched in dark red. But he was looking into the face of Oscar McKracken, her husband. A butcher knife had been shoved into Felicia’s neck stump, hilt first, but buried deep enough to hold. Oscar’s severed head was pressed down onto the blade, a gap just wide enough between where his head ended and where Felicia’s neck began to see the gleaming metal of the knife. Dan looked at Oscar’s body and saw the long blond hair flowing from the head. He didn’t need to see the face.

  “We…we have to—” Dan jumped to his feet when the screaming started from outside, and he sprinted toward the door without waiting for Simon.

  He stumbled through the door, nearly tripping over the threshold. The night poured over their street and he could feel the evil crackling in the air, could sense that Halloween was in full swing. And the children would have their night.

  All it took was one. He’d seen it before. One child would free another, and then they would free two more, and so on and so on. Dan’s nightmares were still filled with what he did the last time to get through Halloween night. But he wouldn’t put his family at risk. Not this time.

  I have to get to my family.

  As soon as Dan reached the sidewalk, he stopped short when he heard the giggling. It came from his left, high-pitched and whispery. His muscles tightened and he clenched his teeth as he turned to face it. He shot a quick glance toward the house and saw Simon standing in the doorway.

  Sonia skipped toward him down the middle of the street, her eyes shining a hellfire orange. Her jump rope made a wet sound when it skipped off the pavement, and she hummed between giggles as she approached.

  Dan was frozen in place as the little blond girl hopped closer and closer. Staring at her for too long made the backs of his eyes burn and pulse. And, as she grew nearer, he saw that her jump rope was a fresh, slimy tube of intestine, splashing blood over the street as she swung it over her head and skipped along the pavement.

  “Stay back, you little bitch!” Simon rushed across the McKrackens’ lawn toward Sonia, fist raised above his head, but didn’t make it too far before his body was thrown backward following the loud blast.

  Dan flinched at the sudden sound of the gunshot. He ducked and covered his head with his arms.

  Simon’s body slammed against the concrete and blood rushed out of the hole in his belly. His legs writhed and he gurgled and groaned.

  “You w-won’t touch my daughter!” Walter limped forward with his shotgun held at stomach-level. Smoke spiraled from the tip of the barrel.

  Sonia dropped her slimy rope and dove onto Simon’s quivering body, tearing away his shirt like it was a food wrapper. She dug her fingertips into his wound, pulling it open, and plunged her face into the red and yellow fat just below his skin. She slurped it up like buttered grits.

  “Dan! D-Dan…get her off…” Simon’s words grew fainter until his mouth fell open and his eyes stared sightlessly at the pavement. Sonia moaned and chortled as she gorged.

  “You stay away from my Sonia. Don’t you t-touch her,” Walter said through his high-pitched sobs. “My beautiful little Sonia…”

  “Where’s Preston, Walter? What did she do?”

  Walter collapsed to his knees in the middle of the street and bawled. He rocked back and forth, the barrel of the shotgun scraping against the asphalt. Sonia’s eyes lit the night around them. Dan sidestepped away from the wet sounds of Sonia’s feasting, keeping his eyes glued to Walter.

  “I need to get to my wife, Walter. I need to make sure she’s safe.”

  “Preston…he…”

  Sonia screeched and turned to face Walter, fresh gore dripping from her face in globs. She did a handstand as she tittered, shining her hell light over her foster father’s face and washing it in orange. She walked on her hands toward him, slowly, singing as she went.

  “Trick or treat…” Another few steps with her hands, her hair hanging over her blood-stained face. “…smell my feet…” Her voice went deeper, but held the childlike shrillness simultaneously. Walter covered his face and wept.

  “Give me something good to eat!” She cartwheeled back to her feet as a demonic voice exploded from her tiny throat, startling Dan and nearly making him fall backward. She dove for Walter, but he had his shotgun at the ready, and pulled the trigger just in time. Sonia’s body flew backward, her chest blown wide open. As her body flopped around, the orange light dissipated until fading out completely. The smell of burnt gun powder mixed with the pungency of blood and cooked pumpkin flesh.

  “No! Noooo!” Walter pounded his knuckles into the street, cracking the skin and flinging blood as he pummeled the black concrete. “Sonia!”

  Dan felt a deep sadness for the man, but he had no time. Esmeralda could already be in trouble. Corey could have been released, maybe by one of the twins, maybe by Sonia. For all he knew, every damn kid on the block could be free, raising hell and feasting on the flesh of adults.

  Esmeralda could already be dead.

  Walter cracked the gun open, dug into his pockets, shoved a shell in and snapped it shut. As Dan ran by him, Walter already had the barrel in his mouth.

  I’m sorry, Walter.

  When the blast rang out, echoing off the houses and parked cars, Dan flinched but didn’t look back, didn’t slow his pace. No time.

  Screams exploded into the sky from every direction, and Dan whimpered as he pumped his legs faster, passing the orange grinning faces of the jack-o-lanterns lining the street on both sides.

  Please be okay…please be okay.

  He passed Simon’s house and winced when a woman shrieked from inside. His house was only a few strides away; he could already see the Corolla’s rear bumper in the driveway.

  The boys stepped into the street from opposite sides, merging together in the middle. The McKracken twins, covered in blood, locked arms and faced Dan. Their eyes illuminated the lawns and houses around them.

  They juggled something, flinging glistening objects over their heads. One boy tossed them into the air, the other caught them and handed them over, again and again and again.

  Dan squinted against the orange of their eyes, tried to find a way around them, but found himself rooted to the spot. The twins closed the gap between them and him, and the blue moonlight revealed what they were juggling.

  Pieces. Some unrecognizable. There was a hand, crudely severed at the wrist, jagged flesh and skin flapping as it flew through the air. A small breast, already turning blue, followed the hand.

  The nipple is pink, not brown like Esmeralda’s, Dan thought, but it did little to calm his panic.

  After the breast came a foot, then a wad of red and yellow flesh that could have been a chunk of belly. The boys snickered as they marched forward. Their eyes bathed the juggled meat the color of candy corn.

  “Trick or treat,” they said in unison.

  Shit!

  Dan thought about trying to plow through them and make it to his house, but he didn’t know what tricks they held up their sleeves. The children were crafty little devils. He about-faced and ran back to Walter. The man had blown a hole in the middle of his face, from the chin through the top of his balding cranium. Dan tried not to look as he scooped up the shotgun. He cracked it open to find it empty, then dug his hand into Walter’s pocket, grimacing as he felt the man’s motionless, warm thigh through the fabric.

  Just as his fingers wrapped around a fistful of shells, something collided with the side of his head. It hit with a splat, spraying blood and fluid into his face and mouth. He spat and
wiped his face with his shirt sleeve as he pulled his hand from Walter’s pocket. The severed breast jiggled to a stop at his feet, the pink nipple staring up at him like an albino’s eye.

  The twins leap-frogged over each other, getting closer to Dan with every hop. Their voices grew deeper as their childish giggles bloomed into maniacal cackling.

  Dan fumbled with the gun as he loaded it with shells, nearly dropping it a few times as his shaking hands grew greasier by the second with sweat. He snapped the shotgun shut and took aim. He only hesitated for half a second, looking across the barrel at the twins, remembering how Esmerelda would make fresh lemonade for the boys to drink while they worked in the yard.

  Good boys. Nice boys.

  The shot tore through the first boy’s head, splattering the other with his brother’s brains. The scrawny body fell over and his eyes faded out. The other boy came at him on all fours, galloping like a rabid dog, but he was blown backward and splashed over the street. He gurgled his own blood, bubbling and oozing from the corners of his mouth. The orange light flickered. The boy smiled up at Dan as he passed.

  “There’s nowhere to run, Dan.” The voice had lost all traces of child now. A deep, gruff chuckle rattled from the throat. “We’ll use your children to eat you alive. We’ll use them to eat you and fuck Esmerelda.”

  Dan raised his boot and stomped down on the kid’s face. The boy cackled and blood sprayed from his face as Dan’s boot continued to slam his head to concrete. Dan didn’t stop until the orange in the boy’s eyes faded to black.

  A scream. Esmeralda!

  As he ran, Dan reloaded the gun and prayed to God that his next shots wouldn’t be at his own son. Prayed that Corey was still tied up in the cellar, that none of the other children got to him yet. Prayed that his wife was alive and well, barricaded inside of their home, waiting for him to return.

  Orange light lit the neighborhood. The air swam with the laughter of children and the screams of parents. It came from all directions now, but Dan kept his focus on getting to his home, to his family.

  He ran past the Corolla and stopped at his door. It stood open, swipes of blood dribbling down the wood and pooling on the patio below.

  He rushed into the house and slammed the door, securing the deadbolt and chain.

  “Esmeralda!”

  No answer. Dan ran to the cellar door. His heart plummeted to his groin when he saw it standing open.

  Oh God no.

  “Esmeralda! Where are you!”

  “I’m…h-here…”

  The shaky, faint voice of his wife came from the cellar. She was down there. She was alive. Dan stepped over the threshold, slammed the door shut and locked it, then took the steps three and four at a time, nearly tumbling down. The cellar was engulfed in orange light.

  Corey sat in his chair, the ropes still secure. As Dan approached, Corey’s head spun and his eyes shone, making Dan squint and grimace. But the boy was tied up. Everything will be okay, Dan thought. I made it in time.

  “Dan? I-I’m s-so sorry…” Esmerelda sat in the corner, her face beaded with sweat, hair pasted to her forehead.

  “It’s okay, baby. We made it. Our family is safe. The others, the neighbors, they—”

  “No. Stop t-talking and listen. I…I…”

  Dan took slow and careful steps around Corey and approached his wife. She flinched at every one of his steps, whimpered and shook her head. Her legs were spread into a wide V…and an orange light glowed from beneath her dress.

  “I will eat your fucking heart and rape your soul!” Corey roared with a voice that wasn’t his.

  “Esmeralda? What—”

  “I’m so sorry, D-Dan.” She raised her head, her eyes bright red and swimming in tears. “I’m pregnant…”

  The rubbery body burst free, sliding across the stone floor. The thing was tiny, no more than five months developed. The eyes shone just as bright as the other children, and a tiny smile spread across the glistening face. Esmeralda moaned and kicked her feet as she scraped her nails across her belly and thighs. The baby crawled toward Dan, but was stopped by the umbilical cord still attached to its mother. It crawled in place, stretching out the cord, reached out its tiny hand toward Dan as it giggled.

  “Trick or treat, smell my feet…” Corey sang, his prepubescent voice squeaking through the demonic growl.

  Dan took blind steps backward, shook his head, covered his ears to block out Esmerelda’s screams and the baby’s tittering. The back of his knees hit something, he lost his balance… and landed in Corey’s lap.

  The boy’s eyes burned out Dan’s vision, engulfing his brain with intense heat. All he could see was orange. All he could smell or taste was pumpkin flesh.

  “Give me something good to eat.”

  The teeth tore into his neck. His mouth filled with blood as he choked and gurgled a shriek. Something wet hit his leg, clawed at his pants as it climbed.

  Esmerelda screamed in rhythmic bursts.

  The teeth bit into his throat, pulled, ripped. Another mouth, toothless and wet, lapped up the blood.

  It was Halloween. And the children would have their night.

  LINGER

  Daniel I Russell

  TELL ME WHY…

  I don’t like Mondays. Mondays mean work. Work means here.

  Work means rotting in this cubicle wearing a headset that hurts my skin, listening to customers telling me to fuck off.

  What’s my job?

  I sell, well try to sell, mobile phone plans. For eight hours. Most goddamn days.

  My father always wanted me to be a doctor, pretty damn ambitious considering he worked at a shoe factory all his life. Yet this memory comes to me often, sitting on his knee at around five or six years old, being told how I would do great things, not end up like him. I could have it all, the world if I wanted it. The money, the car, and everyone loves a doctor.

  My father’s been dead for three years. I wonder if he’d be proud of me?

  Maybe if I was a doctor I could have saved him. On the bright side, at least Mum was able to call and tell me the sad news at a very competitive tariff.

  My father always smelled of Bryl cream and mints, although he never had any, but then again I’ve always had a very sensitive nose. Memories and feelings come to me that way: freshly polished floors make me think of school, and vanilla-scented candles remind me of the night I lost my virginity when I was eighteen. The girl in question now runs her own successful business.

  Bitch.

  Dad spent the last six months of his life in the loony bin. Acute schizophrenia. Didn’t even know who I was when I went to visit.

  In the booth next to me, Dave pulls off his head set and glances away from his computer to meet my eyes.

  “You okay, bud?” he asks. Dave’s not a bad sort. Several years younger than me, he’s doing the young man thing. Asked me to come along with him a few times. Be his wingman. I have no idea what that means.

  “I’m fine.” I place my phone next to my Telstra pen. My desk is immaculate, which is surely a desirable quality in a doctor? A surgeon, definitely. All my instruments are laid out in order: my pens, notebook, and scissors. I actually really like the scissors. Shiny silver blades and black plastic handle. I use them to trim the jagged edges from my sales reports, nice and neat. Surgeons use scissors.

  Dave stood with his empty mug and gestured to my own. Taken aback by this rare occasion, I hand it over.

  “Cheers, mate. Two sugars for me.”

  “Forget about her, Harry. Seriously, man.” He taps his temple with his mug. “Women. They will fuck you up in the worst way if you let them.”

  I smile. “Thank you for that advice, Dave. You’re like a sage.”

  My workmate chuckles and heads to the tiny kitchen area in the corner. Hope he remembers to use Hi-Lo in mine. I guess he’s going straight on the prowl tonight; I can smell expensive aftershave radiate off him in waves. Me and my nose!

  My other colleagues are either spea
king to prospective customers or paying no attention to me, so I check my phone again. Nothing. No missed calls or text messages. Dave’s right, this is starting to mess with my head a little bit. I’m not used to this kind of thing.

  I should speak to her, you know, clear the air and find out conclusively what’s going on. She’ll be in her office now, a little way down the corridor. If I stood near the door I could probably smell her. In fact…I think I can. A subtle hint of her perfume lingering in the office.

  Instead, I open my inbox and reread her latest message. I received it last night.

  I don’t think this working out. Think we shud just be m8s.x

  I study it again, looking for some hidden meaning I must have overlooked, because things were quite clearly working out. Last week’s meal was a delight, and the kiss we’d shared long overdue. What possibly couldn’t be working?

  Besides, surely an official dumping text message would use correct grammar and spelling?

  I’M ONLY HAPPY…

  When it rains, the office smells differently. It must be something to do with the windows. They get cold and steamy. I would’ve thought that all that condensation would stink, I mean, that’s come out of people. That’s people’s breath right there on the window. Yet it smells fresher in here, just like outside.

  Susan’s breath was fresh though, even after that curry.

  I pound my fist on the desk. A few people look over. Fuck them. It’s Tuesday. We all have a right to be pissed off over something.

  Susan. Why must it always come back to Susan? I texted her last night. When did this become the primary way of communicating between two soul mates? Anyway, she has concerns that our relationship, thank Christ she used that word, would affect our careers.