The Rose Garden

THE ROSE GARDEN

by

Hatherley Roseanne

Dorothy Copper's neighbours were captured by envy as they stood in her garden. A peek around the high stone walls drew a person inside the towering iron gates to wander the floral paradise. In the early mornings, the petals glistened under silver dew and by midday, each flower stood proudly, face lifted to the sun. Gentle mauve sweet-peas, tumbling flocks of forget-me-nots, and sunny cosmos stood lining thick copses of trees that hid the high stone wall. They stood motionless protected from the breeze as though on guard for Dorothy's proudest possession : the rose garden.

White roses lined the shady driveway and a flurry of red petals ran alongside the narrow stream that meandered through the garden. Pink and honey coloured roses paraded in straight rows the length of the garden. The house, an expansive brick Tudor draped in ivy, nestled into the garden as though itself had risen from the earth.

Elizabeth Chandler strolled Dorothy's driveway, bending to inhale a sunlit yellow rose and as she did, she turned her head towards the house resting at the far end of the driveway. The sprinkler ticked from the back garden and bees hummed from each direction. She and Dorothy had been friends for fifteen years and each Monday morning, such as this, they met at Dorothy's house for coffee and chitchat to discuss the week's gossip. The custom had been interrupted for the past two weeks and last night on the phone, Dorothy cancelled their get-together again. Elizabeth noticed the strain in Dorothy's voice and she made a note to drop by Dorothy's house the next morning for a chat over warm apple pie.

"Yoo-hoo, Dorothy," she called out as she walked onto the back patio, "Dorothy, it's me; Elizabeth." The back garden mirrored the front; stately eucalyptus trees sat beyond the rose garden hiding the high stone wall. A heady floral fragrance mixed with the thick aroma of mint and rosemary lingered in the air.

Elizabeth walked through the back door, half open, and placed the apple pie on the counter. "Dorothy," she called out. Light played across the kitchen floor as she walked into the living room. A steady silence coiled around her and she walked through the living room and into the airy front foyer peering up the steep wooden stairs. Shadows danced at its top. She started up the stairs hesitating and clutching the railing. "Hello Dorothy. It's me, Elizabeth. I'm coming upstairs."

She halted at the top; the dark hallway drew ahead into a sunlit study. She stopped and started along the hall as though she were a condemned prisoner taking her last steps. She reached the hallway's end and scuttled into the sunlit room. Dorothy lay sprawled on an oversized pink armchair; half her body tumbled onto the plush green carpet caught in a timeless fall. One hand hung onto the faded seat-cover as though poised to crawl back into the chair. Her eyes, wide open, sparkled a deep blue in the sun; her skin was a lily white under the crimson blood trickling down her face onto the carpet. "Oh my god," Elizabeth whispered.

Elizabeth hurried to the teak desk and picked up the phone. She gazed at Dorothy and quietly placed the phone back in its cradle. This must have just happened. She took her hand off the phone. Oh my god, the killer is still around. She swung around glaring towards the walk-in closet doors. Is he here? I can't let him know I'm onto him. Poor Dorothy, why would anyone want to hurt her? This has something to do with her upset tone last night.

Elizabeth edged to the door and turned her back on Dorothy. She darted along the darkened corridor and down the stairs to the living room. She paused gazing through the window. A blue jay sat on the rock garden twitching his head back and forth at her.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and paced towards the fire place and back to the window. Crazy people everywhere, raping and killing women like me and Dorothy. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes and nose again. The killer is somewhere on the property. I have to act like I didn't see her and run home and call the police.

Elizabeth hurried into the kitchen; dappled light reflected a kaleidoscope across the counter. She stepped onto the patio. A lawnmower buzzed in the distance and the eucalyptus leaves danced on the breeze. The flower garden stretched into the deep shadowy grove. She walked down the stone steps and onto the narrow path between the roses towards the grove. "Dorothy, where are you?" she called out.

She stopped abruptly and bent to pick up a thick banded silver watch protruding from a cluster of yellow roses. As she did, a flock of sparrows rushed through the eucalyptus grove into the sky. She stared at the birds clouding the tree tops and her heart fluttered erratically. An ice-cold sliver ran down her spine and she threw up; her vomit sprayed the roses at her feet and the smell of eggs and stomach fluid mushroomed from their sunny upturned faces.

Oh my God. He's back there and watching me. He knows I know. She staggered towards the house and pinched her arm's fleshy underside. Pull yourself together or else it's over. From the patio, the garden swayed in the wind like an ocean swell before a storm; she held onto the railing to steady herself.

"Ok, Dorothy, if you're upstairs, I left a note for you on the counter," she called out.

She slid around the corner towards the front. She ran across the patio and took the stone stairs two by two down to the driveway; the large iron gates stood open against the stone walls at the driveway's far end. Behind her, the thicket of trees rustled and the buzz of the garden rose in a nauseating cacophony. She darted to her right into the rose garden and fell to her knees with a soft thud landing between two rows of pink and honey rose bushes that spanned the width of the garden. She crouched down; the roses towered over her. She looked at the stone wall that surrounded Dorothy's garden; wiry brown vines snaked over the walls holding the property hostage.

I'll hide here. I can't make it all the way down the driveway if he's right behind me. The only way I will make it out is keeping close to the ground. An ant ran over Elizabeth's hand and she watched it scurry into the rose bushes. She looked through to the next path dividing this row from the next. A dozen rows stood before Elizabeth and the gate. She crawled alongside the roses seeking an opening to push through the bushes but they were planted with care and allowed no gap. Elizabeth huddled into the wet ground, closed her eyes, and pushed through the thick bushes. She grappled with them; thorns fought back breaking the skin on her palm. She pushed ahead, pleading under her breathe and as she did, a low thorn grabbed her cheek, pulling her skin back to expose raw candy-striped flesh.

She writhed through the bushes, breaking through and falling onto the next path. She lay low to the ground; the flowers leaned over sheltering her. Her cheek pressed into the moist earth, her heart fluttered, and her breath caught in chokes. Keep going Elizabeth before he finds me and kills me.

She pushed herself onto her elbows and scuttled down the row as though on an obstacle course. Halfway down, she saw a narrow gap in the flowers and crawled into them towards the next row. Thorns attacked her from both sides, pulling her hair, catching her skin. She heard her pants rip and the bushes gripped her bare knee. Elizabeth lay motionless. The rose's overwhelming fragrance surrounded her and the sun pressed onto her back. She took a deep breathe and pushed her weight forward. She bit her tongue to silence a scream and tasted warm salty blood in her mouth. I can't move, I can't move. Ok - just do this before he finds you. She forced herself forward; the roses tall and proud fell over her burying needled thorns into her body and tearing back against her struggle. An angry spike tore at her face and her left eye blurred, crimson blood blinding her.

Elizabeth shuffled forward again and fell into the next row. She took a deep breath and wriggled forward like a solider snaking along a trench diving into the next wall of roses; her eyes closed against the agonizing stabs. A thorn broke into her upper thigh pulling back her skirt and exposing her skin to release a thick stream of blood; it mixed with the pungent sweetness of the roses in an acidic odour. The moist black earth filled her senses, comforting her. Elizabeth heaved her body onto the narrow pathway in a final push and she peered upwards one last time towards the gates, passing out from blood loss.

The next morning, Dorothy's sister Ellen arrived. Walking up the driveway, she watched a murder of crows flutter upwards in a disturbed dissonance towards the grey sky landing on the stone wall to watch over their feast - a bloody body stretched out from the rose garden. Minutes later, Ellen found her lifeless sister in the study. Detective Cutler arrived on the scene within the hour. The following morning, he read the autopsy reports with bewilderment; Dorothy's death followed a massive stroke leading to head injuries; Elizabeth Chandler death was proclaimed suicide.

Home Is Where the Knife Is

Home Is Where the Knife Is

By Joshua Weston

Morgan sat still with his hands in his lap, hunched over, staring at his wife Mindy. Mindy looked at him gently, her beautifully plump lips curling upward at the ends. They both glanced at the full plate of food in front of Morgan, then back to each other. The silence was as thick as the tension. Morgan lifted his hands above the table, fiddled with his fork for a few seconds, and jabbed at the casserole with extreme reluctance.

Half of Mindy’s smile dropped, creating a confused look seldom seen on the brilliant woman. “Are you not enjoying your meal, honey?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan stammered. “I just don’t seem to be very hungry.”

“You’ve got to be hungry. Eat something.”

Morgan looked up into the eyes of his seemingly loving wife. She’d been there through his divorce as his best friend, stood by him through his bout with attempted suicide, and confessed love for him just when he thought he had nothing to lose. She was his everything, and now he could hardly look at her.

She noticed a bit of uncertainty in his gaze, and cheerfully said, “Is there something wrong, hon?”

YES! YES THERE IS! “No, of course not, honey. Everything’s fine. I’ve just got a headache. I had a hell of a time at the office today.” The office was always a good excuse as to why he looked like he felt bad. He loved being there, and enjoyed his job as a consultant, but she didn’t know that. As far as she was concerned, that place was Hell.

“You really need to look into another place to work,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure Michaels and Punter would hire you. You’re always talking about how well you get along during your meetings.”

SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP YOU ADULTEROUS BITCH! “Yes, yes I suppose so. But there’s just something- I don’t know, the place I’m at just feels right. Just having a bad day, is all.” His right hand continued to gently flip his food around while his left hand slid down his side and rested on his pants, tapping the pocket where the tape was. He knew. Tonight was the night.

“Well Morgan, you go ahead and eat, I’m going to go take a shower.” And with that, she rose from the table and stepped behind him, rubbing his shoulders, and gradually moved to his side, and moved her hands down to his crotch. “Or if you’d like, you can come with me,” she whispered breathily into his ear. And she was gone.

Hastily he jumped up and flipped the plate into the trash can and placed it into the sink. He crossed the room to the drawer and pulled out a kitchen knife. Exiting the kitchen, he was greeted by two shotgun blasts to the chest, knocking him to the floor, followed by a light rain of his own blood. He looked up to see the face of his murderer, a face he’d never seen before. They must’ve known I had the tape, he reasoned to himself. His chest heaved, spitting up small amounts of blood with every pump of his heart. The man stepped over Morgan’s dying body and began to raise the shotgun up to his face. Morgan swung the knife up and sliced through the man’s fingers all the way to the handle, dropping the gun into Morgan’s other hand. He then emptied a shell into his screaming assailant’s forehead.

Morgan attempted to pull himself up on a counter, but he couldn’t get the strength. How much time do I have left? Luckily, Mindy came into the room at that exact moment.

“Is it over? Oh my-“

The shotgun silenced the treacherous bitch, and Morgan lay down to die.

Verbosity is Bought Cheaply

Verbosity is Bought Cheaply

By Amanda Lawrence Auverigne

Andrea walked into the apartment.  She tossed her bag on the floor as

she closed the door behind her.

She looked up to see that living room in front of her was dark.

She moved forward and slapped her hand against the light switch on the

wall.

She blinked against the sudden brightness that filled the room.  She

looked at the floor and she saw her blood covered roommate on the

floor in front of her.

The girl's throat had been cut.

Blood gushed from the gaping wound and splashed against the white rug.

Andrea watched her roommate's body twitch just before she was still.

"Oh my God."  Andrea whispered.

Andrea looked at her roommate in a panic before she turned around and

moved to the door.

She stopped when she saw the blood covered figure of a short blonde

haired boy in front of her.

The boy looked at Andrea with vacant blue eyes as he stood in front

of the door.

"Kevin."  Andrea said.

Kevin sighed. He blinked as he stared into Andrea's face.

Andrea took a step forward and she ceased when a loud click echoed in

the room.  She looked down and she saw a small silver gun in Kevin's

hand.

Andrea took a step away from the young man.

"Kevin. What are you doing?"  Andrea asked.

"You saw her.  Which means I have to kill you too."  Kevin whispered.

Andrea raised her hands.  She looked at the gun as she walked

backwards.

"No you don't.  I won't tell."  Andrea said.

Kevin followed Andrea.  He shook his head and smiled.

"I can't risk you telling anyone. I know you Andrea.  For years.  You

are a very outspoken young woman.  And sadly for you.  Addicted to the

truth.  As you know it."  Kevin said.

Andrea blinked as her eyes filled with tears.

She looked at Kevin's face as the boy aimed the gun at her heart.

"I have you to thank for all of this really.  If it wasn't for you I

would have never known that she was cheating on me." Kevin said.

Andrea reached into her back pocket and she closed her fingers around

a hard object.

Kevin looked at the bloody girl on the floor as he moved towards

Andrea.

"I won't tell.  I won't. Just let me walk out of here.  You'll never

hear from me again."  Andrea said.

Kevin turned to Andrea.

"I can't do that.  I just can't." Kevin said.

"Please. Please don't kill me."  Andrea begged.

Kevin shook his head.

"You never should have told me." Kevin said.

Andrea pulled the small knife from her pocket and she ran forward.

She let out a yell as she jammed the blade of the knife into the

flesh just beneath Kevin's lower jar.

She grabbed at Kevin's hand that clutched at the gun.

She held the young man's limb tightly with her left hand as she

rammed the knife deep into Kevin's neck with her right limb.

Andrea stabbed at his flesh dozens of times.  She blinked as a geyser

of blood spurted from his neck and bathed her face and chest.

Andrea raked the blade across the front of Kevin's throat.  She

released her hold on his hand and she fell to the floor.

Kevin grabbed at his neck with a whimper.  He stumbled around the

room as blood gushed from his throat.

Andrea crawled on the floor and she pulled her roommates body atop

hers as the sound of loud pops echoed in the room.

Andrea lay beneath the bloody girl's stiffened form as the sound of a

loud thud filled the space.

She pushed her roommate off of her.   She sat up and looked across

the room.  She saw Kevin shaking on the floor near her.

Kevin clutched at his lacerated neck with one hand and he held the

gun in the other. He looked at the ceiling as his body twitched.

He turned and stared at Andrea.

He raised the gun in his shaking hand.

Andrea lifted her roommate's body in front of her just as a loud pop

filled the space.

She cried out as a sudden burst of heat passed over her face.  She

fell onto her side as a searing pain engulfed her brow.

She heard a low thump and she wiped at her face before she looked at

Kevin.  She blinked as she watched the young man shudder before he was

still.

Andrea looked at her roommate. And she wept when she saw the large

hole in the center of the girl's forehead.

Andrea raised a hand to her brow as a jet of pain exploded against

her skin.  She winced as her fingers touched a sharp object.  She

closed two fingers around the thing and she pulled.

Sudden pain filled her head and Andrea blinked as a flood of blood

poured into her right eye.

Andrea wiped at her left eye.  She raised her hand to her face and

she stared into her bloody palm with her left eye.

She blinked in disbelief as she stared at the bloody piece of bone

she clutched in her hand.

The Disease

The Disease (an excerpt)

By

Nathan Tyree

Mother Fucking damn it shit fuck fuck fucking cocksucker! Eric looked hard at the face in the mirror. This was not right. He had thought that he had more time than this. The face that he was forced to assume was his had drained of color and gone a sick shade of gray. His skin was rough, reptile-like and patches were starting to peel and break loose. That wasted face wasn’t the half of it. He ached everywhere. His bones felt like some sick bastard was pounding a hammer against them. Every muscle in his body burned with anaerobic rage. His tendons felt stretched tight and dried out like decades old beef jerky. His head was pounding. The fever, at least, had finally abated; but now he was covered in a viscous cold sweat that was so thick it felt like mucous. Motherfucker, he thought.

He had known that this was coming. Eric had expected it. Hell, he had watched it happen to others. But, he had truly believed that he would have at least another day before it got this bad. The one thing that simply boggled his burning mind was that, as sick as he felt, he wanted to fuck. His cock had turned to a steel rod in his pants. Despite the fact that he jerked off twice that morning, the erection would not subside. He was so horny that he couldn’t stand it. Eric did not miss the irony of turning into a fucking horny toad at the same time that his face started wrecking itself to the extent that no sane woman would even consider letting him penetrate her. Hell, even a hooker was out of the question.

Eric ran cold water in the sink and splashed some over his face. He expected it to feel good, but instead it burned. The moisture felt like acid on his skin. He quickly grabbed a towel and wiped the wetness away. Several thick patches of gooey flesh went with it.

He made the decision to bite the bullet and go to the emergency room. He understood that they couldn’t help him, but at least he could get some morphine or Demerol or something.

Pulling on his shoes was an act of attrition. A big chunk of his heel ripped free with a wet tearing sound and he groaned. Is that what I sound like? He thought. His voice had taken on the gravel timbre of an emphysema patient. It sounded to him like there was some thick clot of black snot lodged in his throat filtering his voice into a whiskey and cigarette ravaged growl.

Once he was dressed, Eric headed out of his apartment and down the stairs. On the street he tried to keep his head down. He badly wanted to avoid catching anyone’s eye, or attracting any undue attention. It didn’t work. After only a few steps a young man noticed his leper visage and, eyes wide, gasped.

Screw this, he thought. Eric crossed the street and headed into the park. There would be fewer people there and besides, it was a shorter trip that way.

He topped a slight rise and saw the jogger. She was young and well built and wearing skin tight spandex shorts and one of those sports bra slash athletic shirt things that girls wear to keep their tits from bouncing and simultaneously entice every man within a ten mile radius. Despite the fact that she more than ten yards from him, Eric could smell her. He inhaled deeply and when he did he could almost taste the salt of her sweat; the bitter of her perfume; the sweet of her skin. His cock, which had been merely iron before, suddenly turned to adamantine. It swelled even more in his pants and felt like it would burst. He knew at that moment that he had to have her. He could already see himself on top of her, holding her down and forcing his way inside.

He took the first, unsure, stumbling step her direction. Then he fell. His goddamn feet did not want to obey. They twisted sideways and tripped him. Setting his mind on the task ahead, Eric forced himself to his feet and tried to remember the commands to make himself run. It didn’t quite work. The best he could manage was a lurching stumble, but at least he was moving at a greater speed. It took him a moment to realize that he had both his arms outstretched in front of him. I look like a fucking cliché, he thought. He made a conscious attempt to get his hands at his side.

The girl, pony tail bouncing, was still completely unaware that he was coming up behind her. Eric was about to get a grasp on her when his stentorian breathing gave him away. The girl spun on her heels and shot a palm forward with unexpected force. The blow drove his head back. He didn’t let it get him down. He reached up with the best speed he could muster and grasped her shoulders. The girl twisted to break his grip. Eric struck her with a fist. The shot caught her across the jaw and her eyes swam a bit. They girl kicked. She was aiming for his balls, but missed. Her foot caught his knee. Eric tried to smile as he hit her again. This time she did go down.

Her body fell in a heap on the grass. She was still awake, but woozy. Eric lowered himself over her, grabbed her by the hair, lifted her head and brought it down hard. Then she was out.

Eric lipped his lips. As he did a strand of thick, viscous bile dripped from his mouth and landed on the girl’s tight stomach. He looked at the little puddle it had formed, and then wiped it away. He took a quick look around, then pushed her top up to reveal her breasts. They were round and firm. Eric took a second to squeeze her left breast. He paused at the nipple and gave it a little twist then got on with more important things. He tugged at her shorts to get them down. They stuck at her hips and he had to give a strong jerk to get them past that spot. Once the shorts were off he spread her legs, leaned forward and smelled her vagina. It was pungent from sweat.

The oddest thing happened then. When he smelled her he suddenly had a new urge. He still wanted to rape her, that hadn’t changed; but now he wanted to bite her too. He was not thinking of a playful nip like one would give a lover in the heat of passion. He was thinking of ripping her labia with his teeth. Mostly, though, he was thinking of chewing them up and swallowing. Eric had a sudden and powerful craving to devour this woman’s flesh.

He bit down hard on his own lip to clear his head and focus on the work ahead. He undid his pants and pulled them down. His cock looked like something had gone dreadfully wrong with it. It was massive. Eric had a larger than average penis, but at that moment it was swollen to nearly one and a third its normal size, in places the skin was starting to crack in little spider web fractures from the stretching. Even worse than that, as far as Eric was concerned, it was turning blue. Eric spit in his hand and rubbed the saliva over his glans. Then he spat again, this time rubbing against the girl’s pussy. She was ready.

He gripped his cock and rubbed the head of it up and down between her outer labia until her juices started flowing a bit. Then he rammed forward forcing himself inside her. Her skin tore a little and she gasped as her eyes popped open.

“Hel-“she tried to scream for help and he clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Shut up cunt,” he growled at her. “Keep your mouth shut and I won’t kill you.”

“Nnnghhelthgnn nngnng,” she made animal sounds through his hand and twisted her body trying to eject him.

“I swear bitch, I will kill you. Now shut up.”

Her eyes were filled with wide milky panic. He could feel her heart racing past the bounds of safety through her skin. But, to his surprise she went limp. She gave in. Eric was glad that she had believed him. This was going to easier if she didn’t struggle too much.

He got his rhythm back and started thrusting hard again. Her pussy felt incredibly tight and hot. Eric was thinking that he was about to get finished when he stopped. Suddenly he was thinking about biting her again. He couldn’t figure out why he wanted that, but he did. He didn’t just want it, he needed eat. He had to bite her.

“Don’t panic,” he tried to sound calm as he said this. “I’m going to bite you just a little. I’m not gonna hurt you, I just need to bite you a little so I can come.”

She started to struggle again. Eric hit her square in the mouth and she froze.

“Look. You want this to be over. It’s over when I come. If I bite you I can come. Now hold the fuck still.”

She stared at him with eyes that had gone obsidian.

Eric stared aback and said “Do you understand?”

She nodded the slightest amount possible.

He leaned forward and places his teeth against her breast. He meant to do just what he had said: bit a little. When he felt his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her tit his heart raced, his breathing quickened and his cock swelled even more.

The girl screamed. It was the scream that caused Eric to realize that his mouth was filling with blood. His teeth had come together through her and he pulled his head back. A hunk of her breast ripped free with a glugging sound. To his own horror Eric realized that he had swallowed a piece of the girl. As a piece of her tit slid down his gullet he started to hump harder.

She was flailing her arms; her nails caught hold of his face and gouged deep canyons, but he couldn’t feel it. The endorphins were pumping through his veins and he felt alive. Rivulets of blood ran into his eyes, and he shook his head to clear the. Suddenly Eric felt superhuman. He let her fight; he was starting to really enjoy this. He lifted himself up and looked down. For a moment he watched his cock slide in and out of her. He was thrusting with such force that it ripped her flesh a little and blood was covering his swollen cock. For just a moment he though that it was funny: his cock was covered in blood and full of blood.

When he took his attention from her pussy he noticed her smooth belly. For just a second Eric thought that he could see through the layers of skin, adipose and muscle to view the organs beneath. He could picture her intestines arranged in tight coils. At that moment he was hungrier than he had ever been in his life.

He was drooling uncontrollably by then. His saliva was a black green stew and it was forming a pond on her belly. Eric touched her there. At first it was light; a caress, like a lover. He brushed his finger tips against her skin and felt the fine hairs on his neck stand to attention.

Then, he pressed. He pushed his fingertips into her stomach. It took much less force than he thought it would. He skin opened for him the way her vagina had opened for him. It spread nicely and, just like her vagina, it was wet and warm inside. He sunk both hands into her gut and ripped her wide.

The jogger wasn’t struggling. At first he thought she was dead. When he looked at her eyes he realized that he was wrong. There was still a light there, but they were glass. She had sunk into a deep and warm state of shock. He knew that she would be dead soon.

Eric looked down into the new orifice he had created. Her entrails looked like every dream he had ever had: mysterious and beautiful. Eric reached in, tugged a handful of her guts to his mouth and took a bite.

He was chewing his second mouth full of her when he came. His semen shot in gushers. He thought that it would never end. He thrusted his hips back and forth harder and harder and pulled more and more of her into his mouth. He couldn’t get enough.

Finally the orgasm abated. It passed in slow waves and he collapsed on top of her bloody destroyed form.

Eric rested there for a moment, then stood and pulled up his pants. He had trouble getting his cock back inside of his fly. It was still painfully stiff. He realized that he was still horny. And hungry.

The other thing that he realized was that he felt better. He had energy; his headache had subsided; his muscles felt limber. He looked down at his hands and saw that the color had started to return. Fuck, he thought, guess that was just what I needed.

Eric quickly decided that he should do that again. He headed across the part to find another woman. Any woman would do.

The Damning Effect

The Damning Effect

By

Winston Smith

Marci missed the smell of aftershave. She couldn't explain why. It wasn't one of Peter's best smells, but it was his. She sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, hair matted all over her stunning face and pressed against the front of her neck. She pulled it away in disgust. This had been the sixth night in a row of no sleep, just horrible nightmares she was unable to pull away from. She lowered her head in her hands and attempted to catch her breath before standing up. She was of average height, but felt so small she was surprised she didn't have to jump down off the bed. Crossing the room to the light switch, she tripped over a pair of Peter's jeans. They'd been there since that morning. That morning. She brought her leg up and kicked them under the bed, as if that would make everything go away. Of course, she just felt worse.

She wandered to the bathroom doorway and glanced at the toilet, hoping for the seat to be up. For once in her life she just wanted the seat to be inconvenient for her. No, it was down, just like she needed it. Tears escaped her dried out eyes and ran down her already moistened face. She began to cry harder now, falling to the floor in a shivering heap. Realization hit her like a wrecking ball, like it did every day; Peter was gone. Forever. And she couldn't take it. She lay back on the linoleum and recalled the day. It wasn't long ago, but it had already been an eternity without him.

She had woken up first, like she always did. With little convincing, Peter made love to her until neither one could breathe. He was an amazing lover, and she was never unsatisfied by him. She lay in bed chanting "I love you" over and over. He repeated it back to her, their bodies entwined with no evidence of ever separating.

Of course, later on they would have to separate, as he had to go to work at the chemical plant several towns away. He was an engineer, but that's all she knew. A military operation had contracted the plant for an uncertain amount of time, and Peter was not allowed to talk about it. She understood, of course, and wasn't about to ask him to break the rules. Peter was a great employee, always on time, and he never questioned the rules.

He tried on one pair of pants, but something had happened to it in the laundry, so he kicked them aside and chose another pair. Marci loved watching him dress; he always looked so serious doing it. He had an amazing figure, which helped provide him with the stamina she witnessed several times a week. He combed his hair to the side, and headed off into the bathroom. Leaving the toilet seat up was something he couldn't stop doing. They'd been married five years and he still acted like a bachelor in that respect. She'd tease him, but was actually fine with it.

He gave her a long, passionate kiss, then climbed into his SUV and drove away, waving like he always did. Marci stood at the door for a moment, then headed back into the house to watch some sort of TV. He made so much money, especially with this contract, that there really was no need for her to work, and she was fine with cleaning the house and enjoying the benefits of a wealthy husband.

Three hours later a man with a gruff voice and no emotion told her Peter was dead. Just like that. No "they tried everything they could", no "there's been a terrible accident", just "your husband's dead."

"Wh-who is this?" she could barely spit out. At first she was convinced he was joking, or the very least, an asshole ex-boyfriend.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss at this time the cause of death or who I am. All I can tell you is that Mr. Suttner's body cannot be recovered and as of now we need you not to discuss this with anyone. We will make sure your finances are taken care of. That's all." And click, that was it.

It was six days later. She couldn't even leave the house. She couldn't bear to be in public, couldn't stand to hear anyone else's voice. It was hard to convince herself to be clean. Six days of no television and no radio. No contact. This wasn't so much out of the ordinary, however, because they weren't real social people to begin with.

She sat on the couch staring at the wall, moonlight peeking in through the blinds and shining on her face. A scuffling outside startled her. She wrote it off as an animal, as several neighborhood cats loved to roam this time of night. When it didn't stop she got nervous. She slid one of her delicate, long fingers through one of the blinds and bended it down gently, and peered out. A human figure was lurking around not two feet from her window.

She gasped a little more loudly than she meant to, and the figure shifted toward her. She turned around awkwardly and fell to the floor, jumping up almost instantly and hurried to the kitchen. She yanked open a drawer and retrieved a kitchen knife. Then she headed back to the window and looked again. Nothing.

Noise on the porch stole her attention yet again. The sweat was back, and as familiar as it was, she definitely didn't like it now. She decided to deal with it. She had nothing to lose, so she turned on the porch light, unbolted the door, and threw it open.

Peter.

"Oh.... oh my God! Peter!" Her breath was taken away. She stared at him in amazement. He looked so ragged standing there, his clothes torn in spots and one shoulder lower than the other. Was he hurt? What happened? So many questions flooded her brain she could hardly speak. Peter spoke for her.

"Huuuuur...."

"P-Peter? Come inside!" She stepped aside for him to come in. He hadn't looked at her, but then he brought up his head and she stared into his lifeless, gray eyes.

"Peter? W-what is-" She couldn't finish a sentence. She went to him, and threw her arms around him. He moaned a little and brought his arms up to her shoulders in an embrace. Then lowered his face to her neck and opened his mouth.

He had almost bitten straight through her throat when she pushed him back with force she didn't knew she had. Everything came to her at once. This had something to do with the chemical plant, the secrecy, and the government. She took one last look at Peter, who had started sauntering over to her, and she turned around to run, and ran into someone she'd never seen before. But the eyes told her enough. She knew both of these men were the same.

Peter and the other man showed no hesitation; Peter grabbed her shoulders, and the other one bent down to her arm. She swung the knife, nearly decapitating the stranger, pulled away from Peter, and backed into the kitchen. The light from the kitchen was brighter than the porch light, and she could make out the gray skin, the hair falling out, blood stains on both of their chins.

The other assailant continued to pursue, and she snatched a frying pan and took aim, this time twisting the head around and knocking it to one side, spitting out shots of blood as it fell. Peter wasn't even aware of his accomplice falling, he just kept coming. She pleaded, "Please, Peter, Peter! Listen to me! It's Marci". Nothing seemed to register.

He grabbed her again, and she stabbed the knife through his tattered work shirt and into his once stunning physique. He didn't even look down, just opened his mouth and once again descended. The smell pouring from there was so rancid; she spit up on him and herself. She swung the pan, knocking him to the floor. She looked at him for what seemed like forever, but there was no movement. She started to run to a phone, but his arm caught her foot and sent her into the side of the doorway, knocking her out cold.

She awoke to excruciating pain, and the noise of moaning and eating was unbearable. She looked toward her feet, and to her horror saw her legs were gone, in different corners of the room. There were several of them now, and they continued pulling pieces from her body until she lost consciousness. Several of the creatures stayed to finish up on her, while more headed out into the street, continuing to distribute their malice upon the populace.

Listening

Listening

By

Joseph Curwen

Dec 11 2012, 0400 hours 48* 50’ S 126* 30’ W: heading NNW

Harry Marsh lay on his bunk in the rusting hold of the S.S. Obed, staring at the ceiling with dark rimmed eyes, trying not to listen. Midnight had come and gone and still he lay there; sleepless, cold despite his electric heater and woolen blankets, alone in his terrible thoughts. He shivered when he felt and heard the ship around him shudder and groan as it rocked with the swell and cap of the waves. He turned up the volume of his little personal music player as the old 80’s metal album began playing it’s last track to hopefully drown out the low thrumming vibrato. Appropriately, thunder-less lightning arced through the clouded night skies above, shooting bolts of white light through Harry’s tiny port window. He slapped the ‘stop’ button as the song’s ominous notes began wafting through his headphones and sending fingers of dread up his spine.

Somehow, he had no stomach for such instrumental madness tonight. Somehow, he simply lacked the courage.

But then, who would have believed such anxiety would plague a simple Sonar operator? While it was true that Harry was not recovering from his alcoholism so much as simply fleeing from it. Certainly, with the ‘War on Terror’ raging unabated in far flung points of the globe, civil unrest at their highest levels of the new century, and the imminent collapse of the American Economy, a simple fishery ship on open water held little in the way of immediate threat to even the most squeamish human. Oddly, what placed a knot of dread into Harry’s stomach each night was not that they were illegally hunting an internationally protected species of gargantuan squid, Architeuthis Giganticus, in order to sell its ‘delicately prepared meat’ to the rich and powerful up and down both Pacific Rim coasts. Nor was it that they were using experimental ultra sub-sonic frequencies that had been banned by multiple international treaties passed back in ‘07.

He sat up and pulled the old quart bottle of Philippino tequila from under his pillow, considering the sparse amount of amber liquid with increasing despair. His liquid courage had perhaps flowed too freely those first nights, bolstering his backbone over the first few weeks that began this voyage, but now there would barely be any left for the long nights ‘till he returned home, barely anything to bring him the blessed oblivion of blackest slumber. Without such it would be another sleepless night on the open sea, another sleepless night at the mercy of the constant chaos that was the PIP, that point in the Pacific Ocean farthest from any dry land mass. But it was not the light that bothered him, nor the constant rocking of the ship beneath him, but his dreams. Tenebrous notions oozed up into his psyche as nameless desires echoed up from the fathomless depths while he dreamt. Horrors surely invented only in his diseased brain woke him screaming and ranting in the otherwise silent hours of the night.

He could remember when they started. Yesterday is a haze of bleary gray skies and rusted gray steel, marked only by dread as he sat alone in the dark bowels of the ship, listening, praying. But he could remember when it started. He could remember that first night, alone in the conning room, waiting for the sound of a living thing so huge, that scientists had first only considered it an anomaly. He could remember sitting in the dark, lit only by the glow of his instruments, reaching his electronic sensors out in search of a creature, a predator that hunts only in the lightless, abyssal depths of the endless watery chaos that covers nearly all the world. He could remember the low thrum of the creature that could send it’s call so far that traces of it could be detected as far as San Diego, albeit muffled and distorted so much as to be dismissed as ‘Magma Displacement’ or a ‘Sonic Anomaly’. He could remember that ancient, monolithic tone filling his ears, reverberating through his skull and neck, pulsing down his spine, and placing a fist sized knot in his gut. And he could remember the voice…

He’d first thought he had misheard the sound. So he went back to the Sonar and, to his horror, immediately found it again. Then he thought that perhaps someone in the crew had been playing him for a prank, so he took the tape to the ships Captain and 1^st Mate and played it to them. They were overjoyed, but Harry was wide eyed and dumbstruck. No cyclopean voice. No monstrous joke. No horrid command from the depths of anything but perhaps his own damaged mind. The ship’s officers congratulated him and began preparations to hunt the source of this sound. Visions of riches and an easy life filled their minds as they pushed Harry to remain in contact with the gargantuan beast that spoke to him, to him and only him.

Weeks went by and brought the crew a truly amazing haul of the slightly less rare Architeuthis or Giant Squid. But not the prize they sought. Quickly, the officers’ elation began to turn to skepticism, and then to distrust, and finally to betrayal. None of the other Sonar operators could detect Harry’s Creature. Accusations were whispered behind closed doors. The crew began to pick up on the officers’ suspicions. To them, the Creature was a fraud, a hoax, a fantasy made up by a lonely, desperate drunk, hearing things in the dark.

None of them understood.

None of them could have understood. How could they have? They did not hear the voice. Sitting in that tiny room, day after day after day, just after the sun had sunk back into the water, Harry alone heard the enormous intonation. Harry alone had been able to find just the right frequency. Time after time after time, Harry alone could discern the undeniable command…

“SERVE… ME…”

Dec 11 2012, 2250hours: 47* 4’ S 126* 42’ W: heading NNW

Harry had finally succumbed to sleep just before 5am , now empty tequila bottle slipping from his hand. Despite his fervent prayers, the dreams had come again. Dark, torrid dreams. Despotic, tempestuous dreams. Erotic, violent dreams. Defiling, feverish, dreams.

He was still dreaming when the time came for his shift to start. He was still dreaming when the ships doctor came in to proclaim that he was delirious, and possibly possessed of an aneurism, by the bleeding from his un-bruised nose. “Perhaps his unstable mental condition had been brought about some imbalance in his brain.” The doctor had said in Harry’s dream.

Harry was still dreaming when the clouds parted outside and revealed a beautiful starry sky to the ship. He was still dreaming when the Doctor and Captain left his cabin, to find someone to post guard. Harry was still dreaming when he stood up and out of bed and began shambling toward the door, despite the fact that the blood vessels in his eyes had burst, effectively blinding him. He was still dreaming when the superstitious sailors looked up into the stars and noticed that something was… different, something was out of place, something was, in their blind little eyes, ‘wrong’.

Even in his dreams, Harry knew that the stars were not wrong, they had never been more right. Even in his dreams, Harry knew that their sight would fail them, that he no longer needed his useless eyes. Even in his dreams, Harry could navigate this ship by the mere cadence and tone of his steps.

20 rubberized steps from his door to the stairwell. Eight creaky wooden steps down to the below deck. Eighteen clanging steps across the grated metal landing and down two more flights of hardened steel, and 90 steps straight back, along the grated metal flooring, to the sonar room door.

Harry was still dreaming when he quietly opened the Sonar room door, still dreaming when he reached over and snapped his replacement’s neck with undreamt of strength. He was still dreaming when he sat down in his chair, placed the headphones over his ears and licked his lips in anticipation. Harry’s life had become a dreamed thing as his hands sought the frequency tuner with trembling fingers and slowly twisted it, until an oh-so-comforting thrum filled his ears. The sub-sonic hum, mingling with the terrified screams of the crewmen above, made Harry smile in his dream. Slowly, bloodshot eyes crying rapturous crimson tears, Harry fumbled desperately about for a switch on the console and flipped it to ‘transmit’. Leaning into the antiquated microphone Harry’s dream croaks out into the yawning hungry depths below and all about him.

“I hear…”

“and Obey.”

A Bad Day at Work

A bad Day at Work
(Part 1)

by
Rick McQuiston

You can imagine my surprise when I saw Mr. Terry Schatt dislodging himself from the driver’s seat of his midnight blue Dodge Intrepid. He had pulled into the parking lot like he had every previous morning for the past fifteen years. Only this time he drove erratically, bumping into two other cars and laying his blue beast across three parking spaces. There were only nine or ten cars in the lot or it could have been much worse.

I must admit that I was relieved that he caused no real damage and even entertained the notion of actually going up to him and returning his wallet.

I watched open-mouthed as Mr. Schatt stood up next to his car. His midsection was noticeably bloated, probably due to the gas, and his arms dangled loosely at his sides. I could tell even from where I was hiding that he was considerably disoriented. He swung his head from side to side violently as if he was trying to expel something from his ears. I was puzzled that he had his suit jacket on; I don’t remember him having one yesterday. His hair was matted down tightly onto his oversize head in his usual comb-over manner. I could tell that it wasn’t hair oil. The look on his face was blank, an empty canvas completely void of any emotion whatsoever.

Although this too did not surprise me I have to admit that it still alarmed me. Who knows what lurks behind the face with no emotion, no humanity, no soul?

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Could he be looking for me? What worse fate could there be for any employee whose boss’s mind averts to them?

What would I do? Continue hiding and avoid the inevitable or simply face my fears and confront my boss.

The options did battle in my head but eventually the easier, and safer, alternative won, partly due to the quality of my hiding spot. I knew there was no way Mr. Schatt would be able to find me.

A Bad Day at Work

A Bad Day at Work
(Part 2)

by

Rick McQuiston



I had concealed myself in a large mound of gravel near where they work on the tractors. Both Gordy and Topper, called that because he’s always wearing a hat, were in the shop working. Gordy was pulling apart a motor from the loader and Topper was messing with battery cables. Bruce Springsteen was screaming about being born in the U.S.A. as Frodo, Topper’s retriever, sprawled out across the ground near the door. Topper was a big Lord of the Rings fan and it took only one comment about his dog’s oversized feet for him to come up with a name for him.

Theresa, our thirty-something and very attractive secretary, sat as usual at her neatly organized desk in the room next to the workshop. She was multi tasking which is why we all thought she was hired, that and her hourglass figure. None of them seemed to be concerned that Mr. Schatt hadn’t shown up that morning especially Theresa which struck me as very odd since I knew very well she had been having an affair with him. In fact, that’s the reason I’m lying under this pile of gravel hiding from my boss. It was my weakness for Theresa that caused my confrontation with Mr. Schatt which led to the bullet hole in his heart, courtesy of yours truly.

And now I watch from my self-imposed and increasingly uncomfortable spot, as my boss, who I murdered only the day before, lumbers awkwardly towards my co-workers who are completely oblivious to his, shall we say…condition.

Frodo lifts his head. He senses something’s wrong. Mr. Schatt is approaching the workshop. His face is several shades of gray and his blank expression alternates between confusion and rage. Frodo leaps up and begins growling viciously. Mr. Schatt lunges forward and tears the poor dog’s head completely off. Topper drops the battery he’s holding onto his foot causing him to scream out in pain and collapse to the ground. Mr. Schatt lifts Frodo’s head to his mouth and sloppily rips off a huge chunk. The look on the poor thing’s face will stay with me forever.
Gordy stares in disbelief as his boss, the same man he had asked for a raise from only a week earlier and from whom he one day hoped to buy the business from, ate part of his co-worker’s dog.

In a matter of seconds Mr. Schatt falls upon Gordy and plunges his arm clear through his chest leaving a bloody heap on the ground next to the partly disassembled engine he had been working on.

Topper jumps up and trips backward against a tractor. Blood is literally pouring from his foot and his eyes are as big as dinner plates. Mr. Schatt whirls around and faces his loyal and hard working employee with blank and decayed eyes. The look on Topper’s face speaks volumes.
I watch in horror as Mr. Schatt leaps on him and quickly and messily ends his life.
By this time Theresa is screaming so loud I thought her head would pop. I can see her frantically trying to dial the telephone but she’s so hysterical she can’t quite seem to punch in any correct numbers. Mr. Schatt rapidly stumbles out of the
workshop and into the office where his girlfriend is still trying to call for help.

The sheer helplessness that I feel as I watch Mr. Schatt dismember the only woman I ever really loved is overwhelming. I briefly entertain the notion of attacking him but my cowardice suppresses the thought immediately, mostly due to the fact that he seemed to possess superhuman strength. And since he smashed the phone along with Theresa’s head I couldn’t even try to call for help.

The ease with which he dispatched two men, a woman and a dog was frightening to say the least and I was not quite stupid enough to think that I could be anything even close to a match for him. I also know that it would be foolish to attempt to escape. He moved surprisingly quick for someone who I know very well is already dead. My only recourse is to wait.
The temperature must be ninety degrees by now and I feel my body bathing in sweat and gravel. Mr. Schatt finished with the bodies hours ago and is now merely staring into the sky as if waiting for commands from some dark and sinister deity.

Despite the heat, I shudder as the horrible memory of the murder enters my mind.
I recall approaching Mr. Schatt and losing control when he admitted his affair with Theresa. Words were exchanged and then the blood flowed. And in a matter of seconds he was reduced to a hollow shell of a human incapable of feeling or thought.

I remember the fifty gallon barrels lying nearby which were leaking some type of green substance. I remember noticing how the stuff was flowing towards Mr. Schatt’s body. I remember seeing him begin to twitch as I drove away from the scene of the crime.
But I realize that understanding what happened will do me no good now. I am a prisoner of my sins.

My eyelids grow heavy as I struggle to remain awake and alert. I’m too tired to sleep although my body demands it. I’m too scared to think although my sanity demands it. I’m too drained to cry although my humanity demands it.

I watch Mr. Schatt walk back to his car. The relief I feel more than compensates for my exhaustion and even overrides the thirst and hunger I am feeling. He makes several attempts to open the car door before finally managing to do it and falls lazily into the front seat. It’s beyond me how but he starts the car and drives off, bumping into my Ford and a couple of handicap poles in the process.

As soon as he is gone I feel the urge to climb out of my horrible sanctuary but caution forces me to wait. Sleep still tries to overtake me but the excitement I feel about still being alive fights to keep me awake. But eventually I slip into a peaceful although uneasy slumber.

The murder replays itself in my dreams over and over again. I try to alter the violent conclusion many times but fail repeatedly. Now I am a slave to my dreams as well, forever haunted by a foolish and immoral moment in time.

When I wake I feel somewhat refreshed despite the terrible ache in my back and an empty stomach and dry throat. My cowardice had saved me from a terrible demise and I mumble an oath to myself to be much more cautious and good hearted the remainder of my life.
The gravel gradually gives way to my fingers as I peer out at the carnage that used to be my job. Blood coats everything in sight in a sickening painting of death and all is as silent as a graveyard. I pry myself out of my self-imposed prison and do my best to dislodge any stray stones and dirt on my body. My stomach convulses and my head feels light. I find myself surveying the grounds as I begin to think about what I’m going to tell the police. I look up to the sky and ask God how my day could possibly get any worse.

And then, almost as if my question was answered, I hear Frodo barking and turn to see what’s left of my co-workers crawling towards me.

Never Judge a Book by its Cover

Never Judge a Book by its Cover
by Joshua Weston

His face was somewhat attractive. He stared at the mirror into his own eyes. He didn’t think he was ugly. Why did he hate himself so much? He cocked his head slightly to the side and back upright. He dug his fingernail into his cheek. His face was now completely numb. The empty needle in the sink took care of that. He stared down at the sink for several seconds, second guessing himself. No, it had gone too far now. He had to finish.

His life was not wasted in any way. He was a successful attorney, had a nice car, spacious apartment, and was never a stranger to the ladies. On the surface, he lived the perfect life. Underneath, however, was a completely different monster. A monster that was never satisfied, that had broken down every shred of humanity possible. He was so fucking ugly underneath his skin, it was now time to show the world his true face.

And with that he got to cutting his flesh. Scissors started it off, snipping at his lips in triangles and rectangles, the fat pieces of flesh slapping the sink with sickening thuds. He worked fast, knowing full well what he would feel when the drugs wore off. It hurt like hell, burned even, but was nothing compared to what was really happening, and his mission needed to be done before that pain was fully realized. After both of his lips were nothing more than piles of bloody meat in the sink, he stopped to take a look in the mirror. Technically, his mission had been accomplished, as no one would ever look at him the same way again. He wasn’t even sure if one could survive for long like this. But he wasn’t done.

Next, he took a filet knife and scalped himself. It hurt a lot more now, and it wasn’t because the drugs were wearing off. No matter what you’re on, it’s impossible to do this and not feel it. He felt it, but it turned him on. The women at the bar would flock to him if they saw the erection he was carrying right now. Then three cuts down the front of the face and he resembled a chart in a Biology class.

The scissors came back for the ears, clipping them down to little stubs on the side of his head, resembling radio knobs. If only he could’ve tuned these in to another station years ago. He then sliced his nostrils up to the eyes, letting the flaps of skin slap him in the face.

The pain came rushing now, he had to finish. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. Tears poured from his eyes, mixing with the blood and splashing on his hands, sink, and floor. He screamed louder than he ever had before, and was so mad at himself for sounding like a girl. If nothing else he figured his last vocalization would be somewhat manlike.

He had to abort, he couldn’t stand it. He said his goodbyes to his pistol as it entered his mouth and blew his brains onto the wall behind him. The pain was immense. His head hit the toilet, throwing out more chunks of brain matter, and he slumped on the floor. He could feel the blood encompassing his dying body. Then, he felt nothing.

Showdown

Showdown
By Nathan Tyree

Buck scratched a match along the sole of his boot and brought the flame up to light the cigarette that he had rolled a moment earlier. His hand was shaking just enough to make getting the thing lit a bit difficult. Henry, the other deputy, was checking his rifle for what must have been the tenth time since they had barred the door to the sheriff’s office. Buck was starting to realize that since Sheriff Johnston was dead that it fell on him to take charge. It was that realization that had started his hands trembling. How weird, he thought, that he had been calm and steady all through the events that had transpired a few minutes earlier, but that now that they were safely behind a thick oak door in the most secure building in the county he was genuinely afraid.

The three cowhands locked in the only cell were raising a ruckus. They kept yelling that Buck would let them out if he knew what was good for him. They insisted that they had friends, hard men, who would be coming for them. When all of this started Buck and the sheriff had both believed that that was exactly the situation. When they had heard the noises out front, the yelling and a few stray gunshots, they assumed that the boys from Bar-J had gotten drunk and come to demand the release of their buddies. That had not been the case at all. By now Buck wished that it had been.

“What are those things, Buck?” Henry had set aside his rifle and had started reloading his revolvers. He carried two of them; one on each hip tied down in quick draw style. It was for show; the truth was that Henry was a slow draw and possible the worst shot in the whole county. He only got the job as deputy because the sheriff had been his cousin. He was starting to look about as pale and drained as a man could.

“Don’t know,” Buck said without looking up. He was studying the surface of the desk as if he expected to find the answer to that very question in the grain of its wood. He stood and walked through the small door that separated the Sheriff’s office proper from the small jail in the back. The three men there, Buck had forgotten their names, were getting louder and he had decided to do something about it.

“Look, you boys need to quiet on down now. If ya don’t, there are gonna be consequences.” With that he pulled the nickel plated revolver from its holster, pointed it directly at the biggest of them, and smoothly pulled back the hammer. They all went quiet. Buck re-holstered his gun and walked back to the front room.

Outside the moaning was getting louder. Henry was peering through the small barred window in the door and muttering to himself. “There’s more of them,” he said.

Buck strode over and pushed Henry aside so that he could have a look himself. He was right. When they had been outside there had been maybe thirty of those damned things in the street. Now it looked like at least fifty.

“What’re we gonna do, Buck?” Henry’s voice was starting to get that panicky sound that Buck knew too well. He knew that when a man got that sound in his voice it was going to be bad. Men who sounded like that made bad decisions. Sometimes they’d just freeze up and let death come. He thought that maybe he should try to calm Henry down. He might need him.

“We aint gonna do a thing. Right now we’re just gonna wait. We’re gonna relax and wait ‘til morning comes, then we can make our move.” He was thinking that the wait would give Henry time to get control and to fight off the panic.

“Johnny shot that one, Buck. He shot him point blank in the chest. I saw it. I saw it. He shot maybe three times right in the chest. It shoulda’ died. A man dies when you shoot ‘em in the chest. A man dies when-“

Buck brought his palm hard across the other man’s face. Henry’s head rocked back and his eyes got wide. He inhaled sharply. For a moment the two men just looked at each other. Then Henry said: “What did you do that for?”

“You gotta get control of yourself, Henry. We’ve gotta be calm and we gotta make a plan.” Buck slid into the sheriff’s chair and lit another cigarette. He believed the things he had said. He knew that they needed to stay calm and think. But, he really wasn’t sure if doing that was going to do them any good. He had seen those things out there. And, just like Henry had said, he had seen Sheriff Johnny Johnston, the toughest man in Carson County, fire three shots point blank into one of them. It had just kept coming.

Buck leaned back in the sheriff’s chair and tried to think.

The three cowhands from the Bar-J had been brought in early that morning. Johnny had gone out himself to pick them up. The three of them had raped a Mexican girl. When she stumbled into the Sheriff’s office, her face a ruin of blood and ripped flesh, Buck had asked to describe the men. Johnny knew immediately who she was talking about. A good sheriff is always well acquainted with those sort of men. Buck had offered to go with him, but the sheriff had said “Leave ‘em to me.” He brought them in without firing a shot. He could’ve killed all three of them, but preferred to see them hang.

As soon as they were locked in their cage they started in with the standard spiel about how their buddies would be coming and coming in force. If the sheriff and his men wanted to survive, then he better open that goddamned cell and let them go. And, they said, since when was it a crime to fuck a Mexican?

“Maybe I will open this cell,” Johnny had said, “Buck, you keep your rifle ready.” Buck stood just outside the cell and raised his rifle as Sheriff Johnny Johnston unlocked the door and walked in. He put himself face to face with the biggest of the three and struck him hard on the chin with an iron fist. The man went down hard into a big ugly pile on the floor.

“You can’t do that,” that was the oldest of the three. He was maybe thirty, and his face was a mess of lines and cracks. His skin looked like badly cured leather and his blue eyes were cold.

“I can do whatever I want. I’m the law.” Before he had even gotten the last word out Johnny had started his fist on its way to the man’s gut. As the cowhand double over Johnny brought his other fist against the man’s temple. Then he turned to the last of them. “You got anything to say?”

The man shook his head. Johnny exited the cell and Buck locked the door. Then they went back to the front of the office where Henry was sipping a cup of coffee and trying to pretend that he hadn’t heard what was going on.

“So Johnny, ya think the other boys from Bar-J are gonna come looking for them drunks?” Buck asked this while pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“You never know. If they do they’re gonna wish they hadn’t.”

The rest of the day had been slow. Normally the three men would have made a few rounds around town to show their presence and keep everyone in line. Johnny had ruled against that, figuring that they should be prepared if the Bar-J boys did make an appearance. After the sun went down Johnny had started talking about sending Henry over to Martha’s to get them some steaks for dinner. It was then that they had heard the noises outside. There was a scream and someone had fired a shot. Then they started hearing the groans and the sound of something crashing over.

“Well, I guess they made it.” Johnny stood from behind his desk and checked that his revolver was loaded. The three men moved to the door and stepped outside expecting to see a bunch of drunk cowboys waving their guns around and yelling. That wasn’t what they saw. What they did see froze all three of them for a moment.

There was a crowd outside, but not the crowd they had expected. The things in the street looked like men, but their skin was gray and peeling in strips. Their clothes were tattered and many of them looked to be coated in dirt. They jerked and shambled dragging their feet as they moved aimlessly about moaning and making unintelligible noises. Whoever had been shooting was no where to be seen. In fact, none of the townspeople where in sight at that moment. That changed a minute later. Paula Scolson, a young girl who’s father worked at Hap’s General Store, came running from an alley making her way toward the now open door of the Sheriff’s Office. She only made it a few feet before one of the gray things was on her. It mindlessly groped at her and managed to get purchase on her dress. She screamed as it pulled her in close. Buck couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The thing that wasn’t a man seemed to be sinking its teeth into the little girl’s neck. She fought to pull away and Buck saw a hunk of her flesh rip and blood begin to squirt in dark red arcs and splash into the dust of the street.

Johnny ran to her. He grabbed the girl by the arm and wrenched her from the creature’s grip. As she collapsed in the street he pulled his gun and fired three shots directly into the things chest. It didn’t seem to notice that it had been shot. Its half rotten hands reached out and one tangled in the Sheriff’s hair. “Fucker,” was the word that floated from Johnny’s mouth as he threw a massive punch that landed square on the thing’s temple. Any man would have dropped instantly from that blow. The thing just ripped harder and a portion of Johnny’s scalp tore loose from his skull. Blood ran in rivulets down his face and he fired again; this time he had his gun right against the man-thing’s head and its face exploded. The thing fell.

By then Buck was on the move. He was on his way Johnny, but it was too late. The rest of the creatures were already surrounding him. As they fell on him Buck heard the screams and immediately moved back toward the door. As he ran backwards he fired wildly into the crowd.

“Come on” he yelled at Henry as he went through the door. Inside they barred the door and began to wait.

Sitting there behind the desk trying to think Buck had managed to drift off to sleep. Henry shaking his shoulder hard woke him. “Buck. Buck. Wake up.”

“What?”

Henry looked terrified. Even more terrified than he had when his cousin the Sheriff was ripped apart by those things. “They’re trying to get in.”

Buck heard it now. The things had gathered at the door to the Sheriff’s office. They were scratching and scraping and prying at the wood. It sounded for all the world like there were a thousand of them out there. The moaning echoed and filled the air. The three men in back were starting to make a hell of a lot of noise as well. They were shouting wanting to know what was going on. They had stopped demanding to be let out of their cell.

Buck head a splintering sound. He thought that they were going to eventually get that door open. Buck thought for a moment, and then looked at Henry. “Get in the cabinet and find three extra rifles. Make sure they’re loaded.”

Henry was already opening the gun cabinet when he thought to ask: “Why?”

“We’re gonna need all the help we can get. I’m gonna go open the cell.” Buck grabbed the keys and moved through the small door to the jail. “Now you boy’s quiet down, we need to talk.”

The three men just stood and looked at him with mistrust and something verging on fear. Buck holstered the pistol he had been carrying and asked: “What’re your names?”

The big man stepped up and said “I’m Paul, this here ugly fella is Bob and that fella is Willie.”

“I’m Buck. Now listen boys, we got a situation out there. That racket you’re hearing is a bunch of… well, things. I don’t know what they are, but they look like dead bodies that got up and started walking around. Whatever they are, they killed the sheriff and a girl right in front of me and Henry. We shot at ‘em a lot, and most of those shots hit, but they didn’t seem to mind getting shot at all. Except, I noticed that all those shots we put into them didn’t do nothing, but the one Johnny put in that one’s head killed it. That got me thinking that maybe you have to shoot them in the head to kill ‘em. Now here’s what I’m thinking: there’s a bunch of them out there and they’re trying to get in. I think they’re gonna, too. Me an’ Henry can’t hold ‘em off forever, so I was thinking maybe you boys would like a pardon.” Then Buck waited.

The three men looked at each other for a minute, then Paul said “Get us out of here and we’ll give you all the help you need.”

Buck turned the key, swung the door open and said “Let’s go.”

The four of them moved out into the main office. Henry was finishing up loading the rifles. “You sure about this, Buck?” He looked nervous about having the men armed.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

The cowhands took the rifles and the five of them faced the door ready to begin firing.

Buck cocked his own rifle and said “Boys, remember to aim for their heads.” It was then that the door disintegrated in front of them. A mass of moaning decomposition swarmed in through the opening and the room was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire.

They kept coming long after the ammo was gone.
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