#FridayFlash: Words of Wisdom

And thus concludes the first part…

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Words of Wisdom

Again, the beast drew near, and again it was time to run. Mary paused a lot more often than she needed, just to let Eric catch up. On several occasions, she had to stop to help him up or free his foot from a snag. The second time, the beast nearly caught up to them; it wasn’t close enough to see but its mindless advance rained debris on them. They got away, and finally managed to put some distance between it and themselves.

Mary cut down a side street, then turned to look. “Eric! Hurry!” she yelled.

“I wasn’t on the cross-country team!” he puffed; she took off again as soon as he caught up.

“Neither was I, but you either run or die!”

“Why did it get so close? Is it after you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.” She dodged through a gaping hole into what was once a fancy restaurant. “I think we can rest in here.” They caught their breath for a moment.

“That’s comforting,” he said, looking at the overturned tables and other wreckage. “Can I look at your drawings again? They’re good.”

Mary huffed, but handed over the sketchpad.

“The one of the beast. How long did you work on it?”

“Three weeks. The others I just did off the cuff.”

“That’s even more amazing, when you think about it. They’re simple, but there’s still a lot of detail. I can draw some, but not that good. Especially the part where stuff comes to life.”

“Yeah.” Eric was kind of a pain — he slowed her down and talked too much — but he didn’t patronize her or try to hit on her. And he seemed to mean what he said about her work. That was nice. She tried to imagine this place the way it was, maybe sitting with Eric at one of the tables. Maybe on prom night.

“—it?”

“Huh?”

“If you made it, couldn’t you get rid of it?”

“What?”

“Yeah.” He held up the drawing of the beast. “I mean, you got the idea for this thing before you knew you could bring it to life, right?” He frowned. “Maybe it gave you that power, and it’s after you because it knows you could undo it somehow.”

“No way.” But his words — his idea — found a way through her armor, reaching the core where all that anger lay waiting, another beast looking for a way into the light. The anger and the idea roiled together inside her.

“Yeah. It let you use the power to get rid of people — the creepy dude and Megan Garner — and they both deserved it, probably. Once it knew you could do it, it just had to wait for you to get mad enough to bring it to life too. So maybe you can draw something to kill it. Superman, maybe.”

“That’s so whack.”

“No more whack than that thing out there. Or any of the other stuff. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I don’t guess we can outrun that thing forever. If you can kill it, you really ought to. Even if you don’t care about yourself, my Mom always said if you can do the right thing, you should do it.”

She shook her head, but could not deny the logic. “Where is she now?”

Eric looked out the hole in the wall. “We tried to drive out, the first day. She was going too fast and wrecked, about a mile from the apartment. I was okay, but she didn’t make it.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I wish I’d died too.”

She sighed. “Listen, I need to think about this. How to do it.” She started pacing, and Eric retreated into the kitchen to forage. The restaurant shook to the rhythmic pounding of the beast’s feet, but it felt far enough away to be safe a while longer. She righted a table and chair where the light was good. “But maybe the world deserved this,” she muttered, tapping the sketchpad with her pencil. A world full of psycho parents, creepers, and evil students — and the occasional nice guy like Eric, sure. She nodded her head to the vibration.

“I think it’s getting closer,” said Eric, looking over her shoulder. “How — you’re almost done?”

“Huh?” Mary looked down. She didn’t remember starting, but there it was: a shaft of light thrust the clouds aside and shone upon the prone beast. It writhed, not under Superman, but the sword of an avenging angel. The rubble of the city lay all around them. Should I do this? She reached down into that core, found the anger there and strong as ever, but now it spoke different words: It used us! Kill it!

“Almost. Give me a little space. I think we have time.” She bent to her drawing, as Eric retreated. It was almost done, but something was missing. Something for her.

With great power comes great responsibility. At this moment, Eric’s words seemed more true than anything. But she deserved something… something nice. Somebody who cared about her for a change. Making that happen wouldn’t hurt anything, right? And maybe she wouldn’t want to destroy the world again. She sketched in a low hill, with her and Eric standing on it… holding hands. She’d saved his life at least twice, after all.

“We’ve gotta go! Now!” Eric looked wild-eyed at the hole in the wall.

“Okay. Just a few more seconds.” She spoke the words as she wrote: “Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.”

“Speaking words of wisdom, yeah. Hurry!”

She stuffed her sketchpad into her backpack, and they ran.

They reached a low hilltop as a shaft of light split the churning overcast sky.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Times of Trouble

Several readers thought last week’s story, Let It Be, needed a little room to grow. It agreed, naturally.

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Times of Trouble

Running, hiding, resting… then far too soon, doing it all over again under the angry sky. So Mary ran, dodging through the debris of what was a generic suburb only a few days before. Before she’d made her beast real, and set it loose to rampage across the world. Now Mom was dead from alcohol poisoning, and who knew where Dad ran off too?

Holding a rag to her mouth, she ran through smoke and dust —

“Hey! Is someone there? Help!”

Mary skidded to a stop, looking around.

“Over here!” A boy’s voice. He coughed, and Mary saw him wave. She reached behind her back, making sure the butcher knife was still in its sheath. She’d only had to draw it once in the last few days, and that was enough to make the asshole back off. Maybe she was just an emo art chick on Monday, but now it was Thursday. Or maybe Friday. Now she was someone who could bring utter destruction with a few strokes of a pencil.

“Can you get this off me?” He looked soft, like a gamer or geek, seated with his back to the building wall. A utility pole lay over his legs; it wasn’t crushing him but it had him trapped. “Do you have any water? I’m thirsty.”

“How long have you been here?” She slid her pack off her shoulders, keeping her knife hand free, and fished past her sketchpad for a water bottle.

“Since this morning. One of those earthquakes hit, I ran outside, fell down, and this happened before I could think. Thanks.” He drained the bottle. “Hey — don’t you go to Four Oaks?”

Mary squinted, trying to put a name to the face. “Yeah. Or I did.” She looked at the end of the pole. “I dunno if I can move this or not.”

“I’m Eric Perch.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You were in my U.S. History class. I’m Mary Smith.”

He sang, not too badly: “When I find myself in times of trouble, something Mary comes to me —”

“Haha.” She straddled the pole and heaved at it, then put her back to the wall and tried pushing with her feet. “Crap. Sorry.”

“Maybe you can lever it off?”

“With what?” She looked around, but didn’t see anything.

“Well, you can’t just leave me here!”

“Wait. Wait a minute. Let me think.” Mary stepped back and stared, composing the scene. I can’t, she thought. But if she did those other things, why not this? Why not something useful? She sat down, some distance away, and took out her sketchpad.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up. I need to think.” Mary sketched the side of the building, then Eric standing, looking down at the pole. After a minute, she lost herself in the drawing. It might work, she thought, looking it over. Under the pole, and snaking around his feet, she added LET IT BE, several times. “Pull your feet in, if you can,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Fine!” A minute later, she heard then felt the ground shake. She put her hands out, looking around her to make sure nothing was about to crush her. The pole lurched forward and rolled away.

“Yes!” She looked, and Eric pushed himself upright, staring at the pole. “I’m free! Hey… how did you know the earthquake was about to happen? What were you drawing?”

Mary sighed and showed him the sketch. “I made it happen.”

“No way.” But Eric’s voice held no conviction.

“Yeah, way. Why do you think the tornado hit the school last Tuesday?” She flipped to the drawing of Amber’s dead hand. “Or that… thing out there?” She showed him the beast.

“Wow. How did you get close enough to draw it?” he breathed.

“I drew it before. What’s the same in all of those?” She handed him the sketchpad and glared, arms crossed.

Eric flipped back and forth. “They’re all pencil or colored pencil, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? Who’s this guy?”

“Some creep who tried to get too close two weeks ago.”

“Oh. Hey, is it the ‘let it be’ thing?”

“Yeah. If I write it on something I draw, it happens.”

Eric gave her a strange look — not total disbelief, but not belief either. “They say, extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof,” he said.

“Well, you’re standing up.”

“It could’ve been a coincidence.”

She glowered. “You want me to put you back under it?”

“No! No… wait.” His stomach growled, or maybe it was hers. “Food. Can you make food?”

“I never tried. And there’s gotta be food around here anyway.”

“Uh-uh. There were six of us until yesterday, we were staying in my apartment. We picked this area clean. They ditched me when we ran out.”

“Where’s your parents?”

He looked away and shrugged. “So can you do it?”

“I guess I’ll try. I’m hungry too.” She thought a minute, then sat down on the utility pole and started drawing: herself and Eric, sitting on the pole and sharing lunch. A plastic grocery bag sat at their feet. Not her best work, but… whatever. She added the magic words.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Stuff doesn’t happen right away. It usually takes a minute. Just —” Again, the ground shook. The trunk of a car across the way rose on its own, and Mary got up to check it out.

“Forget it,” said Eric. “We checked that car out three days ago.”

“Good.” Mary turned, holding a plastic grocery bag. “You can’t say it was there, then. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, and some plastic knives. All that, and a bag of chips!” She grinned. “Let’s eat. I hope you’re not allergic.”

Eric gaped. “Wow. That’s some trick. I’m glad you’re using your power for good now.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. With great power comes great responsibility.”

Mary shook her head. “I never asked for this. All I wanted was to be left alone.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Let It Be

I was at the park with Mason yesterday, and saw a girl sitting on a bench with a sketch box. She looked like she wanted the entire world to keep its distance… and then she became the centerpiece of a story…

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Let It Be

“You drawing?”

Mary pulled her pad to her chest and glared at the intrusion. An older guy, leaning over the fence behind her, smile a little too wide. “Yeah.” Eff off, creeper. She pulled one leg up.

“Okay. I just like art. Can’t draw for crap myself.” He shrugged and walked away, stealing one last glance over his shoulder.

She looked up — her nephew Adam was on the highest level of the jungle gym, tearing around with the other first graders. He saw her and waved; she waved back and he dived head-first into the tube slide. He’d burn off a bunch of energy, while she made ten easy bucks and had some time to work on her drawing, and her sister Kim would have a peaceful evening for a change. Everybody wins. She was working on the beast’s outstretched claw… she knew it was holding something, but what? There will be an answer, she thought, and stared across the playground to the pond beyond the fence. She pushed her hair back and thought some more.

The image of the creepy dude wormed back into her mind, and she nearly flung her pencil. “Asshole,” she growled, and flipped to a blank sheet. Without thinking much about it, she sketched the creeper on his back; the front end of an SUV loomed over him. A few more details suggested themselves, and she added them: the jogging track crossing, backstop fence in the background, planter with flowers. She looked it over and did a double-take: under the creeper, the words LET IT BE were repeated several times. She had no memory of writing that.

“Huh,” she grunted — but suddenly she realized the beast was holding an orb. No, a huge eyeball, big as the soccer ball rolling across the playground, with a slit pupil like a cat’s. She checked the time on her phone, and made sure the alarm was set for 6:30, then dived into her drawing.


After strapping Adam into his booster seat, he gave up whining about having to leave the park and picked up his toy F-16. He made whooshing noises as she got in a long line for the exit. The best thing about being sixteen was being able to drive. It got her a long way from her crazy-bitch Mom and the fights she picked with her and Dad. She sort of hoped Dad would divorce the hag so she could move in with him.

“Sh— oh no!” she gasped. Someone was flat on the crosswalk; the cop assigned to the park had his patrol car off to the side, lights flashing like a rave with extra weird drugs. As she drew closer, she realized the guy on the pavement was the creeper. A big white Expedition stood with a crushed grille, and the driver — a woman whose hairdo was wound way too tight — was arguing with the cop: “I was supposed to get my daughter from soccer practice ten minutes ago! Am I liable for every jogger who comes popping out of nowhere?”

Mary gave the scene a goggle-eyed stare — all the details in her sketch were there. “Too weird,” she breathed, and scooted away for her sister’s house.


The slap of thunder, shaking the classroom floor, matched Mary’s mood. That bitch Amber seemed to go out of her way to make life miserable for Mary. Always talking smack, “accidentally” knocking stuff out Mary’s arms, you name it. Thank God it was study hall — maybe she could get her act together before next period. Her U.S. History assignment was done, so she opened her sketchpad. The beast was almost finished, but again she flipped to a blank page and started drawing: the school, torn open by a force unmeasurable. Debris everywhere, cars overturned. A funnel cloud dwindled in the distance. From under one car, a girl’s hand, wearing a big class ring. And that repeated LET IT BE, snaking under the arm and around the hand.

Her stomach turned a flip, and she hustled to Ms. Larson’s desk. “Need a bathroom break,” she whispered.

Ms. Larson nodded. “Hurry, okay?”

Mary returned the nod and ran to the girls’ room. She closed the stall door behind her and stared at the toilet, taking deep breaths —

The alarm went off, three short barks, over and over, nearly drowned out by a constant rumble. Tornado warning, she remembered, and crouched in the corner between the toilet and the wall.

They found Amber under a car in the parking lot. Her friend Heather said she’d cut Sociology to take a smoke break outside.


Mom was on a drunken rampage. Dad hadn’t come home from work, and wasn’t answering his cellphone. Mary had slipped her sketchpad under the dresser, maybe the one safe place for it. Mom would fling her drawers everywhere, but she was too lazy to move something that heavy.

From the sound of it, she was now tearing the kitchen apart. Mary pocketed a flashlight, grabbed her sketchpad, and opened the bedroom window. The roof of the screened-in porch was just below, fortunately; from there she could drop to the deck and get away. She’d done it before.

Dad left her. And me too. What a shit! she thought. Was this the way things would always be? Disappointment punctuated by hours of Hell on Earth? Mom would be so apologetic in the morning, and maybe she’d even mean it, but it would happen again.

The house next door was foreclosed, its empty patio a welcome retreat. Mary opened the sketchpad and shone her flashlight over the beast. It was tearing itself out of the ground, ready to render its sentence on the world. The drawing was almost done. Almost. She picked up her pencil:

LET IT BE, LET IT BE, LET IT BE, LET IT BE. There will be an answer.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Feast

Here's the second of my “one photo, three genres” prompt. This one is horror.

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Feast

That tiny bird I caught yesterday is long gone. The only blood I’ve tasted in a week. My stomach rumbles.

I am so hungry. As always.

Curse the Fate and Powers, leading me to this hollow tree so many years ago! It seemed a good place to sleep, sheltered from the sun and away from prying eyes. But when I awoke, it was surrounded by this hated water and has been ever since. It is said that vampires cannot cross running water. I cannot touch water.

A ripple… fish sometimes find their way here, but the hunger cannot overcome my hatred of the water where they live. Once a fish jumped, and I caught it. I nearly fell into the water from whence it came, but claws and teeth held fast and I ate. So good… but this ripple is a turtle. They never come far enough out to catch, so I can only imagine what it would be like to crunch through that shell.

Voices. Human voices. I smell them, see them in the fading evening light, and curse the Powers anew. For they are young. Big enough to be a good meal, young enough that the sweetness has not been squeezed out of them.

One male, one female. They lay on a blanket and begin their mating ritual, pressing their mouths together, moving their hands here and there. So disgusting. Were I not trapped here, even sated, I would kill them both just to make it stop. Their clothing begins to fall away, as if to tantalize me. That stuff is tasty and nutritious as tree bark. But the flesh… oh, the flesh…

The female, now naked, springs up laughing and runs to the shore. The male follows, and she slips into the water… so close, yet out of reach. And if I let hunger do the thinking, what would happen if the other saw me and ran? I would be helpless to flee.

He follows her into the water, she retreats. Ever closer. My drool sizzles as it strikes the water. He catches her, and they press their mouths together once again. She wraps her legs around him as they join… so disgusting… they stagger into my tree, moaning and squirming.

I say a quick prayer of forgiveness to the Powers whom I have cursed for so long. I will be strong, perhaps strong enough to leap clear of this prison. If not, I can use their bones as stilts. I will be free tomorrow.

But today I feast.

#FridayFlash: Poltergeist Pranks

I had a dream a couple weeks ago, and thought it would make an interesting story…

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Poltergeist Pranks

I loved how the apartment smelled on Saturday afternoons: Jean all sweaty from helping the physical therapist in the morning, the lunch we fixed, the musk of lovemaking for dessert. I was getting used to how she’d nap afterwards, sprawled naked on her back, taking up most of the bed. We’d catch up on our homework later on, maybe meet some friends this evening, more love later. The sweet life for a couple of college students.

I slid out of bed, making sure she was covered, and padded to the bathroom. It was October, still nice out, and the window was open about six inches. I slid the condom into the trash then stood at the toilet.

Maybe I should mention the poltergeist. That’s why this apartment is so cheap: it’s haunted.

To say I missed the bowl would be an understatement. About three inches from the porcelain, the stream took a right angle turn and went out the window. I had time to say, “Oh great,” before the shouting and cursing began. I finished and took a peek through the blinds: frat rats. Five or six of them.

“Dammit,” I whispered. “Now they’re gonna pound on the door and wake up Jean.” The only reply was a brief chill and a hollow sound that could have been a snicker. My poltergeist had an odd sense of humor, and didn’t like frat rats. Seeing as a hazing gone wrong ended its living phase, I could understand that. Since I also like weird humor, we reached an accommodation early on. It and Jean are okay too, one more reason why I love her.

I had just enough time to throw some clothes on before the pounding started. Jean slept on, to my surprise. It must have been really good for her. Muffled voices joined the pounding: “Open the damn door or we’ll break it down!” “You think you’re smart?” “Get out here!” “Hey, this is the apartment where —”

With a sigh, I opened the door. “What?”

The dampened frat rats froze for a moment, then screamed and ran for the stairs. Behind me, I heard a familiar sound: Jean laughing. I turned to find her in my robe, doubled over, and grinned. Her humor was infectious. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh God, Mike, you should have seen yourself just now! Eight feet tall, green, and you were holding an axe over your head! I wish I could’ve gotten a picture!”

After a minute to think about it, I sputtered and then joined the laughter. You gotta laugh about this stuff. It’s so much easier than finding an affordable, non-haunted apartment.

#FridayFlash: Up On the Tree Top

My story this week is over at The Were-Traveler, part of the “Creepy Christmas” issue.

Linkys: entire issue and my story.

#FridayFlash: To Begin With

I’m not sure about this one, so feel free to pound on it if you’re so inclined.

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To Begin With

Source: Wikimedia Commons

The Harley was dead, to begin with.

Finds like this are rare nowadays. Almost every barn, shed, and garage in the world has been mined for vintage motorcycles. Those who still have them have an idea of what they’re worth — gone are the days when they’d almost pay you to cart off that hunk of rust.

I didn’t get it for free, but a hundred bucks is close. “Yeah,” the old lady said, “I could probably get a lot more for it, but I’d have to put it up for sale. To be honest, I need the space in the shed more than I need the money. My husband brought that thing home… oh God, thirty years ago. He left it there all this time, then he passed away last year, just as he finally started tinkering with it.” I didn’t exactly argue with her about the price. Maybe I should have — if I’d offered her something close to what it was worth, she might have still let me have it for the hundred bucks, but… well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

She watched as I pushed it out of the shed and onto my trailer. It was a tough slog — the tires were flat and rotten, and the axles turned only under protest. The chain was caked with grease, which was good because it didn’t impede me even more. The clutch cable was frozen, but I managed to find neutral after a few attempts.

“I think I got the better end of this transaction,” said the old lady, with a sardonic smile, after I wrestled the bike onto the trailer and got a couple tie-downs on it. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure,” I said. “But seriously, you’re letting this go for —”

She waved off my protest. “Coffee or tea?”

“Water would be fine,” I said. She nodded and ducked into the house, bringing out an old green tumbler full of ice water as I finished securing my prize.

“Mitch wi— would be pleased,” she said as I drained the glass. “At least someone’s taking on his old project.” She paused a moment as I handed her the tumbler. “Well, I’m sure you’re anxious to get home and start fixing it up.”


The restoration went much smoother than expected. I had to tear it down, of course, but the insides were in much better shape than I could have hoped for — almost no wear on the bearings, and no scoring on the cylinder walls. The odometer’s 1300 miles could well have been honest. The frame was sound, and most of the rust was only on the surface. A few hundred bucks’ worth of parts, and a bunch of evenings spent the way I like spending them, and I had a vintage bike easily worth eight grand. Maybe ten.

It was Christmas Eve when I hooked up the battery. Cold outside, but warm enough in the garage. I thumbed the compression release, squeezed the clutch, and stood on the kickstarter. To my surprise and delight, it coughed to life on the third kick! “Merry Christmas! It lives!” I shouted. I let it warm up while donning my cold-weather gear.

“Where to?” I asked the bike. Friends were drifting off… but Jim had said something about a Christmas party at his place tonight. It was only ten miles away, and my gear was good for thirty in this weather. I backed out of the garage, flipped on the headlight, and was on my way.

The Harley was alive!


I’d gone maybe a mile when the rabbit dashed across the road. The bike surged on me, as if jumping at the rabbit, and we nailed it before I had a chance to brake or throttle back. I grimaced, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Evolution in action, etc.

I was almost to Jim’s place when it started sputtering. I cursed and pulled to the side under a street light, working the spark advance to keep it running, and leaned over to look. Nothing leaking, but that didn’t mean anything. I could have missed a piece of crud in the fuel system — or worse, an oil line — and now I was paying the price. I took off a glove to twist the petcock, then cut a finger groping for it. A second later, the engine smoothed out. I wrapped a napkin from my pocket around my finger, then put the glove back on. Whatever crud it was, I thought, it must have passed through.

Jim’s party paused for a few minutes, because everyone heard my grand entrance and wanted to see the bike. Beer flowed freely, and I drank more than usual when on two wheels. Jim offered to let me stay over, but the Harley started right up again and I rolled out.

A rat scurried out in front of me on the way home. Again, the Harley surged and caught it. Too weird, I thought, but I had no idea anything was wrong until I got to the turn home… and kept going. I couldn’t get the bike to slow down, no matter how hard I throttled back or braked. Straight on we went, into the ugly part of town.

Close to midnight, I saw the drunk staggering along the sidewalk up ahead… and so did the bike. The headlight died, and I braced myself for what was coming. The drunk stumbled into the street and the Harley surged again. I wrestled the handlebars, but the bike was in control: it swerved at the last second, kicking the back end around and slapping the drunk back to the sidewalk. The reaction pushed us out of the skid. We kept going, and haven’t stopped yet.

So if you see me coming, get away from the road.

The Harley is undead. And it’s hungry.

#FridayFlash: Geek vs. Zombies

If there’s a moral to this story, I suppose it would be don’t mess with a geek!

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“You’re my little geek girl, Linda.” Her father’s voice came to her from years away.

“Flipping switches, turning knobs, pushing buttons,” she said aloud, and grinned. “Gotta figure out how stuff works.” What was once a passion was now a survival trait. She’d been in touch with her parents up in New York City up until the phones stopped working. Maybe they were still alive.

Linda Ma stepped away from the edge and wrote in her notebook:

Weaknesses: All senses seem dulled except for sense of smell. They can hear a gunshot, but not a bow. Sense of touch is all but gone; they ignore arrows to non-vital parts. If they are upwind, they cannot find a living person standing still in shadow.

They appear to be lazy, following the path of least resistance unless they smell prey. Stairs are difficult for them, locked doors are impossible.

Feeding habits: they are pack hunters, not scavengers. They will not eat carrion — which makes sense, otherwise they would attack each other. They will eat animals they can catch, but prefer human flesh. Packs of dogs follow them and attempt to snatch some of their kills (or tear off hunks of zombie legs) without themselves landing on the menu.

Knowledge — potentially useful — gained from a nauseating week of observation. Most of it had been done from right here, her fourth-floor rooftop garden, where the zombies got only occasional whiffs of her but no ideas how to reach her. Some of her work, though, required getting way too close. The dogs made things easier for her, though — the constant racket of their barking, nipping at zombies, and their smell (they rolled in carrion) kept them from noticing a living human lurking downwind. On the one occasion they spotted her, she reluctantly put an arrow into a dog and ran for it; they went for the easy meat.

She turned back to her notebook:

Miscellaneous: the zombies and dogs are in the process of forming a sort of symbiotic relationship. It might be useful to think of the dogs as remora, or pilot fish, but more aggressive. She pushed away the memory of what happened after she crippled one zombie with lucky shots to each knee: the dogs fell on it with gusto and left it little more than a skeleton, twitching on the street. Given the opportunity, they have no problem eating each other — but it’s possible that the dogs will start protecting the zombies, and perhaps even helping them find food, as time goes on.

She could hold out a long time. She had managed to raid a grocery store, and between that and what others left in the apartment building, she had plenty of food. Her father had immigrated here, her mother was second-generation, and they had raised her as Western as they knew how. But rice and vegetables just agreed with them all, and they made little effort to Westernize their diet. A vegetarian diet was about the only thing Chinese about her habits.

Picking up her notebook, she felt reluctant to add the next part:

How to fight: stay downwind. Attack from cover. Avoid using firearms, it seems to draw them. She remembered the small group of people who’d shot up a small pack of zombies, only to attract several larger packs with the noise. It had not ended well for the living. Crippling them is much easier than killing — the latter requires severing or destroying the head — and once crippled, the dogs will finish the job.

It may be better to take an Eastern approach, and simply remove ourselves from their path instead of trying to confront them. Their primary food supply (us) is mostly gone already, and they are not clever or quick enough to catch most animals. Zombies need an energy source, just like anything else, and without that they may finally turn on each other. Or they may simply lay down and finish dying.

“Or,” she said with a grim smile, looking at the cases of dynamite, fuses, and blasting caps she’d carried up, “you can just blow the bastards to Kingdom Come, and let the noise bring more. Lather, rinse, repeat.” It wasn’t an endless loop, but it would be a lot more fun than waiting.

#FridayFlash: At Rest

This is a dark one for me. That’s what I get for looking for inspiration in a graveyard again. Like I said, this cemetery has been around a long time, and more than a few (very) young children are buried here. The grave below has a hole in the middle of it; I wondered what happened and the story once again wrote itself.

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At Rest

Talia Hart glanced about her, but the others seemed inclined to allow her this moment alone. A wisp of autumn wind stirred about her, whispering comfort. The scent of turned earth mingled with the cut flowers she held, calling spring planting to mind.

“I won’t say I’m sorry you’re gone, Fredrick Hart,” she whispered. “I loved you the best a wife could. But whatever it was that happened, it was comin’ to you.”

A twinge of guilt washed over her, and unwanted tears came. Was she to blame? She cursed him that night, after all…


Fredrick paused in his drunken humping. “Won’t it shut the hell up?”

“She’s probably hungry. Babies get that way. Finish what you’re doin’ and I’ll go feed her.”

Her husband returned to business for a few seconds, then rolled off her. “Shit. Just take care of it.”

Talia stood, pulled her gown down, and made her stiff-legged way to their daughter’s cradle. “Hush now, Mary,” she said, shrugging one full breast out of her gown and offering it to the baby. Mary fussed for a few seconds, then latched on. Talia winced, but made no protest — Mary was just a baby after all. Life was pain, the preacher said, and that was true. Mary’s hunger, Fredrick’s meanness, the endless work in between, from pain to pain. Maybe she should take to hard drinkin’ the way her husband did. Was doing now, from the sound of it.

After a while, Mary slept and Talia returned to bed. Fredrick yanked her gown up and rolled on. “Saddle up, boys, this ride ain’t finished yet,” he chuckled, thrusting —

Mary started wailing again.

“That’s it!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “I’m takin’ care of this, once and for all!” He stomped toward the cradle.

“Fredrick, no!” Talia screamed, grabbing his arm. That was all she remembered for a while.


Talia awoke on the floor, face on fire. Her husband sat at the rough table, whiskey jug at hand. Something’s wrong… “Mary!” She scrambled to her feet.

“Died in her sleep,” said Fredrick, staring at the ceiling. “Prob’ly choked on somethin’. I went and gave her a good Christian burial out back. You say anything different, and you’ll be there next to her. Understand?” He took a long pull from his jug, then laid his head on the table.

“The Devil take you for what you done, Fredrick Hart,” she hissed. “And may he do you ten times worse than what you did to an innocent baby, for all eternity.” Then she passed out herself.


Fredrick Hart had a still at the back of his property, shielded from sight by a rhododendron hedge growing along the creek. He got a fair income from whiskey, and might have got more had he not been so fond of his own makings. This new moon night was just right for the work: plenty dark enough to keep trespassers at home, no wind so the fire wouldn’t get out of hand. The wife was keeping the house… not like she’d done much else these last few months. Never spoke unless spoken to, and only one or two words if that. Which suited him just fine —

Snap went a twig, and Fredrick slipped into the bushes. He left dry twigs all around the still, to give him fair warning. He drew his boot knife, slow and silent, and listened.

A squall went up. Fox got a rabbit, but it kept on like a hungry baby.

“What the hell,” he muttered, slipping around the rhododendron and along the soft moist creek bank. The wailing kept on, leading him. “Died in her sleep,” he whispered, not realizing. Truth be told, he didn’t remember what happened to Talia’s brat. He must have buried it, though. He’d later paid good coin for a crude headstone:

MARY HART
B. JAN 26, 18—
D. APR 4, 18—

The wailing. Fredrick wrung the hilt of his knife and followed the noise up the bank. Too dark to see, but he knew where he was.

Now the noise was behind him. He trotted along the edge of the river bank —

Talia found him the next afternoon, just above the still. He’d slipped and fell onto one of his own traps; the sharpened stick went in between his legs and came out behind his shoulder. From the look on his face, he’d lived a little while. She nodded and took the wagon into town for help.


Wiping her eyes with her free hand, Talia walked to the wagon. Without a word to anyone, she rode away, still clutching the bunch of late-summer flowers.

At home, she went to Mary’s little grave. Something — maybe a gopher — had dug a hole in the middle of it. Talia slipped the flowers into the hole. She glanced at the headstone, but her tears hid a line that had not been there before:

AT REST.

#FridayFlash: Grand Coup

I got the idea for this story Wednesday evening, on a stroll with Mason. We walk along a dirt road bordering a nearby cemetery, since there’s not much traffic to contend with. Some of the buried were born in the 1830s; some of those have Confederate flags next to their headstones, indicating a Civil War veteran. The story came to me almost immediately. Any perceived resemblance to The Screwtape Letters is an honor on my part.

Thanks to Tony Noland, Chuck Allen, and Craig WF Smith for looking it over. I was concerned it might be too dialog-heavy.

---

Grand Coup

“Welcome to the real world, kid.” Filth held out his grimy paw, engulfed the newcomer’s in it.

Despair grinned. “Yeah. No more classes. Church bells, but that training was like Limbo — I never thought I’d get outta there!”

“Hey, watch your mouth. You Venals all come outta training thinkin’ you’re Hell on Wheels. Got all the latest techniques, up to date with the modern program and all that shit. Well, I got news for ya, hot shot: your real training begins right here, right now.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come on. You know the saying: those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

“And those who can’t teach, administrate!”

Filth glanced around them. “I wouldn’t say that too loud, kid. Some of these walls has ears, ya know. Besides, that’s some human’s idea of a joke. Your instructors, they did their worst with ya. But half of ‘em never been out in the field, and the other half got kicked upstairs ‘cuz they didn’t get the job done. You know? Okay, riddle me this: what’s the best way to get a soul on the road to Hell?”

“Huh, that’s easy. Sex.”

“Bah.” Filth spit, making the stone sizzle. “See, the problem with you Venals is, they pump you up. Yeah, they gotta make you prideful, you’ll never get the job done if you start doubtin’ yerself, but then they fill you up with our own propaganda.” He lowered his grinding voice. “Ya didn’t hear this from me, but the Enemy created those greasy little humans with a sex drive. It’s the way they’re wired, not a whole lot of sin in that. Why do you think the Propaganda Department gets ‘em focused so much on it? Yeah. Humans got a one-track mind. Get the churchies all worried about Lust, and they completely ignore Greed. And we get a big ol’ helpin’ of Wrath and Envy on the side, when other people get what those ‘God-fearing’ churchies are afraid of gettin’ themselves. The problem is, you hear the message we send to the humans, then you get to believin’ it yourself.”

Despair scratched between his horns, leaving shallow grooves in the top of his skull. “So what’s the plan?”

“It ain’t the sex that’s brings in the sin, it’s the disloyalty. Women churchies are great for that. Get ‘er all afraid to enjoy herself, she cuts off the man, the man starts lookin’ outside. He don’t even hafta follow through to bring the sin, ya know!”

“Yeah. I knew that.”

“Sure. Even your instructors can get that much right.” Filth made a dismissive gesture. “Gettin’ a human to do somethin’ they shouldn’t, that’s easy. Oh yeah, get ‘em to do it enough, and it adds up, sure. But there’s lotsa ways to fork a soul. You can get ‘em to wanna do it, without ‘em actually havin’ the fun, and that’s what we call a little coup out here in the field.”

“Uh-huh. We learned that in Advanced Temp, last semester of training. Just not that word for it.”

“Yeah. They told you about keepin’ humans from doin’ stuff they should, right? Usually easier than gettin’ ‘em to do, and usually a better result.”

“Sure. Why you tellin’ me all this?”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew the basics, kid. Some of you Venals sleep through the whole thing and think all ya gotta do is keep a human outta church. Were you payin’ attention in yer Historic Triumphs class? You remember Hideous?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s the one that started the American Civil War, right?”

“Close enough. But you probably focused on all the sufferin’ and hatin’ and all the gravy, and didn’t get down to the meat, right?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“That wasn’t the point of that war — or any war. The hate, the pain, the killin’, that’s all gravy. Tasty, but it ain’t fillin’. The real point was turnin’ their virtues —” spit, sizzle — “against ‘em. Makin’ that what brings the sin. Hideous got all them souls on the losin’ side to turn their loyalty to their homes into treason against their nation. That’s the biggest score of all, kid. We call it the grand coup.”

Despair got a faraway look. “Grand coup. Yeah.”

“And Hideous didn’t do it to just one soul, he did it on a grand scale. That’s how he ended up running the furnaces — it usually takes serious connections to get that kinda cushy job. And he made the leap from Senior Venal to Grand Malevolence all at once…. Whoa. Look, kid. It’s an advanced technique. Hideous not only paid attention in class, he had a great field mentor and he got bless’ lucky. It takes years to lay the groundwork for that kind of payoff. Old Plaguepit did most of the work, and left it to Hideous when he retired. Rotheart’s doin’ somethin’ similar with the churchies now, dunno if it’ll pay off. It’s always risky playin’ around with churchies. If some of ‘em get wise to the game…” Filth shook his head. “I seen a century of work unravel in weeks, thousands of souls lost — that always gets the attention of those down-pit.” He shuddered. “You and me, kid, we’ll play it safe. Nibble around the edges. Little challenges, stuff that don’t make trouble if it don’t pan out. You don’t need a grand coup to snag a soul. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Slow and steady. Sure.” Despair still had that faraway look, and that suited Filth just fine. Like flies to shit. He’d been stuck at Senior Vice rank forever, but there was more than one way to get ahead. Let Despair take the risks, and take the fall if he screwed up — it was on the record that Filth cautioned the kid against big schemes — and it would be easy enough to snag the credit and that promotion to Lower Malevolence if the kid did manage to pull off a grand coup.

#FridayFlash: Purple Indian

This story has been kicking around in my head for a long time. It finally found its way out.

---

Purple Indian

I was riding to work on a beautiful morning, running a little late as usual. But that meant traffic was mostly cleared out. I like to avoid the freeways on a motorcycle, back roads are quiet and usually more fun anyway.

So it was, I was on Old Atlanta Road that morning. I glanced at my mirror and saw a big cruiser behind me, coming up fast, so I eased over and waved him around. I like to ride my own ride, and let others ride theirs.

He came around me, but slowed so we were side-by-side for a moment. I usually don’t like that, but I made an exception for a gorgeous custom Indian Four. Some people go way overboard on the chrome and billet, but this guy knew where to draw the line and stayed well back from it — the paint did the talking, with a few small bits of chrome as highlights. The frame was painted royal purple. The tank and big skirted fenders were the same color, with green checkers — sounds hideous, but it looked great. Worn leather saddlebags, with no fringes or conchos, completed the look. A serious bike for a serious rider.

And he looked the part. You see posers all the time, but this guy was for real. Sturdy leather boots, jeans, an aviator jacket. The only oddball item was the replica Nazi helmet, and yet it looked right on him. Goggles covered part of his face, but he looked young younger than me.

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Beautiful!” I shouted. He gave me a nod and a smile, then gassed it and rolled on by. The final surprise was, I didn’t get blasted by a three-digit decibel tailpipe. There was a growl, but nothing that would startle a sleeping baby awake or upset an elderly couple. Inline fours are a lot smoother than V-twins anyway.

We rounded a curve, and he opened up some more distance, a little faster than I was comfortable going on this road. As he topped a low hill ahead, his brake light flashed and he put his arm out, palm down — the gesture that means Slow down! Forewarned, I eased off the throttle.

Just over the hill, an SUV had mixed it up with a landscaper, pulling out of a subdivision. Both drivers were standing on the side of the road, jabbering into cell phones and giving each other dirty looks. Their vehicles blocked both lanes, but there was just enough room for a motorcycle to squeeze between the end of the landscaper’s trailer and the ditch. On the other side, the purple Indian was nowhere to be seen. I spent some time wondering how he’d managed to slow down enough to thread that needle; his bike was big and he’d been moving at a pretty good clip. Then I got to work and forgot all about it.


Time went by, and a local pub put on a vintage bike show one weekend. I managed to find some excuse to get out of the house and rode down.

As is so often the case with these shows, it was as much about hobnobbing with fellow riders as it is the rolling sculptures. Some of the bikes were beautiful, some — like the guy who strapped a NOS canister onto the front fender of a Honda Passport — were just quirky and fun. I was admiring a restoration in progress, a 1940 Indian Chief, and the owner stepped out of his truck to say hello.

“It runs pretty good now,” he said. “I know it looks a little shabby yet, but I wanted to make it rideable before I made it pretty.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Um… hey. I was wondering, do you know anyone around here with an Indian Four? You couldn’t miss it, it’s purple with green checkers —”

He got a funny look, and for a moment I thought I’d stepped into something. “Uh… let’s go inside. There’s someone who knows him. He’ll want to hear this.”


He led me to a table where an old man sat, nursing a beer. I tried to recall the guy I’d seen a few months back, and thought there might be some family resemblance. My host whispered something, nodding at me, and one eyebrow cocked up. He motioned us to sit.

“Tell me,” he said, and took a sip of beer.

“Not much to tell. I saw him on Old Atlanta Road one morning, and he warned me about a wreck just over the top of a hill. I don’t have a clue how he didn’t get mixed up in it, he was moving pretty quick.”

“Indian Four, purple with green checkers?” I nodded. “That was my brother, all right.”

“Brother?” I was sure he meant grandson.

“Yup. He was part of the D-Day force. He had a Medal of Honor, but he never talked much about that day. Some things you just aren’t meant to see, hey?

“So he came back. He’d been wounded, but it was the wounds up here —” he tapped his balding skull — “that didn’t heal right. And he was — I guess you young folks call it ‘gay’ these days. Not such a big deal now, but back then you had to hide it. Especially around here. So there was this war hero that wore his skin, and himself hiding inside. He bought that motor-sickle, gave it that outrageous paint job, and just — disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Oh, he’s still around. Out where he’s respected.”

He waved, and a waitress approached. “Let me buy you a beer. It’s good to hear from people who see him. I figure it won’t be a couple years before he comes home and takes me for a ride.”

#FridayFlash: The Power Given

This one is a lot darker than my usual stuff. You have been warned.

---

Cameron and Teri pelted up the steps of the church. “It’s not locked!” Cameron gasped. They rushed inside and slammed the door.

“Wait, Cam!” Teri panted. “Where’s Steve?”

“He was right behind us — oh God.” Cameron opened the door a crack and peered outside. Nothing. He stuck his head out, looked around. “Steve! In here!”

Teri pulled the door open wider, looked out. “Steve! Steve?”

A figure stepped into the floodlights in front of the church.

It wasn’t Steve.


Steve had invited him to the seance, but Cameron had only gone because Teri was going. Cam guessed every school had its own Meredith, a girl who took the occult a little too seriously. As for Steve, his grandfather had died and left Steve’s dad and uncle the lake house. The old man didn’t trust banks, and Steve just wanted to know where he’d hidden his cash so Dad and Uncle Phil wouldn’t tear the place apart hunting for treasure. To Steve, the lake house was the treasure. He had plans for the summer.

Cam remembered standing around the pentacle, his left hand in Meredith’s right, his right in Teri’s left. A mist seemed to form in the middle, taking shape… then Something Else clawed its way through, pushing the spirit aside to face Meredith. Cam barely had time to jerk free before it fell upon her, and they fled in unreasoning panic…


They hadn’t got a good look at the thing at Meredith’s, but it was too ugly to take in anyway — looking at it left only impressions of claws, teeth, glowing red eyes. Cam wished he could forget Meredith’s muffled scream as it engulfed her head in its mouth —

“Come out of there and face me!” Its voice was bones snapping and claws ripping up concrete. “You cannot defeat me otherwise!”

Cam and Teri looked at each other, both horrified at the prospect.

“Come out, boy! Or would you rather this woman-child hear how you pleasure yourself as you dream of lying with her in carnal embrace—”

Cam slammed the door shut, thankful the lights were out so Teri couldn’t see him blushing.

“Cam… yuck.”

“It’s a demon! It lies!” Cam took a deep breath, felt for the deadbolt, and latched it. “Maybe we’ll be safe here. It wants us to come out, so maybe it can’t come in. We can go home once it’s daylight.”

“Daylight? I thought that was vampires.” Teri sounded doubtful.

“It’s our best—”

“Fools!” The demon sounded like it was just outside. “You played with fire, now you shall burn!” A moment later, the door shuddered to a blow from the other side.

Teri shrieked. “It’s trying to — what do —”

Cam fumbled in the dark and found a light switch. A fluorescent fixture in the hung ceiling above them lit up the foyer where they stood. Again the demon struck the door; the wood began to crack.

“I hope this place has a back door.” Cam seized Teri’s hand and pulled her into the sanctuary. She pulled loose but stayed with him, letting him lead her to a side door. They slipped into a hallway, as they heard the front door tear off its hinges. Down to the left, they saw a dim EXIT sign.

“Where do we go now?” Teri whimpered.

“Maybe Steve got away,” he said, as they hustled to the exit. “Maybe he went a different way and left us. If we split up, it can’t catch us both, right?”

“Maybe. But then what?”

“You go find another church. This one at least slowed the demon down some. I’ll try to get back to Meredith’s. Maybe there’s something I can find to get rid of it there.”

I hope so.”

“Yeah.” Cam reached for her. “Teri… if we both make it — will you go out with me?”

Teri sighed and pulled her hand away. “Maybe. Let’s both get away first, okay?”

“Sure.” Cam tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Go!” He shoved the door open; they burst into the dark.

Cam ran across the parking lot and into a greenspace. He stumbled into a stream, but followed it, hoping the water would carry his scent away. He heard a scream, cut short, and thought about what might have been. “But probably not,” he grumbled, hating Teri for a few seconds. “Never was good enough for you, was I?”

At a culvert, he clambered out of the stream and back onto the street, shoes squishing on the pavement. At the first corner, he stopped to check the street signs to see where he was —

It stepped into the streetlight at the opposite corner. As Cam saw it, it gave him a hideous grin, showing more teeth than a mouth had any right to hold. The teeth were bloody.

Cam turned and ran, harder than he ever had, hoping to reach the temporary sanctuary of the church. But it was less than a block before a clawed hand gripped his shoulder, talons sinking into his chest and bringing him up short. He was too winded to scream, despite the pain, then the other hand wrapped around his throat before he had a chance to catch his breath. It lifted him and turned him to face it. Its hot breath smelled of rotten meat and sulfur, making him gag.

“Fool,” it said. “The only power I had is what you gave me.”

#FridayFlash: Turn Back

Thanks to a major Blogger outage — first one in years — I wasn’t able to post this here yesterday. Hope it’s worth the wait!

---

Turn Back

They lay together in the brush and tall grass, oblivious to the bright moon above. Wrapped around each other, they gasped their joy and moaned their frustrated fully-clothed passion, minute after eye-rolling minute.

At last, they came up for air — or one of them did, the other needed no air — and cuddled together, her head on his collarbone. “I wish we could be together like this forever,” she whispered.  “You could make it happen — right now.” She twisted her head around, offering him her neck.

“Yeah,” the boy under her said. He seemed to glimmer — or perhaps sparkle — in the moonlight. “And we’d be like this forever, too. I’ve been in tenth grade for the last ninety years. It sucks. You don’t want to live like this forever — trust me. I don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad, if you were with me,” she insisted. “The way it is, I’ll get real old — like thirty! — and you won’t be any different. I can’t make you mortal… but you can make me immortal!” She squirmed up his body, bringing her neck closer to his mouth.

“Actually… you can make me mortal,” he said, making her gasp and sit up. “I’ve been researching, when Father wasn’t looking. I couldn’t bite you because it needs someone who’s never been bitten.”

“Ewwwww,” she said after he told her what she needed to do. “That’s gross!”

“I know,” he said, “but will you do it for me? Please?”

• • •

A trip to Taco Bell got her an extra-large Diet Coke, and she drank it and most of a refill. They hurried back to their make-out spot, her moaning her discomfort, still clutching the big plastic cup. “You ready?” he asked her.

“I’m about to pop like a balloon,” she grumbled. “A water balloon.”

He laughed. “Okay. Just go behind that bush.” She complied, and he undressed as she did what she had to.

She gasped at his naked figure and nearly dropped the cup, sloshing a little of it out. “Ewwww! I almost filled it up! And it’s warm!” She shook her hand. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” He nodded, but she just stood there for a minute, taking him in.

“Remember to do it slow. It has to get all over me. You want me to turn around? It might be easier for you.” He was responding to her scrutiny.

“Yeah.”

He turned, and she approached, looking at his tight butt and imagining her clutching it as he lay on top of her… “This is so gross,” she whispered, and slowly poured the contents of her cup over her boyfriend, muttering “Eww, eww, eww,” under her breath.

He gasped and gritted his teeth against the wrenching feeling as the warm urine ran down his body. He slammed his chest with a wet smack, and took huge whooping breaths. He twisted around, trying to make sure the stream wetted every part of him, until he stood barefoot in a puddle of wet glitter.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m breathing! My heart is beating! I’m not a vampire anymore! Let’s get me a hamburger, or spaghetti, or something — I can’t wait to eat real food again!”

“Ewwww, wait! You’re all wet — and you smell like — you know!”

He stopped. “Oh. We should have gotten some water too.”

She growled and flounced back to the Taco Bell, alone.

• • •

“Marin! Do you know what Weldon has done?”

Marin nodded. “He is but a boy again.”

His wife swelled with indignation. “And this does not concern you? What is he going to do?”

“Grow up, I hope!” Marin snapped. “Great Lestat, Sanda, I am so sick of his eternal teenage hormones! Had I heard his incessant whining much longer, I’d have driven a stake in him myself! Why do you think I left out the books he needed to learn how to turn back?”

Sanda gasped, and Marin went on a little quieter. “Look. He’s a boy. He’s been a boy all these many years. Let him become a man. He can get over this… this obsession with the girl. Or he can marry her for all I care. When he’s become a man, we can turn him again.”

#FridayFlash: We Danced

I know this kind of story has been done… dare I say, done to death? But I liked it anyway. It’s pretty short — less than 300 words — but a story is the length it is.

---

We Danced

We embraced in the moonlight that night, dancing to the sappy love songs playing on her car radio. I desired her then and now as no man ever could, but it would have been wrong to take her then. I swore I would return for her when the time was right, and I always keep my promises.

Agony — what to wear? I chose to go modern: vest, shirt, jeans, all stylishly black, fleeing further indecision.

And now I stand before her, the smile I remember coming to her face. “You came.”

“I always keep my promises.”

She laughs. “This is one promise you could never break!”

“True.” I grin. So many have tried to flee from my smile, but she returns it. “Has it gone well with you?”

“Very. There was a time I wished you might never come, and yet I was always thankful that you rescued me that night.”

“I missed you. And yet, I always knew we would be together.” I feel shy of a sudden. “Then… shall we dance again?”

She laughed, arose, and took my hand. At once, we were there — the place where I fell in love so long ago. A lonely clearing stood at the end of a winding dirt road, much like it had been then. The music began anew, and we embraced. In my memory, I saw her as she was that night, clinging to me in the moonlight, throwing aside her father’s pistol — embracing life even as she embraced Death.

#FridayFlash: Fire!

Do you know how to deal with witches? I’m talking about the traditional looking ones, like in fairy tales, with pointed hats, crooked teeth – probably bad breath, but I haven’t been in her mouth’s reach, so I can’t really tell – and scary as hell.

Don’t you snort at me, I’m not mocking. I’m serious as a heart attack, like the one I almost had when it all happened. Thank you. I appreciate your willingness to listen. I was as incredulous as you when I saw her, you know? I kept thinking that it was a bad dream, but my gut told me otherwise, and the facts that followed are undeniable.

It was late spring so the nights were still cold. The flowers seemed to refuse to bud that year. C’mon, a little patience here? The house was warmed enough but I woke up with a cold weight in my chest. I felt my heart was churning like when you’re so hungry that your stomach hurts. Have you ever felt like that? Yeah, it’s a horrible feeling.

So I got up to see if everything was okay. The clock alarm told me it was 5 a.m. as I shuddered in the dark. My feet were cold from the contact with the floor but I didn’t notice it until much later. I patted the walls to find my way to the baby’s room, not wanting to wake the family up.
I opened Jake’s door gingerly and slipped inside, closing it behind me. I found so very odd that outside was darker but I blamed the early hour. By then, a deep sense of dread had taken me and I was fully awake. As I turned in the cradle’s direction I realized where the light was coming from.

Yes, yes, I know you’ve guessed it already. There she was, humming something over Jake, her broom leaned against his cradle at her hand’s reach. You think I’ve reacted immediately? I’m no movie character that in face of danger reacts heroically and saves the day; I’m only human. I stopped dead and listened, her humming swirling in my head. I was dazed for what it felt like a long time.

Then I saw the knife emitting a gray light like twilight. It didn’t properly shine but was enough to reveal her wicked grin. This is when my heart jumped inside my chest and I shouted by sheer instinct, “Put that down!”

She paused mid-movement, noticing me for the first time. When she diverted her eyes in my direction I thought I was dead. Or worse, I’d be transformed in a rat or a goat and never see my family again. Would she mount me? That would be even worse. I gulped down and her smile broadened until it covered most of her face. She opened her hand finger by finger, letting the knife fall to the floor with a thud. She turned deliberately slowly towards me and said with a rasped voice and a mouth full of tiny sharped teeth, “You fool man.” Then she started chanting something different, but it felt similar to the first chant. I was there, gaping at her with a blank mind. What was I to do? I could feel in my bones her curse taking hold, and although I couldn’t understand her words I somehow knew what it meant. I’m to kill my own son with that knife, and when that happens we’ll be hers forever.

The knife doesn’t shine anymore, and I feel nothing as I hold it in my hand. But I can’t make myself throw it away or destroy it. Is it part of the spell?

People say that if you shout for help no one will listen. So if you are in distress, you’ll only get people’s attention if you shout fire. Fire… Fire! Huge undying fire!

---

!sdrawkcab ... hsalFyadirF s'tI

April Fool! The story you just read here is a part of the Great April Fool's Day FridayFlash Blog Swap, organized by Tony Noland. You can find my story for today at Mari Juniper’s website, Mari’s Randomities. To read all the dozens of stories swapping around as a part of the GAFDFFBS, check out the GAFDFFBS index over at Tony's blog: Landless. For hundreds of thousands of words of fantastic flash fiction stories, check out the FridayFlash hashtag on Twitter. It happens every Friday!

Read more: http://www.tonynoland.com/2011/03/great-april-fools-day-fridayflash-blog_9145.html#ixzz1ICt6m7cc

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This was fun. A bunch of us volunteered, and Tony assigned us partners and a brief writing prompt — ours was “Put that down!” which happens to be the title of my story on Mari’s blog. We carried it a little further, specifying five elements common to both our stories.

Mari’s bio: Mari Juniper is a former attorney who got bored of making money (yeah, right), deciding for the writing venture instead. She has a blog -- mari's randomities -- where she shares short stories, poems, reflections and pretty things that fancy her and her visitors. She can also be found on twitter and on facebook.

#FridayFlash: Go Out With a Bang

As has happened several times in the past, I wrote this in a burst after thinking I wasn’t going to write much. This one’s a more traditional zombie story than my last one, and is based on a writing prompt from Apple Ardent Scott: You’ve Been Bitten — Now What? Might as well…

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Go Out With a Bang

I keep looking at my cellphone. I need to stop it. Focus. Doc White says I’ve got about an hour, maybe a little more, based on my weight and age.

The bite doesn’t feel that bad, but I guess that doesn’t matter. Getting numb is one of the symptoms. Hey, since I won’t be me much longer, I might as well be honest — it was my own damn fault. We got surprised, had to leave the truck when it ran out of gas, got back here just ahead of the zombies. I forgot to bar the outer door, and they just walked right in. We pushed ’em out of the alcove, but one fell and bit my leg. Hurt like hell for about ten seconds. I pulped the sumbitch’s head, too late for me. I’ll be out there with ’em soon enough.

I’ve made my last confession to the priest, the machete’s razor-sharp, and I’ve got Billy-Bob, my trusty two-pound hammer. One more thing to do. I walk over to Heather; she looks her normal pissy self as she finishes my suicide vest.

“Hey.” I move her sweater and purse off the other barstool, to an empty part of the workbench, and pull it up close.

“What?” She has a cellphone already wired into the vest, wisely turned off. Its number is already programmed into my phone. The bomb part is done, she’s just pouring shrapnel into pouches to make the bomb do that much more damage.

“I have a confession to make: in spite of your attitude, I’m still attracted to you. I fantasized a lot about taking you into a corner and banging your brains out.”

She finally looks at me. I could snap a portrait and put it in the dictionary next to “distaste.” “Uh-huh. You think maybe I’ll grant you a last request or something?”

“No time for that. I just hope it makes you more eager to push that call button when the time comes.” I lay my cellphone on the workbench near her hand.

Heather shakes her head. Her look changes… it might have been a tender look, if she knew how to give one. “I don’t hate you, Ras. Don’t even dislike you. I just haven’t thought that way since… since all this zombie shit. If I’d known you before…”

“You’d have slagged me off as a dirty old man.” I grin. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t have come onto you anyway. I’m all talk. Well, mostly.” I pick up my cellphone one last time. “Forty minutes. Time flies. Is that thing ready?”

“Yeah.” Heather helps me slip the vest on, hands me a largish flannel shirt to put on over it, quickly kisses my cheek when nobody’s looking. I barely feel it, but cherish the gesture. “Good luck out there,” she whispers.

“My luck ran out an hour ago. But thanks. I’ll take as many of ’em down as I can. Call me when it’s over, okay?”

“Asshole.” But she’s smiling. Heather has a pretty smile, I just wish I’d seen it more. I turn away and say goodbye to the others — Doc White, Friar Buck, Linda the chain-smoker, JR the male stripper, Walt, Jenny, the others — and get handshakes or hugs as the spirit moves them (and another kiss, from JR). Buck follows me to the inner door and gives me last rites, then I put on my old motorcycle helmet and gloves. Heather and I go through the door, hear it latch behind us. We say nothing — it’s all been said. She turns on the vest phone, and I pace the alcove a couple times, working up my nerve. A stumble tells me it’s time: I’m almost completely numb now. At least I won’t feel much out there.

Hammer and machete thongs looped around each wrist — check. Helmet in place — check. I look through the peephole — the zombies are waiting. Check. I look at Heather and nod, lifting the bar as quiet as possible. Heather’s right behind me; she closes and bars the door as I slip through.

They see me, shamble my way. I rush to meet them, machete in my left hand, hammer in my right. I dodge, almost fall, hack at backs of knees to hamstring them as I try to stay outside their flank, then break away and catch my breath, fogging my face shield a little. They follow. I use Billy-Bob to smash in the head of the first, hamstring the second, dodge around their flank again, bashing heads as I go, then break away again.

Getting slower. Time for the grand finale. I hoped to get ’em all, but that’s not gonna happen. But with any luck, I’ll do enough so the others can finish the job.

I raise my weapons, scream, charge stumbling into their midst, hacking and pounding. I see more than feel their hands reach, grab, pull. The machete falls away, then the hammer. I see them bite, hoping Heath—

#FridayFlash: Zombie Wrangler

I think I got the idea for this one last summer, from an off-the-cuff silly comment on Twitter.

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Zombie Wrangler

“Have a good day, Paul.”

Paul Contera hugged his wife. “You too, Laurie. If you can.”

“It’s not so bad, mostly.”

“Yeah. I’ll be home as soon as I can. We have that Dairymen’s Association thing to finish, but maybe we’ll be done early.”

“Okay. Bye.” They ducked into the garage and Paul backed the Acura out, leaving Laurie to the day ahead.

Laurie sighed and looked over her equipment hanging on the back wall of the garage. They wouldn’t be moving much for another half hour, so she had time for her coffee and danish.


8:00. Time to get started. She put on her gear: headset video/audio, jacket, kit bag, cattle prod (which she never had to use, but got a verbal reprimand the one time she left it). She turned on the headset and faced the big QR square pasted up next to the gear hangers.

Robin’s Western accent twanged in her audio. “Laurie Contera, confirmed check-in. How’s the audio?”

“Sounds good, Robin,” she replied. “How about mine?”

“Great. You ready?”

“I guess so. Your other victims on line yet?”

“You’re the second. Swamy’s already in… whup, there’s Mike. Shirley’s always a little slow, and Marilyn called in sick. I’ll pop in to chat a little later, gotta check in Mike. But I’m watching.”

Laurie stepped outside, locking the door behind her. She stepped to the curb and looked down the street. They were already shambling this way, keeping to the yards on either side. A herd of forty, or close to it, calling to each other.

Her zombies.

Bovine Behavior Syndrome victims, said that asshole Franklin inside her head. They are Americans, suffering from a dreadful malady. Our job is to help and protect them until we can cure them.

Funny how she used to worry about Paul’s job security. A year ago, she was in line for the CFO slot at Burger DeLuxe and expected to arrive there about now, while he worked in a struggling ad firm. Then that BBS bug got loose, and nobody was eating beef anymore, no matter how organic or upscale it might be. Meanwhile, Paul’s agency was swamped by dairy and poultry associations who wanted to tout the safety of their products. Working as a zombie wrangler — BBS Victim Scanner — was a huge letdown from upper management, even in a fancy-ass regional burger chain. But it paid well enough, and beat the hell out of trying to find another finance job with a third of the population gone zombie.

The bad part was, she had to be out here with them. Not that there was any danger, unless you were a blade of grass. Or a landscaper’s income, with grass-eating zombies cleaning up lawns for free. She could see them bending over, pulling up handfuls of grass and weeds as they approached. Laurie looked through the binoculars: they were mostly tagged already, and she recognized many of them. The zombies tended to herd together, working their way around a particular territory, occasionally swapping members when two herds met. She walked up the street to meet them.

They looked healthy enough — whatever the BBS virus did to their brains, it let them metabolize plant matter as well — and it was Laurie’s job to make sure they stayed healthy. She gave the herd a quick scan for runny noses and open sores, letting her scanner ID each one as she checked them over. Two of them had minor cuts that she disinfected and bandaged. All of them got vitamin supplements, soft plant matter soaked in nutrients. The zombies, as always, let her do her job as long as she walked with them.

“Mooooooo!” Some idiot leaned out of a red pickup truck and spotted Laurie. “Hey cowgirl! Wanna give me a ride?”

Laurie turned to face the truck, touching her headset to zoom her scanner in to record the driver’s face and license number. The truck took off, but she already had the ID. Franklin would send one of his drones, accompanied by a couple cops, to deliver a lecture (first offense) or take the moron in for mandatory sensitivity training (second offense). At least Franklin’s good for something, she thought, and went back to work. Only idiots bothered BBS scanners these days.

Several zombies had no ID badges, so they needed closer scrutiny. She ran the first woman’s fingerprints, and the database returned a match for a Carolyn DeJong. She pinned a new badge to the woman’s blouse and scanned her again, assigning the badge to her. The second woman was not listed among the BBS victims, and carried no ID on her. She badged, scanned, and fingerprinted the woman; ID’ing her was the department’s problem.

She turned to the un-badged man and caught her breath. “Steve?” If this wasn’t Steve Artinian — an accountant at DeLuxe, and her boy on the side a few years ago, until he’d quit his job and left her — it was his double. She managed to badge and scan him, then fished the wallet out of his back pocket.

“Laurie?” Robin’s voice came over the headset. “Your telemetry is showing stress. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Laurie sighed. “I just ID’ed an old co-worker is all.”

“Ow. Can you stick with it?”

“Yeah.” Laurie scanned Steve’s driver’s license as positive ID, returned it and his wallet, and turned away. “Just need a couple minutes to get my wits together.”

“Right. You’re taking tomorrow off. I’ll schedule you a counseling session for the morning, but after that you can pamper yourself. Remember, we’re trying to cure them. Don’t give up.”

Laurie sighed again. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Robin clicked out and Laurie was on her own again. With Steve. She cleaned his face with a wet-wipe, then kissed him. He ignored her, chewing his vitamin stick.

“I won’t give up, Steve. I’ll get you back.” She took a few deep breaths and returned to work.