416

  “Glad to see you again! How have you been? It is about time you got your lazy, jarheaded self over to see us.”

  Jeff presses his hand harder into the black granite. His other hand wipes away tears. He shakes from the current and Shelly places her hands on Jeff’s shoulders. She too feels the current and gasps. The wall becomes alive with voices: and…We have been following you around! Did you not think it strange when you had the strength to carry on? Yes! You hesitated but given the circumstance—no one can blame you. Follow your heart and love; continue your work, we will always be by your side, from now on. See you later, Oh…by the way—be careful on the dock: your next marathon will be fine.

  Jeff and Shelly hug each other, until Jeff break contact with the wall. Steve steps forward, China too and another hug is held.

  “Did you feel the energy? It is…wonderful.” Shelly said...

  “YES…I did, better and better now.”

  CHAPTER 29

  It Started With A Kiss

  By Mark R. Faulkner

  The halls and rooms of the monastery were filled with the sound of chanting. I lay on the cold, stone bunk with my eyes closed, letting the music fill my senses. It was a melodious and uplifting praise to god and I couldn’t wait until the day I could be part of it.

  I’d only arrived there a few days before and the monks were giving me time to settle in. Full of optimism I dreamed of the life that lay ahead of me. I was one of the lucky ones. An orphan, I’d been chosen to enter the house of God rather than the workhouse. I truly was blessed.

  A feeling of being watched came over me and I tensed, clenching my fists before snapping open my eyes. During my early years I’d come to rely upon quick reactions and a readiness to fight as a way to survive. It was going to take some time for the knowledge to sink in that I was now safe from all that violence.

  “Do not be alarmed my boy.” Father Andrews stood in the doorway looking down at me. I smiled back up at him.

  He asked how I was settling in, before joining me on the bunk. Seeing my nervousness, he reached out a hand to touch my arm. There it lingered.

  I looked up expectantly, waiting for him to speak but to my surprise he bent to me and kissed me on the mouth. His breath tasted of brandy. Instinctively I recoiled.

  “Did you like that?” he asked, his eyes taking on a feral appearance.

  I was afraid, but feared the workhouse more. Unsure of how to respond I nodded, although I was trying to push myself back into the bunk, wanting the stone to swallow me whole.

  “Good,” he slurred before moving his hand from my arm and down my body to tug the hem of the coarse habit I wore.

  Then he lay with me.

  I bit my lip until tasting blood in a vain attempt to blot out the pain and stop myself from screaming.

  That all happened a long time ago. Over the many years since I’ve become a monster, inflicting upon others the ordeal and torment I myself had to endure. The guilt devours me whole and yet I am unable to resist the temptations of the flesh.

  And now as I come close to breathing my last, God will be my judge. May he have mercy on my soul.

  CHAPTER 30

  Norse Zombie Vengeance

  By Paul Freeman

  Bjarni Olafson kissed the blade of his bearded battle axe and stood with his back to the burning building, wind and snow lashed his face as the blizzard grew in strength. He watched the expression on the man’s face in front of him as it changed from shock to horror then petrifying fear. Dark smoke from the flaming thatch filled the air with thick choking fumes.

  The other man’s eyes darted about the scene, taking in the three youths lying face down in the thick carpet of snow. Two boys and one girl, their throats slit, then to the woman, lying with her skirts hitched up over her hips, exposing white legs and fleshy buttocks. His eyes widened when he saw the tiny form of a babe lying at the foot of a tree, a bloody trail of pulp and bone leading from the trunk.

  “You died. I killed you myself, I saw your body.”

  Olafson grinned and lifted his chin exposing the bloody wound across his neck. It had been a mortal blow.

  “What are you?” the man asked as he fumbled for the hammer amulet around his neck, seeking the protection of the God of Thunder.

  Although his bowels were turning to water he hauled his sword from its leather sheath and charged. Like a great shaggy bear with red hair flying he launched himself at Bjarni. His fear was running high blinding him to caution. Bjarni, swept up his axe in a wide arc, and with a spray of blood and hair flying the other man’s head flew through the air. Bjarni stepped over the decapitated husk.

  Ten years previously Lars Henrikson had led a band of hard men into Bjarni’s village. Under cover of darkness they crept into the settlement and locked the doors of the feasting hall before setting it alight. Anybody who attempted to escape were shot at with arrows, slings or hacked with great Dane axes. Everybody inside had died including Bjarni. He had attempted to charge outside, to rush the attackers and break the siege, he was cut down and killed.

  It had taken him years to hunt them down. Now the ghosts of the dead could rest in peace. All but Bjarni, he had made an evil pact with Hel, daughter of Loki in his lust for revenge. He was doomed to wander the frozen wastes seeking out the descendants of Lars Henrikson so that they might serve his family as slaves in the pits of Helheim.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Muffin Man

  By Rebecca Tester

  Oh, do you know the muffin man,

  The muffin man, the muffin man,

  Oh, do you know the muffin man,

  That lives on Drury Lane?

  Oh, yes, I know the muffin man,

  The muffin man, the muffin man,

  Oh, yes, I know the muffin man,

  That lives on Drury Lane.

  Hunger. Belly growl.

  Stretch. Yawn.

  Mouth dry. Thirst.

  Down the hole.

  New territory. Familiar. Not marked. Scent of big meat.

  End of tunnel. Claw bricks. Urinate. Squeeze pile. Stink to warn intruders, attract mate.

  Follow scent of big meat.

  Scent of many big meats.

  Listen to big meats bark. Sound strange. Higher pitch.

  Small big meat?

  See light near big space.

  Many Big Meats! More big meats then ever before!

  Watch big meats form smaller herds with one big meat barking at smaller meats. All have light beams in hands.

  Stalk small herd of big meats.

  Watch small meats wave light.

  Wait.

  Small meat falls behind. Beam on tracks.

  Wait.

  Hard to wait. Want meat now. But Wait.

  Big meat not turn.

  Little meats not turn.

  Behind meat stops, coughs and sneezes. Wipes nose on cloth.

  Rush to small meat. Grab small meat by neck. Shake.

  Meats make noise. Bad noise.

  Drag small meat up.

  Still noise.

  Drag meat away from noise. Drag meat to place that smells of self.

  Eat small meat. Small meat taste better than big meat. Not as tough. Not as stinky.

  Small meat not last long enough to rot. Bones good for chewing.

  ***

  The hunt for what has been dubbed “The Muffin Man of Drury Street Station” has turned up no new leads—despite K9 units from around the world, many of which did not return or were found dead in the city’s infrastructure. Tours of the historic subway station have been postponed due to the grisly death of nine-year-old Jeffery Thames. For the foreseeable future, the station is closed, and many doubt it will ever open to the public again.

  Police have released a composite sketch of what can only be described as a monster. Witnesses swear the creature had a face very human despite its gruesome acts.

  Mrs. Shelly Thames, the mother of Jeffery, h
as not given up hope of finding her son alive and has sold her home to fund rescue groups and provide a reward for anyone volunteering information that leads to discovering Jeffery’s whereabouts. Donations to this fund must be made payable to:

  The Jeffery Thames Fund

  P O Box 121

  New York, NY 10279

  CHAPTER 32

  The Picture

  By Will Macmillan Jones

  It hung in the window of an art gallery in the arcade. Every day, on my way to and from the office, I walked through the arcade with its myriad of tiny exotic shops on my way to and from the station. As the arcade was narrow, and roofed with curved glass for natural light, the reflections of the passers by merged with the reflections of the goods on sale in the various windows. Sometimes I had fun with the curved glass, making silly faces that bounced backwards and forwards across the street, from shop window to shop window. Other shoppers would snigger at me, but I sometimes caught them doing the same.

  But whenever I reached the art gallery, I would stop, and peer at the portrait of a young girl. She was pictured in the first flush of her beauty, a sweet smile on her lips, her head lowered slightly so that she seemed almost to peer upwards through her auburn hair. Her dress swelled and flowed, and when the light twisted, to me, she seemed almost to move.

  The label below the frame said, simply, ‘Portrait of a girl’, with no artist listed. I did go into the shop to enquire, but the price – well let’s just say it would take me a long time to earn that much, let alone spend it on a painting by an unknown artist, however captivating. For it was captivating, at least to me. I found after a week or so that I couldn’t walk back to the station without passing the gallery. If I tried, I felt uneasy, insecure, and when I got home I had no appetite and slept indifferently, and with disturbing dreams.

  At last, I decided that I must break this spell, and stayed away from the arcade for a week. A whole week, it felt like a lifetime. Then, following a very long day in the office, I was hurrying to catch the last train home. A violent storm raged the heavens, rain and wind battered the glass of the arcade, as I followed the damp footsteps of the last hurrying commuter. Rounding the corner, I glimpsed a figure that moved against the glass of the arcade, and seemed to shimmer. Panting, I followed the foot prints that led towards the glass – and stopped. The footprints led through the glass, and I shook to see the girl gaze adoringly into the eyes of a lover. ‘Portrait of a couple’ read the label.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Snowball’s Chance

  By K.A. Smith

  The flames were dwindling. A plane of unmarked ice stretched out in front of him, the pillars of fire and gouts of sulphur that had tormented him without so much as leaving a blemish would soon be behind him for good. At least until the next time they picked him for the team. Perhaps there would be some remission, some reward, for doing well.

  The team.

  He had made the team at school.

  Obsession was what his mother had called it, he just called it better than having to get beaten up in the dinner queue on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Monday Wednesday and Friday supplied enough lumps. It excused him from the physicality of football too, which was rarely lump-free. The pain was all his mother’s fault, what sort of parent would condemn their child to a lifetime of taunting? Why did she have to name him Gabriel? A girl’s name. She had made him a target, brought him inevitably to this place.

  What had obsessed him was not being beaten up, not being called a girlie, not having to spend half his life hiding. Anything which spared him the pain was worth taking, well, pains over. He had studied hard to keep his place in the team, and after a while he studied even harder because he came to enjoy being good at something, even if there were only a handful of people in the school who appreciated it, and nobody at all in his old neighbourhood. Still, he knew he wasn’t a wuss at the board, and though his battles were more abstract than the bloody confrontations of his peers, he had seldom lost when he played to the rules which he acknowledged.

  If only he hadn’t cheated, but he couldn’t face public humiliation at the hands of a child half his age. Not that it was cheating really, he had pretended to be in so much trouble that he didn’t know what to do, while the brat’s clock had run down. The spotty oik should have known better.

  A pain had transfixed his heart as the flag fell, the world went dark, and when he could see again he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere he had never believed in, never expected to find himself in. This was the place his tormentors deserved. Yet here he was.

  He strode from flaming agony into a chill so harsh it burned. He was a pawn on the eighth rank.

  He could feel his manhood shrinking.

  CHAPTER 34

  Salt Of The Earth

  By Ryan Holmes

  “You’ve been working hard,” Emma told her husband. “I wanted to surprise you!”

  A dozen candles, competing with a full moon, surrounded a picnic basket sitting on pavers under the covered walk of her family’s lake cabin.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you,” he said.

  “I’m a Wiccan. If I can’t conjure up some romance, I need another hobby,” she said, smiling seductively. “Come on, before it rains.”

  “When’d you get so kinky?” he asked, imagination running rampant.

  She held his hand as they walked down the drive, “I figure after four years dating and sixteen married, I can be a little naughty.”

  “What’s with the salt?” Course crystals were poured around the basket.

 

  “I learned a new trick from mom’s book. It’s part of the surprise.”

  “Let’s eat,” suggested Greg, “Then we can play with those candles.” Moving for the basket, he said, “I’m starving.”

  Barring him with her arm, Emma said, “Stay out of the circle,” then stepped in. Opening the basket, she withdrew a meowing animal.

  “Is that the neighbor’s cat?”

  “One of them.” Lightning flashed glinting off something in her hand. She struck the cat.

  “Emma!” yelled Greg.

  It started raining.

  “Spell needs a sacrifice,” she explained, indifferently. “You won’t spray our house again.” She used the dripping blood to trace a pentagram, depositing the carcass in the center.

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “You’ll be hungry for me in a minute,” said Emma, grabbing his groin. “I guarantee it.” Reciting a Latin incantation, a shadowy, snaking, creature rose up within the pentagram, feeding on the cat’s carcass. Finished, it looked outward. Only a red glow indicated the creature possessed eyes and a mouth.

  “Holy . . .”

  “Shut-up, Greg!” snapped Emma. “If you want more, Shadow Soul, I will possess the beauty of Helen of Troy.”

  The creature sneered as Emma’s body firmed, skin smoothed, and features softened. Greg ignored the creature overtaken by lustfulness, “Emma, you’re the sexiest women I’ve ever seen,” he said, groping her.

  “Say that to my sister, you cheating bastard?” she asked, pointing. Legs protruded from the bushes. Shoving hard, she yelled, “Join her in hell!”

  The beast set upon Greg as he fell into the circle, entering through his mouth, devouring him from the inside out. Emma watched, pleased. Something wet passed over her open toed heels. Looking down, she watched a stream of rain water wash away the salt line. She tried to scream but choked as the Shadow Soul filled her throat.

  CHAPTER 35

  Flight 2341, Belize to Dallas, TX

  By S.C. Thompson

  It will be said we saved the world. Sacrificial lambs.

  They entombed the whole goddamn plane and the hanger they towed it to in 100,000 tons of concrete. They put a plaque on the outside of the hanger commemorating the lucky outcome. Lucky for the world, but not for the 257 souls who perished on the plane, including the crew of nine.

  I was the last to d
ie. I didn’t die like the others. I suffocated. I died locked in the lavatory. I died crazy as a loon, pounding the walls of my three by five by six-foot coffin. You see, I had uncontrollable, raging claustrophobia. So what made me bolt for the lavatory and lock the door and not come out no matter what? Not to mention why I’d even get on a plane in the first place.

  It was therapy my analyst said. So I took a trip to Belize. I did great on the flight there, and spent three glorious weeks in paradise, living like a new man. Went snorkeling, scuba diving, even saw the Mayan ruins in the jungle. Someone else who boarded the return flight to the States traipsed around the jungle, too.

  I flew Economy class. Last row in the airplane, by the lavatory, my refuge and tomb.

  It started in Row 13, Seat B, in which sat one Mr. Robert Derbon, infected during his six-day vision-quest into the jungles of Belize by what was later determined to be Ebola.3. Without warning he projectile-vomited most of his internal organs in one huge Technicolor yawn onto the occupants of the three rows of passengers directly ahead of him, the expectorant dripping off the overhead bins in hot, stringy, stinking gobs of gore. Those unfortunate enough to be covered in his soupy innards crawled over the seat backs in front of them, or spilled into the aisles, eyes wide with terror and revulsion. Other passengers shrank back into their seats, trying desperately to not be touched. From my seat at the back of the plane, I heard the shrieks and saw the bright red splattered on the overhead bins, but couldn’t make sense of the commotion. But then the young woman across the aisle from me exploded inside out, and from there on, one after another, the passengers succumbed to the same fate, thanks to the recirculated air we’d been breathing for the last three hours. I bolted for the lavatory. Never did succumb to the Ebola. Just my luck, I guess.