All Kinds of Things Kill

Robert R. Best

The Stories

The Hooker

The Wife's Confession

Nipping It In The Bud

Charity And The Vampire

The Family Tree

Everything That's Damaged

Get Together

All Kinds Of Things Kill

Boil Order

The Hooker

Bob liked hookers. With a good-sized deep freeze and the right seasoning, one could last for months. And they were so easy to find, lined up along the street like hot dog vendors. Or rather, like the hot dogs themselves.

He chuckled at his joke as he slowly drove up the neon-lit street, looking for a good specimen. The street was wet from a recent rain. Garish red neon spilled long trails of crimson light across the wet pavement. As if advertising the wet red innards of the women standing by the curb.

Some of the women were still young and beautiful. Fresh. Much fresher than Bob. Bob knew he wasn’t much to look at, with his greasy flat hair, thick glasses and pock-marked skin. But he also knew if he claimed to have money, one would get in the car. And once she was in the car, money would cease to be an issue.

Bob knew what you might say – hookers are for boners, not eating. But eating a hooker got Bob hard. So hard he could come just from the feel of their flesh in his mouth. And he would savor them. Much more than the other guys, who would be done in ten minutes. He’d be much more appreciative, and the hookers would still serve their usual purpose, as he came in his pants time and time again.

He passed many women by. Tight shirts and long legs. Heavy makeup and teased hair. A few sashayed toward the car, hoping to entice, but he ignored them. He was looking for something particular. Something he couldn’t verbalize. He liked to think he had a knack for picking girls, so he went with his gut. And intended the pun.

Then he saw her. Big curly blonde hair. A round, plump face. Tight, sparkling clothes barely concealing big boobs and a bigger butt. Lots of meat. She was a buffet on legs.

She was looking away at something, popping gum in her round mouth, when his headlights hit her. She looked toward him and smiled. He stopped the car just across from her.

Her smile grew and she clattered her high heels over to him. He leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger window. She leaned in and the smell of her gum wafted in after her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said. All the other girls vanished from Bob’s mind. She’d be perfect. “Looking for some fun?”

“Aren’t we all?” said Bob.

She giggled. “You got the money?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Never was much for window shopping.”

She giggled again and reached inside the car to pop up the lock. She opened the door, climbed inside, and shut it.

“Name’s Bubbles,” she announced. “Where we going?”

Bubbles? , thought Bob. You have got to be shitting me. “Old Johnston Park.” It was a good spot for bagging meat. Lots of trees. Lots of seclusion. Sometimes he’d even had time to sample some first-fruits of his labors while still in the car. Chewing and tasting their sweet juices while the heat from their guts steamed the windshield. And no one suspected a thing. Steamed windows were common in Old Johnston Park. So much so it was called by another name.

“Lover’s Park?” said Bubbles. “Oooh, how romantic.”

Bob nodded and started driving. He guided them away from the bright red light of Hooker Row, as some locals called it, to darker streets. With each block that ticked by, the lights became gradually less. Their seclusion was growing.

Bubbles flipped down the mirror in the passenger visor and started checking her hair. She adjusted her ample breasts and ran a finger over her teeth.

Bob ran his tongue over his top lip. He did his best to remain calm. He had to still appear normal. They weren’t secluded enough yet. “Say, Bubbles?” he said.

“Yeah?” she said, snapping the visor back up. She wrinkled her nose as a thought seemed to occur to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Bob.”

She nodded. “Okay. What is it, Bob?”

“Could you grab me that bag in the back seat?”

She craned her neck around to look. Bob gifted himself with a glance at the meat she revealed. “Sure,” she said. She reached back and brought a duffle bag into the font. She rested it on her knees and raised an eyebrow at Bob. “So what’s in it? Toys? Are you kinky, Bob?” She smiled and started to undo the zipper.

“No peeking,” said Bob, snatching the bag from her. He put it in his lap and enjoyed the weight. “It’ll be a surprise.”

And it would be. The bag held various implements Bob liked to use on his hookers. Knives, scissors, a screwdriver, whatever might strike his fancy. There was even an old scalpel he’d stolen from a hospital. They each had a feel all their own, and interacted with the meat in their own wonderful ways.

Bob felt an erection growing. They were in a residential area now. The occasional lamp post or porch provided the only light. More seclusion. They were over half of the way to the park.

With his salivating thoughts and growing erection, Bob stopped paying attention to the speedometer. He was gripping the bag tight and thinking of slicing when an explosion of blue and red light came from behind. A siren blared.

“Shit,” said Bubbles, turning around to look. “Cops are bad, Bob. You’ve got to be more careful.”

And Bob wanted to slice her mouth from nose to chin. Make a bloody cross of her lips and shut her up good. But he restrained himself. He grumbled and pulled the car over.

The cop's horrible lights chased Bob's seclusion away. It felt like forever, sitting there staring at the flashing in the rear-view mirror and waiting. Finally a shape emerged from the lights and approached them. Bob rolled down his window as the shape resolved into a cop.

The cop turned out to be a woman with a lean face and long brown hair. Her breasts bulged under her brown shirt. Bob thought how nice it would be to slice off a breast and eat, but he knew better. Cop meat was too risky.

“I'm afraid you were speeding, sir,” said the cop, getting out her ticket pad.

“A temporary lapse,” said Bob. “Won't happen again.”

“See that it doesn't,” said the cop. She took her time writing the ticket. Come on, thought Bob. Hurry. Finally she yanked the ticket free and handed it to him. As she leaned over to do it, her eyes fell on Bubbles.

“Who's this?”

Bob started to sweat. If he was arrested for soliciting a prostitute, that would be bad. They might search his bag, his trunk, eventually his apartment. And that would be very bad.

“My niece,” he said, hoping the cop couldn't see the beads of moisture on his forehead.

The cop looked at him, then back at Bubbles. Bob could see her eyes going over Bubbles' outfit. The cop frowned.

Bubbles laughed. “Yeah. Uncle Bob had to come 'rescue' me from this bitchin' party. He's such a bore.”

Bob shrugged and smiled. “Kids.”

The cop slowly nodded and stepped back. “Well, drive slower from now on, okay?”

“Will do,” said Bob.

The cop nodded again and walked back to her car. Bob rolled the window up and shifted back into drive.

“That was too close, Bob,” said Bubbles. “You've got to be more careful.”

“Oh believe me, I will.” Bob smiled and started driving.

There were a few more minutes of quiet anticipation before the park came into view. Bubbles spent them preening herself and humming a strange song Bob didn't know. The last porch light from the last house disappeared behind them. Bob wanted to cut her right then, wanted to feel her squirm as he shoved a screwdriver into her soft belly. But he was patient.

“Lover's Park,” said Bubbles. “There it is.”

And it was. A sign said “Johnston Park” and the road split off in three directions. All of them lined with trees. Beautiful dark seclusion.

Bob's boner was raging. He felt the heft and edge of the tools in the bag. He found a good spot, just under a large tree, and parked.

Bubbles sighed and turned to face him. Bob unzipped the bag and reached inside. His hand closed on the scalpel.

“So,” said Bubbles, “shall we get started?”

“Yes,” said Bob, breathless. “Let's.”

Then he was momentarily blinded by headlights sweeping across the car. A truck pulled in next to them and parked. Loud music thumped from it. Two teenagers inside started groping each other. Bob wanted to burst from the car and hack off both their heads. Wanted to ride home with their bloody heads knocking together in the trunk. But that would scare Bubbles away. And she was the prize.

“Well,” said Bubbles, “so much for privacy, huh?”

Bob let the scalpel fall from his sweaty hand back into the bag. “No worries,” he said. “There's plenty of other spots.”

His hands shaking, he started the car and pulled away from the tree. He drove as calmly as he could, his heart pounding. Just a few moments longer, he told himself. Bubbles shifted in her seat next to him. Was she getting nervous? No bailing out now, Bubbles.

Finally he found an empty gazebo. No cars were parked around it and the light post next to it seemed to have burned out. Perfect. He pulled in front of it and turned off the engine. His sweaty hands let go of the keys.

“Ah,” said Bubbles. “Much better.”

“Yes,” said Bob, reaching into the bag and finding the scalpel again.

Bubbles grinned and wiped the corners of her mouth.

Bob smiled back and shoved the scalpel into her neck. He waited for the screaming and the hot spurt of blood.

But it didn't happen. Bubbles didn't scream. Bubbles didn't bleed. Instead she chuckled. Bob was so surprised he let go of the scalpel. Bubbles calmly reached up, took hold of the scalpel and pulled it from her neck. No blood came from the small slit where it had been. Instead, a tiny bit of white light shone from it. Bob blinked at it stupidly.

Bubbles turned the scalpel one way and another, looking at it. “How considerate, Bob.” She brought the scalpel up to her left hand.

Bob watched in shock as she drug the blade in a neat line all the way around her wrist. More light spilled from the line. She dropped the scalpel and grabbed hold of her left hand. She pulled and with a slick, wet noise her left hand came off like a glove.

She pulled it free and revealed a thick, shining metal hook. Light poured from the opening of her wrist, filling the car. Bob winced. The hook gleamed as she brought it up to him.

“That's much better,” she said and gouged the hook through Bob's neck. He pulled back but was too late. A huge chunk of his throat came free and he gurgled and bled down his shirt. His last sight was Bubbles, eating his flesh off the hook while white light bathed her bloody face. Bob was dead.

The Hooker liked Bob. With her large freezer and secret combination of spices, he would last for months.

The Wife's Confession

I poisoned his coffee this morning. Not too much – not enough to kill him outright. Just a bit. Just enough to make him feel a little under the weather. Make him sweat a little more than usual, make him run his thick hands over his broad forehead and wonder why his temples throb. I imagined him wandering around his dealership, unable to focus on sales or on laughing with customers.

Tonight, he came home and said he might be coming down with a cold. I cooed and patted his head. I was concerned and sympathetic. I’m very good at that. Very convincing. Then I made him more coffee. With just a tiny bit of poison.

Tomorrow, I’ll poison his coffee again. Just a bit more than before. Nothing dramatic or obvious, nothing to tip him off. Just a tiny bit, just a little bit sicker, that’s all. A natural progression. And I will keep it up, every day a little bit more. Every day his ‘cold’ will get worse. His sales will suffer, his employees will wonder to themselves and each other. He’ll spend most of the day at his desk, rubbing his temples and sweating. Eventually, he won’t be able to work at all. Then the doctor's appointments will begin.

And you might think I’ll be discovered. Surely the doctors will find the poison building up inside him, right? Wrong. I’m very careful. There are poisons that are very difficult to detect. And real-life doctors aren’t like the ones on TV. They aren't brilliant and insightful, putting together complex puzzles of illness with just a few tiny pieces. They just want to prescribe something and get to the next patient. And I’ve found poisons those hacks will never find. I’ve done lots of research. I’ve had lots of time to myself.

So the doctors won’t find it. And we’ll both go to doctor after doctor, each looking more confused than the last as my husband gets sicker and sicker.

And I will look concerned, even afraid. I will hang on the doctors’ every word. I will look at them like a woman looking for water in the desert. Looking for that hint of hope that my husband will be okay. And each morning, coffee with poison. Maybe eventually he won’t be able to stomach coffee and I’ll switch to milk. We’ll see how that plays out.

Eventually he won’t be able to leave the hospital. They’ll prop him up in a bed and monitor him as he slips further and further away. And I know what you’re thinking. Surely the poison will stop. The hospital will provide all his food. My influence will be gone.

Ah, but no.

I will be the devoted wife. I will stay in that room day and night. We will watch TV and talk and try to pretend things are just as they were before he got sick. And I will always be watching for an opportunity. A back turned, a coughing fit, a nurse-aided trip to the bathroom. Then I’ll slip a little bit more into his food, his water, the plastic cup of juice. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with patience and alert eyes.

Further and further away he’ll slip. And I will dote. And pray. And weep. The doctors will struggle bravely, will confer with each other, will do their best to comfort me without giving too much hope. And my husband will look to me for solace. I will give this to him. You never know who may be watching. I will even stroke his head as brave, stoic tears inch down my face.

And he will try to be strong for me. He will struggle to be brave as the life slowly drains from those hungry eyes of his. Struggle as his breath becomes more and more shallow. Struggle as his limbs get weaker and weaker.

And finally, finally, he will die.

And I will be there as he does. I will smile bravely and hold his hand as he slips away. The machines that beep along with his heart will drone. The doctors will pull me away, will confer with each other, will determine the time of death.

Then, the funeral. I will stand with family and friends, weeping and dressed in black. I will draw in ragged breaths and tell everyone I'm doing fine, considering. The priest will relate my husband's life, his good deeds. He will have to skip some things, but I will nod as though it's all true. Maybe it will even rain. How dramatic that will be. The angry sky weeping in rage at the injustice done. It will set a very convincing tone.

I will hold a flower, a rose most likely, in my trembling hands. I will place it on the casket – as the wife, my flower will go first. Then I will watch as the thick straps and pulleys lower the casket into the ground.

The wake will follow. Pot luck and sympathy. I will nod as people pat their condolences onto my shoulders. I will eat two plates of food, tops. I will listen as people tell stories about my husband and ask how I'm holding up. I will wait patiently through all this.

Then I will no doubt have guests at home. It will be like the wake, only smaller and more bothersome. I will have to assure them several times before they will leave. But I will insist, and they will understand. And they will leave.

I will let exactly one hour pass. To be sure everyone has truly gone. It will be dark by then. I will get into my car and drive.

Hopefully the cemetery gate will be unlocked. It should be. The keepers usually don't bother to lock it. I've checked a few times, preparing. Assuming it is unlocked, I will let myself in. I will find my husband's fresh grave. It should be done and the grave diggers gone. I've checked, and they work fast.

I will look around, making sure no one is there to see. I will taste the cool night air. Relish it.

I will kick off my shoes, roll down my pantyhose and slide off my underwear. Then I will straddle his grave and urinate. I will make sure and hold it all day, storing up a large amount.

I will stand there, pissing on his grave. And I will hiss through my teeth:

“Drink that!

“Drink that, you miserable bastard!

“I knew! I knew all about her!”

Yes, I will do these things. I will do them to the man I married. The man I sleep with every night. The man I wake up with every morning. No matter how long it takes, I will not waver until he is dead.

Think about that. Let the thoughts fill up your fat little mind. Ruminate on what I will do to my Roger. Then look at this knife, and think what I won't do to you, bitch.

Nipping It In The Bud

Terry pulled his car into his parents' driveway and shifted into park. His father’s car was there. He knew his mother would be gone for the weekend, but he had to tell them sometime. And if he waited, even a few days, he may no longer have the guts.

And he might as well tell Dad first. Get it out of the way.

He considered not telling his parents at all. He considered going in, hanging out for the summer, and leaving. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d told people at college what he was doing over break. What would they say if he came back and told them he’d wilted?

No, he knew what he had to do.

He opened the car door and stepped out onto the lawn. He smirked, seeing the grass just beginning to grow past the half-inch mark. Dad’s letting the grass grow? Maybe he’s winding down. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

His eyes crept up the yard toward the front door, passing the tiny curtained window along the bottom of the house. The window led into his father’s forbidden basement work room. Terry suppressed a chill - maybe he’s different now - and stepped up the yard to the door.

****

Terry’s brother Sam sat at the kitchen table and chewed a bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He did his best not to worry about Dad discovering what he’d done. He looked out the window over the sink and focused on the sky. Summer. Free from school, free from the other kids. Free from chaos in the hallways and orders in the rooms.

His newly-long legs felt awkward in the chair. They reached the floor, and then some, when a year before they had just dangled. Growing up was strange, Sam mused, and uncomfortable. He didn’t like things sprouting in his body he couldn’t control.

Junior high started next year. A mix of old and new kids in a new building. The uncertainty of it unsettled him. He didn’t like it, so he pushed it down, chewed and enjoyed the cool central air on his bare legs. Shorts and air conditioning. Summer.

Mom was gone for the weekend, so it was just Sam and his father in the house. His father, who at the moment idled in the living room watching a nature show on cable, was Frank Richards. Dr. Frank Richards to a crop of local state university students. Professor of Botany.

He had his own lab to work in at school, but he had another work room in the basement at home. All but Dr. Richards were forbidden to enter. Sam, Terry, even Mom. Dad told them they would destroy the delicate balance of light and moisture for the plants growing in there. Terry and Mom seemed to accept this. Sam, on the other hand, wanted to see inside. But the door was always locked and the only window so small a cat would have a hard time getting through.

There was something old-fashioned about Sam’s father. Like he was built from old plans by workers long dead. He smoked a pipe. He scanned a newspaper every day. His forehead crumpled at profanities on television. He had short, neatly trimmed hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. He always dressed in clean pressed clothes and all in all was pleasant enough to be around. Sam supposed he liked him as much as any boy liked their father.

But there was one thing Sam didn’t like about his dad: all the orders. There was always something Sam was supposed to be doing, and a precise way he was supposed to be doing it. Sam couldn’t wait until he was older, ‘til he could be in charge. In control.

“Sam?” came his father’s voice.

It was behind him, and Sam jumped. How could the old man move so quietly?

“Yeah Dad?” said Sam, through half a mouthful of peanut butter. He twisted in his seat to see his father behind him, looking down.

“Could you come here a sec?” he said. It was his professor voice. Sam imagined him using it with students. It meant a lecture was coming. Sam felt his throat constrict, and swallowed as best he could. He hated the lectures.

“Sure, Dad,” he said, and pushed himself up from the table. He took a quick gulp of milk to drown the last of the food.

Dad opened the door at the back of the kitchen, the one that opened to the garage. Sam stifled a groan. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.

“This way,” Dad said, stepping into the garage. Sam followed.

Dad led him to a work table. A sheet of particle board hung on the wall behind it. Numerous hooks jutted out from the board, with various tools hung from them.

The table was clear except for a lone hammer. Again, Sam crushed the urge to groan. He’d used that hammer earlier, then laid it on the table afterwards.

“Now,” said Dad as they came to a stop. “You managed to get the hammer all the way back to the table. Would it have been so hard to finish the trip to here?” He indicated the two hooks the hammer normally laid across.

For pete’s sake, Dad, Sam thought. “No,” was what he said.

“You have to keep things under control, Sam. You can’t just let things go wild.”

How about I take that hammer and knock you over the head, old man? Sam thought, unable to beat back a smirk. Who’d be in control then?

“I know,” was what he said.

“Well, if you do,” said Dad, “then please act on that knowledge.”

Sam sighed and moved the hammer to its proper spot.

“And don’t sigh at me, sprout,” said Dad. “Now go finish your lunch. Your brother will be home soon.”

It was true. Terry was coming home for the summer. His big brother, off at college, back to his roots for a few months. It would be fun to see Terry, but truthfully Sam’s mind was on something else.

The basement.

Sam had seen Dad’s work room. The other night, he’d gotten in.

Dad had been asleep in front of the TV, a bunch of school papers in his lap. Mom had already gone to bed. Terry was at that college in some other state. Sam had his opportunity.

He tiptoed down the stairs, thankful for the carpet. He paused at the bottom, listening for his father’s loud snoring. He heard it, from upstairs, and smiled. He slipped a key from his shorts pocket. The key he’d slipped from his parents’ dresser. He pushed it into the lock and turned it. The handle clicked and the door swung open.

Inside was darkness. Sam frowned. Where was the precious balance of light his father spoke of? Maybe this wasn’t the real work room, maybe it was further inside.

He felt around for a switch and found it. He flicked the switch up and several bulbs came alive, lighting the room. A long hallway stretched from the door to a desk at the other end. The desk was piled with papers and some equipment Sam didn’t recognize.

But lining the hallway, all up and down from floor to ceiling, were shelves and shelves of plants. Big, leafy things with long stalks and leathery skin. All of them slumped towards the floor.

Had his father just left all these plants in the dark to die? Surely not. If that were the case, they wouldn’t look as healthy as they did. They were big, rich, robust-looking plants. Just sitting in the dark and slumping.

Sam frowned, not knowing what to think.

He walked down the hallway. The plants towered over him as he passed. Their presence made him nervous. He felt, crazily, that they were watching him. Waiting for something. Finally, he reached the desk. There were papers piled everywhere which Sam couldn’t decipher. Above the desk was the small window that looked out into the front yard. Dad always kept it heavily curtained.

Also on the desk were a bunch of electronics Sam had never seen before. All had exposed wires and black tape wrapped around them. Like Sam’s father had made them himself. Among them was something that looked like a TV remote with a radio antenna stuck to the end. Sam picked it up and looked it over. Curiosity got the better of him and he pressed a button.

Suddenly he felt something in the room with him. He heard a rustling from behind.

He turned and it took a few moments to register what he was seeing.

The plants were moving.

At first he thought there must be a breeze. But there was no wind of any kind. And the plants didn’t look like they were being moved by wind. They were moving themselves. Straining against their pots, writhing, reaching.

For him.

He let out a little yell and tossed the remote down. He ran past the plants, not even looking to see if they were still moving. He snapped off the light and slammed the door shut. He locked it as fast as he could and raced up the stairs. He tripped over the bottom stair and slammed his knees into the kitchen linoleum with a big thump.

His breath caught in his throat and he listened. Had his father heard?

Snoring still came from the living room.

Sam let out a little sigh and walked, shaken, to his own room and shut the door. He hid the key under his mattress until he could return it unseen.

Sam was unable to sleep at first. He was terrified. He would close his eyes and see the plants moving. He would open them and imagine he heard rustling.

He would have to tell Mom. Dad would be furious, but he had to tell someone. Mom would understand and would make sense of it all.

As the night stretched on, though, he thought again. He thought of the remote in his hands, making the plants dance. He thought of bringing other kids down there, showing them how he could control the plants. Maybe he could even bring David Newton, that pig-faced bully down there. Make the plants writhe until Newton shit himself with fear.

So he kept his discovery to himself and slept. And whenever fear grew in him, whenever he had a nightmare of grotesque malformed plants reaching for him, he would mentally replace himself with David Newton. And smile.

Sam thought about that and finished his sandwich. His face was hot and his back was tight. Geez, Dad, it’s just a hammer.

He heard a car door shut outside. Then keys rattling outside the front door.

“Terry’s home!” Sam called and stood.

“Sure sounds like it,” said Dad, walking through the kitchen to the living room.

Sam followed and saw Terry coming through the door. He looked … well, he looked like an adult. It was strange. It made Sam feel isolated. Everyone else was an adult.

“Hey, Dad,” said Terry. “Hey, Sammo!” he waved at Sam.

Sam planted his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. “Hey.”

Terry frowned. “You alright there, buddy?”

“I guess,” said Sam.

“He’s just a little grumpy,” said Dad. “You know teenagers.”

“Hey, yeah,” said Terry. “Junior High next year, huh?” Then his face shifted, became more serious. “Speaking of school, I need to tell you something, Dad.”

“Sure thing, sport,” said Dad. “Decided to come to your senses and transfer to college here in town?”

“No, no,” said Terry, shifting a little in the entryway and setting his suitcase down. “I’ve just learned a few things at school and I need to tell you something. Sam, can I have a few seconds alone with Dad?”

Dad frowned, then smiled. “Whatever you want, Terry. Hey Sam? Why don’t you go clean up your dishes. Remember, plates in the bottom rack, glasses on top.”

No shit, Dad. Who doesn’t know that? “Sure,” said Sam, and headed back to the kitchen.

Sam grumbled on his way to the table. He grabbed his plate and glass and took them to the dishwasher.

Dad could be so full of it sometimes. Telling Sam how to use the dishwasher? It was insane. He wanted to give his father a few minutes down in the basement. Turn those plants on and stick Dad in the middle. Let him hear those things reach for him in the dark. Then he’d treat Sam with more respect.

“Gay?” came Dad’s loud voice from the front room.

Sam stopped, the dishwasher door hanging open. He set the plate down on the sink, wondering if he’d heard right.

He crept over to the doorway to the front room and peered around. No one noticed.

Dad sat on the couch, looking at the floor. His hands were on his knees, gripping them tightly. Terry stood off to one side, his hands in his pockets.

“Dad,” said Terry, “It’s natural…”

“Don’t talk to me about natural, Terry,” Dad snapped. “I deal with nature every day.”

“No, Dad, you try to control nature. You put it in pots, in categories. But you can’t control me. This is just what I am.”

Dad said nothing for a long time. He stared at the floor, still gripping his knees. Several tense seconds passed. Then his grip loosened and he sighed. He looked up at Terry, and Sam thought – for just a moment – there was deep sadness in his eyes.

“Well, I guess that’s how it is, then,” he said.

Terry looked confused, like he was trying to get a read on Dad. “Yeah,” he said.

“Well, okay,” Dad said. He stood and stuck out his hand for Terry to shake.

“Are we okay then, Dad?” said Terry.

“Sure we are,” said Dad, smiling.

Terry smiled and shook Dad’s hand. Then Dad pulled him close and hugged him. He patted Terry on the shoulder and stepped back.

“Say, Terry, could you do me a favor and mow the lawn later on?”

Terry smiled and nodded. “Sure thing, Dad. I’ll go do it now.”

Dad smiled. “Thanks, son. Oh, and I think it needs gas. The can’s in the garage.”

Terry smiled again and headed outside.

****

Terry stepped out onto the porch and let out a deep sigh. He’d done it. It had been tense for a moment, but he’d done it and everything was okay. And compared to Dad, Mom would be a walk in the park.

He hummed as he opened the garage and eased out the mower. He led the mower out into the yard and looked up and down the street. He was happy. He realized he’d forgotten the gas can. He turned to head back to the garage and took a step.

Pain shot through Terry’s foot and up his calf. Burning, stabbing pain. He cried out and fell to one knee.

Something’s in my shoe , he thought. He undid the laces but the shoe wouldn’t budge. Like it was welded to the ground.

Leaving the shoe where it was, he pulled his foot free. Hot liquid pain raged through his leg and foot. When he was free of the shoe he saw that his sock was soaked in blood. He peeled the sock off. Four narrow slits ran straight through his foot, top to bottom. Blood pooled in the slits and ran down the top of his foot.

He lifted the tongue of his shoe and looked inside. Four blades of grass thrust up through the sole and sat, bloody, inside.

This is crazy , he thought and tried to stand. The pain was too much and he fell forward, catching himself with both palms on the grass.

The grass fired up through his hands, spattering his own blood in his eyes. He screamed as the grass bent over, gripping his hands to the ground. Blood coursed between the blades and into the dirt.

He struggled, screaming, to pull himself free. The grass, impossibly strong, held him fast. Pain pierced his legs and knees and he knew the grass was pinning him further.

He was panicking now, tugging and pulling like an animal. He couldn’t move. The blades of grass in front of his face began to turn and bend. They were twisting around each other, forming a single thick cylinder of grass.

“No! No!” screamed Terry, pulling. He couldn’t move. He bellowed, mouth open, at the grass. The cylinder shot up, into his mouth. He felt pain in the back of his head. Then liquid running down his back. He saw his own blood run out of his mouth and pool on the ground. Then he saw nothing.

****

Sam finished putting the dishes in the washer and shut the front. He stared out the window just above the sink.

He didn’t know what to think about Terry being gay. He’d never really thought about it one way or the other. Terry was just Terry. His brother. He didn’t see what difference it made if he liked girls or guys.

He felt bad then for his earlier mumbled greeting. He decided he would go greet Terry properly and let him know it was fine if he was gay.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He opened the front door and stepped out, bracing for the summer heat.

And stopped cold in the middle of the porch.

Terry lay dead a few feet from the mower.

Blood was all over him, running from holes punched through his body. Blood pooled next to him, mingling in dirt and grass.

Sam stared, unable at first to grasp what he was seeing.

“Terry?” he said, knowing Terry was past hearing.

Then he screamed “Dad!” and ran back into the house, leaving the door open.

He raced from room to room, yelling for his father. But all of the rooms were empty.

Downstairs , Sam thought. He ran around the corner and down the stairs in one motion, almost falling. He ran to the door to his father’s work room and raised a hand to knock.

Then he saw the door was partly open.

He pushed it the rest of the way. The light was on but his Dad was nowhere to be seen.

“Dad?” he asked, stepping further into the room. He walked past the shelves of plants to the desk at the end. No Dad.

Then he saw the curtain was pulled back from the tiny window that looked out into the yard. He saw movement outside and stood on his tip-toes, peering out past two large thick-leaved plants framing the window.

His father stood over Terry’s body. But his father didn’t scream or cry or look around in horror. He just bent down and slung Terry over his shoulder. Then calmly walked out of view.

Sam blinked and lowered himself down. His gaze fell on two thick wires running out from the basement wall and down towards the desk. The wires ran into a large electronic box sitting in the middle of the desk. It had knobs and handles and a big red light. Which was glowing.

Sam’s eyes ran from the box back up the wires and into the wall. Into the yard. And Sam knew what had happened. Knew what his father had done.

A cold rage grew in Sam and he ran out of the room and back up the stairs. He threw the door to the garage open and ran to the wall lined with tools. He yanked the hammer free, shaking several hooks loose and sending tools clattering to the table.

Hammer in hand, he ran into the house and back down the stairs. He ran past the shelves of plants towards the table. And the metal flashing box.

He screamed as he brought the hammer down. He struck the box again and again, sparks flying and a sputtering static coming from it.

Finally, when the red light was out and the box was reduced to a pile of dented metal and wires, he stopped.

For several seconds he stood, panting down at the remains of his father’s invention. The hammer hung loose and heavy in his hand. Then he heard his father sigh behind him.

He spun around, gasping. The hammer flew from his hand and spun along the floor, smashing into a ceramic pot holding one of the many plants lining the walls. Right next to his father’s foot.

Sam’s father looked at the broken pot, then up at Sam, and sighed again. He had blood on his hands and shoulder. Terry’s, Sam knew.

“Oh, Sam,” said Dad. “This is going to be quite a blow to your mother.” He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket. He took a bit of tobacco and crushed the leaves inside. He stuck the pipe in his teeth. “First Terry’s death, and now yours.”

Sam’s legs were shaking, a mixture of rage and fear. But the rage was slowly fading, the fear becoming purer.

“Why?” Sam managed to say. “He was your son.”

“He was unnatural, Sam. I’d hoped you would understand that.” Dad looked Sam up and down. Finally he shook his head. “I suppose we should get started. I’ll have quite a lot of cleaning to do down here afterwards.”

Sam was finding it hard to breathe. “Dad?” he tried to say, tried to plead, but his voice was small, almost silent.

Dad reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. The remote contol. The one Sam had handled the first time he’d been down here. He pressed a button and the plants framing the window slapped their oversized leaves against the glass, blocking out all light.

“I told you, Sam,” said Dad, holding up the device. “You can’t let things go wild.” He pressed another button and all the plants in the basement began to move.

He turned his back to Sam and walked up the hall, towards the door.

“Dad?” Sam repeated, his voice almost a squeak.

Sam’s father said nothing. He snapped off the light and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

“Dad?” Sam whispered. He heard his father’s footsteps echo through the darkness as he went up the stairs. Then the sound faded, replaced by rustling. Like a million voices. The sound of thick leathery leaves stretching and pulling.

He wanted to run. He wanted to turn and claw at the tiny window. But he couldn’t move. He could only stand and shake, could only try his best to breathe through his constricting quivering throat. Could only stand and hear the sound of horrible green things reaching for him in the dark.

Charity And The Vampire

Charity stood behind the safety glass at the Vanguard Theater’s midnight 98¢ show. She took a long time counting the handful of coins the guy on the other side had given her. His name was Troy. He was cute, and they were talking, so there was no hurry.

They talked so long three other people lined up behind Troy: a short round man, a woman toying with her hair and a thin man with glasses.

“Got quite a line back there,” said Troy. He smiled and some of his slick black hair fell over one of his eyes. He had four earrings and a Cure shirt on.

“Yeah,” said Charity, wondering if she had seen him on campus. She had a nose ring, a Cocteau Twins shirt and just-slightly red hair. “Those are cool earrings,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Troy, putting one hand up to his ear. He brought it down and motioned at her midsection. “I like your shirt. Retro store?”

Charity shook her head, smiling. “Nope. Yard sale.”

Troy ’s eyebrows went up. “No crap?”

“No crap,” said Charity. “Well, I guess you need your change.”

She opened the drawer and dumped the coins inside. She looked down to get his change and when she looked back up, the thin man at the back of the line was gone. There were now just two people behind Troy.

“What happened to that guy?” she asked, pushing the change through the slot at the bottom of the glass.

“What guy?” said Troy. He took the pennies and looked behind him. “Oh yeah,” he said. He looked around, then back at her and shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Well, that’s weird,” said Charity. “Guess he didn’t want to see the movie after all.”

“I guess so,” said Troy. He looked down for a moment, then back up. “So, pretty late to be out working.”

Charity shrugged, doing her best to look aloof. “Yeah, but I can leave as soon as the show starts.”

“Do you ever watch the movie?”

“Sometimes.”

Troy smiled. “Well, I was thinking maybe you would watch this one.”

Charity tried to look surprised. “With you?” She smiled and gave a little nod. “Yeah, okay. But let’s get your ticket first.”

She shut the drawer and turned to the large metal bookcase along one wall of her booth. The case had several boxes and a printer on it. She watched as Troy’s ticket inched out of the printer. When it was done, she pulled it free and turned back.

Now the woman was gone. Only the short round man was left. He was looking around, like he’d heard something but wasn’t sure what.

“Now where’d she go?” asked Charity.

“What?” said Troy.

“The woman at the back. She’s gone now, too.”

Troy again turned to look, then looked back. “Well, now that’s really weird.”

“I know,” said Charity, leaning close to the glass to look around.

“It’s kinda like that girl who vanished a few days ago,” said Troy.

Charity’s face hardened a little. “Yeah. I’ve known her since grade school. We, ah, never got along. Can’t say I’m looking forward to her turning up.”

Troy laughed a little. “So harsh.”

Charity flushed a bit. “I know. I don’t really mean that, I guess. She’s been gone for days now.”

The man behind Troy cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “can we move things along, please?”

“Oh, right,” said Charity. She handed Troy his ticket, sliding it under the glass. “Here you go.”

Troy took his ticket and stepped off towards the door. The man next in line stepped up and passed a dollar bill under the glass. Charity took it, too embarrassed to say much, and opened the drawer. She looked down just long enough to lay the bill in the tray. She heard a tiny, muffled noise. She looked back up and the man was gone.

She blinked at the empty air. “Sir?” she asked. “Sir?” She leaned forward and peered around. Nothing. She could see Troy, his back to her, off to the side. He was standing outside the door to the theater, reading the posters.

“Troy?” she called. He apparently couldn’t hear her through the glass. She climbed up onto her stool and scanned the sidewalk. A dark smear led from where the man had been around to Charity’s left, out of sight down an alley. She climbed back down. “Troy?” She repeated, louder.

This time he heard. He came back over, keeping his eyes on her. “What is it? Mr. Anxious leave?”

“Well, yeah, but he didn’t get his ticket. He just vanished.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Do you see him out there?”

Troy shrugged, grinned and looked around. He took a step towards the glass and frowned.

“Stepped on something,” he said, then bent down to pick it up. He came back up, holding what he had found and looking at Charity with blank horror. Charity looked at what he held. It was small and red. It was an ear.

“What is that?” asked Charity, much too quiet for him to hear.

Then with a wild, feral sound something pounced on Troy. It looked like a person but moved much too quickly. It clamped its mouth on Troy’s neck. Troy screamed. Blood shot from his neck and hit the glass. Charity jumped back, falling over her stool and onto the floor. The stool cracked, sending bits of wood flying. Blood coated the glass and she couldn’t see out. Troy’s scream degenerated into gurgling. Then there was only the sound of something eating. A wet, sucking sound.

Charity sat where she fell, shaking. The streetlight shone through Troy’s blood, casting the booth in various shades of red. The sucking sound continued. She stood slowly and made her way to the back of the booth, where a door let out into the theater. It was locked and the lock was old, requiring a key for both sides. Slowly, her hands shaking in the red light, she fished out the old key her boss had given her. She slipped it into the lock.

The sucking sound stopped. Charity froze, afraid to make any sound, even the tiny sound of turning the key. Then something hit the booth with a loud thud. Charity jumped, her hand jerked and the key came out. She held still and listened. Everything was quiet. She moved the key back to the lock but it wouldn’t go in. She looked more closely at her hand. All she held was the top of the key. The rest was broken off in the lock.

The thud came again.

She turned back towards the glass, dropping the useless remains of the key. She listened. There was no sound for several moments. She hoped the thing had left.

She took a step up. There was still no sound. She started to move again when the thud rang out a third time. She let out a little yell, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

Something slapped onto the glass. Charity blinked at it, then realized it was a hand. The hand moved back and forth and up and down, smearing the blood. Finally it thinned out a spot Charity could see through. The hand dropped out of sight.

Charity could do nothing but stand and listen to her quivering breath. She stared out the opening the hand had made. She could see a little of the street, a few parked cars and a bicycle. Nothing else.

“Hello?” she finally ventured, too low to be heard through the glass.

“Who’s there?” said a face that suddenly appeared in the opening. Charity jumped back, stumbling on the wood of her broken stool.

The face saw and laughed. It was a girl, Charity’s age. Her chin was covered in blood. Charity realized she knew who it was.

Charity is seven years old and sitting at the back of the school bus. She spends most of the ride staring at her feet. Jewel is a few seats up, talking to some boy with a jean jacket and a hostile, vacant look. Several times they look at Charity, say something to each other and laugh. Charity looks while trying not to look like she’s looking. She catches Jewel’s eye one time too many. Jewel slides out of her seat and walks back to Charity.

“Hey, Charity,” says Jewel. “Richard was just telling me a really funny story. Would you like to come hear it?”

Charity looks at Jewel, then at Richard, then back at Jewel. She wonders if maybe they had been laughing at a story and not at her. She relaxes a little.

“Okay,” she says. Jewel steps back, behind the seat. Charity slips out.

“Don’t forget your lunchbox,” says Jewel from behind. Charity picks it up and begins to walk. Jewel grabs Charity’s shorts and yanks them down to her ankles. The other kids start laughing. Charity drops her lunch box and it falls open. She bends down to grab her shorts and Jewel kicks her rear. Charity stumbles forward. Her foot kicks the lunch box, which slides down the aisle in front of her. She falls, landing face down in her sandwich and baggie of chips. The kids roar with laughter.

“Jewel?” said Charity.

Jewel stopped laughing. “Charity?” she said, mimicking Charity’s tone.

“What’s going on out there?” asked Charity, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “There’s blood all over your face.”

“There is?” asked Jewel. She touched her chin and held up her bloodied fingers to view them. She tasted the blood, then looked relieved. “Oh, that. That’s his.” She stepped to one side and held up Troy’s head. It was no longer attached. Charity screamed and fell back against the door.

“I thought you meant mine,” Jewel finished, moving back in front of the opening. She took a few steps back and hurled Troy’s head against the glass. The glass held. Jewel let out a frustrated roar and slammed herself against the booth.

“Let me in, Charity,” she said, writhing against the glass. “I’m so hungry.” She moved her tongue over the glass, swabbing up Troy’s blood.

“LET ME IN!” she screamed, pounding her fist on the glass with each word. Then she stopped writhing. She looked up at something Charity couldn’t see, then back at Charity. She smiled, revealing two fangs.

Then she leapt straight up, with a power and speed Charity wouldn’t have thought possible. Charity looked around the booth, feeling the silence settle. Then a loud thud came from above her.

“Charity…” came Jewel’s voice from above. She drew out the word like she was calling for a child. The thud came again.

Charity knelt down, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. She picked up a leg from her broken stool and straightened. She held it tight, trying not to shake.

With a loud crack, Jewel’s fist came through the ceiling. Her hands grabbed the hole’s edges and wrenched them back. Jewel’s head poked through.

“There you are,” she said, and hissed. She reached for Charity.

Charity beat at Jewel’s hand with the stick. Jewel twisted her arm around and grabbed hold of Charity’s weapon. She pulled the stick, and Charity, towards her. Charity let go and the stick snapped back into Jewel’s eye. Jewel screamed and dropped it. Her scream was like an animal.

“Dammit!” she yelled and pulled back from the hole. Charity ran to one side of the booth and grabbed the large metal bookcase. She pulled it forward and it fell, stopping when it hit the far wall. It straddled the booth at an angle, the top of the case blocking the hole.

Jewel screeched and pounded at the bookcase. Charity heard her scratching and screaming. She picked up her stick and fought to control her breathing.

Charity is in high school and sitting in the cafeteria. She does her best to stare at her food. Jewel is at a nearby table with her current boyfriend. His arm is around Jewel. Charity glances at them. Jewel sees the glance.

“Hi, Charity!” she says, her voice overly sweet. Charity looks down and pretends not to hear.

Jewel turns to her boyfriend and whispers loudly. “She never says much. She’s like some sort of dyke mute.”

The boy laughs and grabs a handful of food from his tray. He flings the wad at Charity. It slaps the side of her head, stinging her cheek and filling her ear with mush.

“Hey! Dyke!” he yells. “Quit fantasizing about my girlfriend!”

The cafeteria erupts with laughter. All Charity can think is Why? Why would someone do this? She looks at Jewel, who is laughing, too. Jewel’s eyes meet hers. Jewel blinks and stops laughing. She looks around, then slaps her boyfriend on the shoulder.

“I didn’t say to throw things at her,” she says, then turns away.

Jewel fell silent above the booth. Charity heard her run across the roof, then heard nothing. She listened carefully, gripping the stick hard. No noise came. She turned back to the window, straining to see through the smeared blood. All she could see was the street. She realized the bike she’d seen before was gone.

Then the bike was flying at her. It slammed into the glass, which cracked but held. Jewel had flung it with such force that it hung there, pressed against the glass, for a second before clattering to the sidewalk.

Screaming, Jewel threw herself against the booth. She rammed her shoulder against the glass, then again, then again. “Let me in!” she yelled.

She stopped, staring at Charity. Charity gripped the stick and stared back. She knew what Jewel had become. The blood, the fangs, the inhuman speed and strength. In a sense, she’d seen it many times. Flat cardboard cartoons hanging in Halloween windows. Plastic teeth and screechy music on late-night television. She told herself these things weren’t real, but clearly Jewel was.

She realized Jewel was looking past her. She turned her head and saw Jewel was looking at the locked door. She looked back. Jewel smiled, her fangs sliding past her curling lips.

Jewel darted off to the side of the booth and entered the theater. Charity turned to face the door.

Within seconds the door shuddered with a loud thud. Charity realized the door was weaker than the reinforced glass. The door shook again but the lock held. Jewel screamed and rushed the door again. It shook hard, and the wood around the lock began to crack.

Charity turned and grabbed the bookcase. She pulled it over the other way, so that it now blocked the door instead of the hole. Jewel rammed the door again, grunting at the new resistance. She screeched and rushed it again, so hard the bookcase shook, then stopped.

Charity stood facing the door, waiting. She didn’t realize her mistake until she heard Jewel drop through the hole in the ceiling and land behind her.

She turned, stopping when Jewel grabbed her throat. Jewel twisted her around the rest of the way. Her eyes were wide and hungry and she hissed through her open, fanged mouth.

Charity is in college now, sitting under a tree on campus, reading. She sees Jewel approaching and pretends to keep reading. She pretends to read as Jewel draws near and stops, staring down at her. Jewel sighs and sits down next to Charity.

“Charity,” says Jewel, “I want to say something. I know I’ve been terrible to you since we were kids. I’ve done awful, awful things, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Charity continues to read, waiting for the joke. None comes. Jewel looks at her, waiting for a response, then looks down. Charity closes her book, gets up and walks away.

Charity strained to twist away but Jewel’s hands were too strong. Jewel ran her tongue over her teeth and began to move in. Charity realized her stick had a point at the end.

“Jewel,” she said, as best she could with the strong hands around her neck, “I forgive you.”

Jewel blinked and her mouth closed. She looked like she was about to speak. Then she shook it off and opened her mouth. She leaned in towards Charity’s neck, her lips straining as her jaw opened wider. Charity plunged the stick into Jewel’s chest, hoping it would work.

Jewel let out a mind-ripping scream. Light spread from her chest, engulfing both her and Charity. It filled the booth. Charity shut her eyes.

Then the light was gone and so was Jewel. Charity fell to her rear. She opened her eyes and stared at the place Jewel had been. She looked around the booth and became aware of lights flashing. She heard sirens. She looked at the chaos around her, remembered the blood outside, and wondered how she was going to explain this to the cops.

The Family Tree

This Is Your Last Chance , said the faded sign as Rich’s headlights swept across it in the dark. Then it was gone, replaced by swiftly moving trees.

“That may be,” said Rich, “but maybe I don’t want to go to the Lonesome Oak Motel.”

“What?” said his wife Betty through the cell phone by his ear.

“Nothing,” said Rich, shifting to get a better grip on the wheel. “Just talking to the road signs.”

“Mmm. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving and talking on the phone at the same time.”

“What?”

“Sounds like you’re having a tough time focusing on the road as it is.”

Trees appeared and disappeared in the headlights like ghosts. Like any one of them could be his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece or nephew.

“Ha ha,” said Rich. “I’m just calling to check on you-know-what.”

“I just got back from the store with the pregnancy test. I haven’t used it yet. So quit endangering your life to ask about it. Just worry about getting to your grandmother’s safely.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been up and down this road since I was a kid.”

They both paused, knowing the implications of what he’d just said.

She spoke first. “How’re you holding up?”

“I said not to worry about me,” he said. “The question is how Na-Na’s holding up. That’s what I’m going to check on.”

They both fell silent again. Rich stared at the road. The road that had taken his brother and his brother’s family. Rich didn’t know – he hadn’t wanted to know – exactly where the accident had happened. So it felt like the accident had happened everywhere along the way. They died here – they died here – they died –

“They were going to her house when it happened,” he continued. “She must be taking it very hard.”

“Just be careful, okay? And don’t tell her about us trying to get pregnant. We swore it would be a surprise for everyone.”

“I will be careful and I won’t tell her. You just get on that test.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go chug a bunch of water right now.”

Rich chuckled. “Okay. Call me when you know something. And keep trying until you get me. It's hard to get a signal down here.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you,” said Rich. And they hung up. Rich hiked up one hip and slid the phone into his pants pocket. Another sign emerged from the dark.

You Just Missed Your Last Chance .

Twenty minutes later he arrived. He climbed out of his car and shut the door, chilled by the late fall air. His grandmother’s house sat thirty feet from the driveway, looking as pleasant and inviting as he remembered. But in between the house and the driveway was the Tree.

Even now, as an adult and supposedly past such things, Rich capitalized the word in his mind. It was the only thing he hadn’t liked about visiting his grandmother as a child. The Tree’s hulking form had lurked over his nightmares. It was huge, with big bulky roots, thick dark skin and long twisting branches. In late summer its large leaves would turn a red that had been too close to blood for young Rich. He would dream of the Tree wrapping its bloody leaves around him and forcing the life from his lungs.

And now – under the fall moon with no leaves – the Tree looked like the skeleton of a deformed giant, twisted in the agony of its death and full of hate for the world.

He hadn’t thought of these things in years. He did his best to shake it off. He wrapped his coat around him, told himself he was just reacting to his brother’s sudden death, and started walking. As he neared the Tree, the air fell silent. The normal noises of the night – breeze, insects, night birds – were stilled. The gradual awareness of it gnawed at his mind, but he willed himself to keep walking.

A breeze rustled the branches as he passed. He stopped, thinking – How can it be quiet and breezy at the same time? He took another step and the branches rustled again. He could have sworn he heard his brother’s voice whispering something. Something awful that scraped at the edge of his mind. A breeze, he told himself. Now stop being ridiculous.

Then he walked, a little more quickly, the rest of the way to the porch.

Inside. Surrounded by warmth and comforting smells. If the drive and the Tree had made him a scared little boy, this house made him a secure one.

“Richie!”

His grandmother was there, small and plump with curly gray hair. She smiled.

“Hey, Na-Na,” he said, hugging her. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, as well as can be expected,” she said. “Sit, sit.” She motioned him to a chair. He sat and settled in. It was an old chair, one he’d sat in as a child. It was as comforting as seeing his grandmother.

“Tea?” she said through her soft wrinkles.

Rich moved to stand. “Let me, Na-Na. You’ve been through so much.”

“No, sit, sit,” she said, and he did. “Humor what makes an old woman happy.”

So he sat and luxuriated as his grandmother puttered a large mug over to him. “Thank you,” he said, taking it and sipping. It was sweet, with cinnamon and other spices he couldn’t place.

She smiled and sat in an old rocker across the room. “I wish you wouldn’t drive so late at night.”

“I know,” he said. “But I couldn’t get out of the office any sooner.” He took another sip. He loved his grandmother, but did she have to keep the house so hot?

She nodded. “Was the drive okay?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Rich. “It was fine.” He wished he’d dressed cooler. He started to feel lightheaded.

“You alright, Richie?” she asked, leaning forward in the rocker.

“Fine, Na-Na, fine. Just a little dead-headed from the drive.” He took a third sip. “I really should be asking how you’re doing.”

She nodded. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be too sad. After all, I did kill them.”

Rich stopped mid-sip, wondering if he’d heard right. “What?”

Na-Na nodded. “You’ll want to put the mug down before you drop it.”

Rich stared at her. The mug slipped from his hand. Hot liquid splashed across his lap and the mug rolled across the floor. Every nerve in his lower body screamed, but he couldn’t move.

“Told you,” she said.

“Na…” he started, his tongue suddenly limp.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Na-Na, Na-Na, Na-Na. I think we’re all a little sick of Na-Na.”

Rich looked down at the mug on the floor. A puddle of tea lay next to it. Bits of wood sat in the bottom of the mug. Bark.

The Tree .

“I’d say we start using my proper name,” – and here she made a sound like a deep, growling gargle - “but as you probably can’t pronounce that, let’s just go with the Witch of the Forest.”

Rich tried again to move, only succeeding in moving his head around.

She stood from the rocker. “That’s right, witch. And I don’t mean any of that feel-good new-age Wicca twaddle. I mean power, Richie.”

She moved to a closet and pulled out a thick, stained tarp. Big leather straps with large buckles hung from it. She dropped it in front of Rich.

“The problem with power is that it fades.” She moved behind his chair and pushed forward. Rich fell onto the tarp, rolling onto his back. She began fastening the straps around his limbs. “Fades like youth.”

She looked down at him. “You think I’m old, Richie? You have no idea how old I am.”

She walked to one end of the tarp and grabbed hold. She began dragging the tarp, and Rich, across the carpet.

“So here’s how it works, Richie. I get power and eternal youth from the Tree. And the Tree wants my progeny. You know what ‘progeny’ means, right? Of course you do. Always such a smart boy.”

He watched the ceiling inch past as she dragged him towards the door. He strained his entire body to move. It was all he could do to blink. She opened the door and began to drag him onto the porch.

“I admit it’s gotten harder as the generations have drug on. Families just don’t stay near each other the way they used to. And I have to time it just right. I can’t just kill them whenever it's convenient for me. There are many factors to consider. And then along comes your brother’s kids and … well it all just starts to give me a headache.”

The cold air stung Rich’s eyes and made them water. She drug him off the porch and onto the walkway.

“So I finally convince them to come down here. ‘Come see your precious Na-Na.’ And I give them to the Tree. Well, technically his wife didn’t have to die but, you know, witnesses and all that modern legal bunk.”

The branches of the Tree came into view. Rich’s mind screamed to run.

“Then I have to use my power – which is fading and I should really be conserving for the Ceremony – to set up an ‘accident.’ And that finally convinces you, the last one, to come see dear old Na-Na.”

She stopped pulling and stepped into view, looking down at Rich. “But you’re in luck. Since you’re the last one, you get to witness the transformation. Wait here.” She chuckled then shouted at the Tree in the same gargling growl. “El Ath Kara!”

She stepped out of view and the branches began to writhe. They reached down to Rich, entwining his limbs and head.

No! his mind screamed. He tried to move but could only manage a furious blinking.

The Tree lifted him up in its branches. It spun him around and held him high up against the trunk, facing the house. His grandmother was coming out of the door, holding a book in her hand.

Tears ran down his face as she drew nearer. The book was covered with something dark and leathery. A large, crude inverted pentangle was on the front. Na-Na fished a pair of half-glasses from her pocket and balanced them on the end of her nose. She flipped through the book.

She found a page and smiled up at Rich. “With any luck you’ll see me change before you bleed out. You’ll be surprised how attractive I can be. And I’ll find a new man and get some new progeny. You won’t see that part, of course.”

She cleared her throat and raised the book. “Ready? No, of course you’re not. But oh well. Em Ortha Vortha Nal!”

And hundreds of little branches punctured Rich’s skin. Pain shot through him but he couldn’t move or even cry out. He heard voices whispering to him. His brother’s voice, his niece and nephew, plus a multitude of others he didn’t recognize. Those taken by the Tree. He thought of Betty and wanted to call her. He felt liquid running down his torso and knew he was dying.

Na-Na grinned up at him. “Yes, yes. Very nice. Al Ortho Vol Torka Zil Kala!”

She paused. Rich kept bleeding. Na-Na cleared her throat. “Zil Kala!”

And everything became very quiet. Clinically quiet, like a tape of ambient sounds had been switched off. The utter silence was like pressure in Rich’s ears. He was feeling lightheaded and the blood kept flowing.

Then, with still no sound, the area was engulfed in white light. Brighter than any noon. His grandmother looked pale and sickly in it.

Then, a sound. A voice, soft and almost childlike. A whisper from deep within a cave, but blindingly clear in the utter silence.

“You dare ask for my blessing when progeny remain?”

Na-Na frowned and snapped off the glasses. “Progeny? But I…”

Then she was screaming. The light around her became brighter. She dropped the book and her arms shot out to either side. With a horrible crack her body split in two, down the middle. Light spilled out. Her scream became distant and the light faded.

Then she was gone. Rich was left bleeding in the dark, wondering woozily what had happened.

The cell phone in his pocket started ringing. Betty. The baby.

Progeny .

And Rich died smiling.

Everything That's Damaged

It is 2027 and medical science has come a long way. My doctor keeps telling me this as she shows me a brochure for the pill she wants me to take.

“Your heart is giving out, Jim,” says the doctor. She’s a nice lady with awesome cans. “We have to do something, and I think this is the best option.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t afford this little office visit, let alone some fancy drug.”

See, I don’t make much money. I work as a copier repairman. For a bit of change I come to your office, shake the imaging unit, fiddle with some knobs and pronounce the thing fixed for a few more weeks. I know what you’re thinking – I knew it. Well, yes, I guess you did. But screw it. Copies are always worse than the original, so why bother much with them?

“This wouldn’t cost you anything,” she presses on. “This is an experimental drug. The drug company will pay for it so long as we report the results to them as research.”

I consider this and nod. My chest pains are coming almost daily, and I’m not much for dying of heart attacks. And, free is free. “So what’s it do?”

She smiles and flips to another page on the brochure. “Do you know what stem cells are, Jim?”

My blank stare tells her I do not.

“Okay, your body is made of cells. Little compartments of life that comprise everything in your body. Skin is made of skin cells, hearts are made of heart cells, and so on. Follow?”

I nod, not entirely lying.

“But, heart cells don’t start out as heart cells and skin cells don’t start out as skin cells. All cells start as stem cells, then develop into the cells for a specific body part. Still with me?”

I nod, now just wondering when she’ll shut up.

“In other words, using stem cells we can grow you a new heart.”

I understand the part about a new heart, and it sounds good. “Ah.”

“Now, do you know what nano-technology is?”

She’s lost me. I shake my head.

“Basically, it’s about extremely small machines. Microscopic robots that are programmed to do, well, whatever you want them to do.”

She flips to another page, getting excited now. “So, this new pill contains both stem cells and nano-machines, which the company calls Nan-Bots™.” – She doesn’t say the “™” part, but I can see it in the brochure – “And, when you take the pill, the Nan-Bots™ will use the stem cells to make you a new heart. Right inside your body. Without opening you up.”

Well, fuck me. “What about the old heart?”

“The Nan-Bots stop it.”

“Is that safe?”

“According to the company, yes.” She flips the brochure to another page announcing 100% Safe! in big letters.

“How do the little buggers know what organ to replace?”

She frowns and flips pages, reading. “According to this, they seek out whatever organ is in the most trouble. Amazing.”

I feel more flutter and pain just sitting there in her office, so what choice do I have? I sign some forms and swallow the pill. It looks like a small football wrapped in yellow vinyl, but I get it down. The doctor announces she has to go finalize the research paperwork and leaves me to wait. She is gone for quite some time. When she returns, she looks annoyed and embarrassed.

“Well, Jim, I assumed the company would pay for an overnight stay so we could monitor you. But apparently not. They say you’ll be fine at home and that the pill is completely safe.”

Again, I make shit for money, so I have to go home. She is very apologetic and gives me her cell phone number to call if anything goes wrong overnight.

So I go back to my little two-room apartment with its old fashioned four-legged floor-model bed. I feel fine as I fall asleep. Maybe even a little better.

I dream of a rat clawing into my chest. His grubby little claws are full of blood and meat. I wake up screaming, pain splitting my chest. I’m certain it’s a heart attack. I call the doctor’s cell phone as best I can.

“Yes?” she says, sounding sleepy.

“Does the company pay for an ambulance?”

“What? Who is this?”

“Jim,” I gasp. “The guy with the pill and the tiny robots. My chest is killing me.”

“A heart attack?” she says, sounding fully awake now. “You need to call an ambulance immediately.”

“I can’t afford it,” I say.

She asks me my symptoms and I tell her. My chest feels like it’s splitting open, but there’s no pain in my limbs. I am not light-headed or short of breath. She says it doesn’t sound like a heart attack.

“It must be the pill. I’m coming to get you and take you to the hospital.”

“I can’t afford…”

“I’ll fudge the paperwork, write it up as part of the research. Just hang on.”

And she hangs up. And I wait.

Fifteen minutes later she arrives in a sporty little hover number and speeds me back to the hospital. She and an assistant rush me to a scanning room, telling me over and over again that the company will pay for the scans as part of the research.

They lay me on a table and wave a gizmo over me. The doctor frowns at a screen, gasps, and nearly drops the thing. “Oh my god.”

“What?” I ask.

“It worked. Halfway, but it worked.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask through my teeth. I desperately want to clutch my chest, but they’ve told me not to.

“The bots built a new heart. But your other one is still going. Jim, you have two working hearts. This is amazing.” Her eyes are wide and the green light from the screen makes her face glow.

She keeps me there overnight, again promising to write it off as research. My chest feels better and I drift off to sleep.

I wake to hear my doctor’s voice. She is arguing with two men in business suits. I overhear her insist something about “research” and know they are from the company. They come to a decision that she is not happy with. They leave and she walks over to my bed.

“Jim, you have to leave. The company will only pay for weekly checkups as part of the research. They’ll write last night off but that’s it. I’m sorry.”

So I go. Whisked back home, on the apologetic doctor’s dime, with two hearts pumping away. A few days later, I feel great. I have energy again, more than in my hardest partying days. I feel like I could run through walls and hump a whole office full of secretaries. At the end of the week I go in for my checkup and the doc stares at my insides through the gizmo.

“Apart from having two working hearts, everything seems normal.”

That night at home, it starts again. I dream of a bird pecking the side of my torso. Its beak ruptures me and blood pours out. I wake up, clutching my side. I thrash around in pain, then call the doc.

“Your side?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It feels like my guts are trying to escape.”

“I can’t risk bringing you back in. Hold on, I’ll be there with what equipment I can scrounge.”

I hang up, in too much pain to argue or to think how rare late-night house calls are these days. “I can’t pay you,” I say when she arrives.

“Please shut up about paying,” she says. She has brought a smaller version of the gizmo and is fiddling with its buttons.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, grimacing at the pain.

She thinks. “Well, I did start it, after all. And … let’s just say you are a fascinating case.”

“Glad to be of entertainment value.”

“Hush.” She pulls up my shirt and waves the gizmo up and down my torso. She spends a long time on the side that’s giving me trouble, then spends a longer time staring at the screen.

“Holy…” she says.

“What?”

“Two livers. You now have two livers.”

“To go with my two hearts?”

“So it would appear.”

“But why?”

“I don’t…” then she gasps. “The hepatitis.”

“The hep c? I thought we got that under control.”

“Not before it did some damage to your liver.” She stares at the screen, reading things that would have been beyond me anyway. “The Nan-Bots are replacing everything that’s damaged.”

Even through the pain, a cold realization comes over me. “Doc, I did some hard partying once upon a time. Everything I have is damaged.”

She stares at me silently for a long time. Finally she speaks.

“I have to get some answers from the company.” She fishes around in her pockets and sets a pill bottle on the bed. “These are for the pain. Try to get as much rest as possible. I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”

And she is gone again, leaving me alone in my little apartment. I thrash around on my bed. I take one of the doc’s pills, then two, then three. Finally I fall into a broken sleep.

I dream of small children eating my insides. A little girl, blood on her face, looks up and smiles. My intestines are in her teeth. I wake up in agony, my whole body in unbearable pain. I down the entire bottle of pills and wait to die.

Only I don’t die. I come to in the hospital. The doc looks down at me.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

My throat is hoarse. “I can’t pay…”

“Shut up before I switch this thing off.”

I realize I am hooked up to some huge gizmo. Wire and tubes come at me from all directions.

“What is this?”

“It’s life support. It can keep your brain alive and working for up to two hours, even if you were decapitated. We use it for major surgery.”

“But…”

“Shush.” She bites her lip and looks around impatiently. “We’re waiting until some men from the company get here. We’re going to get some answers.”

I am extremely drugged up, but I can feel something wrong with my body. I crane my head down to look. I am inflated like a balloon. My stomach and chest are huge, blue-black and bloated. Veins stick out like worms. My legs are like tree trunks and my feet look like they came off a clown. A dead, bloated clown.

I scream.

“I know,” she says, coming over. “Just try to rest.”

She kisses my forehead and turns a knob over my head. I drift back into sleep.

I don’t dream.

I wake up and see the doc sitting in a chair. She is slumped to one side and her eyes are wide open. A large red hole is in her forehead.

A man in a suit steps into view. “Ah, he’s awake,” he says.

“Is he?” says another man, dressed the same, stepping into view.

Then I step into view. Or, someone who looks like me, naked and bloody but not bloated or deformed. He looks dazed.

I try to look down but my neck won’t move. I strain my eyes downward as best I can.

My body is in ruin. I look like a sandwich bag that’s been torn open. Blood and meat cover the table. My guts and bones stick out at odd angles. Like I exploded. Like something crawled out of me.

I look back at my new twin. He is wiping blood off his face. The men see the realization in my eyes and chuckle.

“Well,” says one, looking at me, “we can’t say the drug trial went as expected, but this certainly is a fascinating result. You’ll understand if we don’t go public with the findings. The doctor’s disappearance will be a little tricky to explain, but it doesn’t look like we’ll have that problem with you.” He nods and the other man leans in to smile down at me.

“Congratulations, Jim, it’s a boy.”

They laugh and one steps over to the gizmo that’s keeping my head alive. He flips a switch and I fade into nothing.

Get Together

Lois is on her front porch, facing her yard. Nothing around but trees. No one in sight. She is alone.

Steven's car pulls up and into the driveway. Lois is old and the sun hurts her eyes, but still she smiles. Steven is her son.

Steven frowns as he gets out of his car, rattling his keys in his hand. He looks worried. Lois is glad she has good news for him. She holds her prize close to her body and waits to show him.

“Mom?” he says, stepping up onto the porch. “Why did you call? What's wrong?”

Lois busied herself around the dining room table, making the perfect dinner. She straightened this and arranged that. It was turning out to be a wonderful evening.

“Isn't this nice?” she said, humming as she set down three napkins. They were expertly folded. “I'm so glad, Steven. So glad you decided to stay for dinner with your father and I.”

She set down three soup bowls and smiled. “And maybe later you can help your father fix the candy dish.”

“Look,” says Lois, swelling with pride as she shows Steven what she's holding. “The candy dish.”

Steven blinks and frowns. He looks down at the dish, then back up at her. “A candy dish?”

“Yes.” Lois looks down at it. Crystal and heavy. Exquisitely beautiful. She looks back at Steven. “The one your father gave me. He's been so afraid it was lost.”

Steven's face grows red and his lips tighten. “Mom, is this all...”

“And look, Steven. Not so much as a chip on it.”

Steven lets out a growling sigh. “Dammit, Mom. I don't have time for this...”

Lois' mood darkens. “Well, sometimes it seems like you never have time.”

“I can't believe you made me come all the way over for this.”

“You never come over as it is.” Lois is angry now. “Shame on you. I'm your mother. You should come over more.”

“Mom...”

“Your daughter comes over all the time. And she's busy in college. Sweet Jody. Such a good girl.”

Lois smiled and straightened the salt and pepper shakers. “And guess what, Steven? Jody's coming over too.”

She looked in Steven's direction. He said nothing.

Lois set down four water glasses, proud of how they shone. “Yes, such a good girl. All four of us together. Won't that be nice?”

Steven said nothing.

“That's exactly what I thought too, Steven. How wonderful that young people still care for their elders.”

She smiled at Steven. He did not respond. One open eye stared back, but the rest of his face was in ruin. Blood, pulp and flecks of bone caked where his nose should have been. Random teeth jutted out of the gaping mess of his mouth. His clothes were thickly clotted with blood.

Lois nodded. “Yes. How nice to have people who care.”

Lois is so angry she feels tears starting. “You just don't care, do you? You just don't care at all, Steven.”

Steven sighs. “Mom, of course I care...”

“No! No you don't care!” Lois' face is hot and the heavy dish is slippery in her sweating hands. “If you cared at all, if you cared even in the slightest, you'd have known how worried your father has been about this dish.”

“Dammit, Mom, Dad is dead! He's been dead for months!”

“No!” yells Lois. She lunges forward, no idea what she's doing. Her hands, still holding the dish, hit Steven in the chest. He steps back. For a moment he balances on the stoop, his eyes wide as he sways. Then he falls.

His spine hits the sidewalk first, then his head follows with a sharp “crack.”

For a second everything is quiet. Steven lays there and Lois stands, shivering in rage and shock.

Steven stirs and Lois looks down. There is blood beside his head, fresh and bright.

“Mom,” he starts to say.

She screams from somewhere deep within her. A feral, ferocious roar. She runs down the steps to where he lies. She drops to her knees, ignoring the pain from her old joints, to sit on his chest. She screams at him and brings the dish down on his mouth. That smart, disrespectful mouth.

She screams and hits him again. And again. And again. He struggles more and more weakly with each blow. She feels his skull give way, feels blood and snot fly onto her hands. Feels his cartilage and teeth come loose. And still she keeps bringing the heavy dish down.

She stops when the dish cracks in her hands. Three heavy, bloody pieces. What a mess.

Lois clicked her tongue as she found a small mound of dirt on the table. She sighed and shook her head at her husband.

“Dear, dear. Must you always make such a mess? Especially with Steven here?”

She pulled a dish towel from her apron strap and smiled. “Now, you two men keep talking and don't mind me. So nice to have you both chatting.”

She neatly wiped the dirt from the table, then stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Lois stares down at what she's done. Blood and crystal everywhere. Her son's face is all but gone. She looks into his remaining eye, breathing raggedly though her teeth.

Slowly she calms.

She looks up and around. It is broad daylight, but there is no one around to have seen. Nothing around but trees. She is alone.

Alone.

She swallows and eases herself up. Her knees pop and crack, but she makes it. She carefully places the pieces of the dish on the porch, then wipes her hands on her shirt.

She breathes in deep and lets it out.

Then she turns and heads across her yard, aiming for a metal shed set in one corner. There is a shovel inside.

A pain grew in the small of Lois' back. A pain from too much standing, too much scurrying around. She ignored it. Her whole family was getting together. It was too joyous an occasion for aches.

She put some finishing touches on the table setting and smiled. “I think we're ready.” She stepped back, nodding, then smiled at her husband.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said, “I swear you look as handsome as the day I married you.”

Her husband was propped up in a chair at the head of the table. His skin was dry and tight over his eyeless skull. Rotten teeth hung from his gaping mouth and dirt clung to his body. A beetle crawled from an eye socket, then retreated back inside.

“You're so sweet to say that,” she said, then leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. A bit of his skin came loose and stayed on her lip as she pulled back.

“Oh my,” she said, wiping it off with her dish towel.

The doorbell rang.

“And there's Jody,” she said, turning to head for the front door. She stopped, considering something. She picked up a long knife from the table, then went to the door.

She looked out the peephole. There was Jody, blond hair framing her sweet earnest face.

“Such a good girl,” said Lois. She held the knife behind her back, then opened the door.

All Kinds Of Things Kill

October 12

So this is my notebook. It’s not a diary or journal or any of that shit. It’s just a notebook I’m going to write in, because I promised Carla I would. Our prissy little marriage counselor thought it was a good idea to write down my thoughts, and unfortunately Carla agreed. I would do anything for Carla, so here I am.

If you’re reading this, I’m either dead or you’re about to be. Unless you're Carla. And if you are Carla, I’m sorry for keeping things from you, baby. I had to. No one can know what I do.

What is it I do? Well, first someone offers me a bunch of money. Then I find some guy I’m supposed to find. And I shoot him, stab him, strangle him, something of that nature. He looks at me all surprised and then he dies. Then the someone from the beginning gives me the bunch of money. It’s actually surprising what a big deal it isn’t, once you get used to it.

But that’s the problem. Most people aren’t used to it, so I make sure that most people don’t know. Not even Carla, and she’s my wife. She’s never seen the ‘office’ I supposedly go to every day. And she never acts like she wants to. That’s some trusting shit.

Why, just the other day she came in all smiles and thank-you's over this frilly skimpy thing I’d bought her. And a silver necklace with real diamonds. Man, did we ever screw that night and I love the hell out of her. But what office am I supposedly working at where I'm making that kind of money? Like I said, she’s very trusting.

So I kill, if you want to boil it down. That's what I do. But so what? All kinds of things kill.

October 17

So I met with this guy today. Down at the bar where I do a lot of my meetings. It must be the ‘office’ Carla’s thinking of. Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. A few days ago this woman I know comes in, sits next to me at the bar and says “I got a friend who’d like to meet that cousin of yours.”

I say “Well, perhaps the two of them can meet here in two days at noon.” And she leaves. But there’s no cousin, right? This lady’s chum is going to be meeting me. We just say ‘cousin’ in case anyone’s overhearing.

So, today at noon this guy I’ve never seen before comes in. He’s a nervous chubby little jack-off and he keeps looking around like he expects the germs on the walls to jump off and attack him.

We sit down in a booth together, across the table from each other. He coughs and runs his hand through his thin hair. “Well, no point in beating around the bush, I suppose,” he says. Then he gives this dipshit little laugh and takes a picture out of his pocket.

“I want you to kill this man,” he says, sliding the picture across the table to me.

I look at the asshole in the picture, then flip it over. His name and address are on the back, no doubt written by chubs across from me. The guy lives fairly close to me. Which makes me nervous. I like the bodies I leave to be a good distance from my home.

“For how much?” I ask.

And the guy says a figure. A large figure. One of the largest I’ve ever heard for a job. And I’m looking at this guy and thinking, where’s he getting all this fucking money? I briefly consider killing him and taking whatever cash he has on him. But that wouldn’t be very professional, now would it?

So, the money overrides my nervousness. I nod, slip the picture into my coat and say “Consider it done.”

“There’s one other thing,” says the guy. And he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a gun. Now, if I thought this guy had the balls to shoot he’d have a knife in his throat before he had a chance to point it. But he doesn’t point it. Instead, he sets it down on the table and slides it across to me.

“You have to use this gun.”

I shake my head. “I have my own equipment. It’ll do the job.”

The guy looks at me, then around the room. He picks up the gun, opens the chamber and dumps out the bullets. He pushes the bullets over to me. They are the shiniest bullets I’ve ever seen.

“Then at least use these bullets.”

Again, I shake my head. “I make my own.” Which is true. I have my own set-up at home. I figure it gives the cops one less thing to trace if the bullets don’t come from some store. My wife thinks I make them because I’m a gun enthusiast. Which I guess is true, now that I think of it.

“You have to use the bullets or there’s no deal,” he says. He looks afraid I might punch him. And I might at that.

All this is making me nervous again. “How much money did you say?”

He repeats the figure. Again, it’s a pretty large fucking figure.

I give him the eye. “You’ve got some balls, don’t you?”

“Please,” he says, “just use the bullets.”

Seeing as how he’s about to make me cry with all his pleading and shit, I pick up the gun and bullets. “Fine,” I say. “Just don’t expect it back afterwards.”

The guy nods. “Fine, fine. Just please make sure it gets done. And, one more thing.”

Another 'one more thing'?, I’m thinking. How many 'one more things' is this? He leans in close, like he’s sharing some big secret, something bigger than hiring a stranger to kill somebody.

“Try to avoid doing it at night.”

October 19

You wouldn’t believe my fucking luck.

See, I have something of a taco fetish. No, that doesn’t mean I jack off to pictures of tacos or want a woman to blow me while holding a taco. It just means I like tacos a whole fucking lot, despite the number they do on my plumbing.

So there’s this taco joint where I get my usual fix. And I pull up like I always do, get out of the car, and there’s the guy. Standing there, at my taco joint, is the guy I’m supposed to kill with chubs' gun.

He’s on his way through the door, and we happen to lock eyes. And I swear sure as fuck, I’m scared for a second. This random little prick scares me with his eyes. There’s something wrong with them. They remind me of this dog that scared me and my buddies when we were kids. Eyes of crazy random killing, not the clean professional stuff I do.

He blinks and goes inside. And I’m pissed at him for looking like that damned fucking dog, and decide to do him right then and there.

Well, not right then and right there. That wouldn’t do. I lean back into the car, get chubs' gun from the glove box, then shut the door. I wait in the shadow of an awning near the door to the taco place. It’s getting dark. I remember chubs' big secret of not doing it at night, but fuck chubs and fuck dog-face in there. I’m not afraid of the dark. I kill people, for fuck’s sake.

The air gets cold surprisingly quick, and dog-face is in there for quite some time. He must be having a sit-down meal, a big dog-bowl of tacos. I laugh and try not to think about that damned dog from my kiddie days. The gun is heavy in my pocket.

I feel a yawn coming on when he bursts out of the door. He runs past me, clutching his stomach, and stumbles up an alley. Too many tacos, I figure. I look side to side, grip the gun, and follow.

The alley is dark and I have trouble seeing. I can hear groaning up ahead, like my mark is having a hellacious puke. But something in the sound makes my spine cold. I decide to get this over fast.

“Hey buddy?” I say, hoping to lure him out where I can see him. “You okay?”

And there is no sound. No more moaning, but dog-face isn’t talking, either. I listen hard in the dark and can make out the sound of breathing.

“Buddy?” I say, getting sick of this shit.

Then this huge fucking dog leaps at me out of the darkness. I know it's just an effect of the dark and my own mind, but for a moment it’s that big dog from the old neighborhood. Moonlight glints in its crazy eyes.

The thing knocks me down, snarling and sinking its fucking teeth into my leg. I hear the dog’s growls blubbering in my blood.

“Fucker!” I yell, and start shooting. I empty all of chubs' bullets at the dog, not even bothering to aim. At least one must hit, because the dog whines and lets go, running back into the dark.

“Shit,” I say, working hard to keep calm so I don’t bleed too much. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wrap it around the wound. It gets red and soppy, but the bleeding mostly stops.

So by now I’m pretty pissed. One, I’ve got this huge dog bite. Two, I’ve emptied the only weapon I have on me. Three, I’ve made a heck of a lot of noise, enough to draw a crowd (as in, witnesses.) And four, my mark has no doubt high-tailed it out the other end of the alley.

It wouldn’t do to walk out the way I’d come in, right next to the taco joint with people no doubt starting to peek their heads out the door. So, I limp my sorry ass deeper into the alley, hoping to find my way to the other exit and escape unseen.

But on my way, I come to a spot where the moon has lit everything up, and there sure as shit is my mark. Dog-face. He’s deader than shit, with more than one bullet hole in him. His clothes are torn all to hell and there’s even blood on his face. I wonder which killed him, me or the freakin' dog. But I guess it doesn’t matter. I wipe the fingerprints off chubs' gun, drop it and make my way down to the other side of the alley and then to home undetected.

Like I said, you wouldn’t believe my fucking luck.

October 20

I can’t believe what just happened.

I hit Carla.

I’ve never done anything like that in my life. Hell, I’ve never even wanted to.

I’d just gotten home from sitting all day at that stupid bar, waiting for chubs to come and pay me. No word from him, but he’s not supposed to check in for another few days. So I should have expected no word from him, but for some reason it made me madder than shit. So mad I could have gunned down the whole bar. No, I didn’t want to gun them down. I wanted to rip them all to pieces with my hands. What’s the matter with me? I’m a professional, not some half-cocked asshole.

So, after a whole day of fuming I go back home. So far I'd managed to hide the dog bite from Carla. But sometime during the day it started bleeding again and I didn’t notice. Blood seeped into my pants and she saw it plain as day when I came in.

“What’s the matter with your leg?” She’s wearing the frilly little thing and the necklace I got her, like she’s hoping for some action.

“Nothing, dammit,” I say, much meaner than usual. I’m never mean to Carla.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” she says, coming over to inspect. “Let me look.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” I yell and smack her across the face. Hard. The shock of it stuns us both for a second, then she runs to the bathroom to cry.

That’s where she is now, as I’m writing this. Crying in the bathroom.

You’ve got to understand, I’m no wife beater. When I first started killing for money, I would tell myself the marks were wife beaters and shit like that. To make me feel better about killing them.

I feel like such shit I don’t even want to think about it. I’m going to bed. Maybe it’ll be better in the morning.

(Date not written)

Oh god. Oh my fucking god. I don’t know what’s happened. Oh god.

Carla.

I woke up a few minutes ago. Blood everywhere. Like someone dumped a bunch of just-butchered meat into our bed. Bloody chunks of gore, all over the sheets and pillows. And Carla, where the fuck is Carla?

I know where she is.

Fuck me, I know where she is.

I woke up to find this mess everywhere. I jump out of the bed, screaming for Carla. I’m terrified something’s happened to her, and raging to find whoever caused all this blood and tear the shit out of them.

Then my stomach seizes up. It’s not the blood, I’ve seen my share of blood. I scream for Carla one more time then run to the bathroom. I puke like I’ve never done before. And what comes out of me?

Meat. Hunks of raw meat and blood come pouring out of my mouth, into the toilet. I scream at the puke as it’s coming out.

It finally stops and I slump forward against the bowl. Blood is all over my face and swimming around in the toilet. Chunks of meat bob in front of me. Something catches in my throat. I cough and hack into my hand, then feel something hit my palm. I pull my hand back and look.

It’s the necklace. The one I gave Carla. I coughed up the necklace and you know what that means about what’s in the bowl. Oh shit. Oh shit.

So now I’m writing my suicide note. I understand what attacked me in the alley, and I know why chubs insisted I use his gun. And those bullets. They were silver, weren't they? Call me crazy if you want, but all that shit is true. I know that now. That fucker bit me and now I’ve eaten my wife. Oh, god, Carla I’m so sorry. I never wanted anything to happen to you.

There’s some silver in this house, I know it. Some fancy spoons Carla was so proud of, some jewelry. Fuck, the necklace I just puked up. I’m going downstairs and making a bullet from them. It won’t be much of a bullet, what with how my hands are shaking, but it’ll get the job done.

Goodbye.

Carla, I love you and I know you’ll be in heaven and I will be in hell.

Forgive me.

Note from Dr Breakman, Ashton Mental Health Facility:

These notes were found when the patient was arrested in his home on the early morning of October 21. He had bled significantly and had a crude silver projectile lodged in his chest. The wound was shallow and we were able to save him.

Details of what happened that night are still unclear. We hope to glean more from the patient once his psychosis can be stabilized. He is still suffering from the delusion that he is a lycanthrope, or werewolf. I will be disproving that tonight. I will stay up all night with the patient in his cell. He will be restrained, of course, but we will stay up overnight and disprove this werewolf nonsense. It should be easy enough.

Tonight is a full moon.

Boil Order

The stove ran constantly in twelve-year-old Timothy Bayer’s house. Big stock pots of water boiled night and day. When the water was boiled, his mother would dump it into many large buckets spread across the kitchen. Only this water was safe.

The town of Lakewood had been under a boil order for three weeks and counting. Any water used by anyone had to be boiled. No one in power would say why.

Nobody knew what was wrong. The water looked fine. Aaron said it smelled fine. Timothy found his older cousin sniffing a cup in the bathroom. He yelled at Aaron to stop. Aaron laughed and called him a sissy. Then he stuck a finger in the water and flicked at Timothy’s hand.

Timothy screamed and ran to the kitchen, pouring a cup of just-boiled water over his hand. It was hotter than he expected. His skin was hot and tight for days.

Aaron seemed sorry for starting it. He told Timothy he worried too much.

So Timothy sat in his backyard, away from the water, and tried not to worry. The short grass poked his soft round legs and the sun baked his pale freckled arms. It felt good, soothing. Summer was solace from oral reports and being called on in class. Freedom from having to talk. Most days, Timothy wished he didn’t have to speak at all. He’d rather sit in his room with his model planes.

He must have frowned.

“Cheer up, Freckles,” said Aaron. “It’s summer.”

Timothy squinted at Aaron, standing a few feet away. “Sorry,” he said, scratching behind his head.

Aaron snorted. “You say you’re sorry too much, Freckles.”

Timothy did his best to smile.

“Kick ass,” said Aaron, smiling and taking a drag from his cigarette.

Cassie, Aaron’s girlfriend, giggled from off to one side. “I can’t believe they let you smoke.”

Aaron’s gaze went hard. He popped his knuckles and glared at the house. “I’d like to see them do anything about it. They aren’t my parents.”

Timothy’s parents let Aaron get away with a lot. He smoked like the world was ending. He got tattoos of barbed wire and swear words. Yet he was just three years older than Timothy. Timothy’s parents said to give Aaron a wide berth. They said Aaron had been through enough, with his mom long dead and his dad recently dying.

Aaron had laughed at the funeral.

Cassie giggled again and pressed her large breasts into Aaron’s back. She cooed and ran her fingers through his blond hair. Aaron’s gaze softened and he turned to face her.

“Kick ass,” he said, and they kissed.

Cassie was a slut. Timothy knew it. He was pretty sure Aaron knew it. But for the moment she made Aaron happy. Timothy figured Aaron could use some happiness.

It is four years ago and Timothy is about to discover that Aaron's father beats him. Timothy doesn't like Uncle Mike’s house. Everything smells of dust and beer. But every so often his parents dress him up and send him over.

Aaron and Timothy are sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing an old video game on Uncle Mike’s dingy television. Uncle Mike comes in from the yard. He sways and scratches at his stubble.

He looks at Aaron. “Get up.”

Aaron’s face goes blank. “What is it, Dad?”

Uncle Mike grumbles. “Just get up.”

Aaron puts his controller down and lets Uncle Mike lead him from the room. Timothy tries to focus on the game. He feels pressure in his bladder and tries to ignore it. Finally he stands and heads for the bathroom.

Just outside the bathroom, he hears a yelp from a closed door to his right. Then a whack. Then many violent whacks in a row, punctuated by grunting.

Finally the whacking stops. “Aren’t you gonna cry?” comes Uncle Mike’s voice. “You a big boy now?”

Timothy stands there the entire time, unable to move. He jumps when the door to his right opens.

Uncle Mike comes out, a dingy belt in his hand. Aaron sits on a chair behind him, covered in welts. His face is tight, somewhere between tears and rage.

Uncle Mike frowns at Timothy.

“Sorry,” Timothy says, scratching the back of his neck. “Just going to the bathroom.” He rushes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

From inside, he hears Uncle Mike say, “Now don’t make me do that again.”

Timothy watched Aaron and Cassie kiss. Then he realized the garden hose was only a foot or so away.

He looked over and saw it, drops of water inching from the sprayer. Dad had been using it to water the bushes. No one had said anything about boiling water for bushes, he had said. Dad was very logical. But Timothy wished he would turn the hose off.

Timothy stood. He hiked his shorts over his wide waist and stepped away from the hose.

Aaron noticed, pulling back from Cassie. “What’s up?”

“Dad left the hose on,” Timothy muttered.

“Did he?” said Aaron, grinning. He ran over and snatched up the hose. “Oh no!”

Timothy scratched behind his head and stepped back further.

“Aaron,” said Cassie in her do-something-for-me whine. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” said Aaron. He squirted the ground next to her.

“Stop it, fucker,” said Cassie, laughing. “I don’t wanna get sick.”

“Aw, come on, baby,” said Aaron. “We can stay in the hospital together.”

“I mean it.” Cassie flashed her serious pout. “Stop it.”

Aaron smiled, paused, then shifted to a frown. “Well, you both are a couple of pussies, aren’t you?” He turned the sprayer around and shot a big blast of water into his mouth.

“Aaron!” yelped Cassie.

Aaron made a big show of swallowing. He dropped the hose and spread out his arms. “I am the bravest kid in the world!”

“Sheesh, Aaron,” said Timothy. “There’s something wrong with the water.”

Aaron shrugged. “Big deal. So maybe I get the shits or whatever.”

Cassie shook her head and moved up to him. She put a hand on his chest. “Don’t do things like that, baby.”

Aaron moved to speak, then stopped. His eyes went wide and his neck clenched. He opened his mouth and water spilled out. Timothy wished he wouldn’t joke like that.

“Ewww,” said Cassie, pulling away and laughing. “You gross-ass.”

Aaron’s eyes rolled back. Water ran from the corner of his eye sockets. He moaned, gurgling as water poured from his mouth.

“Aaron?” muttered Timothy.

“Baby?” said Cassie.

The skin on Aaron’s arms began to ripple. Timothy stared, not believing. Aaron’s arms contorted and bulged, like snakes were under his skin, trying to get out. He groaned through water and raised his arms.

Timothy felt an urge to run.

“Aaron?” said Cassie, then Aaron’s hands closed on her throat.

“Hey!” Timothy said, and ran over to Aaron. Aaron lifted Cassie from the ground. “Knock it off,” said Timothy, grabbing Aaron’s arms. The arms felt impossibly strong. Timothy let go, recoiling from the writhing, rippling skin. Cassie gasped for air and clawed at Aaron’s hands.

“Aaron!” yelled Timothy, grabbing again at Aaron’s arms.

Aaron’s fingers closed. His nails punctured Cassie’s skin. Blood ran down his hands onto the ground. Blood came from Cassie’s mouth.

Aaron screamed. Water poured from his mouth and nose. His hands clenched deeper into Cassie. She kicked, then was still. Timothy heard muscle tear and bone snap. Cassie’s body dropped away from her head.

Timothy screamed and jumped away from Cassie’s headless corpse. Blood poured from her neck onto the ground. Her head rolled off Aaron’s fists and fell.

Aaron turned to Timothy. Water poured from his mouth. Timothy ran.

He raced up the back porch and slammed into the glass door. He saw his dad in the kitchen beyond. Dad looked up at the noise. His early-gray temples bobbed in surprise. Timothy fumbled with the latch. He heard Aaron groaning behind him.

The door opened and Timothy fell in. Dad caught him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Dad. “What’s the matter, Timothy?”

“Shut the door,” gasped Timothy. “Aaron…” He leaned forward in Dad’s arms, staring at the floor. The dark pattern of the kitchen tile looked very much like blood.

It is three years ago and Timothy is about to tell his father about Aaron and Uncle Mike. He walks from the kitchen to the living room, where Dad sits with a crossword in his lap. Timothy approaches slowly, each step awkward.

“Dad?” he says.

Dad looks up from his puzzle. “Yes, Timothy?”

And Timothy tells him. But it is halting, incomplete. He mumbles a hurried outline of what happened. He feels foolish.

He scratches the back of his head and waits. Dad frowns, then clears his throat.

“Now,” he says, “let’s think this through. All you heard were some noises and all you saw was something in Mike’s hand. Right?”

Timothy feels his words dying. He wants to press on, to make Dad understand what he saw and heard. To tell him how Aaron looked sitting in that room. But the words will not move from his mouth.

He looks at the floor. “Right.”

“And it's not very smart to jump to conclusions, right?” Dad continues.

Timothy feels like a coward. “Right.”

“Aaron…” Timothy said, leaning in Dad’s arms and staring at the kitchen tiles.

“Aaron?” asked Dad, helping Timothy to his feet. “Is something wrong with Aaron?”

“Shut the door,” was all Timothy got out.

“Calm down and think things through,” said Dad, and then Aaron was in the room. His lips were blue, with deep wet wrinkles puckering his mouth.

Dad pushed past Timothy to Aaron.

“Dad, no!” said Timothy.

“Aaron?” said Dad.

Aaron gurgled a shriek and grabbed Dad’s chest with both hands.

“Wha…” Dad started, then held the word out into a scream. Aaron’s hands clenched on his chest. Bones cracked. Blood ran past Aaron’s fingers as they went deeper.

“Dad!” yelled Timothy.

Aaron moaned and pulled his pulsating arms apart. Dad’s chest cracked and split open. Two halves of pulp and bone went to each side. Blood and meat poured to the kitchen floor.

“No!” yelled Timothy.

Dad’s open-mouthed head dangled from half of his torso. It bobbed and snapped off, falling into the open valley of gore in his chest.

Aaron grunted and let go. Dad’s remains fell to the floor. Aaron turned and screamed at Timothy, water pouring from his throat.

Timothy ran.

He raced down the hallway, turning a corner before reaching the bathroom. He stopped at the door and looked around. Aaron was not in sight. Timothy heard him moaning from around the corner.

Timothy rushed into the bathroom. He shut the door and locked it. His heart thudded and his flabby legs ached. He staggered to the tub and sat on the edge. He hoped Aaron wouldn’t find him.

It is two years ago and Timothy is about to discover that Uncle Mike is sick. Sick with the stomach cancer that eventually kills him.

Timothy walks into the bathroom at home and finds Uncle Mike retching into the toilet, his back and shoulders clenching with effort. Blood is spattered on the tank.

Uncle Mike turns and sees him. Blood covers his mouth and chin. He quickly wipes and scowls.

“Where the hell’d you come from?” he says, his voice thick with alcohol.

And there is so much blood in the toilet bowl.

Timothy heard Aaron moan from somewhere near the bathroom door. He pushed himself back, further into the tub. He put his back against the tiled wall.

He heard a plop off to his right. He looked and saw drops of water falling from the faucet. A pool collected around the drain. Timothy pulled away. Aaron’s moans became louder, seeming to come from everywhere.

The moaning stopped. Timothy pulled his knees to his chest. All he could hear were drops of water and his own breathing.

There was a violent crack and Aaron’s arm punched through the wall behind him. Tiles clattered to the tub. Dust went in Timothy’s eyes. Aaron’s swollen, throbbing arm grabbed at him. Timothy screamed and leapt from the tub.

He flew from the bathroom. Aaron gurgled and screamed from the room behind the tub.

Timothy raced across the living room towards the front door. It opened. Timothy had just enough time to register the small, round form of his mother coming in. Then he collided with her.

“Woah,” she said, laughing and righting herself and Timothy. “Be careful, sweetheart. I just had my hair done.”

“Mom, get out,” gasped Timothy. “Aaron is…” he trailed off, panting.

“Aaron is what, Tim?” she said, patting at her dark hair.

It is one year ago and Timothy is about to try one last time to tell an adult about Aaron. Uncle Mike is dying but still mean as ever.

Mom is sitting in her and Dad’s room, in front of a mirror. Timothy creeps in, rubbing the back of his neck.

His mom sees and turns to smile. “Hey, honey. What’s up?”

And Timothy tells her. But he races through the story again, downplaying details without meaning to. He worries he made the whole thing sound trivial.

Mom frowns. “That sounds awful,” she says. “Poor Aaron…” She looks off to one side, biting her lip and smoothing her eyebrows.

“Still,” she says, looking back. “We don’t want to cause a fuss. You can’t go around telling other’s secrets, Tim. Think of how it would look.”

Timothy wants to say more. To make Mom understand that someone has to do something. But the words stick in his chest.

“Okay,” he says.

Mom smiles and pats at her hair.

Timothy's mom looked at Timothy, concern wrinkling her face. Aaron's moans came from behind him.

“Is that Aaron?” she asked, stepping around Timothy.

“Mom, don’t…” said Timothy.

Aaron lumbered into the room. His blond hair undulated as water churned through his scalp. The stench of rotting fish wafted over them. The smell of something horrible decaying in a swamp. He gargled and moaned.

“Aaron?” said Mom, stepping toward him.

“Mom!” yelled Timothy.

Aaron’s hand shout out and grabbed Mom’s hair. He clenched and pulled up.

“Aaron!” Mom screamed.

Aaron yanked his hand downward. Mom’s head snapped forward. A sickening pop filled the room. Mom jerked and blood came from her mouth.

“Mom!” yelled Timothy.

Aaron groaned and jerked his arm to one side. Mom’s head twisted around and snapped off. Her twitching corpse fell. Her blank eyes stared at Timothy. Bloody cords hung from her neck.

“No!” Timothy cried.

Aaron roared and flung Mom’s head against the wall. Then he came for Timothy.

Timothy tore through the front door out into the yard. He’d never been in good shape. His chest hurt from running. His throat burned from screaming. Death filled his mind, blocking out any thought of where he was running. He knew a huge tree was somewhere in the yard. Knew he would have to avoid it. But he couldn’t focus. He careened blindly ahead.

Behind him, he heard Aaron crash through the door and bellow. He turned his neck to look and his head slammed into a low-hanging branch. He tripped on roots and fell forward. He felt his ankle snap. Pain raged up his leg.

Aaron was grunting behind him, getting closer. Timothy sucked in quick breaths and tried to stand. Pain exploded and his ankle gave way. He fell again.

Then Aaron had him.

Aaron grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him up. The pain from the grip was worse than his ankle. Timothy cried out. Aaron spun him around and slammed his back against the tree.

Aaron’s eyes were white. Water seeped from cracks in his twisting face. A swollen gray tongue hung from his mouth. Water ran freely from every opening. A gurgling growl came from his throat.

Aaron released one shoulder. The force of the other hand was enough to keep Timothy pinned. Aaron moaned and shoved his bloated hand into Timothy’s mouth. Thick, writhing fingers closed on his tongue.

Timothy screamed past Aaron’s hand. Aaron pulled. Pain poured down Timothy’s throat. Tears ran down Timothy’s face and water poured from Aaron’s eyes. The water turned gray, then black.

Aaron bucked and jerked. He let go of Timothy and stumbled backwards, black liquid pouring from him. Timothy fell to the ground. Pain raged in his ankle, tongue and throat.

The liquid pouring from Aaron thickened. Timothy sobbed at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy said, his speech broken and obscured by his injured tongue.

Aaron stopped and stared through white, watery eyes. Thick black liquid seeped from his skin.

“I’m sorry!” sobbed Timothy. “I’m sorry I didn’t try harder. I’m sorry I didn’t say more. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to help you! I’m sorry!”

Timothy fell into sobbing, mumbling “I’m sorry” over and over again.

Aaron’s body shook. He doubled over. His back clenched and his mouth opened. A torrent of water raged out. More water than he could have ever drunk. Aaron groaned as the water turned black, then red. Blood, black gunk and water poured out of him. It coursed across the yard, surrounding Timothy.

Aaron twitched and heaved. Chunks of flesh fell out of him with the water. Organs spilled from his mouth. He jerked twice more, then fell forward into the bloody marsh he'd made. He was still.

Timothy sobbed into the wet grass. And when the cops found him half an hour later, he was still saying he was sorry.

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