Konrad Hartmann's Blog - Posts Tagged "flash-fiction"
Strangers
Strangers
By Konrad Hartmann
Sake washed her club in the muddy river water. She gave up trying to clean the smell from it weeks ago. The stench seemed impossible to remove, so she contented herself with cleaning off the visible matter. She could have thrown the weapon away, but it was a good club, and it had served her well. She held confidence in it, and now was not the time to switch to a new weapon.
She watched the river from the corner of her eye while pretending to ignore it. Sometimes, she tricked them into attacking her this way. It worked better for the small ones, but now there seemed to be fewer small ones and more large ones. The large ones were still no larger than a child of three winters, but that was enough to worry Sake. They were growing.
Nothing moved in the river. Sake looked at Uteki, the woman crumbled in the grass. Uteki might survive, Sake thought. Most of the women might have survived, had they not been alone, or had the madness not swept the village. Now there was no village, only empty pit-huts. Only Uteki remained, besides Sake, so at least she no longer worried about their late enemies, their late kinfolk.
Sake glanced at the sun and bent down, rolling Uteki onto a mat of woven reeds. The woman moaned in pain, but Sake worried more about dusk than the woman's agony. The empty village held safety, for it stood farther from the river. She would stack the wood she used to fortify the door. She would hear them if they came in. The were fast, but they were not stealthy or clever.
Sake had found Uteki by the river, the same as she found all the women by the river, except for those perishing by club, spear, or knife. Women giving birth always left the hut to do so; to remain inside would contaminate the home with the filth. But the elders also disapproved of birthing children by the river, for fear that it would poison the fish. In summers past, the other women may have intervened to guide the mother away from the river. But in the past weeks, fear kept the others away from a birth.
Sake dragged Uteki along on the mat, remembering the words of her own mother, Sakana. Sakana warned the village when the strangers appeared. It had been a bad time before they arrived. The men caught fewer and fewer fish from the river, and less and less game. The village moved three times since the previous winter, but each new home proved hungrier than the last.
When the strangers arrived, Sakana immediately went to the elders.
“Today, we are still strong enough to kill them. There are more of us than them. But we grow weak, and soon we will not be strong enough. Their eyes sing evil and they bring foul dreams,” Sakana told the elders. But they laughed at the old women, and enjoyed the friendship of the newcomers. The strangers were fat, healthy, and full of laughter. They brought fish, and showed the village how to better catch the salmon with better spears and better hooks. The village was eating again, every day, and full bellies do not listen to the nonsense of an old woman.
And the strangers brought more than fish and spears. They brought amusement. Each of the new men carried a puppet, the size of a baby, crafted of shells and sinew into a human shape. They made their puppets talk and sing and dance, and so the village remembered how to talk and sing and dance. The strangers taught them a new song to sing as they tossed one of the puppets into the river. And the river ran thick with salmon. The strange men charmed the women, and the men laughed too often to worry. Even Sake found herself charmed by the bright and shining eyes of one newcomer.
The strangers even taught the men of the village how to make their own puppets, and this more than anything else enraged Sakana. The men laughed at her rantings, but when one day she took her cousin's puppet and smashed it to bits with a rock, her cousin did not laugh, but instead cut Sakana's throat with an obsidian knife. And the bright and shining eyes of Sake's beloved newcomer glittered as he laughed, and Sake retched with disgust.
That day seemed to change everything, but Sake knew the change happened the first day they saw the strangers. The newcomers left in the middle of the night, ignoring the pleas of their newfound lovers and comrades.
The sun rose on a village bitter with disappointment. The people felt their loss as a theft committed by Sakana, and they desecrated her corpse in rage. The men kept their puppets, carrying them always for fear of someone stealing or destroying their beloved toy. The killings continued over the brutal winter. By spring half the huts lay empty. The men descended into idiocy, doing nothing but mumbling incoherently to their puppets. Starvation drove many of the women to find new ways to fill their bellies, and to this end, they waited for their demented husbands to sleep. But the belly of each woman still surviving swelled with the promise of new life come spring.
Hana was the first river death. Sake found her, splayed and torn on the river rocks, her belly empty, the baby gone. At first, Sake thought she had simply died in childbirth, and that animals had arrived to scavenge. But there were others. Eventually, the women stopped looking for each other as they wandered off. Eventually, only Sake looked for and found them.
Sake followed Hinode one day. Hinode walked, dazed, away from the village and towards the river, staggering as she carried her big belly. Sake followed, carrying her club, which had been Sakana's club, and which had been Sake's father's club when he lived. She waited for Hinode to lay down.
When the baby appeared, Sake understood the puppets. The creature coming out of Hinode bore little resemblance to a human baby, but much to the shell puppets. Sharp, shell-like protrusions covered its wretched body, and it attacked Hinode in a frenzy. Hinode did not survive, though Sake ran to her as fast as she could. Sake stained her club for the first time that day.
###
Sake looked at Uteki, who lay panting on the reed mat, on the floor of the pit-hut. The woman's skin burned to the touch. Sake looked down at her own belly, swollen, turgid, hard to the touch, and tried to decide. She found herself wanting to see the river, but she forced herself to look at the club and at the knife laying next to her on the floor. She could resist the river today, but she knew the night would pull harder at her. She would not wait for dusk.
By Konrad Hartmann
Sake washed her club in the muddy river water. She gave up trying to clean the smell from it weeks ago. The stench seemed impossible to remove, so she contented herself with cleaning off the visible matter. She could have thrown the weapon away, but it was a good club, and it had served her well. She held confidence in it, and now was not the time to switch to a new weapon.
She watched the river from the corner of her eye while pretending to ignore it. Sometimes, she tricked them into attacking her this way. It worked better for the small ones, but now there seemed to be fewer small ones and more large ones. The large ones were still no larger than a child of three winters, but that was enough to worry Sake. They were growing.
Nothing moved in the river. Sake looked at Uteki, the woman crumbled in the grass. Uteki might survive, Sake thought. Most of the women might have survived, had they not been alone, or had the madness not swept the village. Now there was no village, only empty pit-huts. Only Uteki remained, besides Sake, so at least she no longer worried about their late enemies, their late kinfolk.
Sake glanced at the sun and bent down, rolling Uteki onto a mat of woven reeds. The woman moaned in pain, but Sake worried more about dusk than the woman's agony. The empty village held safety, for it stood farther from the river. She would stack the wood she used to fortify the door. She would hear them if they came in. The were fast, but they were not stealthy or clever.
Sake had found Uteki by the river, the same as she found all the women by the river, except for those perishing by club, spear, or knife. Women giving birth always left the hut to do so; to remain inside would contaminate the home with the filth. But the elders also disapproved of birthing children by the river, for fear that it would poison the fish. In summers past, the other women may have intervened to guide the mother away from the river. But in the past weeks, fear kept the others away from a birth.
Sake dragged Uteki along on the mat, remembering the words of her own mother, Sakana. Sakana warned the village when the strangers appeared. It had been a bad time before they arrived. The men caught fewer and fewer fish from the river, and less and less game. The village moved three times since the previous winter, but each new home proved hungrier than the last.
When the strangers arrived, Sakana immediately went to the elders.
“Today, we are still strong enough to kill them. There are more of us than them. But we grow weak, and soon we will not be strong enough. Their eyes sing evil and they bring foul dreams,” Sakana told the elders. But they laughed at the old women, and enjoyed the friendship of the newcomers. The strangers were fat, healthy, and full of laughter. They brought fish, and showed the village how to better catch the salmon with better spears and better hooks. The village was eating again, every day, and full bellies do not listen to the nonsense of an old woman.
And the strangers brought more than fish and spears. They brought amusement. Each of the new men carried a puppet, the size of a baby, crafted of shells and sinew into a human shape. They made their puppets talk and sing and dance, and so the village remembered how to talk and sing and dance. The strangers taught them a new song to sing as they tossed one of the puppets into the river. And the river ran thick with salmon. The strange men charmed the women, and the men laughed too often to worry. Even Sake found herself charmed by the bright and shining eyes of one newcomer.
The strangers even taught the men of the village how to make their own puppets, and this more than anything else enraged Sakana. The men laughed at her rantings, but when one day she took her cousin's puppet and smashed it to bits with a rock, her cousin did not laugh, but instead cut Sakana's throat with an obsidian knife. And the bright and shining eyes of Sake's beloved newcomer glittered as he laughed, and Sake retched with disgust.
That day seemed to change everything, but Sake knew the change happened the first day they saw the strangers. The newcomers left in the middle of the night, ignoring the pleas of their newfound lovers and comrades.
The sun rose on a village bitter with disappointment. The people felt their loss as a theft committed by Sakana, and they desecrated her corpse in rage. The men kept their puppets, carrying them always for fear of someone stealing or destroying their beloved toy. The killings continued over the brutal winter. By spring half the huts lay empty. The men descended into idiocy, doing nothing but mumbling incoherently to their puppets. Starvation drove many of the women to find new ways to fill their bellies, and to this end, they waited for their demented husbands to sleep. But the belly of each woman still surviving swelled with the promise of new life come spring.
Hana was the first river death. Sake found her, splayed and torn on the river rocks, her belly empty, the baby gone. At first, Sake thought she had simply died in childbirth, and that animals had arrived to scavenge. But there were others. Eventually, the women stopped looking for each other as they wandered off. Eventually, only Sake looked for and found them.
Sake followed Hinode one day. Hinode walked, dazed, away from the village and towards the river, staggering as she carried her big belly. Sake followed, carrying her club, which had been Sakana's club, and which had been Sake's father's club when he lived. She waited for Hinode to lay down.
When the baby appeared, Sake understood the puppets. The creature coming out of Hinode bore little resemblance to a human baby, but much to the shell puppets. Sharp, shell-like protrusions covered its wretched body, and it attacked Hinode in a frenzy. Hinode did not survive, though Sake ran to her as fast as she could. Sake stained her club for the first time that day.
###
Sake looked at Uteki, who lay panting on the reed mat, on the floor of the pit-hut. The woman's skin burned to the touch. Sake looked down at her own belly, swollen, turgid, hard to the touch, and tried to decide. She found herself wanting to see the river, but she forced herself to look at the club and at the knife laying next to her on the floor. She could resist the river today, but she knew the night would pull harder at her. She would not wait for dusk.
Cutting Remarks
Cutting Remarks
By Konrad Hartmann
“I heard it's dangerous,” Katelyn said.
Shannon smiled.
“Why?”
“My mom, when she was in college, she had some weird stuff happen when she used one,” Katelyn said.
“Like what?” Shannon asked, taking out Ouija board and planchette from the box.
“She said it was fun at first, but then the spirit or whatever started telling her to do things.”
“Yeah?” Shannon set the board out on the coffee table.
“Like it started telling her to cut herself. And other things,” Katelyn said.
“What kind of other things?” Shannon asked, placing her hand on the planchette.
“She wouldn't really say,” Katelyn said, blushing.
“Am I playing by myself?” Shannon asked, looking at Katelyn. The planchette slid to “No” in the top right, and both girls laughed. Only Shannon was touching the planchette.
“Oh, my God, did you just do that?” Katelyn asked.
Shannon raised her eyebrows and shook her head no. She reset the planchette in the starting position.
“Is Katelyn pregnant?” Shannon asked, smiling.
“What?!” Katelyn yelped.
The planchette slid to “No.”
“Could Katelyn have gotten pregnant this year?” Shannon asked.
“Shannon!” Katelyn said, darting her hand forward but hesitating to touch the planchette, which slid quickly towards “No.” Katelyn bit her lower lip and placed her hand on the device, staring at Shannon.
“My turn!” Katelyn said. “Is Shannon pregnant?”
The planchette skittered up, then to the upper right, to “No.”
“Could she have gotten pregnant?” Katelyn asked. The planchette shot over to “Yes.” Katelyn looked up at Shannon.
“My turn,” Shannon said. “Will anything bad happen to us because we're playing?”
The planchette crawled like a legless spider under their fingertips. P-A-I-N. Katelyn grew pale.
“What can we do to avoid pain?” Katelyn blurted. The planchette moved. P-L-A-Y-O-N. “I don't know what playon means. Oh! Play on.”
“So I guess we have to keep playing,” Shannon said, laughing. “When is it safe to stop playing?” The planchette slid to 1-2. “Uh-oh. Midnight. And it's only 10 now. We can quit though. What's the worst that could happen?”
The planchette moved. R-A-P-E-D-E-A-T-H-T-O-R-T-U-R-E
“We'll play until 12 then throw it away!” Katelyn said.
“You baby,” Shannon laughed.
“Don't make fun. Does Luke like me?” Katelyn asked.
The planchette skipped to “No.”
“Who does Luke like?” Shannon asked. S-H-A-N-N-O-N the planchette spelled.
Katelyn bit her lip and squinted.
“Did Shannon have sex with Luke?” Katelyn whispered. The planchette darted down to the letters. A-N-D-T-R-A-V-I-S. It was quiet for a minute. The planchette twitched as Katelyn glared at Shannon.
“Hm. It still wants to play. Quit anytime you want, Katelyn,” Shannon said. “What should I do?” C-U-T, the planchette spelled.
“Cut what?” Katelyn asked. K-A-T-E-L-Y-N, the board spelled. Katelyn's face grew white. “You want Shannon to cut me?” she asked, her voice small. The planchette slid to “Yes.”
“No way,” Shannon said, scowling.
Katelyn looked over at a shelf, then back at Shannon.
“We have to!” Katelyn said, darting to the shelf and returning with a razor-knife. “Cut me,” she said, handing the cutter to Shannon.
“You're crazy!” Shannon said.
“Just do it. A little one. Here,” Katelyn tugged down her tights and panties just enough to expose her hip.
“No. For real?” Shannon asked.
Katelyn nodded.
Shannon took the cutter, frowning. Her hand seemed to crawl through the air.
“Ready?” Shannon asked.
Katelyn nodded.
“One, two, three,” Shannon said, flicking her wrist on three. A line shallow but a few inches long appeared on Katelyn's hip, then began to trickle blood. With their free hands, both girls touched the planchette. “What now?” Shannon asked.
K-E-E-P-C-U-T-T-I-N-G
Katelyn looked down to expose her other hip, her hand smearing blood, and a little smile crawled across Shannon's lips.
By Konrad Hartmann
“I heard it's dangerous,” Katelyn said.
Shannon smiled.
“Why?”
“My mom, when she was in college, she had some weird stuff happen when she used one,” Katelyn said.
“Like what?” Shannon asked, taking out Ouija board and planchette from the box.
“She said it was fun at first, but then the spirit or whatever started telling her to do things.”
“Yeah?” Shannon set the board out on the coffee table.
“Like it started telling her to cut herself. And other things,” Katelyn said.
“What kind of other things?” Shannon asked, placing her hand on the planchette.
“She wouldn't really say,” Katelyn said, blushing.
“Am I playing by myself?” Shannon asked, looking at Katelyn. The planchette slid to “No” in the top right, and both girls laughed. Only Shannon was touching the planchette.
“Oh, my God, did you just do that?” Katelyn asked.
Shannon raised her eyebrows and shook her head no. She reset the planchette in the starting position.
“Is Katelyn pregnant?” Shannon asked, smiling.
“What?!” Katelyn yelped.
The planchette slid to “No.”
“Could Katelyn have gotten pregnant this year?” Shannon asked.
“Shannon!” Katelyn said, darting her hand forward but hesitating to touch the planchette, which slid quickly towards “No.” Katelyn bit her lower lip and placed her hand on the device, staring at Shannon.
“My turn!” Katelyn said. “Is Shannon pregnant?”
The planchette skittered up, then to the upper right, to “No.”
“Could she have gotten pregnant?” Katelyn asked. The planchette shot over to “Yes.” Katelyn looked up at Shannon.
“My turn,” Shannon said. “Will anything bad happen to us because we're playing?”
The planchette crawled like a legless spider under their fingertips. P-A-I-N. Katelyn grew pale.
“What can we do to avoid pain?” Katelyn blurted. The planchette moved. P-L-A-Y-O-N. “I don't know what playon means. Oh! Play on.”
“So I guess we have to keep playing,” Shannon said, laughing. “When is it safe to stop playing?” The planchette slid to 1-2. “Uh-oh. Midnight. And it's only 10 now. We can quit though. What's the worst that could happen?”
The planchette moved. R-A-P-E-D-E-A-T-H-T-O-R-T-U-R-E
“We'll play until 12 then throw it away!” Katelyn said.
“You baby,” Shannon laughed.
“Don't make fun. Does Luke like me?” Katelyn asked.
The planchette skipped to “No.”
“Who does Luke like?” Shannon asked. S-H-A-N-N-O-N the planchette spelled.
Katelyn bit her lip and squinted.
“Did Shannon have sex with Luke?” Katelyn whispered. The planchette darted down to the letters. A-N-D-T-R-A-V-I-S. It was quiet for a minute. The planchette twitched as Katelyn glared at Shannon.
“Hm. It still wants to play. Quit anytime you want, Katelyn,” Shannon said. “What should I do?” C-U-T, the planchette spelled.
“Cut what?” Katelyn asked. K-A-T-E-L-Y-N, the board spelled. Katelyn's face grew white. “You want Shannon to cut me?” she asked, her voice small. The planchette slid to “Yes.”
“No way,” Shannon said, scowling.
Katelyn looked over at a shelf, then back at Shannon.
“We have to!” Katelyn said, darting to the shelf and returning with a razor-knife. “Cut me,” she said, handing the cutter to Shannon.
“You're crazy!” Shannon said.
“Just do it. A little one. Here,” Katelyn tugged down her tights and panties just enough to expose her hip.
“No. For real?” Shannon asked.
Katelyn nodded.
Shannon took the cutter, frowning. Her hand seemed to crawl through the air.
“Ready?” Shannon asked.
Katelyn nodded.
“One, two, three,” Shannon said, flicking her wrist on three. A line shallow but a few inches long appeared on Katelyn's hip, then began to trickle blood. With their free hands, both girls touched the planchette. “What now?” Shannon asked.
K-E-E-P-C-U-T-T-I-N-G
Katelyn looked down to expose her other hip, her hand smearing blood, and a little smile crawled across Shannon's lips.
SIERRA NEEDS FRIENDS
SIERRA NEEDS FRIENDS
By Konrad Hartmann
Sierra puffed out her cheeks a little as she put the black bottle to her lips. She drooled the contents of her mouth into it, staring at Keith as he buckled his belt in the candlelight.
“What are you doing?” Keith asked. He already felt regret seeping into his pores. The potential outcomes, all of them negative, flashed through his mind. If his wife found out. If his agency found out. If Sierra's family found out. If the county found out. Was it even legal? Sierra was an adult, true, but with her major mental illness and him being her case manager? He felt stupid and tried to numb out the panic creeping into his mind. It would come to nothing, no divorce, no being fired, no being sued, just nothing, he told himself. But what the hell was she doing with that bottle?
Sierra shrugged. Her curly red hair fell in a ponytail over the crow embroidered on her too small cowboy shirt. She drooled a little liquid out of her mouth, staining the black shirt. It looked like she did it on purpose.
“Oops!” she said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her thumb and smiling. She set the antique bottle gently inside an old wooden box in a niche in the stone wall of the spring house. The old stone of the spring house seemed to be in bad shape, with stones missing, the walls pierced with holes big enough to fit a hand. Water gurgled out of a pipe and down through an eroded stone drain.
“What are you doing?” Keith repeated.
“Making friends,” Sierra said, crossing her legs Indian-style. Her cowboy boots matched her shirt, and she wore short denim shorts, her knees dirty.
“Your shirt,” Keith said, pointing to the stain.
Sierra shrugged.
“You could wash it with the water,” Keith said, pointing to the spring water.
Sierra smiled.
“You can add that to your progress notes,” she said. “'Sierra appeared somewhat disheveled.'” She laughed. Keith did not.
“We should probably get going,” Keith said.
“I don't have to be anywhere,” Sierra said. “You mean you should probably get going?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Keith said. He wanted to extricate himself, make some distance. He didn't want to be seen leaving the spring house with her.
“That's okay,” Sierra said, smiling and looking down at the floor. Now she felt used, he thought. Self-disgust rippled in his belly. He needed to go. This was trouble. His limbs felt stiff as he made his way to the door. His hand touched the latch.
“Keith?” Sierra said.
“Yeah?” Keith asked, turning around, his hand still on the latch. Something moved on the floor next to Sierra, and Keith stumbled back against the wall, thinking of a rat or monkey. But it was neither. It was a little man, or something like a little man, about a foot tall, but deformed, twisted. It half-walked, half-crawled, something like an ape. He was naked, with patchy body hair and a long beard. He faced Keith skittering from side to side, almost like a crab. His limbs were uneven, one leg too long, the other too short, and the same went for his arms. “What...?” It was all he could get out. He didn't understand what he was looking at. He wanted ask what it was and was it, was he, her deformed sibling. He wanted to throw up.
“You remember Tim?” Sierra asked. And the little thing did look like Tim, or at least a caricature of him.
“What about Tim?!” Keith yelled. It made him angry, whatever this was. He resented seeing this thing. He hated how it looked like Tim. Tim had worked with Sierra before she was 18. He had quit case management without notice.
“Well, look at him,” Sierra said.
“What? Are you saying that's Tim?” Keith asked.
“No!” Sierra laughed. “He's not Tim but I made him from Tim. It's not a very good job, but I was just learning to make them.”
“Make them?” Keith asked. His skin crawled, watching the little man-thing lope and scurry back and forth.
“Yes.”
“Sierra, what do you mean, 'make them?' What am I looking at?” Keith asked, his voice shaking. Just please God don't come any closer, he thought, looking at the thing. His hand still rested on the latch.
“Well, yeah,” Sierra said. “I learned how to make them. I've gotten better since this one, you know.”
“And, you made it look like Tim,” Keith said, his tongue feeling thick.
“Well of course it's gonna look like Tim because of the, ha, ha, raw material,” Sierra laughed.
“Sierra, what's,” Keith said. “What's the bottle for?”
Sierra grinned.
“What do you think it's for, Keith? It's not the bottle. It's what's inside the bottle,” she said.
“I'd like to have the bottle, please,” Keith said.
Sierra, still grinning, shook her head no. Keith wanted to slap her. His back to the wall, Keith followed the wall to the niche with the wooden box, keeping an eye on the Tim-thing. Keith grabbed the box and pulled it out, his heart pounding when he did not hear the clink of the bottle. He looked in. The box was empty. Sierra erupted with giggles, reaching out to hold the Tim-thing's tiny hand. The creature convulsed, and Keith realized it was dancing, capering with Sierra.
Keith tossed the box aside and looked in the niche. It formed a hole in the wall, roughly six inches in diameter. He turned around and grabbed the candle, peering inside the hole. It looked like the hole continued for several feet, then turned downward out of sight, just out of reach. He felt a draft of air on his hand and the flame went out. He patted his pockets for his smartphone, both for light and because he could try to take a picture around the bend and see if the bottle was there. Something brushed his leg and he yelled, kicking at thin air. He heard Sierra giggle. His hands raced feverishly through all his pockets, front and back.
“Sierra!” he yelled.
Across the room, Sierra's face lit up from a phone.
“You close your eyes for a long time when you're getting, well, you know,” she said, her face and teeth blue in the light. Her fingers flickered.
“No, no, no. Give me that. Ow!” Keith started towards her, but a pain lanced through his calf. He kicked around at scurrying forms, monkey-like shapes that disappeared into the holes of the wall.
“Send! Ha! Okay, here you go, Keith!” she handed the phone to the Tim-thing, who carried it like a big slate in his arms, to Keith.
Keith reached out and snatched it from the Tim-thing.
“I'm pretty fast, hunh?” Sierra laughed. “Just kidding. One of my friends snatched it. This little guy isn't bright enough to work it, but some of the others are smart enough to work the video. They're the older ones, the ones my Grandmom made.”
Keith fought the urge to vomit with panic. Something had just been sent. He saw Sierra's number and one unknown number. He clicked on the video. He saw himself. He saw Sierra, kneeling before him. It was shot from a strange angle, but their faces were clearly recognizable. He switched the phone to camera mode and plunged his hand into the hole in the wall. As the flash went off, he saw a little face, next to the phone, grinning. In the pulsing afterimage of the flash, his thumb exploded with pain. Keith shrieked, yanking his hand out, dropping the phone. He felt his thumb in the dark. It was wet, and too short. Up to the first joint was gone.
“Aww, Keith,” he heard Sierra say. “We'll let you out, but a couple things.” Keith's head throbbed. He felt himself crying. “One. The bottle and what's on my shirt? I know I'm considered schizophrenic or whatever, but that's a lot of DNA. Not just my crazy word, you know? People might believe I was coerced or something. Two. Your wife is just a “Send” away from seeing that little video. So is everyone with Internet access. Three. I could have made little Tim here better. I learned since then, it's all about having enough raw material. You and I will be seeing each other more often. Say, once a week now. Could become more if I need to. Understand?”
“Yes,” Keith gasped.
“Good,” Sierra said. “Now I'm gonna open the door. You get any ideas about getting rough with me, you're gonna have a hard time explaining things. Besides, I ain't alone, and neither will you be, not for a long, long time.”
By Konrad Hartmann
Sierra puffed out her cheeks a little as she put the black bottle to her lips. She drooled the contents of her mouth into it, staring at Keith as he buckled his belt in the candlelight.
“What are you doing?” Keith asked. He already felt regret seeping into his pores. The potential outcomes, all of them negative, flashed through his mind. If his wife found out. If his agency found out. If Sierra's family found out. If the county found out. Was it even legal? Sierra was an adult, true, but with her major mental illness and him being her case manager? He felt stupid and tried to numb out the panic creeping into his mind. It would come to nothing, no divorce, no being fired, no being sued, just nothing, he told himself. But what the hell was she doing with that bottle?
Sierra shrugged. Her curly red hair fell in a ponytail over the crow embroidered on her too small cowboy shirt. She drooled a little liquid out of her mouth, staining the black shirt. It looked like she did it on purpose.
“Oops!” she said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her thumb and smiling. She set the antique bottle gently inside an old wooden box in a niche in the stone wall of the spring house. The old stone of the spring house seemed to be in bad shape, with stones missing, the walls pierced with holes big enough to fit a hand. Water gurgled out of a pipe and down through an eroded stone drain.
“What are you doing?” Keith repeated.
“Making friends,” Sierra said, crossing her legs Indian-style. Her cowboy boots matched her shirt, and she wore short denim shorts, her knees dirty.
“Your shirt,” Keith said, pointing to the stain.
Sierra shrugged.
“You could wash it with the water,” Keith said, pointing to the spring water.
Sierra smiled.
“You can add that to your progress notes,” she said. “'Sierra appeared somewhat disheveled.'” She laughed. Keith did not.
“We should probably get going,” Keith said.
“I don't have to be anywhere,” Sierra said. “You mean you should probably get going?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Keith said. He wanted to extricate himself, make some distance. He didn't want to be seen leaving the spring house with her.
“That's okay,” Sierra said, smiling and looking down at the floor. Now she felt used, he thought. Self-disgust rippled in his belly. He needed to go. This was trouble. His limbs felt stiff as he made his way to the door. His hand touched the latch.
“Keith?” Sierra said.
“Yeah?” Keith asked, turning around, his hand still on the latch. Something moved on the floor next to Sierra, and Keith stumbled back against the wall, thinking of a rat or monkey. But it was neither. It was a little man, or something like a little man, about a foot tall, but deformed, twisted. It half-walked, half-crawled, something like an ape. He was naked, with patchy body hair and a long beard. He faced Keith skittering from side to side, almost like a crab. His limbs were uneven, one leg too long, the other too short, and the same went for his arms. “What...?” It was all he could get out. He didn't understand what he was looking at. He wanted ask what it was and was it, was he, her deformed sibling. He wanted to throw up.
“You remember Tim?” Sierra asked. And the little thing did look like Tim, or at least a caricature of him.
“What about Tim?!” Keith yelled. It made him angry, whatever this was. He resented seeing this thing. He hated how it looked like Tim. Tim had worked with Sierra before she was 18. He had quit case management without notice.
“Well, look at him,” Sierra said.
“What? Are you saying that's Tim?” Keith asked.
“No!” Sierra laughed. “He's not Tim but I made him from Tim. It's not a very good job, but I was just learning to make them.”
“Make them?” Keith asked. His skin crawled, watching the little man-thing lope and scurry back and forth.
“Yes.”
“Sierra, what do you mean, 'make them?' What am I looking at?” Keith asked, his voice shaking. Just please God don't come any closer, he thought, looking at the thing. His hand still rested on the latch.
“Well, yeah,” Sierra said. “I learned how to make them. I've gotten better since this one, you know.”
“And, you made it look like Tim,” Keith said, his tongue feeling thick.
“Well of course it's gonna look like Tim because of the, ha, ha, raw material,” Sierra laughed.
“Sierra, what's,” Keith said. “What's the bottle for?”
Sierra grinned.
“What do you think it's for, Keith? It's not the bottle. It's what's inside the bottle,” she said.
“I'd like to have the bottle, please,” Keith said.
Sierra, still grinning, shook her head no. Keith wanted to slap her. His back to the wall, Keith followed the wall to the niche with the wooden box, keeping an eye on the Tim-thing. Keith grabbed the box and pulled it out, his heart pounding when he did not hear the clink of the bottle. He looked in. The box was empty. Sierra erupted with giggles, reaching out to hold the Tim-thing's tiny hand. The creature convulsed, and Keith realized it was dancing, capering with Sierra.
Keith tossed the box aside and looked in the niche. It formed a hole in the wall, roughly six inches in diameter. He turned around and grabbed the candle, peering inside the hole. It looked like the hole continued for several feet, then turned downward out of sight, just out of reach. He felt a draft of air on his hand and the flame went out. He patted his pockets for his smartphone, both for light and because he could try to take a picture around the bend and see if the bottle was there. Something brushed his leg and he yelled, kicking at thin air. He heard Sierra giggle. His hands raced feverishly through all his pockets, front and back.
“Sierra!” he yelled.
Across the room, Sierra's face lit up from a phone.
“You close your eyes for a long time when you're getting, well, you know,” she said, her face and teeth blue in the light. Her fingers flickered.
“No, no, no. Give me that. Ow!” Keith started towards her, but a pain lanced through his calf. He kicked around at scurrying forms, monkey-like shapes that disappeared into the holes of the wall.
“Send! Ha! Okay, here you go, Keith!” she handed the phone to the Tim-thing, who carried it like a big slate in his arms, to Keith.
Keith reached out and snatched it from the Tim-thing.
“I'm pretty fast, hunh?” Sierra laughed. “Just kidding. One of my friends snatched it. This little guy isn't bright enough to work it, but some of the others are smart enough to work the video. They're the older ones, the ones my Grandmom made.”
Keith fought the urge to vomit with panic. Something had just been sent. He saw Sierra's number and one unknown number. He clicked on the video. He saw himself. He saw Sierra, kneeling before him. It was shot from a strange angle, but their faces were clearly recognizable. He switched the phone to camera mode and plunged his hand into the hole in the wall. As the flash went off, he saw a little face, next to the phone, grinning. In the pulsing afterimage of the flash, his thumb exploded with pain. Keith shrieked, yanking his hand out, dropping the phone. He felt his thumb in the dark. It was wet, and too short. Up to the first joint was gone.
“Aww, Keith,” he heard Sierra say. “We'll let you out, but a couple things.” Keith's head throbbed. He felt himself crying. “One. The bottle and what's on my shirt? I know I'm considered schizophrenic or whatever, but that's a lot of DNA. Not just my crazy word, you know? People might believe I was coerced or something. Two. Your wife is just a “Send” away from seeing that little video. So is everyone with Internet access. Three. I could have made little Tim here better. I learned since then, it's all about having enough raw material. You and I will be seeing each other more often. Say, once a week now. Could become more if I need to. Understand?”
“Yes,” Keith gasped.
“Good,” Sierra said. “Now I'm gonna open the door. You get any ideas about getting rough with me, you're gonna have a hard time explaining things. Besides, I ain't alone, and neither will you be, not for a long, long time.”
Homing Pigeons
HOMING PIGEONS
By Konrad Hartmann
“It's Robert,” Heather said, looking through the front door peephole. She recognized the next-door neighbor by his six-button suit jacket as much as by the remainder of his face.
“Robert?” Kyle nudged her to the side so he could look, excitement in his voice. “Oh,” he said, shoulders sagging. “I thought you meant-”
“No. Sorry,” Heather said. “Never thought you'd be excited to see Robert, hunh?”
Kyle half-smiled, half-winced. A thud fell against the door.
“I thought he was away,” Kyle said.
“Guess he came home,” Heather said.
“Walked home? It would take, well, if you didn't have to rest, I don't know,” Kyle said.
“It's two months today since it started,” Heather said.
Kyle stared at her.
“Like a dog finding his way home,” he said. He looked back through the peephole. “He has something on his jacket.”
“What?” Heather asked.
“Can't see. He's too close to the door now,” Kyle said. The banging increased.
“We should probably get him,” Heather said, glancing through the 2X4's nailed up over the living room windows. She saw movement across the street.
“Right,” Kyle said. Each pulled on hockey gloves and drew a drywall ax, a small hatchet used for cutting wallboard, from their belt.
“I'm up this time,” Heather said, taking her place near the door.
Kyle nodded and gripped the door handle.
“One, two, three,” he said, and opened the door.
Robert stood, clacking his exposed teeth, his body and clothes snagged in the strands of barbed wire strung tight across the doorway. Safety pins neatly held a brown-smudged envelope to his jacket. Heather only swung once, and Robert sagged into the wire. Kyle clutched the envelope and the safety pins tore free of the envelope as Robert slowly fell backwards, his weight tearing his body away from the wire. Robert's body lay on the walkway, one foot propped on the front step, the other foot, shoeless, remained tangled in the wire. Heather shut the door.
Kyle already had the envelope open.
“To Whom it May Concern,” Kyle read out loud, Heather reading over his shoulder. “We are a group of survivors living at 261 South Franklin Street. If you are reading this letter, please make contact with us. Please try to reach us. The house is very secure, and there is safety in numbers. We need more people. None of us know how long this situation will go on, but we have given up on waiting to be rescued. It's up to the few of us still around to make the best of it.
“Hoping this finds you,
“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”
“Oh, thank God,” Heather said.
“When should we go? Tonight?” Kyle asked.
“No, I don't want to walk at night. We'll be carrying our stuff, too,” Heather said.
“Right. And we're likely to get shot if they can't see we're OK,” he said.
They each packed a backpack, fastening as many useful items as possible to have while still being able to run. They slept fitfully until dawn, then made their way out the back door of the house, locking it before weaving past several staggering forms approaching the house.
“What do you think? A half hour?” Kyle asked.
“Less if we hurry,” Heather said.
But 30 minutes later, the couple found themselves still en route, slowed down by trying to avoid their former townsfolk. As they crouched in an alleyway, Kyle grabbed Heather's arm.
“Look!” he said, pointing at a female who dragged one foot as she shuffled, her leg ruined. Something protruded from her back, pinning a paper in place.
“Let's get it,” Heather said. “You're up.”
Kyle nodded as they drew their drywall axes.
Moments later, Heather was plucking the icepick from the woman's back and removing the folded paper. She smiled inwardly, noting that it had taken Kyle three swings to put the woman down. Ducking between buildings again, they read the note. The writing looked much different from the first one, this time scrawled wildly in marker across the page.
“Help! Warning-Paul Stacks holding me captive at 261 Franklin. Armed-guns. House booby-trapped. Cannibal. Killed Amanda, Mary, Theresa, Roger. Whitney.”
Like an afterthought, the last name was circled with an arrow pointing to the word “Alive.”
Heather felt herself sinking.
“We should help her,” Heather said.
“How?” Kyle chuckled, dark circles under his eyes. “Use our Navy SEAL training?”
“But we have to do something,” Heather said, angry at him, but without any plan that made sense.
“Like what, Heather? Sneak in, disarm whatever booby-traps are there, use our non-existent guns to shoot it out?”
“Fine. I guess we just go home and let her die!” Heather said, fuming.
“If you want to go there, I'll go,” Kyle whispered, his voice choked. “How long do we have anyway? Ready?”
Heather checked the anger rising inside her throat. She realized he wasn't being sarcastic. His apathy shocked her, and she found she wasn't willing to try it. Not that day anyway.
“Let's go home,” she said, taking his hand. As they walked, Kyle didn't seem to care where they went. Heather tried not to cry.
They spent the next few days hunting for note-carrying bodies, and were soon rewarded with another neatly pinned note.
“To the Couple on Broad Street, It has come to our attention that someone is forging letters, accusing us of murder and other fictitious wrongdoings. Since we unfortunately can't seem to trust this communication system and you haven't come to the house yet, it appears we will need to pay you a visit in person.
“See you soon.
“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”
“Tonight?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah,” Heather said, feeling the handle of her ax. “And I'm up.”
By Konrad Hartmann
“It's Robert,” Heather said, looking through the front door peephole. She recognized the next-door neighbor by his six-button suit jacket as much as by the remainder of his face.
“Robert?” Kyle nudged her to the side so he could look, excitement in his voice. “Oh,” he said, shoulders sagging. “I thought you meant-”
“No. Sorry,” Heather said. “Never thought you'd be excited to see Robert, hunh?”
Kyle half-smiled, half-winced. A thud fell against the door.
“I thought he was away,” Kyle said.
“Guess he came home,” Heather said.
“Walked home? It would take, well, if you didn't have to rest, I don't know,” Kyle said.
“It's two months today since it started,” Heather said.
Kyle stared at her.
“Like a dog finding his way home,” he said. He looked back through the peephole. “He has something on his jacket.”
“What?” Heather asked.
“Can't see. He's too close to the door now,” Kyle said. The banging increased.
“We should probably get him,” Heather said, glancing through the 2X4's nailed up over the living room windows. She saw movement across the street.
“Right,” Kyle said. Each pulled on hockey gloves and drew a drywall ax, a small hatchet used for cutting wallboard, from their belt.
“I'm up this time,” Heather said, taking her place near the door.
Kyle nodded and gripped the door handle.
“One, two, three,” he said, and opened the door.
Robert stood, clacking his exposed teeth, his body and clothes snagged in the strands of barbed wire strung tight across the doorway. Safety pins neatly held a brown-smudged envelope to his jacket. Heather only swung once, and Robert sagged into the wire. Kyle clutched the envelope and the safety pins tore free of the envelope as Robert slowly fell backwards, his weight tearing his body away from the wire. Robert's body lay on the walkway, one foot propped on the front step, the other foot, shoeless, remained tangled in the wire. Heather shut the door.
Kyle already had the envelope open.
“To Whom it May Concern,” Kyle read out loud, Heather reading over his shoulder. “We are a group of survivors living at 261 South Franklin Street. If you are reading this letter, please make contact with us. Please try to reach us. The house is very secure, and there is safety in numbers. We need more people. None of us know how long this situation will go on, but we have given up on waiting to be rescued. It's up to the few of us still around to make the best of it.
“Hoping this finds you,
“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”
“Oh, thank God,” Heather said.
“When should we go? Tonight?” Kyle asked.
“No, I don't want to walk at night. We'll be carrying our stuff, too,” Heather said.
“Right. And we're likely to get shot if they can't see we're OK,” he said.
They each packed a backpack, fastening as many useful items as possible to have while still being able to run. They slept fitfully until dawn, then made their way out the back door of the house, locking it before weaving past several staggering forms approaching the house.
“What do you think? A half hour?” Kyle asked.
“Less if we hurry,” Heather said.
But 30 minutes later, the couple found themselves still en route, slowed down by trying to avoid their former townsfolk. As they crouched in an alleyway, Kyle grabbed Heather's arm.
“Look!” he said, pointing at a female who dragged one foot as she shuffled, her leg ruined. Something protruded from her back, pinning a paper in place.
“Let's get it,” Heather said. “You're up.”
Kyle nodded as they drew their drywall axes.
Moments later, Heather was plucking the icepick from the woman's back and removing the folded paper. She smiled inwardly, noting that it had taken Kyle three swings to put the woman down. Ducking between buildings again, they read the note. The writing looked much different from the first one, this time scrawled wildly in marker across the page.
“Help! Warning-Paul Stacks holding me captive at 261 Franklin. Armed-guns. House booby-trapped. Cannibal. Killed Amanda, Mary, Theresa, Roger. Whitney.”
Like an afterthought, the last name was circled with an arrow pointing to the word “Alive.”
Heather felt herself sinking.
“We should help her,” Heather said.
“How?” Kyle chuckled, dark circles under his eyes. “Use our Navy SEAL training?”
“But we have to do something,” Heather said, angry at him, but without any plan that made sense.
“Like what, Heather? Sneak in, disarm whatever booby-traps are there, use our non-existent guns to shoot it out?”
“Fine. I guess we just go home and let her die!” Heather said, fuming.
“If you want to go there, I'll go,” Kyle whispered, his voice choked. “How long do we have anyway? Ready?”
Heather checked the anger rising inside her throat. She realized he wasn't being sarcastic. His apathy shocked her, and she found she wasn't willing to try it. Not that day anyway.
“Let's go home,” she said, taking his hand. As they walked, Kyle didn't seem to care where they went. Heather tried not to cry.
They spent the next few days hunting for note-carrying bodies, and were soon rewarded with another neatly pinned note.
“To the Couple on Broad Street, It has come to our attention that someone is forging letters, accusing us of murder and other fictitious wrongdoings. Since we unfortunately can't seem to trust this communication system and you haven't come to the house yet, it appears we will need to pay you a visit in person.
“See you soon.
“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”
“Tonight?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah,” Heather said, feeling the handle of her ax. “And I'm up.”
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