R.M. DuChene's Blog, page 12

A Promise Kept

Erin James winced as she slid the long, curved hook of the jewelry through her lobe. She’d been wearing her smaller stems lately and the hooks were just thick enough to make putting them in a delicate procedure. After putting on the second chandler-style earring, she turned her head from side to side, admiring how beautiful they were.

“You said that you were staying in with me…”

Erin’s heart lurched in her chest and she swung around to face behind her. Her husband’s large frame filled the doorway. As intimidating as his size made him appear, the grim expression on his face and the tears threatening to well up in his eyes made him seem so weak to her.

“Robert!” She said, holding her small hands to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me! How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?”

The tears in Robert’s eyes welled just a little more and he said, “I don’t try to sneak up on you…I just walk up to the door. What’s with the dress and the earrings? I told you I need to talk to you tonight.”

Erin turned back toward the bathroom mirror, opened her small make-up bag and pulled out a tube of lip-stick. She popped the top off, screwed up the deep, red lip-stick and applied it generously; then she put the cap back, tossed it back into the bag and zipped it shut.

“I told you, Robert,” she said, looking at his reflection in the mirror, “It won’t make any difference.”

Robert James entered the bathroom and hugged his soon to be ex-wife around her shoulders.

“Maybe not to me,” he said, just barely above a whisper, “but to you…”

He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in her scent, that natural perfume that he’d grown to recognize as one of the powers she’d had over him.

“What you mean?”

He stood up a little straighter, rested his unshaven chin on the top of her head, and looked at her face in the mirror with eyes that were about to let go of their liquid cargo.

“I mean…I have a plan,” he said. “I have a plan and we both can win.”

He kissed her on the back of the head and let her go. As he left the bathroom, he stopped in the doorway and looked back at her once more.

“Just think about it,” he said. “One more night with me and you will get everything you want and more.”

Erin closed her eyes to avoid tearing up herself. When she opened them again, Robert was gone from the doorway. She sniffled back the single tear drop that was trying to escape one of her own eyes and closed the bathroom door. Alone at last, she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed the newest number in her address book. Just one more night, she thought. I owe him at least that much.

***

Robert was sitting at the kitchen table when Erin entered the room. She saw two things immediately that relaxed her a little. Robert had poured them both a glass of wine and had hers sitting on the table just opposite of him and the yellow folder that was laid on the table directly in front of him. The divorce papers, she thought. He’s finally given in… She sat down in the chair across from him and took a long pull of the wine.

“What’s this about, Robert?”

He didn’t answer at first. He took a few sips of his own wine and seemed to drift off into his thoughts, his eyes flittering around the kitchen, looking at everything but her.

“Robert; what do you want to talk about?”

“Remember when we got married?” He asked, still not looking directly at her.

“Yes, I remember. Look Robert, if this is some self-pity trip down memory lane, I…”

“I felt like the luckiest man in the world.”

Erin let out a long sigh and took another sip of her wine. It’s only one night, she thought. Who cares what he says as long as he signs the papers when he’s done.

“You know why I felt so happy?”

“Why?”

“Because, you looked at me that day like I was the best thing that ever happened to you. Your smile that day could have lit up the world. I haven’t seen you smile like that since.”

“People grow apart, Robert! I told you…”

“Just let me have my say, please,” he said, holding up his hand to silence her. “I just want to tell you everything that I’d never told you…I need the closure.”

“Sorry…” Erin said.

“That’s okay, Hun. This isn’t a pity party. It’s our last time that we’ll spend together as husband and wife. I’ll try to spare you and keep it brief.”

Erin nodded slightly, put her thumb and forefinger together at the edge of her mouth, and pulled them across her lips like a zipper.

“So anyway,” Robert Continued, “that smile stayed with me after all of these years. I was determined to see it again on your face. It became a sort of mission for me…my Holy Grail, so to speak. But, no matter what I did for you, what I gave you, how many trips I took you on…it never came back. Oh, you smiled here and there, but never like that; not on my account anyway.”

“So, what’s your point?”

“My point is…well, that’s how I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About your new guy… You wondered how I found out; remember? You accused me of going through your private things and following you around. I never did any of that stuff Babe. You told me all I needed to know. That night; on the last date we went on to that one restaurant…You went to the bathroom in the middle of dinner. When you walked out, you had that smile on your face. I knew then that you’d been talking to someone who put that smile there. You told me…”

Erin’s face grew pale as she realized what Robert was implying.

“That was months ago,” she said. “You knew all of that time and didn’t tell me until four weeks ago?”

Well, it wouldn’t have made a difference really. If you’d known that I knew back then, you would’ve tried to end us sooner instead of sneaking around. Am I right?

“I guess, but…”

“I had to try and save us, without blemishing our marriage. I turned on the charm…tried to bring back the romance again, the love that you used to feel for me. If you would’ve changed your mind, I would’ve pretended that I’d never known about what’s-his-name. I wouldn’t want you to live with that guilt on my account.”

***

“Do you remember when Vincent was born?”

“Ummm…duh!” Erin said. “I kinda had to be there.”

“Yeah, well,” Robert said, “what do you think he’d be like now…you know, if he didn’t…?”

“I don’t know, Robert. Why does it matter? He isn’t here.”

“I know. I was just wondering. I miss him sometimes; you know?”

Erin lowered her eyes, the conversation was taking an unexpected turn and she hadn’t been prepared for it. Discussion of their son was off limits, had been off limits for years. It was the one, major taboo in their marriage…You don’t talk about Vincent, not ever, for any reason.

“Do you think that kids become adults when they get to heaven, or stay children?”

“I don’t want to talk about this Robert. Move on to something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like what you have there in that folder. Is it what I think it is?”

“I could be,” he said. “I don’t know what you think it is.”

He slid the folder around to face her and opened it up to display an assortment of legal looking documents. Erin pulled the folder toward her slid out the top sheet and began to read it. As her eyes moved back and forth across the document, her expression grew dark. She slammed the paper down on the table-top and pulled out the second and scanned it…and then the third…

“What is this shit, Robert?”

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like a Will, Robert.”

“Well, there you go. I need you to sign the last page, if you’d be so kind.”

“What’s the point of a Will?” she asked. “We’re going to be divorced soon, idiot!”

As soon as the word, idiot left her mouth, Erin regretted saying it. The tears that were recently budging closer and closer to Robert’s cheeks seemed to evaporate immediately from the heat that must’ve been radiating from his red face. He shot up from his chair and before she knew what was happening, the table and everything on it was thrown onto its side. After toppling the table, Robert looked down at his wife as she cowered in her chair; his expression softened, the color of red on his face dissolving from anger to the lighter shade that embarrassment leaves behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me…Must be the wine.”

“What the hell is going on with you, Robert,” Erin said, her voice cracking from the fear of what her husband might do next. “Are you planning to kill me or something?”

For the first time in days, Robert James smiled.

“No baby,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to kill myself.”

***

“Oh great… Not this again! How many times have you threatened to kill yourself over the last month?”

“This is different.”

“How’s that?”

“Because… I’ve already done it.”

Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black bottle.

“This is ricin…Do you know what that is?”

Erin shook her head.

“It comes from the castor oil plant. I scored some from one of my contacts at work. A couple of grains of this stuff will kill you within twenty-four hours. I got enough left in here to take out everyone in the city.”

He slipped the small bottle back into his pocket, bent over and turned the table back into its standing position, then he fetched up the loose papers that were scattered on the floor and placed them neatly back into the folder. He placed the folder back in front of his wife, sat down in his chair, and buried his face in his hands.

“It’s all been set in motion and can’t be stopped now. You don’t have time for a divorce my love; you’re going to be a widow.”

Erin leaned across the table and put her hand on his.

“Why would you do this?” She asked. “You didn’t have to do this…I’m not worth it.”

“I’ve made you a lot of promises that I haven’t kept,” he said. “I promised on our wedding day that I’d be faithful to you and I haven’t; I promised to cherish you and I’ve taken you for granted; I promised that I would work less, exercise more, and that we’d try and have another baby…All of those promises, I broke.”

Erin got up and walked around to the back of her husband’s chair. She wrapped her arms around the man that she’d been married to for so many years; the man that she’d shared so much joy and sorrow with, and embraced him. It was the last moments that she was ever going to have with him and she knew it.

“I broke all of those promises too,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Robert turned around and pressed his face against his wife’s chest, his tears quickly soaked through the thin fabric of her dress. She pulled him in tighter, rubbing his hair and feeling her own flood of tears wash down her face.

“The one promise that I have left, the one that I have kept, I can still keep,” Robert sniffled.

“What’s that baby?”

“I promised that I’d always take care of you.”

Erin’s tears flowed even more as she wrapped her arms around Robert’s neck and gave him the most passionate kiss she could ever remember giving him since their wedding night. What’s wrong with me, she thought. Nobody will ever love me this much…Not ever.

“You always have,” she said. “You always have, Baby.”

She gave him another long kiss and stood up.

“Where are you going?” Robert asked. “Stay with me…Be my wife for just one more night.”

“I’m going to call 911,” she said.

“There’s no point!” He said, grabbing her arm as she walked away. “There’s no cure, Hun.”

“Then you will die fighting,” she said and pulled away from him.

She retrieved her phone and called emergency services. The operator stayed on the phone with her until the first signs of help arrived. To Erin’s surprise, the first signs of help weren’t the paramedics or police, but Soldiers, dressed in astronaut suits. The Soldiers cordoned the house off and swept through every room. They brought in some kind of field testing unit and tested the contents of the small, black bottle in the kitchen. When they were convinced that it wasn’t ricin, but ground up grains of rice, they pulled out and let the paramedics do their job.

***

A few weeks later, Robert James sat comfortably on a park bench, eating a hot dog and feeding bits of the bun to the pigeons that clustered around at his feet. Since his release from the mental ward at the hospital, he’s been doing much better. He knows that it had nothing to do with the therapy and suicide prevention classes that the doctors made his attend…he knew it was because of her. She stayed with him, his beloved wife. She was there through the whole thing, helping him muster through the process of becoming mentally stable. Going crazy isn’t the best option, but it seemed to Robert that it was just what his marriage needed to give it a little kick-start. He was just about to give the last bit of bread to the birds when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey buddy! How’s it hanging?”

“Ted?”

“Yep, just came back from the Bahamas Bro! I heard you did it…Did it work?”

“Yep…She bought it.”

“So, you two staying together?”

“Yep… It’s funny; just a few weeks ago, she was talking about a divorce. I swear to God dude, she was talking about having another kid last night.”

“Wow man…bummer.” Ted said.

“Hey, Ted…Hold on…She’s trying to call.”

“Hello; Baby”

“Mr. James?”

“Yes…Who is this?”

“Are you the husband of Erin James?”

“Yes.”

“Sir…there’s been an accident. Please tell us where you are and we’ll have an officer drive you down to the…”

THE END

My Everything

She’s smiling at me again. It’s funny how just the slightest upturn of her mouth still makes my heart skip a beat. She walks across the room and enters the kitchen, my eyes follow her. I wish I could read her mind, know what she’s thinking about, then perhaps I could understand. I don’t understand this woman. I thought I did, but not now. She isn’t the same person I fell in love with, she isn’t my wife. Perhaps an alien abducted my real wife and put a robotic facsimile in her place…I’d like to believe that. That would mean that she is still out there somewhere…that she still loves me. Shit, she sees me looking at her and I forgot to wipe that tear away. Perhaps she won’t see it. Nope, she’s coming over. She’s rubbing my head and telling me that it’s all going to be okay. Now I’m crying harder than before.

There’s so many changes that I’ve made in my life for this woman…things that I would’ve never attempted without her. I graduated college, became a military officer, and became a pretty decent human being in the process…all for her. Her words when I came home…those awful words that not only told me that I wasn’t enough for her and never would be, but that I’d spent the last four years of my life for nothing. Open marriage…what the fuck does that mean? She acts like I should understand how she feels, which is the most confusing thing of all. She is my life, my everything, and now I’m being told that I’m basically nothing to her; being made to feel guilty because I love her and want her to love me in return.

I smile at her and tell her that I’m okay…I just need some time to adjust. It’s a lie of course. I could never adjust to knowing that my wife is out seeking pleasures from other men. I could never adjust to her telling me to do the same thing with other women. Maybe a few years ago, when we were still new, I could’ve come to terms with this new lifestyle, but now…never. I would rather die than to be home alone, knowing that she was with someone else; their hands all over her…fuck! Die…now there’s an idea. She’s in the other room …I can hear her humming with her headphones on…those goddamn things she uses to block me out.

My first thought, when she told me what she wanted was, who is he? I didn’t dare ask it aloud. She would’ve scoffed at me and cried and I would’ve just felt like an ass because I accused her of something outright. Where I have the problem is making a distinction in my heart about cheating, and planning to cheat. She makes it sound like she isn’t looking to cheat, just wants the option available if she chooses. What’s the difference really? Why can’t she be a normal person and cheat behind my back? Why do I have to know it’s coming? Am I being punished?

I tilt back my wine glass and taste the bitterness of the warm liquid on the back of my tongue. It’s beginning to do its job. My legs and arms are beginning to feel light. In the kitchen, I pull the wine bottle off of the counter and recharge my glass…hold the bottle opening over the glass as the last few remaining drops of dark red blissfulness trickles in. How can she act so nonchalant about all this? I wonder as I tilt back the wine glass and empty it in one, long stream of swallow. That did it, my head feels lighter than my arms and legs now. I’m thoroughly numb…it’s time.

I walk over to the drawer where she keeps the large knives, the one I’m looking for is right on top; a large number with a serrated blade. I don’t just want to slice through the meat, I want to destroy it, render it irreparable. I pull the large knife out of the drawer and position myself in the center of the kitchen. I can hear her walking down the hallway, coming back toward the living room, back toward the open kitchen. Just as she turns the corner, I raise the blade to the side of my neck; press down as hard as I can, pull back as fast as I can. The pain is extreme, but short lived. As the blade moves away from me, the only sensations I feel is wetness, and a little cold. My body loses that weightless feeling and quickly becomes too heavy to support with my legs. I collapse to the floor just as she notices me. She lets out a small, surprised scream and rushes to the kitchen entrance. I look up at her beautiful, surprised face, and smile. You’re going to have to live with this, I think. The surprised look is disappearing from her face now, being replaced by something else… grief maybe…disappointment?

“What the hell are you thinking?” She says. “Who do you think is going to have to clean that mess up?”

She doesn’t move away from the entrance, but her form is becoming blurry to me. Before she fades out completely, I catch what looks like a dim smile. I’ll be dead in a few seconds and she’ll be left with the mess…I sure showed her…

Review of Stephen King's The Long Walk, by R.M. Duchene

The Long Walk by Stephen King

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Okay, seriously...The Long Walk is one of my all time Stephen King Novels. I've read this book over twenty times and have listened to it on audio at least a dozen. The premise is simple...a large group of kids enter a contest in which they walk until they cannot walk anymore. The last one standing get whatever he wants...oh, and he gets to live.
The synopsis alone was enough to make me drool all over the book before I opened its first page, but once I got into the story, I found that I became emotionally invested in the characters. I wanted them all to win...well maybe not quite all of them.
If you are a reader, you must read this novel...and pay close attention to the way that every contestant's personality changes as the story continues. There is a lot of emotion going on there, as there should be. It is far-fetched to think that a contest like that could ever happen, but the truth of how the contestant act and react to their situation cannot be denied.
If you are a writer, it would be good to read this book and take a few notes. To me, this book acts like a text-book on character development and how to bring those characters to life. Sorry, no glittering vampires or muscular, shirtless werewolves in this one, just plain ole, grim reality.




View all my reviews

Trapped by Jack KilbornMy rating: 3 of 5 starsThe excelle...

Trapped by Jack Kilborn

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


The excellent writing style of Jack Kilborn was wasted on this book. It had its moments, but there was just too much going on that led toward the negative. The characters were paper thin, the dialog was incredibly bad, and certain elements of the story were so unbelievable, I actually laughed out loud when I was supposed to be scared. Nobody worries about signing divorce papers when they running for their lives from cannibals!!! Really???

The plot falls somewhere between The Island of Doctor Moreau and The Hills have eyes...with a bit of Frankenstein thrown in for good measure. There is a definite hybrid element as well...somewhere between survival horror and mystery (although it's pretty predictable.)

I'll be fair here and admit that I didn't read the first book...I'll even go so far as say that this book, although comical and ludicrous in its entirety, did keep me thumbing through the pages. For that reason alone, it didn't get a lower rating.




View all my reviews

Death Throes, by Ray Duchene

I'd seen her that morning, sitting in the reception office, hair all dolled up like she was about to go out on the town. She gave me a good once over as I passed by and asked the Dame behind the tall counter what time the superintendent would be in. It wasn't going to be much of a chat to tell the truth. Mr. Hawkins had a strong affection for the sexier things in life and his wife was pissed off about it. She hired me to follow him around and, if possible, take a few snaps of him getting his groove on. I got some pretty good ones and figured that I may be able to come to some kind of an agreement with the old perv. The Dame behind the counter told me that Mr. Hawkins would be out the rest of the week; just my luck.
"Got a light?" The girl by the door asked me as I walked passed her on my way out.
I turned around, lighter in hand, and lit her cigarette; then I snapped the lighter closed and slid it back into my coat pocket. She looked young and fresh to me, like she still had a lot of lumps to get before she could be considered a life veteran. She looked up at me like she wanted to ask me out on a date or something; I didn't give her the chance. I hit the door and blew out of the building before she could even wink.
I went home from Mr. Hawkins's office and lumped myself into bed. I'd been on my feet since dusk and my legs felt like boiled noodles. Just before I could go into hibernation, my phone rang. I would've ignored it, but the only people who called me were clients or the station...either way, I couldn't afford not to answer.
It was the station...of course it was. The dispatcher said that there was a female corpse lying in a dumpster on 22nd Street and since I lived in that area, I pulled the short straw. I told her to let the idiots at the scene know not to touch anything until I got there and hung up.
The head-beaters had the girl's body lying out on the pavement when I pulled up. I thought about yelling at them for moving her, but decided that it wasn’t worth the hot air. When I strolled up to the dead girl, my eyes turned into silver dollars. It was the same girl that I'd given a light to. The girl's red hair was held back in the same band that she'd been wearing earlier. I did a fast scan to see if any kind of kinky stuff stuck out, but it wasn't happening. The girl wasn't raped...she was murdered, plain and simple.
The coroner arrived before I was done with my preliminary examination and squeezed past me. As I stood off to the side, trying to collect myself, he wrapped thick, white gauze around the wide, wooden stake that protruded from the girl's chest. I thought about reminding the goof troopers not to remove the stake unless they wanted a pile of ashes to examine, but figured that even they couldn't be that stupid. The coroner finished wrapping things up and effortlessly lifted the girl into the back of his van. As the van sped away, I thought to myself; what a shame...so young...she couldn't be more than two-hundred years old.
My first stop after the leaving the crime scene was the superintendent's office. If the Dame behind the counter had thrown me a curveball, she’d have to answer for it. When I walked into the office, she wasn't there. A different girl was perched behind the desk, answering the phones.
"Where's the other Dame?" I asked.
She looked at me like I had a bat in my cave and raised her eyebrows.
"What woman would that be?"
Great, I thought; an equal rights nut.
I leaned over the desk and flashed my badge. It must've had a pretty big impact on the short-fanger because her next words were that she'd been gone earlier and locked up the office before she left. I asked if any other women worked in the office and she said no. The night just kept getting weirder and weirder. I looked at my watch. The sun would be rearing its ugly head soon. The rest of the investigation would have to wait until the next night.
The door to my apartment was slightly ajar when I walked in. I thought that I must've left it open when I rushed out earlier, so I didn't look around the apartment for intruders…I guess I can be pretty stupid sometimes too. I cracked the fridge, pulled out some type-O, and retired to my room, contemplating on pulling the phone cord from the wall.
There she was, the Dame, sitting on my bed and aiming a crossbow at my chest. I stole a quick glance at the bolt to make sure that it was made of wood instead of the usual graphite, but it was wood alright...my goose was cooked.
“Who are you?” I asked, trying to look like I wasn’t about to crap my pants.
“I’m the girl who’s going to kill you,” she said.
Everything came together at once. I’d been keeping dibs on her husband for over a week and reporting everything to this dame over the phone. She knew that I was going to be there that night and set it up to where she’d be there too. She must’ve killed her husband and called in sick for him. Dead girl probably got an email from the late Mr. Hawkins, telling her to come to the office. How could I have been so stupid? It was so simple…and so wrong.
She let loose with the bolt and it hit me between my shoulder and sweet spot. It wasn’t fatal, but it knocked me flat. I went down on my back and wiggled backwards as she simultaneously approached me and loaded another wooden bolt. Her hourglass shadow fell over me as she aimed the crossbow at the center of my chest.
“Any last words before you go to sleep?”
It was the end for me; I knew it with every fiber of my being…whatever that means. I closed my eyes and waited for the strike of the bolt, and then a sudden pain seared through my hand and marched up the length of my arm. I drew my hand toward me; sure that I’d find a wooden bolt sticking out of it, but there wasn’t…my hand was black and crispy. Just above my head, the morning sun outlined the window.
“Yes,” I said. “Can I ask you something; something I gotta know?”
“What is it?” she asked, the crossbow still dialed in on me.
“Do you wear sunscreen?”
“Excuse me?”
I made my move, jumping up for the blinds like my ass was made of rubber. I managed to get a hold of the bottom and pulled it back down to the floor with me, but that was all I had when I landed… the bottom of it. The Dame smiled at me like I was a baby trying to get out of a playpen. She swaggered up to the spot where my head was laying on the hard floor, keeping the crossbow trained on my heart.
“You’re a funny guy,” she said and then kicked me, the pointed, spear-like tip of her boot catching me squarely on the temple. The world disappeared in a flash of bright light.
Just as a knock to the head sent me into the realm of pastels and benign sunshine, it was a bump to the head that yanked me out of it. The impact of the trunk roof smashing against the side of my face rung my bell again, but it had the opposite effect, jolting me awake.
The car trunk was cool and damp; which wasn’t entirely different from where I normally slept. The car hit another bump and I jolted upward again, but that time, I managed to tuck my head down, taking the hit on my left shoulder instead of my face. If it wasn’t for the burning, silver shackles on my wrists and ankles, I would’ve made more of an attempt to escape. If memory served right, it was nice and sunny outside anyway. Going from a bird in a cage to a crispy critter in a trunk didn’t seem like a fair trade to me.
I felt the car come to a stop, heard the opening and closing of the driver side door, and then the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the trunk lock. There was a loud click and swishing sound as the lock disengaged and the trunk swung open. I instinctively tuned my head toward the rear of the trunk, expecting that the morning sun would light up my face like a sulfur match stick. The Dame grabbed me and dragged me out; my back hit the ground hard enough to crack the weathered cement.
Unless I count the Dame herself, there was no ray of sunshine to be seen in the underground garage. I looked around, taking note that the place was completely deserted. The Dame stood above my head. I tried to refrain from looking up her skirt, but it was nearly impossible to resist.
“Have you ever seen a death throe; Mr. Bridges?”
“What?”
“Have you ever seen a human in the throes of death; heard the rattle of their last breath?”
“What are you squawking about lady?”
“Have you ever seen a human being die? That’s what I’m asking.”
I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Human beings had been long extinct; except for the few that we kept around for harvesting… so what was with all of the stupid questions?  As if the universe had heard the question in my head and felt obliged to give me an answer, three more people stepped out from the dim, shadowy edges of the parking garage; two dames and a bull.
“We having a party?” I asked.
“Funny,” the bull said. He was a big guy, and I mean big! From my point of view, he looked to be easily six-two, six-three, with a huge build to match. All four of them gathered around me, like kids watching a bird die.  The bull pulled a long syringe out of his pocket and held it up to his face. He pressed the plunger a little, shooting a small amount of the glowing, florescent, yellow fluid out, before kneeling down and sticking the dangerous end of the needle into the side of my neck.
The warm sensation from the injection began at the entry site and spread down the length of my body, creeping, taking its sweet ass time. It wasn’t too bad, not at first, at least not until the spasms came. My body locked up like a bazillion volts of electricity hit me. The first spasm took me by surprise and I ended up biting my lip. Blood ran down the side of my face from where my fang pierced the soft tissue around my mouth.
“Hurts; don’t it?” The dame asked as my legs kicked out during the third spasm.
She leaned over me and I saw something that shocked me more than the periodic spasms from the injection did; she had a fine line of sweat beading across the top of her forehead.
“You’re a human…” I managed to grunt between two more spasms; “How?”
She wiped her forehead dry with her palm.
“We have ways to disguise ourselves,” she said, wiping her sweat-dampened palm against the fabric of her dress. “Special sprays that make us smell like you…special antiperspirants that we rub all over our bodies to keep from sweating. Still…the stuff does wear off after awhile.”
The ending of the spasms came after one, final, major one that nearly bent me in half. When the contractions ended, I fell flat on my back, exhausted. I huffed and puffed, trying to get my breath back under control. Finally, I managed to ask, “The girl…why?”
“Just another blood-sucking bastard,” the Dame said, sneering down at me, “just like you.”
“So,” the bull said, “now you know what a death throe feels like. We don’t think it’s fair that you monsters get to miss all the fun. When you die, you either explode, or disintegrate into ashes. It’s quick…painless. That just doesn’t seem right to us. The late Mr. Hawkins and his wife have both been lucky enough to experience the sensations of true death…multiple times. Tell me; how’d you like it?”
I couldn’t tell if he was being funny or stupid. Was he really expecting an answer? The shackle burning its way through my left hand was nearly half-way through the bone, I made the decision to help it along. I bent my wrist under me and slammed my back against it as hard as I could… knowing that I‘d only get one shot. I was lucky; my hand snapped off.
Lightning fast, I swung the empty shackle, connecting it with the bull’s wide face. He went down like a sack of shit, his head bouncing off of the garage floor. The dame made a break for the car. The driver side door was still open and I could plainly see what she was going for, the crossbow that sat on the passenger seat. I snatched her by the back of her long hair before she could take more than two steps and yanked her to me. As I drained her life from her, I felt what they were talking about…her death throes were exquisite.
The other two dames ran toward the ramp that led to the upper, sunlit deck of the garage. I fished the keys to the shackles out of the dame’s bra and freed my feet, and then I went after the waddling duo. They managed to make it about three-quarters of the way to the ramp, which was pretty good for dames dressed in sun-dresses and high-heels; It was fast for them... respectable…futile.
I found my hand and reattached it to my arm before loading the corpses into the car; by then, the bloodlust had worn off. I’d made a terrible mistake and I knew it. Humans were considered an endangered species, allowed to be kept for food resupply, but never terminated. With a little help from scientists, the amount of blood that four people could generate over the course of their lifetimes was staggering. I knew that I had to cover my tracks, so I waited until the sun went down, and set a little car fire. I watched them burn for a few minutes, the flames licking around their faces and melting their skin like wax paper; then I left. I had to make myself scarce before the firemen came.
It took me awhile to get home that night. I was slightly disoriented from the traces of whatever the assholes pumped into me and had no idea where I was when I left the garage. Thankfully, it was only a few miles from a taxi stand. I checked my messages as soon as I walked into my apartment and was thankful that I didn’t catch the call for the fire. I picked up the phone, called the station, and let them know that I wouldn’t be coming in that evening.
“Bad blood,” I said… they understood.
In the shower, I washed myself three times and still couldn’t get the human smell off of me. I didn’t know if it was all in my head or not, but it seemed to be radiating off me, sticking to me, like a bad perfume…or garlic. I got it off the best I could and threw on some pajamas before crawling into bed. The metal shutters were closed tight, the air conditioner was set to fifty, and the phone was off the hook.
I made the decision that when I woke, I would return to the garage and look for clues; maybe interject myself into the case after all. If those humans were loose in the world; how many others were out there? I was determined to find out. As hibernation took over, my body issued small, occasional spasms, reliving the death throes that I’d experienced. I had to find the humans that were out there; find them… and kill them. I never wanted to experience “true death” again.
 
THE END

From the Pages of Schlock Webzine. Scavenger, by Ray Duchene

(Mature Content)  The dream again… He was standing in front of the street merchant.
"Better get your ass in gear!" Specialist Martinez yelled through the propped open door of the HMMV. "This ain't Walmart dude!"
They’d been on patrol when Sergeant Mike Lipscomb saw a stand on the side of the road, peddling movies. He'd been in Khost Province for six months and was running out of stuff to watch on his laptop. It was a perfect opportunity to pick up some cheap DVD's. Most of the movies were still in the theaters and he'd really wanted to see some of them. He finally managed to pick about six of them, talking the vender down to three for five dollars instead of two. He maneuvered around his holster, dug inside his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the vender. The vender smiled, stuffed the DVDs into a worn out plastic bag and handed it to the Soldier. Mike thanked the vender in English and turned back toward the vehicle just as Specialist Martinez began to yell at him again.
“Come ‘on dude! Hurry up!”
"I'm coming dammit!" Mike yelled back… and the vehicle exploded.
Within the prison of his nightmare, the vehicle exploded...then exploded...then exploded again. There was a flash of bright, white light, and then the medics were pulling the charred remains of Specialist Martinez from the smoldering debris.
Another flash…
He guided Rebecca into room 117, pushed her onto the bed, made love to her.
Another flash…
Mike was in the shower, the curtain pulled to the side, and a hand thrust inward. Mike looked down at the handle of the hunting knife, buried to the hilt, in his belly. He tried to get to her, crawling on the bathroom floor, but it seemed that the further he crawled, the further away the door became. Exhausted, Mike rolled onto his back. Above him, peering down at him was the face that would be forever burned into his mind. The stranger smiled, gave a little wink, and then brought the heel of his boot down on Mike’s forehead.
Another flash…
He was lying in a pool of his own blood, feeling the life pour from him. He could hear her screaming for him to help her, to save her. In reality, she was sleeping when the monster cut her throat and never made a sound... But in Mike’s dreams, her screams could wake the dead... how he wished that were true.
He woke suddenly and sat up in the hospital bed, the sound of her screams still echoing in his head. His regular nurse was standing at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in her hand and a scowl on her face.
"Good morning, Mr. Lipscomb," she said, "You have physical therapy in half an hour. I suggest you get yourself ready."
Mike spent the better part of a month in the hospital recovering from his wounds. The first couple of weeks, his hospital room was filled to bursting with family members, friends, and police officers. They all wanted details. Did he see anything…did he hear anything…did he know who was doing such terrible things; for all of their questions, his answer was no.           
The most persistent of the police who came to visit Mike in the hospital was the cop who found him, Officer Litherland. He thought that Mike knew more than he was telling and made no secret of it. The Scavenger Killer had been leaving a trail of dismembered corpses across three counties for months, Officer Litherland said.  
“I never saw the guy,” Mike said… and he stood by his story. The killer murdered the only person left in the world that Mike Lipscomb gave a shit about. There was no way in hell that he was going to leave it up to the cops to find justice. Another week, maybe two, Mike thought as the nurse left his room; then, the bastard is going to pay.
It didn’t take long for Mike to find the bastard. When he was finally released from the hospital, he began to hit all of the local roadhouses and dive bars in the area. From the shaggy, unkempt way the killer looked, Mike assumed that the man was local and not rich. It was a stretch for sure, but one that paid off.
Three days after he got out of the hospital, Mike found the Scavenger Killer sitting in The Watering Hole, a local bar that catered mostly to truck drivers and bikers. The Killer was sitting at the bar when Mike walked in. Mike saw his face, clearly reflected on the mirrored wall behind the bar. His first instinct was to approach the man, place the barrel of his 9mm pistol to the back of his head, and decorate the bar with his brains. He kept his cool though. He knew that in order to escape the situation with his own freedom intact, he'd have to play it safe, wait until the asshole was alone somewhere and then pop him. When the Killer paid his tab and left the bar, Mike counted to fifty in his mind, and then followed him out.
The man turned off the highway a few miles south of town on a gravel road. Mike would've followed him up to his house and killed him on the spot if the damn cop wasn't following again. He continued to drive on; just a normal guy, out for a nice drive in the country. At least he knew where the bastard lived. It was just a matter of time.
***
This cop thinks I’m stupid...
The cop followed him to the bar again. Mike ordered his third shot and stared at the back of the killer's head for a few seconds before pounding it down. Tonight will be the night, he thought but I'm going to have to shake bacon-boy somehow.
On the other side of the bar, the sound of multiple gasps caught his attention. The majority of the patrons were standing in front of a mounted television, watching a breaking news story about The Scavenger’s latest victims.
“The man was stabbed multiple times,” the anchorwoman said. “It’s been reported that Mr. Chesterfield was found in the garage with his throat cut, while his wife was reportedly bludgeoned to death. More details at eleven…”
They didn’t say what body parts were missing, Mike thought as he stared at the back of the killer’s head. It didn’t escape his attention that during the news update, almost everyone in the bar rushed to the television…everyone, that is, except for himself, the bar tender, and of course, the bastard on the stool.
The killer, whose name was Anthony Teller paid his tab, used the bathroom, and left the bar. Mike waited a few minutes before following him out. He already knew where the man lived, so there was no need to risk being spotted following him. Besides, bacon boy had followed him to the bar and was probably still waiting outside to shadow him home.
Just as Mike thought, the cop was still in the parking lot. After the few drinks he’d slammed down, Mike couldn't contain his anger any longer. He decided to approach the cop and give him a piece of his mind. After all, it was America. Police can't just follow people whenever they felt like it.
The conversation was extremely short and extremely one sided. Before Mike could approach the window, he saw the wide gash in the cop's throat. He jumped back from the car, making sure not to touch anything. You poor bastard, he thought. You should’ve left this one to the real men.
After he got behind the wheel, Mike fished behind him, pulled the 9mm from the back of his pants, and sat it on the passenger seat. The cop's death was sad and tragic…collateral damage…just like the couple the night before. Mike had followed Anthony Teller to the Chesterfield’s home and watched from the shadows as the cold blooded son of a bitch knocked on the door and then punched the sweet looking old lady in the face. Every fiber of his being wanted to help her…screamed to, but Mike couldn’t move. He didn’t want to take the chance that something would go wrong. He popped open the glove box and pulled out a small bottle of rum. After a couple of large gulps, he put the bottle back inside the box and slapped it shut. Collateral damage, he thought. Who am I trying to kid? I’m going to hell. He put on his seatbelt, started the car, and pushed the stick into first gear.
"I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch."
***
Mike pulled onto the gravel road and turned off his headlights. He eased the car along slowly, trying to avoid making too much noise. Just before he reached the clearing at the end, he turned off the ignition, picked up the 9mm from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. It was time.
The cabin was centered in the clearing. As he crept toward it, Mike tried to be mindful of twigs and other debris that could give him away. He stepped on a brittle stick and paused, heart racing, before moving slowly on again. He picked up his pace as he got closer to the cabin. His heart went into attack mode, his fight or flight response dialed to kill. By the time he reached the cabin door, he was nearly at a full run.
Mike leapt into the air and kicked the door just above the knob. It flung open and smashed against the wall of the cabin. The pistol was out in front of him, held in both hands, ready to fire. His initial intent was to bust in, gun blazing, and shoot anything that moved, but the sight of the three men, none of them the killer, sitting around a circular table with a large iron bowl in the center of it, made him pause. It wasn’t a long pause, just long enough for the wooden baseball bat to slam into the back of his head.
The blackness of unconsciousness lightened slowly; bringing forth a terrible, dull pressure that felt like it wanted to burst out of Mike Lipscomb’s skull. He opened his eyes. Through his fogged out, hazy vision, he saw four men sitting around a table, laughing and going over what looked like some kind of paperwork. He tried to move and found that his hands and feet were bound together. From his position on the time and traffic-worn couch, Mike had a clear view of Anthony Teller’s face. The man was chomping on a cigar and looking at a small notebook.
“So,” Teller said; “who finished their list?”
“I got everything but the woman’s pinky finger,” said the chubby, older man who was sitting to Teller’s right.
“Shit,” the man to Teller’s left said. “I still needed a woman’s big toe.”
“What about you Junior?” Teller asked.
“I still needed blue eyes,” the kid who sat directly across from Teller replied. “This game is harder than I thought. “
Teller laughed and threw his list on the table. Then, he reached into the large bowl, lifted out a penis and began to flop it around, and in front of the other men’s faces. They recoiled in horror and Junior nearly fell out of his chair.
“Well, with this…,” Teller said, “I got my list complete! Good game boys…now pay up.”
The other men around the table began to groan and reach for their wallets.
At the sight of the penis in Teller’s hand, Mike Lipscomb nearly choked on his gag. He gazed down at his midsection and gawked in terror at the blood soaked stain on the front of his pants.
The men to Teller’s left and right handed him a hundred dollar bill and stuffed their wallets back into their pockets.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” the older man said as he sat back down in his chair.
“Shit,” Teller said, “Luck had nothing to do with it. I played that son of a bitch.”
He looked over at Mike.
“Ain’t that right, boy?” He said. “I played you like a geetar!”
Then, he turned back to his son.
“Come on Junior,” he said, holding out his open palm, “be a good sport now.”
Junior reached down, pulled up his pant leg, and slid a hunting knife from his boot. He held the knife up, and then brought it down on the table top, burying the point into the wooden surface.
“Not so fast, Dad,” he said. “Uncle Tony…What color eyes did I say I needed?”
“Blue,” the older man said.
“And what color eyes does our new friend here have?”
The old man looked over at Mike and smiled.
“Why… I do believe that they’re blue, Junior.”
The young man, stood up, pulled the knife free from the table and turned toward Mike. When the boy’s shadow fell across him, Mike tried his best to fight, to struggle. When death finally came for him, he welcomed it with open arms.
THE END

Psycho Girl

 Justin Marshal was supposed to be doing his homework, but he couldn’t stop himself from posting on the various social networks that he subscribed to, or looking up porn in between researching cultural factors that influence government. He read part of a not too interesting article about American natives, and then clicked on the browser’s back button to a previous page that displayed the Psycho-Girl of the month in all her spreading glory, and then quickly switched back to the article again. He only caught a brief glimpse of the swollen breast with pierced nipples and the chain with a skull on the end hanging from the place between her legs, but the image stayed fresh in his mind for minutes after. If I could have just one minute with her, he thought…hell... just one second is all I’d need!

The familiar sound of a message alert brought him out of his hormonal induced hypnotic state. He picked up his phone and saw that he’d received a text message from an unknown number. “Hey Robert,” the screen displayed, “whatcha doin?”Justin frowned as he read the text. He hit the reply button, typed in, “You have the wrong number,” and then hit send. A few seconds later, his phone lit up and chirped. The sender responded with, “Sorry…” He felt like he shouldn’t respond, but decided that it would've been rude not to.“It happens.”“What’s your name?”“Not Robert.”“Duh silly…I already knew that.”“Yeah, because I told you.”“Wrong…”"How’d you know then?”“Because right now I’m playing with Roberts intestines…”Justin’s heart did a sort of half-pause when he read the text, then began to pound inside his chest like it wanted to escape. He powered off the phone and threw it on the desk next to his laptop computer. An overwhelming impulse to run to his mother tore through him, he grabbed onto the edge of his desk as if a high wind threatened to blow him out of his room, down the stairs and right to her feet. He knew he couldn’t tell her…she’d just tell him it was his own fault.After three months of begging, suffering boredom, and ass kissing that would make a personal assistant blush, he finally got his stuff back. His mom laid out the rules of the game before she gave up the goods.“This phone is for me to contact you, Justin and the computer is for homework. You can keep your social networks as long as it doesn’t interfere too much with your studies, but if I see one boob, one bare leg, one single part of a woman’s body that isn’t covered in some kind of cloth, I’m taking this crap away for good. You’re fifteen years old for god’s sake!”He nodded as she talked, confirming that yes, he understood what she was telling him and yes, he would follow her rules. The same night that he’d gotten his computer back, he snuck out of bed and went straight to the Psycho-girl web site. He just couldn’t help himself. He finished reading the first article and then found another one about Minorities and America. That sounds like a fun one; he thought and clicked on the link. The reading was monotonous and torturous at the same time. How people can find this crap interesting, he thought after he finished the third unusually long paragraph. This shit sucks. He clicked back to the Psycho-Girls web-site again. The girl’s naked body filled the monitor. She was the most beautiful girl that he’d ever seen. Kim, with the piercings and tattoos all over her body, with the bare spot between her legs and the round, perfect breasts. She stared out at him from the bare mattress that she was sprawled on with a look that seemed to say, “Come ‘on boy…let’s play.” As he stared at his dream girl, he could feel a swelling between his own legs. He looked at his bedroom door, cursed his mom for not letting him have a lock and clicked back on the report tab before his pants exploded.It took awhile, but he worked his way through the rest of the article, made some minor notations on his notepad and clicked out of the web-site. It was getting close to dinner time, so he didn’t go back to visit his psycho-girl; his mom could walk in at any moment. Just before school and just before dinner was what he thought of as high traffic times. He brought up the browser again and opened his favorites tab. The list of social networks and sights that he subscribed to was excessive… even in his opinion. He moved the curser between the links, not sure if he wanted to just update his bored status, or find out what his friends and family were having for dinner that night. Before he could decide, a small window appeared at the bottom of his screen, letting him know that he received an instant message. He clicked on the supplied link and the messenger application opened up, displaying the sender’s name as Kim. Holy shit, he thought, What if it’s her? Justin was fully aware that a lot of women were named Kim, so he really was quite surprised when he opened the message and saw his Psycho-Girl’s profile photo in a small box at the top of the window. “Oh my God, it is her!” he shouted. His excitement faded quickly when he read the attached message.“Hello again Robert.”“Who is this?” “It’s me…Kim.”This is some kind of joke, he thought. Somebody’s playing some kind of joke on me. “My name isn’t Robert.”“I told you… I know. Robert was my last boyfriend.”“The one you killed?”“Exactly…he got boring. Are you boring Justin?”Justin pushed back from the desk and almost fell out of his chair. How did she get my name, he thought. Oh my God…how does she know my name? The sound on the computer was still turned up, so he could hear a beep every time a new message popped up. He pulled his wheeled chair back toward the desk and looked at the monitor again. More messages appeared inside the display box.“Justin?”“Yoo-hoo. Justin…”“Justin, answer me now, little boy”Justin hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until he let it out. “What do you want?”“I want to be your girlfriend, silly. I want us to be together, like all of my boyfriends before you.”“Did you really kill your last boyfriend?”“Yep…and the seven before him.”“Why?”“I like to see what their made of….look inside them; you know?”“Why?”“It’s my thing…I’m a Psycho-Girl. It kinda comes with the job.”“I don’t want to be your boyfriend”“Too late…you’re mine all mine and I’m going to come and get you soon. I always get what’s mine.”“Please tell me you’re kidding. Please!”“Nope…sorry. Robert though I was joking until I opened up his belly and pulled out his intestines. Rick, on the other hand, knew that I was completely serious the whole time I cut small pieces off of him. He couldn’t move cause I tied him to a chair lol.”“I’m sorry; I don’t want to be your boyfriend. My mom’s calling me, I got to go.”“Don’t tell her about me or she’ll be my new girlfriend.”“Please don’t hurt my mom!”“That’s up to you boyfriend lol. I’ll hit you up for your address tomorrow and we’ll get together soon, okay?”“Okay.”“See you later lover…”Justin didn’t bother to exit out of the application. He picked the laptop up above his head and threw it to the floor with all of his strength. The screen shattered and the keyboard nearly broke in half. He jumped as high as he could and brought both of his shoe clad feet down on the machine, making sure that it would never recover. “What the hell’s gotten into you,” he mother said. Justin turned and saw his mom standing in his bedroom doorway with her hands on her hips. He let out a sobbing cry and ran to her.Later, at the dinner table, Justin calmed down enough to tell his mother the whole story. Some kid was harassing him on his computer so he got mad and smashed it. She yelled at him for taking such a drastic measure and grounded him from his phone for another three months. She told him that he could use the desktop in the living room to finish his report, but only for homework.“I don’t want you getting mad at that one too!” She said.“When I get my phone back mom; can I get another number?” He asked while scrapping the uneaten food into the garbage disposal. “If you get it back,” she said, “we’ll talk about it then.”He was satisfied with that answer. He hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, before heading to the living room to fire up the old desktop computer. His mom watched him go with an expression of amazement on her face. Boys, she thought as she scraped her own plate into the sink and put it into the dishwasher. She thought that maybe they’d watch a little television before bed that night, just to show Justin that she wasn’t too mad at him. He was, after all, a good kid. On her way out of the kitchen, she fished a small, pre-paid cell phone from her purse, removed the battery, and threw it in the trash.

Get Jungle Land Free Until Tuesday Night!

[image error]    Click here for your free copy :)   Eight Teenage boys set off for a weekend long camping trip in the wooded area that surrounds their small community...not all of them return.

Jungle Land is the story of two brothers who, after dealing with horrendous events in their young lives, get relocated to a small retirement community in the San Joaquin Valley. The brothers soon make a couple of friends and, along with four other kids from the community,decide to play a weekend-long game of capture the flag. The game deviates from the normal rules when the teens begin to not only capture, but torture one another for the location of their secret bases. The torture leads to a death and the cover-up leads to many more.   http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C7H250W#_  Show more Show less

Regulating John

As Jamie Bridges approached the intersection, a red light appeared in the center of the dash-board and the car slowed to a stop. Jamie barely noticed the oncoming intersection at all, until she felt the slow deceleration of her 2156 Ford. She was too busy touching up her make-up and thinking about what a bitch her boss was to worry about such trivial things. As a steady flow of traffic passed in front of her, another car pulled up alongside hers. It was a classic model that Jamie had never seen before. She could tell by the sound of the motor that it was a manual-type, gasoline consumption vehicle, which told her everything she needed to know about the driver.
 She looked out her side window, at the man behind the other car's steering wheel. He wasn’t very good looking (most of them weren't). Just on the other side of the man, Jamie could see his tattooed, outstretched arm hanging outside his car window, a small stream of smoke rising steadily above it. Is he smoking? She thought. Gross! The street light turned green and her vehicle moved forward. Before her small, electric car was half way through the intersection, the man in the pollution-mobile sped past her. She made a mental note of his license plate number. Smoking in public was against the law.
Jamie had never been much of a people person. She’d spent most of her time in an eight by ten cubicle, writing code for security software. The only human interaction that she got most of the time was from her boss, Henrietta, whom she hated with a passion that could level all of the sky rises on the moon. Henrietta loved to stop by Jamie's cubicle at all times of the day and just hang out, looking over her shoulder while she was trying to type, or talk to her while she was trying to work. Only a witch like Henrietta would make it a daily ritual to bug their employee as much as possible and still hold that employee accountable for low production.
On her last evaluation, Henrietta gave Jamie an average rating. Average ratings were the smooch of death when an employee tried to climb out of the position they were in and apply for a higher one...maybe even one with a window or a bathroom nearby. Other than Henrietta, Jamie didn't communicate too much with the outside world, which was fine with her. Most people were idiots; in her mind...it's better to just avoid them as much as possible.
The only two things in Jamie's life that she loved, absolutely adored, was her home and her husband...in that order. When the car pulled up in front of her two story house, it felt like a million tons of weight had lifted from her shoulders. On the way to the front door, she stopped and admired the small garden, just under the front window. John must've been out here all day, she thought. I have the perfect man.
John Bridges, whose maiden name was Kelsey opened the door for his wife when she walked up… happy to see her, he lifted her into the air and gave her a tight hug.
"Put me down, John!" Jamie said. "You're getting flour all over me!"
John set her down and looked, horrified at the front of his wife's suit. The entire front of the outfit was dusted with flour. His eyes began to fill with tears.
"I'm so sorry Honey," he said. "I was just so happy to see you."
Jamie looked at his tear-filled eyes, his sad, pathetic expression, and couldn't stay mad at him.
"It's okay Babe," she said, wiping away his tears. "Just try to be more careful; okay?"
John smiled, gave her a quick kiss, and then rushed back into the house.
"Come 'on! I got a surprise for you!"
“Give me a few! I want to take a shower!” She called after him.
Jamie let out a small sigh as she watched her husband run off, so anxious to please her. He really is the perfect man, she thought, and then followed him inside, closing the door behind her.
***
The smell of fresh baked apple pie drifted through the house. Jamie lathered up her hair and commanded the shower to switch to stream mode. A fast stream of water shot out from the nozzle. She stepped beneath it and rinsed the shampoo from her hair. Thoroughly clean, she commanded the water to turn off. The stream of water stopped instantly, replaced by heavy drafts of warm air, blowing her body dry. She revolved in place, making sure to lift her arms and spread her legs to get to those hard to reach places.
The dryer lasted about two minutes. When it finished, the shower door slid open, displaying a dark red evening dress, hanging on the opposite wall. Perfectcolor, Jamie thought as she stepped out from the shower. He's going to get some extra kisses tonight. She dressed quickly, not wanting to keep her husband waiting.
John was busy bustling around the kitchen when Jamie walked into the dining room. She sat down in her usual spot at the head of the table, picked up the fully charged wine glass, and took a drink. The double doors to the kitchen slid apart and John walked into the dining room, carrying a tray in both hands. He sat the tray down in front of his wife and then pulled up a chair next to her, watching as she took the first bite.
"How is it?" He asked.
"The chicken's divine," she said. "I don't know how you always make it taste so real!"
"Wait til you try the pie."
The apple pie was warm and delicious. So delicious, in fact, she pushed away her dinner plate and concentrated on the dessert alone. John's face lit up.
"You like it?"
"Oh yes."
John cleared the table after Jamie finished eating and brought the wine bottle back with him when he returned. He re-charged Jamie's glass and sat down.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"What?"
"You seem a little upset."
Jamie couldn't believe that he'd felt her anxiety, even though he always did. John was very sensitive to those things.
"Oh, nothing,” she said. “I just had a bad day."
He held her hand, and gave it a loving squeeze.
"You want to talk about it?"
"It's okay Honey," she said. "Henrietta's just being a bitch again."
"What’d she do this time?"
"Nothing really...she's still bugging me at work, then trying to act like I don't get anything done. It's just frustrating, that's all."
John released her hand and stood up, a look of contempt on his face.
"They don't deserve you," he said. "I don't know why you stay there."
"It's not like I can just quit," Jamie said. "What am I supposed to do; stay home with you and starve?"
"You wouldn't starve!" John yelled. "I'd take care of you!"
"Why are you raising your voice at me, John?" Jamie said. She looked him over, up and down, and then felt his forehead. "Are you feeling okay, Honey? You've never acted like this before."
John pushed her hand away and turned his back on her.
"I clean the house, do the gardening, fix your meals...I think I'm entitled to an opinion."
Jamie didn't know what to say. She'd never had a problem with her husband in the past.
"Stay here Honey; okay? I'm going to get my purse."
"Whatever..."
She retrieved her purse and returned to the dining room, gulped down her last bit of wine, and then pulled out a glass, rectangular card. She pressed her finger onto the front of the card and it displayed the business logo and contact information for Rick's food delivery service. She moved her finger to the side, over and over, skimming through the inventory until she found the one that she was looking for. Then, she pressed a small, blue dot at the corner of the screen.
"Dr. Mitchell's office," a woman's voice said.
"Yes...hello...this is Jamie Bridges. I'd like to bring my husband, John in for a check-up."
"Is this an emergency?"
"I think it might be."
***
Jamie was busy reading an article about a group of kids from the local college who demonstrated against a new law that required citizens to turn in paper copies of books for recycling, when she heard the lobby door slide open. She glanced up from her magazine and then quickly looked back down at the screen. What the hell is she doing here? She wondered.
"Jamie, hi," Henrietta said. "What are you doing here?" She was followed into the lobby by a man who looked twenty years younger than she was. He was favoring his left side as he walked. She led the man to a nearby chair, helped him sit down, and then took the empty chair next to him.
If Jamie was a rude person, she would've ignored her boss. She turned off the magazine and reach deep inside herself for the strength to deliver a convincing smile.
"I brought John in for a little check-up."
"Oh...nothing serious, I hope," Henrietta said.
"I don't think so; he's just not feeling well today."
"Yeah," Henrietta said. She placed her hand on top of her husband's head and rubbed it lightly. "Rick here hasn't been doing too well either." She leaned forward, cupped her hand around her mouth as if they weren't the only people in the lobby and whispered, "I think I might be a little too rough on him, if you know what I mean."
Just then, the door at the back of the office slid open and Jamie's husband walked out, followed by a tall man in a white lab coat.
"Miss Bridges?" The man asked.
"Yes, I'm Jamie Bridges,” Jamie said. She stood and shook the man’s hand.
"Good news," The man said; "The Doctor says that John is going to be just fine."
"What was wrong with him?" Jamie asked, making sure to keep her voice low enough so that Henrietta couldn't eavesdrop.
"His emotions regulator burned out," the man said. "Those things usually have a life span of around twenty years, so I'm not entirely sure why his crashed. I contacted Kelsey robotics and they said that he was still under warranty, so no charge for the visit. Also, as an apology, they had us throw in some upgrades that I think you'll like."
"What kind of upgrades?"
"The kind that we don't need to talk about in public," the man whispered...then he winked.
"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to worry you, Babe."
Jamie grabbed her husband's hand and led him to the lobby door.
"Don't worry about it Honey," she said as they walked through the lobby door; "I'm sure you'll think of some way to make it up to me."
The man in the white lab coat watched them leave and then turned toward Henrietta; his broad smile replaced with an irritated expression that he reserved just for her.
"What is it now, Miss Graves?" he asked.
"I think I may have thrown his hip out again," Henrietta said, blushing. "Can you fix him?"
The man looked like he considered saying no, but then his irritated expression softened into something resembling resignation.
"Why not," he said. "We've fixed him three times already this month...what's one more?"
 
THE END
Copyright 2013, R.M. DuChene

The Unforgotten

"Mommy...When’s it going to be my turn?" Timmy Newland whined.
The Newlands had been standing in line to see Santa for the better part of an hour and had barely reached the half-way mark. Timmy tried to be patient; he tried to be the best behaving boy in the world, hoping that Santa would decide that he was good enough to give him his most favorite thing in the whole world that Christmas...an actual bike.
Santa had brought Timmy a bike the last Christmas, but it had training wheels and Timmy's dad accidently ran it over when Timmy left it in the drive-way. Richard Newland told his son that he wouldn’t get another one, but Timmy knew the rules; he knew that Santa was bigger than his dad in the grand scheme of things and if Santa brought him a bike, his dad wouldn't take it away.
"I really have to go…," Timmy said, looking up at his mom, eyes pleading.
Martha Newland looked down at her son, saw him bouncing up and down and crossing his legs; she knew that there was very little time before an accident happened. She asked her husband to hold their place in line while she took Timmy to the bathroom. The bathroom was not far, only a few feet away, but Timmy was only six, and six year olds don't just run off to the restroom by themselves, not at a crowded mall during the holidays, not ever, in Martha's mind. She Took a giant step over the Golden rope that’s whole purpose for existing was to make sure that all of the Santa suckers didn't escape, held it high for Timmy to pass under it, and then led him to the boys room. When Timmy finished doing his business, his mother was still in the same spot, leaning against the wall outside of the restroom, waiting for him.
When they joined Timmy's dad back in line, Timmy was delighted to see that the line had begun moving faster. His dad said that a few people who were in front of them lost their patience and left. That was alright with Timmy; he was that much closer to his prize. When Timmy's turn came about a half hour later, his excitement almost carried him past the rather tall elf, who snatched his collar and pulled him back.
"Santa'll be right back, kid," the elf said. "Even Saint Nick has to tinkle; ya know?"
Timmy watched in torturous disappointment as Santa lifted his heavy frame out of his red and gold chair, stumbled, and then turned the boy's expression to horror by falling down, face first, onto the small stage.
"Santa!"
The elf wasn't fast enough; Timmy burst under the rope and ran to where Santa was laying… unmoving. The small boy hugged Santa from behind, smashing his tear filled face into the Jolly old elf's long, musky hair.
"Please don't die, Santa," he said as he rocked the man's head in his arms. "Please don't die, Santa."
Timmy couldn't feel the skinny elf trying to pull him away; he couldn't hear his parents calling to him from the roped off barrier that now separated them from their son. Timmy barely heard anything at all except for his own ear-piercing scream as Santa grabbed hold his arm and bit into his wrist.

***

“Hurry, Richard!” Martha Newland screamed at her husband from the backseat of their SUV as he sped toward the freeway onramp. She cradled Timmy in her arms, her hands cupped over her young son's wrist, putting pressure on the wound.
"It won't do us any good," Richard Newland said. "The traffic’s all backed up!"
When Santa attacked Timmy the Newland's rushed to their son's aid. Richard wrestled with Santa, who had a death grip on Timmy's wrist, until two uniformed security officers arrived. The officers helped free Timmy and his parents rushed him from the mall, without looking back to see what was going on with Santa and the security officers.
It didn't take long for the Newlands to realize that what was going on in the mall was happening all over. When they left the mall, people were running through the parking lot like it was the end of the world; most with zombies hot on their trail. Richard Newland thought of them as zombies anyway, even though they weren’t gross looking like they are in the movies. Perhaps, he thought, this was only the beginning; the gross stuff would come later, as their bodies began to decay. Or, maybe they’re not zombies at all, but just people that have gone crazy for some reason. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. It didn’t matter at that moment. What mattered was getting Timmy to the hospital; fast.
The hospital was even more insane than the mall. The parking lot was completely crowded. Most people just said, “Screw it” and left their cars right where they were, travelling the rest of the way on foot. The Newlands did the same. Martha led the way as Richard carried Timmy through the seemingly endless maze of abandoned cars and fallen bodies. They went around the side of the building, to the ambulance entrance and were relieved to see that the large crowd of people, who were clogging up the front entrance, didn’t find that location yet. Two men rushed outside and told them that they would have to go around to the front of the hospital like everyone else, but when they saw the look of terror on Martha’s face and the small, blood stained boy in her arms, they ran back inside and came out with a gurney and a nurse.
Timmy had lost a lot of blood, so the doctors gave him a pint of O-positive and sewed up his wrist. They explained to the Newlands that even though the hospital policy was to keep any patients who receive blood for forty-eight hours for observation, they simply didn’t have the room available. The Newlands left a couple of hours after arriving with their sewn up son, a bottle of pills, and a doctor’s business card. The business card was a joke, of course. The phones would go out that very night and never come back on.

***

When the Newlands returned home, they put Timmy to bed and began to fortify the house with everything they could find. Richard made a few trips to the shed and returned with numerous sheets of ply-wood that he’d bought for one of the many projects that he didn’t get around to starting. He piled the wood onto the living room carpet and then proceeded to board up the windows on the inside of the house. When he completed the down-stairs, he pulled a couple of sheets upstairs to board up those windows, but then he decided against it and returned downstairs; leaving the boards stacked at the top of the stairs. Who knows, he thought, I may have to seal off the upstairs from the downstairs at some point.
When Timmy woke up the next morning, his eyes were stuck shut. He tried with all of his might to open them, but the lids wouldn't come apart. Martha heard him crying and ran to his room. After seeing her son's eyes, she wet a wash cloth and began to remove the mucus that had seeped out and dried, gluing his eyes together; when he was able to open his eyes at last, it was his mother's turn to cry out.
Richard ran to his wife's aid and froze in the doorway of his son's room. Even from a good distance, he could see that Timmy's eyes had turned blood-red. He pulled his son from the bed and ran a bath for him. As he pulled off Timmy's clothes, Richard was dismayed to see bluish blotches, covering sections of the boy's front and back sides.
"He's sick," Martha said when she saw the bruises.
"No," Richard said, "he's not sick; he's turning...turning into one of those things."
Martha looked at her husband in horror. Her eyes asked how he could dare say such a thing, but deep inside, she knew that he was right; they're boy was going to become a zombie.
They kept Timmy in the tub until the water turned room temperature and then pulled him out, put fresh pajamas on him, and put him back to bed. Martha popped the top off of the medicine that the hospital gave them and was about to shake a couple of pills in her hand, but then caught herself; it wouldn't do any good. Once Timmy was snug in bed, Richard excused himself and left the room, saying that he had to double check the barriers on the windows. Martha knew that her husband was going to do no such thing. He needs to cry, she thought; he needs to cry and doesn't want to do it in front of Timmy. In her heart, she commended her husband for that, but she also begrudged him for having the option. Martha wiped away of her own tears, picked up a book off of her son's night stand, and began to read to him. He listened for a few minutes and then drifted off to sleep.
When Timmy woke up the next time, he was in his father's arms. Richard held his son close as he navigated his way down the wide staircase and then laid his son on the couch, in front of the Christmas tree. Timmy looked at the tree and smiled. He wasn't smiling at the tree, but at the brand new bicycle set just in front of it. It was just the one he wanted, the one with the brass horn. He forced himself into a sitting position while his dad wheeled the bicycle to the couch. Timmy brushed his fingers along the red, smooth, surface of the frame and smiled again.
"He brought it early," he said. "Maybe he felt bad for biting me."
The Newlands exchanged grim glances and then regained their cheery composure.
"You wanna go out and ride it?" Richard asked.
Timmy's face lit up, almost as much as when he first saw the bike. He looked to his mother.
"Can I mom?"

***

Timmy’s feet barely reached the pedals when his dad set him on the bicycle. It didn’t really matter, since he wouldn’t have had the strength to ride the bike on his own. He let out whoops of joy as his dad pushed him around the cement slab that covered half of the back yard. Every couple of yards, Timmy would shoot a quick glance at his mom, who was leaning against the frame of the back door. He took his hands off of the handle-bars and held them up.
“Look mom,” he said, “no hands!”
Samantha smiled and clapped her hands. She did her best to try and look happy, but inside, she was being torn to pieces.
“That’s so good, baby,” she said, clapping her hands. “You’re doing so good!”
“Can I try and do it on my own?” He asked his dad.
Richard shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea kiddo. You’re not quite well enough yet.”
“Please….,” Timmy whined; “just for a little bit?”
Richard glanced at Martha, who was still leaning against the door-frame and raised his eyebrows; she nodded back.
“Okay,” he said, returning his attention to his son, “just for a few feet.”
“I’m doing it!” Timmy yelled. “Look mom; I’m doing…”
The bicycle fell sideways before the boy could finish. He didn’t lose his balance, he lost his consciousness. Richard ran to his son, pulled the bike off of him, and cradled his head in his arms.
“Timmy…,” he said, shaking his son. “Timmy, talk to me…”
Martha couldn’t see Timmy through her husband’s back, but it looked as though Richard was talking to the boy; then, Richard began to shake Timmy harder and yelling for him to wake up. Martha’s breath caught in her throat and she ran to her crying husband and her dead son.

***

The phones went out when the power did. The Newlands disconnected the Land-line many months before, since they both had cell phones, and their cells went dead a few days back. They couldn’t call anyone for help, didn’t know if anyone could help. After debating for hours as to whether they should take Timmy’s body to the hospital or bury him themselves, they decided on that latter. Timmy was their son, their responsibility.       
For days, they waited for the police or the National Guard to show up, to offer some kind of assistance, but nobody ever came. Richard pulled out his portable radio every night and searched the stations for anything…but there was only white noise. If the end of the world had come, it had happened in the blink of an eye, rather than a slow, drawn out struggle.
Martha stayed inside the house as Richard dug a plot in the backyard for their son. There was no ceremony, no last words from the boy’s parents. When Richard believed that the hole was deep enough, he retrieved his Timmy’s body from the house, placed it in the plot, and then began to shovel the dirt back in, beginning at the boy’s feet and working his way up to the boy’s sheet covered head. Once the hole was fully filled, he returned the shovel to the shed, grabbed Timmy’s new bike by the handlebars, and wheeled it back into the house, placing right back in the same spot by the tree where his son fist saw it.
“At least he got to ride it,” Martha said. She’d come into the living room after Richard sat down and took a seat next to him on the couch. The tree wasn’t lit, but she thought that it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, especially with the bicycle propped in front of it.
“We at least gave him that,” Richard said and then began to unleash a torrent of sobs. He grabbed his wife and buried his head into her breast, letting out sorrowful moans of pain and anguish. Martha held her pain inside. She’d had a good cry when Richard was burying their son and now it was his turn. She had to be strong for him, at least for a while.
A sound from the front porch interrupted their misery. Richard jumped up from the couch and ran to the front door. The windows were boarded up, so he locked the chain in place at the top of the door and opened it, just enough to look out. Martha had swept the porch that morning and forgot to put the broom away. Richard saw it, lying down on the porch, a zombie-thing lying beside it. The zombie-thing had tripped over the broom and they both went down.
“What is it,” Martha asked. She stood up and walked toward her husband; “is it him…”
Richard held out his palm to his wife, signaling for her to stop.
“Get my gun.”
He didn’t have to explain to Martha what he wanted the gun for, she knew. It was one of them; one of those…things. She turned to rush up the stairs, but he husband’s voice stopped her again.
“Holy shit…”

***

The smell of living blood could be sense from a mile away. The flock turned from the main road, and began to shuffle down the long, dirt driveway. As they turned a wide corner, they saw the large, white house, and something else, a flash of movement as the front door closed. There was living in the house, they knew it, sensed it, hungered for it. There was no leader of the pack; it shared a collective mind, a set of primal instincts that guided their movements. Conscience thought was something of the past; it didn’t apply to them.
The mob exited the driveway and quickly filled in the large clearing, surrounding the house. They didn’t understand human technology anymore, didn’t remember how to use a door knob, but retained the knowledge of what a door was. They crowded around the front and back doors and began to scratch and bang their hands against them. A few gathered at the boarded up windows, smashed through the glass on the outside, but only managed to cut their hands and arms to ribbons. If another scent of life caught their attention, the mob would forget about the house and move on, hoping for easier prey, but until then, they would continue to try and breach the house.
Inside the house, Richard and Martha scrambled to keep their safe haven intact. Martha ran to the top of the stairs and pulled out the hammer and nails, ready to seal off the top of the house. Richard periodically checked the front and back doors, making sure that they weren’t being breached. He could hear them banging and scratching, but the doors held in place. Richard relaxed a little when he realized that the creatures didn’t have the strength to break down the doors. He thought of joining Martha upstairs, but decided against it; that was one time when making a wrong decision would be the difference between life and death.
In the distance, a woman’s scream could barely be heard over the sound of the zombie-things’ trying to enter the house. Richard’s first thought was of Martha, but that thought quickly fled from him. Martha was upstairs. The screams came from somewhere else; somewhere not too far, but not very close either. The banging and scratching sounds stopped.
On the porch, the mob heard the sound of a woman screaming and froze in place. They knew which direction the scream came from and turned to face that way. As a single unit, they began to walk off of the porch, lured by the promise of an easy meal.

***

There was a bright flash of light, and then a plunge into darkness again. The flash came again and displayed a vivid picture; a downward view of a pair of shiny, new handlebars. The third flash was a memory of Richard Newland’s face smiling down, saying something that Timmy couldn’t hear. There was another brief plunge into darkness and then another memory; a brand new bike, sitting in front of a decorated tree. Timmy wanted that bike; he hungered for it. The image snapped away and he was left in darkness again, but that time, the darkness was different, it was a physical blackness, full of pressure and moisture. Timmy felt like he was being smothered; completely surrounded on all sides by cold, wet darkness. He had to escape.
He began to wiggle around, slowly at first and then with more conviction. After fighting for a moment, he managed to free one of his hands from the sheet that was wrapped around him. He pushed his hand up through the blackness and felt the soil give way around it. When his hand punched through the top layer of dirt, Timmy knew that he had found freedom; he freed his other hand and pushed it up to meet the light with the other one.
The mob was shuffling across the clearing toward a pathway that cut through a cluster of trees. The first few members stepped onto the path, but were told to turn back. There was no voice calling out to them, no grunts or banging; just a thought. They turned and headed back into the clearing, following the rest of the mob who had begun to surround a small patch of dirt in the backyard of the house.
When both of Timmy’s hands were free from the earth, he used them to pull his body out of the grave. It was a slow process; each thrust of his arms earning him a mere inch or two. When he finally freed his torso, the process was much quicker. He leaned back and pushed his legs free, sliding along the dirt floor of the backyard on his rear.
He didn’t seem to notice the cluster of zombies that surrounded him after he freed himself from his earthen prison. The only thought that Timmy had was of a bicycle, beautiful and shiny, sitting beneath a tree. He knew where the tree was, he hungered for his bicycle… he began to walk toward the house.
The cluster of zombies followed Timmy up to the back porch. He wasn’t their new leader; zombies didn’t have leaders; they just knew that there was something inside the house that the boy wanted very badly, so they wanted it badly. Adding the boys limited memories to their collective consciousness, they began to receive images of his father, his mother, and the bicycle that he desired more than anything in the world. The zombies kept their distance as Timmy re-doubled their efforts – banging and scratching on the back door. An imaged flashed through Timmy’s mind – not of his parents or a bike that time, but of a rock, a very special rock. One of the larger zombies broke from the cluster and stepped up onto the porch. Next to the back door, there was a large, polished rock. The zombie flipped the rock over, uncovering a brass key. He leaned over and picked up the key and handed it to the newest member of their group. Timmy took the key, issued a low grunt to the other zombie and unlocked the door.
 
***
 
Richard didn’t have time to run when the door opened. He’d been about to start a fire in the fireplace one second and was surrounded by zombies the next. Martha heard his scream and ran half way down the stairs. It didn’t take long for her to figure out that Richard was gone. Having no time to mourn, self-preservation kicked in and she fled back upstairs. When she reached the top of the stairs, she grabbed the extra plywood and fumbled to get it into position so that she could nail it to the wall; she never got to drive in the first nail. The zombies reached the top of the stairs and pushed against the plywood, knocking Martha backwards. She slammed against the hallway wall and fought to keep the large piece of plywood between her and the zombies. The zombies couldn’t break through the wood, but they didn’t have to. Martha screamed in pain as a set of teeth dug into her hand. She dropped the wood and was immediately tackled by the hoard. They bit into her, tearing away at her flesh. Hands dug into her torso, beginning to rip her apart, releasing her entrails. Martha managed to dig her husband’s pistol out from her jacket pocket, put the barrel to her temple, and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot shook the very foundation of the house. The zombies kept pouring in; promised a meal in both, the downstairs and upstairs areas. Timmy didn’t partake in the feast of his parents; he had designs of another prize. When he opened the back door, the rest of the mob knocked him to the side and rushed through the house. He struggled to get through, but his small size made it impossible for him to push the others out of his way. Once the zombies were busy with their meal, Timmy found that it was much easier to navigate his way into the living room. He squeezed his way between a couple of zombies who were lumbering in the kitchen doorway and saw his bike, still leaning on its kick-stand in front of the tree. It called to him; he went to it.

***
James and Audrey Borba had been living in their SUV since the apocalypse began. They would travel from city to city, looking for food and gas, but the majority of the towns was deserted and void of resources. The Borba’s’ didn’t lack for food or comfort, but they were always on the lookout for more. The last small town they had gone through, they’d hit the jackpot. The residents were evacuated before the citizens had a chance to clear the grocery shelves, empty the gas stations, or loot the whole town, picking clean anything of value. They were able to stock up on groceries, fill up their gas tank, and even fill a few gas cans for a refill down the line.
The last living people they’d run into told them about a place on the coast where all of the living were migrating. The word was that they had power, food and enough supplies to last a couple generations. James was allured by the prospect of survival, while Audrey was excited because she heard that the President of the former United States was there. In any case, the decision to travel to the coast was unanimous.
As the Honda Pilot cruised along the back roads that led to the interstate, it began to slow down.
“That’s the biggest herd I’ve seen so far,” James said.
He slowed the SUV to a stop and looked out at the horizon through the windshield. The view of the road in the distance was blocked by an enormous group of zombies.
“Are you going to drive through them?” Audrey asked. She grabbed a hold of James’s arm. He could feel her shaking.
“Naw,” he said, “They’re mostly in the middle of the road. I’ll hit the shoulder and try to go around them.”
He hit the gas and closed the distance to the mob. Before the SUV reached the zombies, James pulled to the side and drove around the group. There were a couple of stragglers on the shoulder and they bounced off the front of the SUV, leaving little damage. In seconds, the SUV bounced back onto the road, just on the other side of the zombies and sped off, down the road.
“You see that?” Audrey asked. She was looking through the rearview mirror. “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen!”
James slowed down the SUV and looked into the rearview mirror. In the center of the road, following behind the massive group of zombies, was what looked like a small boy, riding a bicycle.
 
THE ENDCopyright 2012, R.M. Duchene