A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  “Okay, kiddies, unfold your papers and tell me who has number one.” He rubbed his hands and shuffled around the table. “Who is it? Who is it? Oh, who is it, already, or do I have to get zap-happy?”

  “I do,” Delanna whispered.

  “Ooooh, hurray!” Flea said with delight. He capered over to her and plucked the paper from her fingers. “Okay…pick a gift!”

  Delanna stared at the colorful packages, saying nothing.

  “Come on!” Flea cajoled.

  Silence.

  “PICK A FUCKING GIFT!” Flea erupted. It started as a shriek and ended as a throaty growl. Everyone around the table started and Buttercup recommenced her soggy sniveling. Kat heard insanity in his words, but they resonated in the back of her mind, as if they had awakened something familiar, yet out of reach.

  “The blue one,” Delanna said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Snowflakes or Frozen?” asked Flea.

  “Snowflakes.”

  Flea grabbed the chosen package and tossed it to Delanna, who mechanically caught it, her chains rattling with the quick movement.

  Half-crouched, rapt, and looking ready to bolt, Flea watched her. “Open it,” he said with childish impatience.

  Delanna cautiously pulled at a silver ribbon as if afraid it would explode. Within the wrapper was a small box. She opened it and removed some tissue and a small prescription bottle.

  “Whatcha get, whatcha get?” Flea asked excitedly.

  “Pills?” Delanna said cautiously, sounding more like a question.

  “Yes! Well, capsules actually, but not just any capsules…those are special Jesus capsules. They’ll take all your pains and worries away,” said Flea. “And there are six of them, in case you’re in the giving spirit. Sharing is caring! What a wonderful gift! I’ll even open them for you.”

  He did so, setting the bottle and cap on the table before her.

  “I really have to piss,” Gwen said again.

  “Me, too,” added Miguel.

  “Be my guest,” Flea offered amiably, dismissing them. “Okay, who’s next?” After a short silence, he patted his left pocket. “Number two-ooo. Zap!”

  “Yup,” said Shep. He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the center of the table.

  “I’m so looking forward to you!” Flea gushed, enthusiastically clapping his hands.

  “I’m sure you are,” Shep muttered.

  “Alright, Cowboy, make a choice.”

  Shep sneered at their twisted host and said, “The flat one.”

  “Ooooh!” Flea brought the chosen gift to Shep and set it down.

  Shep slowly opened the package and from inside the slender box withdrew an old hacksaw with a black Bakelite handle and a rusted blue blade.

  “Oh, what have we here?” Flea said. “It looks a little worn. I doubt it would cut metal, but in a pinch, it could still work for you.”

  Flea grabbed the saw from Shep and dragged it across the man’s exposed arm, leaving an angry red gash. Shep recoiled and hollered in pain. He pressed his wounded arm against his abdomen, leaving a bloody streak on the denim. His jaw tightened and his face darkened as he defiantly tried to compose himself. Buttercup, in contrast, launched into another bout of squealing cries.

  “Such a handy gift, if you catch my drift,” Flea said.

  Buttercup’s wails escalated and Flea’s head dropped while his shoulders sank. He set the hacksaw down before Shep and walked purposefully around the table to stand behind the squealing woman.

  “You are ruining our fun,” he admonished her. There followed a high-pitched report, like the snapping of a dry branch. They all jumped and Delanna yelped in surprise at the gunshot. Buttercup’s body went rigid as her right eye blossomed red, then she slumped to her side, silent and still. Eyes wide, mouth agape, Kat watched Flea switch the small pistol to his right hand and pocket it. Despite her shock, she had the absurd realization he was left-handed.

  “Why the fuck you do that, man?” Miguel demanded, disbelieving.

  “She was such a party pooper,” Flea said with embellished pathos. Recovering quickly, he clapped his hands. “Look on the bright side! We have an extra gift!”

  Kat couldn’t take her eyes off Buttercup. They had turned a corner. Reality shifted. She knew the potential of death was present, but she had wrapped herself safely within denial until then. A series of panicked thoughts scrolled through her mind and the awareness that they had never found out Buttercup’s actual name.

  “So, Cowboy, are you keeping your gift, or do you want to trade with Delanna for her capsules?” Flea asked.

  Shep stared coldly at him. “I’m good,” he said. His arm was still pressed against his shirt, but judging by the stains, he wasn’t bleeding much.

  “Now we’re back on track! Who’s number three-eee?”

  “Yo,” said Gwen, holding the paper loosely between thumb and forefinger, trying to appear unfazed. The fast rise and fall of her chest betrayed her terror.

  “Yo-ho-ho, Gweno!” sang Flea. “Pick a gift, Sweetie-pie.”

  Something in the way he said her name troubled Kat.

  Yo-ho-ho, Gweno!

  Gwen’s eyes shifted to the goblin face and Kat thought she saw recognition in the woman’s eyes. “Frozen,” Gwen said, suspiciously watching the demon mask, searching.

  “Adorable!” Flea clapped again, a frenzy of hand pats.

  Gwen…Gweno, Kat thought.

  Flea delivered the box to Gwen, his hip brushing Kat’s arm. She recoiled impulsively, as if his corruption could leach through her clothing and flesh and contaminate her. Flea’s head jerked toward her and Kat hoped he felt threatened, if only for two seconds. She sensed—or more so, smelled—a faint whiff of cologne. It was one she recognized…one she both loved and hated. It was so manly and stimulating on Vernon, so cloying on Randy, but downright nauseating on this piece of shit.

  “Lacoste,” Kat said.

  “What?” Flea asked.

  “Lacoste,” Kat repeated. “Your cologne. You’re wearing Lacoste Essential.”

  He froze for a moment and Kat knew she had shaken him and wished she could see his face behind the mask.

  “Open your gift,” he said to Gwen, a little less vibrant. She accepted the package, her frightened eyes never leaving the mask. He seemed to notice the scrutiny.

  “Yes?” he asked her with a tilt of his head, his voice chipper, yet wary. Gwen didn’t answer. “Open your gift,” he repeated, his voice deeper under the gravity of threat.

  Gweno. Gwen the Ho, Kat thought. Gweno…tattoo artist…Lacoste Essential…left-handed.

  Gwen opened the package and removed a small Igloo cooler, inside of which was a single box cutter that, like the hacksaw, had a rusty blade.

  Flea, returning to form, gasped with glee. “Isn’t the cooler delightful, sticking with the Frozen theme that way? And a box cutter! It would work great on those pasty white wrists of yours. Now all three of you have an easy way out…if you so choose!” He compellingly put his hands to his chest. “See, I’m not a bad guy. You can’t deny there’s an element of generosity here.”

  “Oh my God!” Kat said with a sob. “You’re supposed to be in Singapore!”

  Shep looked confused and Delanna studied Kat like a scientist awaiting a chemical reaction. Kat’s reality swooped and spun. The room seemed cavernous and then tiny, fading and sharpening, echoing and then stuffy, and Kat sensed she was on the verge of passing out.

  “Excuse me?” asked Flea.

  “You called her Gweno,” Kat said. “Gweno the Ho. Gwench the Wench…the unfaithful ex. I know it’s you, Vernon!”

  “Vernon?” Gwen said in disbelief. A parade of emotions crossed her face starting with shock, then confusion, anger, disgust, and settling on fear.

  Flea’s shoulders fell and he pulled off the mask revealing his handsome face. Delanna’s eyes widened but she remained silent. Somehow, she knew him, too.

  “You miserable prick,” Shep said.
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  “You always have to fuck things up, don’t you?” Vernon said to Kat, his eyes cold and feral.

  Gone were the elfin voice and ostentatious gestures, nor was there any sign of the tender man who had asked for her hand six months earlier; the man she had kissed in E terminal of Logan airport four days ago. Kat felt as if she were detached from her body, trying to make sense of the unexplainable.

  “Vernon. Oh, Jesus Christ, how could you?” Kat asked, her words choked with emotion and snagging on her confusion.

  “I didn’t get on the plane. I didn’t go to Singapore, you idiot…I’ve never been there,” Vernon said.

  How could that be? He left for a week every two months, had been doing it since she first met him more than a year ago.

  “You fucking killed someone!” Gwen said, not comprehending. “You need help.”

  “She was a piece of shit. My asshole landlord. She deserved it.” He gave a dismissive oh well shrug. “I planned to let one of you live. Not you,” he said to Kat. “But since you let this cat out of the bag,” he said, jacking both thumbs toward his chest, “no one’s going home.”

  Disbelieving and fearful glances passed around the table, most pausing on Buttercup’s still form. With surprising reserve, Shep asked Delanna, “So, what did you do to cross him, sweetheart?”

  Delanna’s lip curled as she spoke. “We worked at Hastings. He kept asking for a blowjob. He tried to drag me outside one night. I started screaming and he got fired.”

  “Hastings?” asked Kat. As far as she knew, Vernon had never worked there, but it seemed there was quite a bit she didn’t know.

  “In Waltham. We make heat sinks,” said Delanna.

  “Made heat sinks in your case, you frigid bitch,” Vernon said with a mocking laugh. “Should have just done it, you wouldn’t be here. You’re still going to give me one…maybe more.”

  “So this is a grudge-fest?” asked Shep. “Punish those who hurt your little pussy feelings?” His reckless defiance concerned Kat.

  “Exactly. They might be little pussy feelings, but who has the upper hand now?” asked Vernon. “Not a thing even a piece of shit Texas lawyer like you can do.”

  “What the fuck did I do, man?” asked Miguel.

  “Sorry, guy, wrong place at the right time. I needed six players and you were convenient. Sucks to be you.”

  Players? Kat wondered. This is all a game to him. Who was this stranger? He was insane…evil. How had she planned a life with him? How had she slept with him, been intimate, and gotten pregnant by him and not seen this?

  “I’m pregnant…with your baby!” Kat said.

  He glanced at her abdomen and released a single, quick snort. “Number four,” the man who looked like Vernon demanded.

  “Are you fucking serious?” asked Gwen.

  “Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” mocked Vernon. “Number four. NOW!”

  “I want to trade,” Gwen said quickly, her scared eyes wide. “You said we could trade.”

  Vernon stared at her acidly. “Fine. With whom? How about Delanna’s capsules? I’d love to watch you take one.”

  “Fuck your capsules,” said Delanna. She flicked the bottle with the back of her hand, sending it spinning and scattering its contents across the table.

  Rage contorted Vernon’s face. He reached into his right pocket but stopped and forced composure. He smiled at his former coworker, and Kat could see it took every iota of his strength.

  Disregarding Delanna, Vernon instructed Gwen to slide the box cutter to Shep, which she did. He then told Shep to slide the hacksaw to Gwen. Staring blankly at Vernon, Shep gave the hacksaw a quick push and it sailed over the edge of the table. With barely bridled reserve, Vernon bent to retrieve it, his eyes locked on Shep’s. Kat’s eyes moved to the cutter.

  “Watch yourself,” Vernon said.

  Kat wasn’t sure if the warning was for her, Shep, or Gwen, but decided she’d rather not have any more of his attention than necessary. Vernon placed the hacksaw in front of Gwen and held her gaze. Kat saw the dare in his eyes, but they shifted warily and she thought, He’s scared, but he has to go through with this. He can’t leave any of us alive, and he knows we’re desperate.

  “Number four!” he demanded.

  Staring blankly ahead, Kat set the paper face up on the table.

  “Pick!” Vernon immediately responded, discharging the word like a bullet.

  “The white box,” said Kat.

  Leaning close to Delanna, Vernon reached for the gift and slid it in Kat’s direction. It fell over the lip of the table and dropped solidly into her lap. It was heavier than she had expected.

  “Open it,” he said impassively.

  From inside she withdrew a wooden cigar box, the name COHIBA printed in thick black letters on the lid. A small metal latch held the box closed and Kat preferred it that way.

  “Go on. Open it,” Vernon said.

  Kat considered throwing it at him but she’d never had good aim and it would only piss him off further. She slowly lifted the latch, opened the cover, and gawked at the box’s contents. She quickly placed it on the table.

  “That’s a Ruger SR9c, but of course you wouldn’t know that. It’s also ironic you picked it, since you’re too goddamned prissy to use it. For what it’s worth, it’s fully loaded, but I’m not concerned. How many times have you told me you’d never take a life, even to save your own? I guess we’ll find out now just how honorable you really are.”

  She was confident he’d never give any of them a loaded handgun unless he was suicidal. He couldn’t have known she’d be the one to pick that gift. But he’d already surprised her on a few accounts, so she couldn’t really know. The bitch of it was that he was right. No matter her own shock and horror, she wouldn’t kill. Couldn’t kill.

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “The clip holds seventeen rounds, check it out. Give it a try.”

  “Do it! What do you have to lose,” hissed Miguel. “Shoot the motherfucker, man.”

  Kat couldn’t. She didn’t have it in her, but she could trade with someone who did. Maybe if… she again glanced at the box cutter.

  “I want to swap with Shep,” she said, and prepared to slide the box.

  “Hold it!” Vernon said. Kat stopped and Vernon grinned. “Cowboy, slide the box cutter to Kat.”

  Kat’s bleakness increased. She had planned to slide the gun over the edge of the table and divert Vernon’s attention so Shep could use the box cutter on him, but Vernon was too attuned.

  I’m so stupid! Kat thought. Now I have a blade I’m afraid to use and Shep gets a likely useless gun.

  “Slide the box to Cowboy. Gently.”

  Kat did.

  When Shep reached for the box, Vernon aimed the Ruger at him. “I’m watching your every move,” he said. Shep slowly settled back, the chains rattling against his chair.

  The gun might actually be loaded, Kat thought. Vernon’s reaction seemed authentic. Vernon rounded the table and stood behind Buttercup’s corpse, to Miguel’s left. His eyes stayed trained on Shep.

  “Two presents left, thanks to your neighbor here,” he said to Miguel. He patted Buttercup atop her head.

  Kat looked at the presents and then saw Gwen to her right. She sat with her head slightly lowered, breathing rapidly as if she had sprinted up a series of stairways. Kat wondered if it was a form of meditation to alleviate the discomfort from having to piss, but Gwen looked up, displaying the terror in her eyes.

  “Oh God!” Gwen gasped and then snorted, desperate for breath. She tried to rise but the chains caught. She dropped back into the seat and started convulsing.

  Is she epileptic? Kat wondered. A milky froth coated Gwen’s lips and Kat understood what she had done. “No! Help her! She took the pills!”

  All heads turned toward the struggling woman and pleading voices rose. Kat’s attempt to rise also succumbed to the limits of the restraints.

  Vernon walked slowly toward Gwen, watching her
with profound interest. He squatted near her and studied her horrified eyes as she searched the room, her now shallow breaths creaking in and out of her.

  “Not as quick and painless as you were hoping, is it?”

  “Help her!” Kat said.

  “Come on!” said Miguel.

  Silent, Delanna watched Gwen, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Nothing I could do if I wanted to,” Vernon said, his eyes still searching Gwen’s as if looking for some cryptic truth. Finally, gratefully, she fell unconscious.

  To Kat’s right, Shep snagged the box from the table. Vernon sprawled to the floor and scrabbled behind Gwen as Shep wrestled the gun free of the box and clicked off the safety.

  “Stupid move, Cowboy!” Vernon said.

  Shep aimed for Vernon’s voice and the reemerging arc of his head as it maneuvered to either of Gwen’s shoulders, popping up for a fraction of a second, and then disappearing.

  “He’s got his gun out, bro!” warned Miguel. The words no sooner left his mouth than a shot snapped, and a red star blossomed on Miguel’s left cheek. He jolted upright in his chair, as if posing for a portrait, and then slowly slumped forward.

  “You fuck!” screamed Shep, steadying the Ruger with both hands.

  Vernon feinted to the right and then lunged left, putting Kat between them. Shep tried to draw a bead on him, but Vernon repeatedly bobbed from left to right over Kat’s shoulders.

  “Shoot him!” Kat, feeling certain she’d be the next to die, surprised herself by slapping hard at Vernon’s gun hand. The little gun cracked a shot off before careening across the room and settling beneath the Christmas tree.

  Taken off guard, his expression unreadable, Vernon stood with his hands slightly raised. Shep held the Ruger steady, aimed at Vernon’s head, and pulled the trigger, but no shot rang out. Instead, Shep yelped in pain, threw the pistol to the ground, and brought his hand to his mouth.

  A smile spread across Vernon’s demented face. He walked toward Shep and stooped to pick up the gun. Holding it with the handgrip toward the ceiling, he pressed the trigger and a silver needle protruded from the handle directly behind the trigger.