Group Hex Vol 1
Page 1
Group Hex Vol. 1
The Great Lakes Horror Company presents
Group Hex
Vol. 1
New and Previously Published Works
Collected by Andrew Robertson
Illustrated Edition
Published by the Great Lakes Horror Company
Andrew Robertson & Karen Dales & Bill Snider & Monica S. Kuebler & John R. Little & Shebat Legion & Sephera Giron & Lou Rera & Julianne Snow & Stephen B. Pearl & Christine J. Whitlock & Kelley Armstrong & Stephanie Bedwell-Grime & Brian F. H. Clement & Nancy Kilpatrick & Suzanne Church & Jonathan Woodrow & Douglas Smith & Crystal Bourque
GROUP HEX VOL. 1
A GREAT LAKES HORROR COMPANY BOOK
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and the author(s), except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The stories in this anthology are works of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Group Hex Vol. 1 copyright © Great Lakes Horror Company, 2016
“Living Bargains” copyright © 2013 Suzanne Church
“Miles to Go” copyright © 2001, 2012, and 2013 Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
“Assimilation Protocol” copyright © 2016 Brian F. H. Clement
“The Shaft” copyright © 2000 Nancy Kilpatrick
“For Sale” copyright © 2014 Jonathan Woodrow
“By Her Hand, She Draws You Down” copyright © 2001 Douglas Smith
“The Last Gardener” copyright © 2014 Crystal Bourque
“Rakshasi” copyright © 2011, 2012 and 2015 Kelley Armstrong
“Merchandise” copyright © 2012 Karen Dales
“One Lone Zombie” copyright © 2010 Bill Snider
“Bleeder” copyright © 2016 Monica S. Kuebler
“Following Marla” copyright © 2009 John R. Little
“The Apple” copyright © 2016 Shebat Legion
“Trick of the Light” copyright © 2016 Sephera Giron
“Miira” copyright © 2016 Andrew Robertson
“The Answer” copyright © 2016 Lou Rera
“There Is No Wind That Always Blows...” copyright © 2014 Julianne Snow
“Abandon Hope All Yea Who Enter Here” copyright © 2016 Stephen B. Pearl
“Vampire Dentist” copyright © 2016 Christine J. Whitlock
All artwork is copyright © the artists, used by permission.
Previous publication information appears in the About the Authors section
ISBN: 1539643867
ISBN-13: 9781539643869
FIRST GREAT LAKES HORROR COMPANY EDITION, OCTOBER 2016
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Words
Living Bargains by Suzanne Church
Miles To Go by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
Assimilation Protocol by Brian F. H. Clement
The Shaft by Nancy Kilpatrick
For Sale by Jonathan Woodrow
By Her Hand, She Draws You Down by Douglas Smith
Rakshasi by Kelley Armstrong
Merchandise by Karen Dales
One Lone Zombie by Bill Snider
The Last Gardener by Crystal Bourque
Bleeder by Monica S. Kuebler
Following Marla by John R. Little
The Apple by Shebat Legion
Trick Of The Light by Sèphera Girón
Miira by Andrew Robertson
The Answer by Lou Rera
There Is No Wind That Always Blows... by Julianne Snow
Abandon Hope All Yea Who Enter Here by Stephen B. Pearl
Vampire Dentist by Christine J. Whitlock
The Illustrations
Sisters And The Phantom Hand by Izzy McCoy
White Lady by T.D.Z.
The Silent Observer by Lizzdom
Ready For Anything by T.D.Z.
Vincent, ‘The Bat’ by Brett Bakker
Malintentia by Lizzdom
Thirst by Monstermatt Patterson
Demonic Heads by Minett (tmi The Monster Inside)
The Details
About The Authors
About the Artists
LIVING BARGAINS
Suzanne Church
From the moment I wake, my heart races. Sebastian comes home tomorrow.
So many bargains I have made. For hope. A chance to hold my husband in my arms one more time.
I’ve spent the last week walking to and from his parents’ house, trimming the hedges, repairing the roof, and tending to the Larynths who have seized his family’s scrap of land. Sebastian must pass his old homestead on the final leg of his return to town. I will not allow any imperfections to give him pause. He will have endured enough misery on his own journey.
For two years he has battled in the war. Doing what those of us left behind dare not even dream of attempting.
Fighting them.
During the long nights, listening to the wind rattle the windows and carry the screams to my ears, I’ve clung to thoughts of before the Larynths arrived here in Brigus. As the terms of each bargain have unfolded, I’ve fixated on our collective forces waging the conflict on so many fronts. All of those soldiers, from every country on this Earth, with all of their weapons, standing united to kill the Larynths as though that were the easiest task for men.
I remember the day that Sebastian and all of the other able bodies in Brigus boarded the two recruitment busses to Gander. How I wish I had photographed the moment—the town’s men milling around the rock-cut, Sebastian with one arm over Richard’s shoulder and the other over Harold’s, as though they were headed for Farley’s boat and another day’s work on the churning waves and not to combat. I understand why his letters are few and far between. Our masters do not approve of regular communication with the battlefronts.
Until a few days ago, before the surrender, our absent men saw the Larynths only as foes in the crosshairs. But tomorrow, they will be consumed by a different sort of misery, as their enemies become their masters. Oh Sebastian, how I bargained and begged so that you may never comprehend how cruel a master’s deals can be.
I glance out the window at the thick gray clouds overhead and am reminded of my chores. Tomorrow I will savor our time here in our bed, but for now, I must hurry to work.
After I relieve myself, I shuffle downstairs. In the living room, I learn that Cro-ja has killed the dog. As a special house warming present, in honor of my hero’s return, I traded three months’ worth of sugar rations to Murphy Codesmith for that scruffy dock-mutt, and fed my Larynth three times its usual portions yesterday in the hopes it would leave the dog be. Since our masters moved in, scrounging up a dog is almost as hard as saving our souls from eternal torment.
I should’ve insisted Murphy hold onto the dog until tomorrow. Have him bring it to the courtyard for the homecoming ceremony. More so, I should never have underestimated Cro-ja’s dexterity for cruelty.
After my morning chores, I begin my walk to Sebastian’s parents’ house. On the way, I pass the north docks, and listen to the endless harmony of waves against rock, pier, and hull. The skiffs our new masters sail don’t re
quire much in the way of dockage facilities. They’ll tie up to whatever human they can ram into the ground and turn to stone statues with one of their mooring spikes.
That’s how my mother lost her life. Bless her tormented soul. Since that day, I have not set foot near the south docks.
I don’t think I could stand to see her rigid stone-corpse with docking ropes tied around her neck, body, and legs. But I do often wonder if her purse is still wrapped over her shoulder. I can’t believe that anyone alive or dead could pry that old brown satchel from her frozen hands.
I shudder, realize I’ve stopped walking.
With quick glances all around, I switch back to my eager pace, and try to focus on my husband’s return.
Tomorrow.
Murphy Codesmith’s property looks a little worse for wear. Since I passed by yesterday, the porch has begun to sag beneath the front window and baby Larynths have sprung forth from their eggs at the base of his towering black spruce.
“Hey, Murph?” I shout.
Silence.
Louder, with hands around my mouth to focus the sound, I yell, “Murphy?”
From around back, he lumbers in his half-limp, half wobble towards the yard. Because of his prosthesis, and the cancer that took his right leg, he could not join our men in the battles waged on the mainland.
Murphy’s carrying a bucket of shavings in one hand and a flayer in the other; gore dripping down the blade as it cuts a faint line into the scraps of grass that grow between the rocks.
“What ya slowin’ me up fer, Abigail?” he asks.
I flash a smile of relief for the continued wholeness of my neighbor. A bigger grin than I’ve managed in the eight months since our masters infiltrated the island of Newfoundland. A first conquest on their way to Ottawa and Washington. “Sebastian’s home tomorrow,” I say.
“A course he’s. Whole town’s in a flipper o’er the ‘turn o’r fightin’ men.”
“A course,” I say. “Except for the fighting part.”
The silence stretches, and we both get a little anxious at our stillness. I watch as Murphy shakes the gore from the flayer. Three baby Larynths ruffle their still-drying fur as they scurry over to lap up the juices. A fourth pushes its pointed snout at the missing front of Murphy’s worn boot. I will my neighbor to pull back, perhaps shake the flayer again to distract the creature. But then the little monster nips. Murphy loses the second-last toe on his remaining foot.
His face turns red, his eyes bulge, but he dares not lose his temper at a baby. Finally, he manages to say, “Dang” through clenched teeth. “T’il hurt a ways.”
I want to curse the beast. We both know better.
“Here.” I offer the lighter I keep in my pocket, to cauterize the wound, but he waves me off.
“Get me’un,” he says. When the baby Larynths swarm around, he drops the flayer. It bounces on the rocky ground in front of them, and Murphy says, “Lick ‘er clean ya...”
Knowing I must hurry to the homestead, I say, “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Tumorra,” says Murph, and then he’s back to tending to his own master’s needs.
Outside Sebastian’s parents’ place, I shove the gate open and near-run up the front steps. From the kitchen, I can hear the high-pitched sounds I hate most.
Sure enough, Bte-ja and a smaller Larynth are spitting insults and tail spines at each other as they fight over Sebastian’s mother’s leg bone. Danniara had been quite the looker in her hey-day. I often wonder if that beauty had been what caught my eye in Sebastian’s features—the high cheekbones, the muscular calves, and most of all, the piercing eyes that glistened as a million thoughts turned in his head every minute of every day.
Danniara died only a month ago, when the pink, seven-toed Larynth won the alpha war on the homestead. The creature called itself Bte-ja, and celebrated its victory with a ritualistic dismemberment of Danniara in her own kitchen with her own flayer.
She was so fortunate. To die a quick death. To finally end her servitude.
With any luck, Sebastian won’t stop, won’t learn of Bte-ja, or his mother, or the suffering endured by any of us in town until after we’ve had our night together.
So many months, I think. Of torment and deals. Of flayers and ice-boxes, and relentless, agonizing misery.
I have preserved my eternal soul for these eight months. For my husband. For those like Mum whose lives were cut short over whispered threats or plotted escapes. Who at this very moment yet survive in a hell I cannot possibly allow myself to imagine. Where the tormented souls of those who displeased their masters are collected like spiders in jars to be studied and played with.
Sebastian comes home tomorrow.
I grab the stained plastic bucket from under the sink, carefully unhook the razor-sharp flayer from the nail at the top of the back door, and make my way out to the ice-box.
I remember my great-grandfather used to call the fridge an ice-box, because when he was young, the top half held a block of ice and the bottom half the perishables. That was back before reliable electricity made its way out to Newfoundland’s endless coastline.
Now we survivors—remnants of what was once a town full of caring, ethical human beings—each have an ice-box built somewhere on our property. Usually out back. Far enough away from the house to keep our ears from burning and our hearts from crumbling.
Since Bte-ja’s ascendance, I must make at least four bucket-trips. That’ll finish off the red-headed boy. Good thing, too, because I cannot take much more of his screaming.
The Larynths insist on freshness, so when they take over a world, they bring their preservation technology along with their mooring spikes and their sadistic rituals. Humans are now able to remain alive, fresh, even if only a third of our body remains intact. Still attached. To endure our agony in frigid submission.
“From the limbs, in!” the Larynths chanted, again and again at the first ceremonial ritual. How can anyone forget those words? So shocking, so brutal on that first day, when the invaders’ ships streamed into Brigus, smashing our boats, destroying our livelihoods, crushing the only lives we’ve known.
The mantra has stuck in my head, and returns every time, every day. After my preliminary bargain, I believed that my first slice was the most impossible, the most atrocious act I could ever perform. I could not comprehend how a blade so thin could cut through bone like teeth through strawberries. Today, as I wield the long, thin flayer, I am a fiend, but the wickedness of my actions has been dulled by repetition. Slowly, I have lost my empathy for others, replacing such kindnesses with cruelty justified by the next bargain. And the one after that.
All presented as my choice.
Such is the worst offence of the Larynths.
Forcing us to agree to torture and murder.
After so many months, I can cut off an arm or a leg, flay it, and then shred the interior flesh-and-bone sections into pieces with practiced skill. Most of our masters prefer that the removed skin be placed atop the shavings, though as a garnish or a palate cleanser has never been explained to any of us.
Either way, they always eat the skin last.
And Bte-ja will take the first and last bite, as is its right as alpha. Assuming it beats back the smaller threat in the kitchen.
I have never learned the red-headed boy’s name. At least I was not forced to capture him. Bte-ja brought along several livestock as evidence of its superiority when it challenged Danniara’s alpha. The boy sees me coming long before I enter the ice-box, as the walls are built of a transparent material, designed so that the Larynths are afforded the privilege of savoring the torment.
Today’s moan is one of relief, for we both know the boy will lose too much of his mass. I will take his organs. Then he will shut his eyes and finally move beyond the physical pain and into the realms of eternal torment. The first item our masters steal when they perform the livestock ritual is half the soul. From that moment forward, what remains of the flesh-and-mind is threefold. Nerve rece
ptors, so that the boy is perfectly capable of feeling misery and pain before he expires. Cognition, so that he might contemplate his misdeeds while he is trapped in the ice-box. And the intertwined memories of the two halves of his soul, to ensure the boy’s suffering begins on the Larynth homeworld with the requisite knowledge of all that the boy has left behind, and the piece that remains cannot flee to heaven or hell, or wherever souls escape from evil.
Perhaps, once his soul-halves are reunited, the red-head will mutter with my mother, reassuring her with snippets of my continued servitude and deal-making.
“Sebastian’s coming home tomorrow,” I tell the boy.
He forms wordless moans.
“Before the war, my husband worked on Farley’s boat with Harold and Richard. Did you know them?”
The boy does not respond.
I’m glad of it, because I feel so profoundly guilty about killing him. But I treasure my soul. I used to wear a cross—a symbol of my belief in the afterlife and the importance of preserving my eternal peace. Now the cross is forbidden, and I must remain alive for Sebastian. With the last vestiges of what was once Abigail, I have bargained and agreed to so much, all for the hope that I may see my husband and share our warm bed; make love instead of misery for one night.
I bite my lip and begin. The boy protests a little, but I cut the heart and lungs out as quickly as his master will allow. The rest is only mess and misery experienced in quiet solitude.
There is a moment when I believe I sense his half-soul being yanked away. Perhaps whole, he will endure less torment. That is the hope I cling to.
Soon enough, Bte-ja, winner of the conflict in the kitchen, is satiated, and I’m walking home.
My front door is open.
I know I latched it before I left. My own alpha, Cro-ja does not approve of drafts through the house.
Taking a deep breath, I hurry up the front steps, and shout, “I’m home, master. Your needs will soon be met.”
The dog’s corpse lies across the couch, the intestines long gone. Cro-ja sits on the floor, licking at the dog’s liver like I used to lick lollypops in my youth.
I kneel down in front of my master, and say, “I’m sorry my door did not bless you with cooperation.”