by Patrick Kill
COLLECTED KILL: VOLUME 2
Patrick Kill
First Digital Edition
September 2010
Darkside Digital
A Horror Mall Company
P.O. Box 338
North Webster, IN 46555
www.horror-mall.com/darksidedigital
Collected Kill, Voilume 2 © 2010 by Patrick Kill
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE DAY MR. LANGFORD CRACKED
Through days of destruction and violence, it is common to only see demons and death and every other societal horror which cuts into the nerves as well as the soul, but Mr. Langford dreamed away from the mess of life, always remembering God’s love and His eternity which awaited him. He looked to see pieces of heaven around him, vague little reminders of what was to come. But, even on the most blessed of all days, the symbols seemed to be fading. Mr. Langford rose from bed and yawned. He shuffled to the window and glanced at the row of white, two-story houses which lined the roadway as far as he could see. Such a beautiful world, he thought, such a lovely time to be alive!
He descended the stairs and whispered “Good morning” to his wife nestled on the couch. He looked over at his brother, drunk and naked beside her. He shook his head. It’s not love, so it doesn’t matter.
After inhaling a bagel, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door. To the side of the house, he scanned the empty space, envisioning a giant pool. As his mind drifted, he saw his children on a hot summer day splashing and diving into cool blue waters as his wife’s shapely body lay across the patio sporting that yellow two-piece. He smiled, took a deep breath and realized this could be the day he finally got that bonus. And the pool could be just weeks away.
The morning commute to work was a refreshing time for Mr. Langford. He cherished the dawn, the fresh morning air preparing him for the day ahead. But after a block of road construction, three detours and a mile long traffic jam, he pulled into the parking garage, feeling bitterly distressed. It wasn’t just the old lady who had flipped him off in rush hour traffic, but the entire mood of everyone on the highway. Horns blared, gun shots echoed following waves of shouting and cursing. It almost seemed as if there was some mad virus carried by the wind, infecting everyone on the road.
Mr. Langford tried to shake the recollection from his mind. He looked away to the blue skies and watched birds glide gracefully overhead. A sudden tranquility swept over him, his body relaxed.
Mr. Carlson greeted him at the door to his office.
“You’re late, Langford, do I have to start making you punch a time clock?”
Mr. Langford smiled. “I will amend my morning schedule to leave a half-hour early, sir.”
“Fine,” Carlson said, “Do whatever it takes because I went over your advertising campaign and it stinks.”
“Yes sir,” Mr. Langford nodded, “I’d love to revise it immediately.”
Carlson winced. “And while I’m here, I’ll save you a trip to my office by letting you know that I gave the promotion to Johnson and the company plans to downsize which means no bonus and everyone will have to take a fifteen percent pay cut.”
“But—”
“Any questions? No? Good!”
Mr. Langford sat down, stunned and disheartened. Throughout the morning hours, he stayed at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper, his creative outlet clogged.
Bernice, the secretary, poked her head into his cubicle. “Here’s your lunch, Mr. Langford. And I have some messages for you.”
“Oh, thank you, Bernice,” he said, smiling. “You look very lovely today.”
Bernice blushed while reading off his messages: “Bookman called and he hates your sales pitch, the dry cleaners called and said they ruined your new suit, your mother called and said that your father had passed away, your neighbor called and said that your wife ran off with your brother and left the kids home alone, and the fire department called and said that your kids have set fire to your house.”
“Is that all?”
Bernice flipped through her papers. “Oh,” she said suddenly, “I almost forgot about the man who called and said something about one of your stocks crashing.”
“Okay, thank you. Can you please tell Mr. Carlson that I’ll be leaving early.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Mr. Langford’s cheek. His mind spun, his eyelid twitched. Deep breath. Slow, deep breath.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Reopening them, he focused on Mr. Carlson hovering over him, his face fiery red.
“You’re fired, Langford. Pack up your things and get the hell out of my office!”
Three steps out into the parking garage, Mr. Langford noticed an older gentleman in a blue suit pacing in front of his car. Suddenly he remembered the gas line leak he had neglected to get repaired as the man flicked his cigarette on the pavement.
A trail of fire worked its way under the car. Mr. Langford watched the fiery ball expand as his car exploded. He quickly ducked as the older gentleman’s body blew past him, bouncing off a concrete support beam. Shrapnel from the blast veered off other cars, cracking windshields, denting frames and chipping paint. His car’s antenna shot out, piercing him in the ass. Mr. Langford quickly dropped his belongings, and pulled the wiry piece out. He suddenly felt a strange sense of numbness spreading from his bloody cheek to his emotions. He felt oddly cold.
The day had gone from bad to worse. His regular monotonous schedule, which rarely yielded any such deviations from the norm, had turned horribly different and he found himself fearing the unknown. He was no longer comfortably at ease with himself nor anything around him as a restless discontent threatened to surface. He fought off the coming mood, trying to forget about the day’s trials and focus onto better things.
But the odd feeling persisted as he trudged through the crowded street on his way home. He looked toward the sky to refresh himself, but could only see the mammoth stone buildings bobbing in an ocean of asphalt. The towers loomed over him, shadowing sunlight. Exhaust from cars drifted, stinging his nose. People on the sidewalk ran into him, shoving him aside.
“It is a gift to be one of the living, to be one of God’s children living in His glorious creation,” he recited. A surge of energy rejuvenated him, a smile slid across his face.
Passing the business district, he walked several blocks to a side street filled with houses with white picket fences. He looked to the sky and saw white cumulus clouds speckling blue skies.
Tomorrow will be a better day, he thought, rejoicing, Just draw from the good each day has to offer and look forward to the next.
He held his head high and walked steadily until a tiny dog hurdled a nearby fence and latched onto his crotch. Pain jolted through his midsection as the dog tugged and shook its head wildly, tearing his pants. Mr. Langford managed to pry its jaws from his manhood and toss it aside. The dog slid on the sidewalk and scampered toward him for another attack.
Without a thought, Mr. Langford punted the miniature dog back over the fence. The dog flailed helplessly through the air until it smacked the side of the house and fell limply to the ground.
“Oh my God, what have I done?”
Mr. Langford quickly walked away from the scene.
Dazed, he continued staring at the sky while asking God to forgive his actions. He prayed for God to mend the day and make it better.
Up ahead, he watched two young boys with a beebee gun, aiming at birds on a power line.
“Stop!” Mr. Langford yelled, a
pproaching the children. He finally felt that God had answered his prayer, giving him a chance at retribution. “Animals are our friends.” He looked directly above him and pointed to several birds on the line. He wanted to convince them not to harm the birds, knowing one day they would regret their ignorant actions. “Birds are God’s creation, like yourself, and should be allowed to share this wonderful planet.”
The two boys looked strangely at one another and shook their heads.
As Mr. Langford continued his speech, he felt the gentle splatter of bird droppings atop his bald spot.
The boys broke down in laughter. They quickly doubled over, holding their stomachs, as their faces turned red.
Mr. Langford felt the stream of bird crap run down his face. He felt massive pressure building in his head, his face burned. His mind went blank, his feelings numbed. A smile washed over his face, but it wasn’t a grin of happiness this time.
He grabbed the beebee gun and fired, picking off a bird on the line. He pumped the gun again and fired aimlessly.
Now wide-eyed and serious, the boys stumbled back, gasping in horror.
Feathers floated from the line as the birds scattered. Mr. Langford pumped the gun again and again, taking down birds in flight. Soon the chamber was empty as the two boys stared silently, watching a madman laughing hideously while peering down at the bodies of six bloody chickadees strewn across the lawn.
Mr. Langford handed the gun back to one of the boys and walked onward, finally reaching the smoldering remains of his house. The kids were chasing one another in the yard as a few firemen and observers trudged through the ashes.
Mr. Langford felt the hideous grin grow wider as he located the side plot of land and envisioned the pool filled with dead chickadees and his wife’s bloated body.
“Hey kids,” he yelled, watching them stop and stare. “Remember that pool I promised you?”
His son and daughter smiled, jumping up and down.
Mr. Langford’s smile peaked as he fell to his knees, digging wildly with his hands. Six hours later, he rose, turned on the hose and began filling the giant hole he had created.
Slowly, before the dirt hole was completely full, he watched a skeleton float to the surface.
His son gasped, “Spot?”
His daughter screamed.
It had been less than a year since Mr. Langford had buried the family dog there, but it was well-stripped of muscle and flesh. As he shook it, its shriveled brain rattled inside its skull.
Mr. Langford yanked the canine’s skeleton from the mud hole. He studied its structure and laughed at the simplicity in which a living thing had transformed into a decayed set of bones.
Suddenly everything seemed meaningless, the entire world a lost place for temporary travelers on route to their ultimate demise. As he looked back at his children, they seemed but mere strangers staring coldly back at him.
His neighbor poked his head from the bushes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Langford.”
“What’s so fucking good about it?” Mr. Langford shouted, “Go fuck yourself!”
The neighbor’s eyes flashed with surprise, shock, then total disgust and contempt.
Somebody suddenly touched Mr. Langford on the shoulder. He whirled around to face two men he quickly recognized as Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“Do you have a few minutes for us to come into your home and discuss spiritual issues with you and your family?” a skinny, bald-headed man said, glancing sporadically at the burnt, half-collapsed house behind him.
Mr. Langford punched him in the face, grabbed him by the collar and flung him into the pool. The other man ran away, dropping an armful of pamphlets which blew across the yard.
Mr. Langford felt a steady rumbling of laughter escape his mouth. He looked up to the sky, raised his hand and extended his middle finger. “Hey God, why don’t you get your ass down here and do this for a change, you big pussy!!!”
Mr. Langford’s fists clinched up in rage as he suddenly felt something pop in his head. The vision in his right eye went black.
Sirens wailed down the street. His children bawled. Tires screeched.
Mr. Langford looked around with his left eye, taking in the ruined house, the Jehovah’s Witness floating in the murky depths of his new pool, the dog skeleton, the now overcast sky and all the God-damn birds flying overhead.
He wanted a gun, a weapon to annihilate the entire world, just not one lousy bird or human at a time. He wanted a weapon so powerful and far ranging that it could vaporize the entire God-forsaken planet with one pull on the trigger.
But he would never get the chance. Bound to the handcuffs and shackles, an officer slipped the straitjacket over his head and tightened it. A man with a stretcher stopped next to him, loading him in an ambulance. As the vision blurred in his only remaining eye, he could barely make out the reflective sticker plastered on the side: HARGROVE MENTAL WARD.
Mr. Langford closed his eyes, feeling his body rock back and forth. Faster and faster, his only thought was of the cool waters of the pool and how he longed to dive into the muddy mess and never return.
He drifted off to the vision of blue skies and slack-necked chickadees. His face cramped with laughter, his jaw aching from the smile permanently etched onto his sagging face.
Mr. Langford had never felt more alive or alone as the van spiraled down an exit ramp, circling in descent, lower and lower, around and around, the scenery swirling under grey skies, deeper into darkness, downward toward the unknown.
THE BOY WITH THE RAZOR-SHARP TEETH
Every smile seemed dangerous with pointed teeth and bleeding gums. And with dark beady eyes and breath that could choke a mule, no one ever talked to the boy with razor sharp teeth.
His deformity was so evident that his name became “The Boy With The Razor-Sharp Teeth.” Even Ms. Adams addressed him as such ever since the morning he first arrived during show and tell.
Jimmy Wilson had just finished showing off his new wooden rubber band gun by flipping Jackie in the rear. Ms. Adams jerked the gun away from him as The Boy With the Razor-Sharp Teeth entered.
I looked in the doorway and there was the hideous smile. Susie and Jenny screamed, Ms. Adams gasped, holding her chest. Jimmy Wilson looked up, shouted “What the F—” before his jaw dropped.
The boy quickly shut his mouth, looked down into the rust-colored carpeting and swayed back and forth with some mutated innocence.
“You must be Daniel,” Ms. Adams deduced, finally collecting herself, though her face still slightly cringed. “Come sit in the circle....we’re in the middle of show-and-tell.”
The boy shuffled over next to me and crossed his legs. A sour, rotten smell drifted from his gaping mouth. The girls shifted away.
“Okay, I believe it’s Sarah’s turn. What do you have for us today?”
Sarah Weller opened the cardboard box in front of her as Jake Foster probed the holes poked through each side.
Something squealed inside until she pulled out a fat rodent.
“This is my Guinea Pig, Virgil.”
Ms. Adams smiled. “Class, let’s all welcome Virgil to his first day at school.”
Everyone sat in silence, staring at The Boy With the Razor-Sharp Teeth.
“Pass him around, Sarah!”
As the Pig moved counter clockwise it dropped a pile on Liz’s forearm, chewed a hole in Brandon’s shirt pocket, and crawled up Megan’s dress. The pig wriggled in Jake’s hands until he reluctantly handed it to The Boy With the Razor-Sharp Teeth. The Guinea Pig glared up at the boy, unmoving, like it too was terrified. The Boy With the Razor-Sharp Teeth studied it closely, like it was the first animal he had ever seen, softly stroking its head.
Then he popped the Guinea Pig in his mouth and started chewing.
Everyone rose, scurrying away. The girls screamed, the boys looked on in astonishment. Ms. Adams passed out cold.
The terrible squeals surfaced, muffled within the grinding cavity. Blood spilled from his lips, streaming
down his shirt. Bones snapped, the animal shook violently. The boy’s death grip soon took the animal’s life. Somebody vomited down my trousers.
Soon the boy belched and the room cleared.
About a week later, The Boy With the Razor-Sharp Teeth came back. Sitting in the back row, he was ignored. He became a loner, unspoken to and untouched by everyone. Soon his hideous face turned sad and lonely.
I felt sorry for the boy. Being a loner myself, I knew the emptiness he must have felt. Ms. Adams must have felt the same way I did because soon she found ways to force him to interact with the rest of the class, though he never made an effort by himself.
But, with his lack of effort, it never made a difference. In a game of dodge ball, all the boys aimed directly at him, hoping to knock out a tooth in order to claim a souvenir. Billy Ripley came close, striking the boy on the side of the face. But the ball just stuck there, deflating on a tooth which was poking through the boy’s cheek.
When he slept during nap time, kids would throw things into his mouth just to see if he would chew them up. It started out with pencils, crayons, and erasers and progressed to pencil sharpeners, gym shoes, and glue bottles.
His one moment of glory was when everyone in the cafeteria gathered around him to watch an entire tray of corndogs being devoured, sticks and all.
He proved to me a number of things that day: the boy wanted to be liked, he needed to be accepted, and that cafeteria corndogs were actually digestible.
His face started turning grey and weary, always looking downward. He always kept his mouth shut, never even smiled or yawned. It was as if his difference kept him from opening up to the others. Months had passed and he made no effort to fit in.
Show-and-tell rolled around week after week and he sat there, saying and showing us nothing about himself.
Until one day.
To the class’s surprise, he answered Ms. Adam’s request with a jagged, horrible smile, looked around and spoke for the very first time.
“I want to show everyone something.”
“Go right ahead, Daniel.”
