Zombies, Vampires, Aliens, and Oddities: A Collection of Short Stories and Flash Fiction

by Robertson, Michael

  Pulling out the next protractor, I try again with the same result. The Japanese man just smiles. What's he trying to tell me? That I should learn from my mistakes? That my efforts are futile?

  Adam continues to talk to thin air. What is this insanity? Will I wake up at some point? When will I see my mom?

  ***

  Maybe twenty minutes pass with me staring at the bag. The protractor must serve some purpose. It's not just here to try and pry the bolts away from the steel floor. But why a protractor? What can I measure?

  As I hold it out in front of me, I look at the chain fence beyond. Of course. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Shuffling forwards, I measure the hypotenuse of one of the squares that makes up the latticework of the fence. Four centimeters exactly.

  The next one is the same. As is the next one. There must be an anomaly—a slight defect that will reveal the weak point to me and maybe the way out.

  Gripping onto the thick chains, I tug myself along. Fire runs down my side as I drag myself over the sharp floor, my loose-fitting boxer shorts slipping down with every drag.

  The next one is exactly four centimeters.

  I move to the next one.

  Four centimeters.

  Then the next.

  Four centimeters.

  ***

  By the time I circumnavigate my prison, my knuckles are so cold my hands have locked as gnarled claws. The muscles in my arms shake, and sweat runs down my face. My right hip has turned slick with blood although I feel no pain. It would seem there's a plus side to being paralyzed from the waist down.

  All I've discovered is that every square has a hypotenuse of four centimeters. Every square I can reach at least. I thought a discrepancy in the pattern would lead to answers. Maybe it will. I just haven't found one yet.

  The Japanese man continues to stare. I stick my finger up at him, and he blinks. That's his only reaction.

  ***

  Dragging myself along the cold floor, I head for the middle of the cage.

  "Argh, fuck!" A sharp sting tears through my right pec. Grabbing it does nothing to ease the pain. When I pull my hand away, my palm's covered in blood.

  Oh, my god. The floor has sliced through the center of my nipple. It's as good as split it in two.

  Lactating thick blood, it runs down onto my stomach like honey. Another pain added to the thousand cuts ripped into my torso.

  When I get to the middle, I remove the Band-Aid from the bag and try to liberate it from its plastic backing. My frozen hand can't grip it. Biting one end, I pull, the backing coming free. Spitting out the white, waxy paper, I watch it fly away before attaching the bandage to my wound.

  Grabbing the new Band-Aid in the bag, I stick it next to the first one.

  ***

  When I'm done, my entire upper body is covered in Band-Aids. They press against my cuts, aggravating the pain. Hopefully, they'll protect me against the harsh floor the next time I move.

  ***

  Wearing a suit of Band-Aids, my damaged skin buzzing from the pressure of each and every one, I stare down at the bag of items in my hand. The clouds in my mind part, and the bright light of my own lucidity shines through. Why didn't I see it earlier? I have six items. Of course I have six items. The bag is number six. The bag is the most important of all. It's the thing that contains them all. The space in which they exist.

  Clamping the bag between my teeth, I claw my way across the floor, dragging my heavy legs behind me as a knot of anxiety ties in my guts. I get to the side of the cage that's downwind. It's on the opposite side to Adam.

  While watching the bag to prevent anything from regenerating, I remove the bottle of cola and squeeze it through a gap in the fence. When it falls to the floor on the other side, the wind takes it, the container skimming across the steel floor and then disappearing over the edge. With it goes my thirst.

  Then the chocolate. I flick it up high so the wind carries it, and it too disappears, taking the writhing hunger in my guts with it.

  After discarding the Band-Aid from the bag, the epidermal sting vanishes. Removing the ones on my body, raking at them so they come free like flakes of skin, they fill the air like ticker tape at a carnival. Soon, I'm down to just my boxer shorts again. There isn't a cut left on my body.

  The gold goes the same way, as does the protractor. With each item discarded, my chest lifts as if a great burden is being removed.

  Holding the empty bag outside of the cage, I watch it flap in the wind, desperate to follow the other items. Should I let it go? What am I sacrificing in doing so? The bag gives me security. It gives me certainty in an uncertain world.

  The six items seemed like they should have been of use but in reality end up utterly ineffective. To keep them will be to die slowly and in pain, unfulfilled and undernourished by a bag of poison and useless trinkets.

  My only reason to hold onto the bag would be because it's familiar. Although clearly killing me, there's something comforting about certainty no matter how bleak the prognosis.

  My prison isn't made up of the chains surrounding me. It's my desire for the items in the bag. If I don't take this leap of faith, I'm going to be here forever.

  Letting it go, I watch it for the few seconds it remains in view before it too is swallowed by the dark fog.

  The sound of scraping metal whooshes next to me. One side of the chain fence has opened up. Power suddenly surges through my legs, and I get to my feet, standing strong in the heavy wind as if their function never abandoned me.

  Stepping outside of my prison, Adam just meters in front of me, I stop and look back. Inside the cage is my broken and battered body. It's skinnier than I've ever seen it. The skin's stretched loosely over the skeleton. Malnourished like a prisoner of war, my once short hair is long and unkempt. My stubble has turned into a beard. I look like a tramp.

  I can't look at it any longer. Turning to Adam, I see he's still speaking calmly into thin air, but now, he has his hands clasped in prayer. I want to help him. I want him to know I'm here.

  Looking over my shoulder again at my inanimate body, I step towards my brother.

  Whoosh!

  The steel curtain has been drawn. The gap where it separated is impossible to see. Like the discarded materials, I've given my body over to the fog.

  Adam screams, and I run to him. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

  But he doesn't hear me. Of course he doesn't. Putting an arm around his shoulders, he shifts a little at my touch, but that's all. "Adam?"

  Nothing.

  Following his line of sight, my stomach clamps, and a chill jolts my body. Over the side of the bridge, suspended in midair, floating in the fog as a projection, I see a bed on a hospital ward. There are machines everywhere, and the poor soul in the bloodstained sheets has a shaven head, a battered face, and probes protruding from their skull. My mom's down there too.

  The buzz of a flat-lining heart monitor sounds above everything else. Nurses rush around, and one snaps the curtains shut. But the projection is so far below me I can see over them.

  I turn to Adam, but he's gone. He's down by the hospital bed, suspended in the fog next to Mom. A nurse pushes him in the chest, but he bats her hand away. He isn't going anywhere. My mom pulls him back, but he remains where he is.

  By the time a doctor, dressed in green scrubs, arrives at the scene, it's clearly too late. The poor soul has gone. As the nurses and doctor step away, I see the broken body more clearly. Everything makes a lot more sense now.

  I call down to my family. "Adam, Mom, it's okay. I'm here. I feel well now." They don't hear me.

  My broken body is still in the cage, lying in exactly the same position as in the bed. It was the right choice to leave it behind. I hate seeing my family like this, but I couldn't stay. There was nothing left of me. I was broken beyond repair. I just had to make the choice to leave.

  The image over the side of the bridge vanishes. The damp weight of sadness in my chest lifts. I had to make this choi
ce.

  ***

  Blinking several times breaks me from my daze. How long have I been staring at the space previously occupied by my hospital bed?

  There's only one thing left for me to do.

  As I walk down the side of the bridge towards the man by the chest, I can hear the wind, but I can't feel it anymore.

  Stopping in front of the Japanese man, I look at him, and he looks back. His smile hasn't changed, but it seems less goading now that I understand him. He knew of the choice I needed to make, but he also knew it was my choice alone. In his own, silent way, he guided me on my path.

  Returning his broad and warm gesture, I walk over and sit down cross-legged in front of him. We stare at one another. Neither speaks. Unlike Adam, he's fully aware of my presence. He always was. He always is.

  Reaching out for the chest, I put my hand on the lid and look at him. The unvarnished wood is soft to touch. Although he's watching me, his expression remains unchanged. My actions are still my choice.

  Lifting it, the hinges creaking, I squint as a bright glow stings my eyes. It's like trying to stare into the sun, but I can't look away. The glow reaches out and spreads through my body, warming my muscles like a hot bath. Its massaging fingers reach all the way to my bones. Heavy tears roll down my face.

  Then the glow disappears, and I'm staring at the wooden bottom of the chest. I look at the Japanese man. He's also crying. I nod at him.

  He nods back.

  I get to my feet.

  The fog is as thick now as it ever was. However, I'm no longer scared of the uncertainty of it.

  Before stepping off the bridge, I look at the Japanese man one last time.

  He looks back.

  When I walk into the fog, it closes around me like the arms of a loving parent.

  I feel warm.

  I feel calm.

  I feel peace.

  Ends.

  Jake Strothers Went Crazy

  “They all say that Jake Strothers went crazy but you and I both know that wasn’t the case, don’t we?”

  He clears his throat, looks down at the grave, and says in a gruff voice, “I just came here to pay my respects, son.” The sound of defeat rides his words. “I don’t want to argue.”

  The personification of heterosexual masculinity, he stands with his head bowed, refusing to look up. Stocky and rough like he’s made from gristle, he clasps his large hands in front of him.

  “That’s all well and good, David, but he could have done with your respect when he was alive,” I say.

  When David doesn’t reply, I bend down to arrange the flowers that he’s brought. I stare at the black marble and gold writing. It sparkles like jewels; even today when thick gray clouds prevent the sun from beaming down on it.

  If it wasn’t for the strong, bitter wind and occasional tweeting bird, the graveyard would be silent. I look up at him. “I didn’t even know what you looked like until the funeral.”

  Hurt shimmers through his bloodshot eyes. When was the last time he had a good night’s sleep?

  “I wasn’t allowed to meet you. Jake didn’t want to antagonise you.”

  He scratches his closely cropped white hair and draws a deep stuttered breath.

  “In my mind, you were just a silhouette. A monster that crushed his son from the day he was born because he didn’t fit into the mould that you kept trying to put around him.” A wave of grief rushes through me, blurring my vision.

  David swallows and says, “He was confused.”

  I stand up and step into his space, less than an inch separating us. His breath reeks of whisky. It’s nine thirty in the morning.

  Instead of stepping back, he clenches his jaw and lifts his chin.

  “I’m not scared of you like Jake was.” A quiver rides my words. It’s impossible to hide the rage. He’s lucky I don’t knock him out. If it wasn’t for Jake, I would have done it years ago.

  Bitterness twists his features and he looks like he wants to spit at me.

  When I jab my finger into his thick chest, he rocks back on his heels. His hands ball into fists. Is he going to hit me? “You crushed him from the second he was born. You were always trying to change him.”

  “And your parents encouraged…” he waved his hand at me. “This?” A sneer sits on his face like a grease stain as he looks me up and down. “No wonder you turned out the way you did.”

  “Happy you mean?” The cold wind bites into me but I suppress the shiver. I don’t want him to think I’m scared. “Your boy was gay.” The word shoots across the empty graveyard and David checks around us.

  “Even now?” I say. “He’s dead and you’re bothered about what other people think?” I raise my voice, my words echoing through the open space like a gunshot. “He was a wonderful lover and man.”

  The thick black eyebrow that runs across his forehead pushes down in a deep scowl. It’s like the word gay causes him physical pain.

  What am I doing? Why am I even bothering arguing with him? Jake wouldn’t want this. My voice breaks when I say, “Twenty-eight was too young for him to die. He cared about you so much. He just wanted to make you happy.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “He went to the game every week and hated it.”

  An even deeper frown sends crow’s feet stretching across his weather worn temples like the roots on an old tree.

  “But he went so he could be with you. So he could show you how much he loved you. He was always accommodating you; always making sure you were okay.” The lump in my throat wobbles my voice and it breaks again. “But it wasn’t enough was it?” Tears sting my eyes. “All you wanted was for him to bring a girl home.” The wind tosses my hair into my face but I don’t brush it away. “All he wanted was your approval.”

  “He wouldn’t have got it,” he said.

  Is Jake watching now? If he is, he probably hates me for doing this but someone needs to say it. “You’re the reason he killed himself.” Tears run down my cheeks as the image of his ruffled neck and protruding tongue fill my mind. “Do you know what it’s like to come home and find the person you love swinging from the loft hatch?”

  A glaze sits over his eyes like he’s retreated back into his own mind.

  “Have you ever seen anyone hanging, David?”

  He grinds his jaw.

  “Even in death he looked ashamed of what he was. It was the ultimate escape, but it didn’t work. It looked like your judgment still weighed heavy on him.”

  He continues to stare at me, his eyes watering.

  Then I see it. It’s just a glimmer. I gasp and cover my mouth. Why didn’t I guess before? It’s so fucking obvious. I point at him and say, “You’re…”

  But I don’t finish. It’s not my place.

  The frown lifts and David’s eyes widen. He knows I know. Before I can say anything else, he spins on his heel and walks away, muttering something like, “Leave me and my family alone.”

  Forgiving him will be hard, but I understand now. He’s a different man from a different generation; a generation that didn’t allow him to be who he is. When I look up at the gray sky, the rolling clouds part. “I hope you’re watching, Jake. I hope this has helped you understand. I hope it’s given you closure.”

  The gap closes over again and I whisper, “I hope I’ll see you again.”

  End.

  Camps

  Ripped from his dreams, Ferdinand looked up and gasped. Sitting up in bed, he pushed himself backwards, his heart pounding.

  As the fog lifted from his mind, he looked at the masked face in front of him. Fighting to catch his breath, he forced the word from his lungs. “Raven?”

  Holding a gas mask out to him, her voice muffled by the one she wore, Raven said, “Put this on.”

  Ignoring the offer, Ferdinand looked around the room. His brothers and sisters were still sleeping. “What time is it?”

  “Three a.m.” Her dark eyes widened. “Now put the bloody mask on!”

  Was he dream
ing? It wasn’t possible to be awake at this time. “But what about the gas?” Suddenly his head spun and stars swam in his vision.

  “That’s why you need to put this on.”

  The image of his best friend blurred. “Why are you here?”

  The gas mask hit him in the chest, and Raven grabbed his shoulders. Shaking him, she leaned forwards, her red face just inches from his. “Stop asking me bloody questions and put the mask on!”

  Each blink was heavier than the last. Feeling for the mask, his vision slipping, Ferdinand managed to find it in his lap.

  “Hurry up, you idiot.”

  Lifting it, his leaden arms refusing to cooperate, Ferdinand looked up at his friend again. His world tilted, and his vision swam.

  ***

  When he woke for a second time, Ferdinand watched Raven pull the aerosol away and put it in her back pocket. Taking the mask that she’d left on the bed for him, he put it on, his warm breath filling the glass front and turning the skin on his face clammy.

  After a minute or so, he felt confident the sleeping gas wouldn’t affect him and looked at Raven. Even in a gas mask she was beautiful, the big glass front putting an oval frame around her deep brown eyes and full smile. “How did you get in?”

  Raven looked at the open window and raised her eyebrows.

  With his cheeks flushing hot, he smiled. “Ah, that would make sense. What are you doing here?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  “And it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  With a sharp shake of her head, Raven looked into his eyes. “Everyone’s awake in the morning. Now come on, get up.”