by A. P. Fuchs
Jack put the remainder of his cigarette out on the worn sole of his right shoe and crawled to the crate's entrance. His heart thumped rapidly in his chest.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak. It was moving around.
He swallowed a hard lump in his throat, like a small stone. He could almost hear it splash as it hit the rainwater in his stomach. There was a tickle in his throat and he coughed. His palm immediately shot to his lips, too late to conceal the sound.
A footstep on the cobbles.
Clak.
Jack breathed heavily through his nose. The tickle was still there and he so badly wanted to clear it. And he did. He couldn't help himself. The phlegm rising then settling in his throat suddenly seemed loud in the dead air.
Play it safe, he told himself. You'll wind up buggered, if ya don'.
He peered through a crack in the wood beside him. There wasn't enough light to see anything. All he could see was a smudge of black and a little of the brown of the wet street. Even the light from the street lamp at the end of the alleyway was dim.
"Hmph," he whispered.
For a long time there wasn't any more clacking. The only sound was the runoff water finding its way off roofs and to the puddles on the streets.
Gathering his courage, he crawled out of the crate.
A man was beside it.
The man wore a top hat; no hair, just skin so thin you could see the bone underneath. His eyes were enormous, round, bugging out of his head. The irises were as black as charcoal and surrounded by a thin ring of white. He wore a torn tuxedo, the bowtie untied and hanging unevenly around his neck. The cummerbund that looked to be once bright red was now a tarnished maroon, as if it had been covered in dirt for a hundred years and only recently recovered. Curls of smoke drifted faintly from the man's ears, as if his insides were on fire. And there, held in his right hand, hanging casually at his side, was an ax.
The two men stared at each other for a long time; Jack didn't know for how long. The moment was broken when the man's deep red lips curled up in a snarl, revealing crooked, yellow teeth.
Jack's left heel began nervously tapping at the ground. The man just stared at him. Jack's mouth was so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of it. He gathered as much spit as he could to free it. When he spoke, his voice was weak, barely heard.
"Wh-who are . . ." He took a breath. "Who are ya?"
The man didn't respond but instead came a few steps closer.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clak.
So it was him who had made the noise. Jack glanced up to the roof of the Ten Bells and wondered how this man could have jumped from that high up and not hurt himself or broken his legs. The man shuffled a few steps to Jack's left.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak.
'Is bones click when 'e moves, Jack thought. Mr. Jitterbones. It was as good a name as any.
Mr. Jitterbones continued to eye Jack, his pale thumb rubbing up and down the hilt of the ax handle. The tarnished gray steel of the ax's blade was stained a deep maroon, matching that of Mr. Jitterbones's cummerbund.
When it was apparent Mr. Jitterbones wasn't going to answer him, Jack asked again, "Who are ya?" He liked how his voice had gained some backbone. The man was in his alley. He dropped down on his roof. Trespasser.
Mr. Jitterbones raised his ax to waist height and took a step closer to him, bones clacking.
"Fine," Jack said, arms outstretched, "ya don' wanna talk? Then the 'ell wit' ya. I don' need this."
There was a long silence. "Go on. Get!" Jack shouted and pointed down the alley.
Mr. Jitterbones grimaced and brought the ax shoulder-level and grabbed hold of its handle with both hands. He took a step closer. There was a small click of his bones.
Jack's heart sped up again. He didn't want to have to fight but if that's how this was going to pan out, so be it. He looked both ways down the alley. There's ne'er a flatfoot around when ya need one.
"All right, ya don' wanna leave? Fine." And he brought up his fists.
The way Mr. Jitterbones looked at him right then was like that of an adult looking at a child who wanted to fight: You have no hope, son, I'm bigger and stronger than you.
Mr. Jitterbones bowed, one hand one way, the one with the ax going the other. He straightened . . . then came at Jack. Jack moved but not quickly enough and the ax grazed his shoulder, cutting through his jacket and into the muscle.
"Arrggh!" he screamed and his left hand went immediately to the wound. Dumb move because, using the vulnerability to his advantage, Mr. Jitterbones sliced at his left side and tore a chunk of meat out of that shoulder as well.
Jack staggered back a step, blood already soaking through his jacket. Mr. Jitterbones advanced. Clik-clakity-clak.
For someone who looked as fragile as a skeleton, Mr. Jitterbones moved, albeit clumsily, with great speed. Jack swung at him. Mr. Jitterbones ducked and his ax went for Jack's thigh, tearing the trousers and slicing off a sliver of meat. Warm blood flowed down Jack's leg. He daren't look, but he did anyway and cringed when he saw a bloody mess of brown fabric, the pinky-red of flesh and a bit of the beige of his skin.
With his other leg, Jack kicked Mr. Jitterbones, his foot connecting with bone-man's stomach. It was like hitting a bag filled with gravel. Mr. Jitterbones ambled back a few steps . . . then straightened. He snarled, his lips again curling up to show his yellow, crooked teeth.
Jack tried to call for help but his voice was caught somewhere between the fire in his legs and his shoulders. He was surprised that no police officer had crossed the mouth of the alleyway yet, or that Mr. Harris hadn't come out to see what all the ruckus was about.
There was no use in fighting Mr. Jitterbones, not unless he wanted to be slowly hacked to pieces.
Then a thought occurred to him: Is Mr. Jitterbones the Ripper? 'E's cuttin' me up. Jus' like those girls that were done in. It certainly seemed possible but Jack couldn't wholly convince himself of it. Jack the Ripper had this phantom-like air about him; he was mysterious. Mr. Jitterbones was merely a butcher. No finesse, no mystery---just plain carnage. Then again, Bloody Jack was like that as well.
Before he realized what he was doing, Jack began hobbling down the alley, trying to get away.
Mr. Jitterbones stormed after him. Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-cla---there was hot pain in Jack's right calf as Mr. Jitterbones cleaved off another piece. Blood spilled from the wound and ran down his ankle, puddling in his shoe. He fell and Mr. Jitterbones was on top of him.
The bony man turned him over, pinning him. Mr. Jitterbones was light and Jack could have easily thrown him off but nothing was registering right now, nothing but the thought of that blood-stained ax coming down on his face or neck and ending his poor, meaningless existence.
"Freddy . . ." Jack heard himself say. His voice was weak and cracked. Freddy didn' come by t'night. Didn' see 'im. Couldn' give 'im 'is chocolate. Couldn' do nothin'. Couldn' . . .
Mr. Jitterbones's dark eyes glared at him, the rings of white around them so bright in contrast they looked almost like halos. Then Jack saw something he never expected. There, like a reflection in a murky puddle, he saw Freddy's face flash across Mr. Jitterbones's and, just as suddenly, was gone.
"Fr-Freddy . . ." he stammered. An image of the boy's tussled blond hair, dirty cheeks and bright blue eyes danced in his mind.
Mr. Jitterbones grimaced then grunted. He raised the ax to Jack's face.
"Please . . . please . . . I beg ya . . . lemme . . . lemme l-live . . ." Jack said, pleaded. He supposed that this dark creature must have heard these same pleas before . . . many times before. Had Freddy said the same thing, or had he been so terrified of the man with the clicking bones and torn tuxedo that smelled of garlic and trash, that he didn't know what to say?
The ax's blade grazed along Jack's neck. He could only lay there, trembling, his heart pounding so hard he was finding it difficult to breathe. The ax's blade was warm at its edge; c
ool along the blade's side. Jack swallowed, the rise of his Adam's apple putting pressure against the ax's edge. The blade tore the skin as a result and a drop of blood leaked from, then rolled, down his neck.
Mr. Jitterbones looked surprised this had happened, but he also looked pleased.
"I'm s-sorry," Jack said. He didn't know why he said it but it seemed fitting. He must have done something wrong for Mr. Jitterbones to want to murder him.
Jack tried to move, tried to push Mr. Jitterbones off him. He grabbed the bone-man by the neck, squeezing, hoping to cut off any air going into this ghost of a man (if he needed to breathe, that was). Smoke trailed out of Mr. Jitterbones's ears, tainting the air with its smell, like dried corn left on the fire too long. With his bony fingers, Mr. Jitterbones grabbed Jack's wrist and pressed on the tendons just below Jack's palms. Jack felt his fingers curl and the strength go out of his hands. The next thing he knew, both his wrists were pinned to the damp, cool pavement above his head.
That's when the ax came down. All Jack saw was darkness. Something wet splashed his face.
* * * *
There was a mist on the air, gray mixed with salmon-pink. It didn't smell like anything but it sure felt like something; like a dusty wind but warmer. Jack took a step forward and heard the stirring of water. He looked down; he was up to his knees in a warm, murky, red and brown liquid. Blood? No, couldn't be blood.
Jack waded further into the misty air, hardly able to see anything. He waved at the fog with his fingers. The pink smoke swirled as he did but just as quickly brought itself together again. Like pawing at water or raindrops.
Where am I? he thought. Where . . . Then he remembered. Hallowe'en. Mr. Jitterbones. The ax with the bloodstained blade. The alley. His crate. The children and the chocolates and mints. And Freddy. Freddy didn't come tonight.
He bent down and touched the red and brown liquid. It was oily and smelled like trash. Like Mr. Jitterbones. The bed of this red river was soft and cushy, like walking on a sponge or damp pillow. Then Jack remembered the cut on his neck from Mr. Jitterbones's ax. He touched where the wound would be. There was a small, damp scratch but nothing worse. He checked his shoulders and legs, all seeming fine albeit a bit sore.
Thank God, he thought. I'm alive. But . . . am I? I'm jus' dreamin', that's all. Gotta be. 'Afta be. Yet he wasn't able to convince himself. In dreams, no matter how real they seemed, there was still a "padding" to them, an air of reassurance that what you were witnessing couldn't possibly be real and, when you awoke, though your heart was pounding, you recalled that reassurance and smiled in relief it was just a nightmare. But not here. Not in this place of pink smoke and oily reddish-brown water.
Jack's senses were alive. He could still feel the grease on his fingertips from having touched the water. The murky pink mist had a texture to it as well, like the tiny dots you saw in mist when it rose off the streets in the morning. The smell of trash from the water still lingered in his nostrils. He dare not taste it. He didn't want that filth inside him. But this was real. It had to be.
He put his fingers to his temples. "Jus' calm down. You'll be al' right. Jus' 'ang on a tick. All will be well. 'Asta be."
"Jack?"
Jack dropped his hands and looked around. "Who's there?"
"Jack, it's me. Do you have a candy?" The voice was high, a boy's voice. It was hollow and echoey and seemed to come from all around.
Jack whirled about, the water splashing around his knees, making his thighs wet as he did. The warm water soon cooled and gooseflesh formed on his skin. The hairs on his arms and neck stood on end.
"Who is it? Who's there? Tell me!"
"It's me, Freddy."
"Freddy?" He whirled around once more. "Freddy, where are ya?"
"I'm here, Jack. Honest."
Jack sloshed through the oily swamp, pawing at the mist that hung in the air, as if parting the blinds of a window, hoping it would help him see better; but the pink mist remained as thick as ever.
"Freddy! Freddy, call my name so I can find ya!"
But Freddy didn't call his name. Instead, the boy said, "We're inside him, Jack. We're inside the skeleton-man. He sounds like two sticks hitting each other when he walks, too."
"I know, Freddy. I know 'e does. Where are ya?"
"I'm here. I'm here. Promise."
The boy wasn't making sense. Jack stopped his trudging and put his head between his legs. The sharp garbage-scent of the water made him stand upright almost immediately. Mucus caught in the back of his throat. He thought he was going to throw up. He didn't. Instead he swallowed and waited.
Legs tired, knees sore, he so badly wanted to sit down. There was nowhere to sit.
"I saw the girls, Jack," Freddy said. "I saw 'em and they came up to me and gave me a hug."
Girls? "What girls, Freddy? Which ones? There's no one 'ere." His voice was quiet, tired.
It was a few moments before Freddy answered. "The ones who went missing last year. There's five of them and they're all here. All of them. One says she knows you. Says her name's Mary. Do you know her?"
Yea, Freddy, I know 'er. I knew 'er. I know 'er.
Suddenly, the water stirred and blurred shapes appeared below its surface. Jack swallowed, the sharp taste of mucus still lingering.
Five women rose out of the water, surrounding him. Their pale white faces were pruned, their skin having been in the water too long. Their dresses were in tatters, the dark material clinging to them, outlining their skinny, starved bodies. The brown and red liquid dripped off them slowly, ran down their faces and gaunt necks and collarbones, almost in slow motion. All had eyes set in a ring of gray.
Slowly, they waded toward him. Jack stood at the ready---ready to grab whichever one attacked him first. But there, off a ways in the pink mist, was Freddy, looking on.
"Freddy?" Jack said. "What are they doin'?"
"It's okay," Freddy said.
The women came closer, arms reaching out toward him.
"It's okay. They've come to take you home."
Mary grabbed Jack by the shoulders and pulled him down into the water. The others joined her, and there, echoing throughout the murky liquid, was the low drum of two sticks tapping together.
# # #
About the Author
A.P. Fuchs is the author of many novels and short stories, most of which have been published. His most recent book, aside from this one, is Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead, in which zombies fight such classic monsters as werewolves, vampires, Bigfoot, and even go up against cool foes like pirates, ninjas, and . . . Bruce Lee.
A.P. Fuchs is also known for his superhero series, The Axiom-man Saga, and is the author of Blood of the Dead, the first novel in the shoot 'em up zombie trilogy, Undead World. He also edited the zombie anthologies Dead Science and Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head.
Fuchs lives and writes in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
Visit his corner of the Web at
www.canisterx.com
Check out the Undead World Trilogy at www.undeadworldtrilogy.com
And follow him on Twitter at:
www.twitter.com/ap_fuchs
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The Coscom Entertainment Zombie, Monster, Mash Up and Superhero Books
Please go to www.coscomentertainment.com for a plot synopsis and more information on the books. All are available in eBook and paperback at your favorite online retailer. Thanks.
Zombie Books:
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Zombie Jim by Mark Twain and W. Bill Czolgosz
Alice in Zombieland by Lewis Carroll and Nickolas Cook
Axiom-man: The Dead Land by A.P. Fuchs
Bits of the Dead edited by Keith Gouveia and illustrated by Sean Simmans
Blood of the Dead by A.P. Fuchs
Dead Science edited by A.P. Fuchs
Don of the Dead by Nick Cato
Revolt of the Dead by Keith Gouveia
R.I.P. by Harrison Howe
Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers by Paul A. Freeman
The Lifeless by Lorne Dixon
The Undead World of Oz by L. Frank Baum and Ryan C. Thomas
The War of the Worlds Plus Blood, Guts and Zombies by H.G. Wells and Eric S. Brown
World War of the Dead by Eric S. Brown
Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head edited by A.P. Fuchs
Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead by A.P. Fuchs
Zombifrieze by W. Bill Czolgosz and Sean Simmans
Other Monster and Horror Books:
Animal Behavior and Other Tales of Lycanthropy by Keith Gouveia
Anna Karnivora: A Vampire Novel by W. Bill Czolgosz
Bigfoot War by Eric S. Brown
Dracula by Bram Stoker, Illustrated by Sean Simmans with an Introduction by Nancy Kilpatrick
Emma and the Werewolves by Jane Austen and Adam Rann
Hound: The Curse of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Lorne Dixon
Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror by A.P. Fuchs
Snarl by Lorne Dixon
The Summer I Died by Ryan C. Thomas
Superhero Books:
Axiom-man (The Axiom-man Saga, Book 1) by A.P. Fuchs
First Night Out (The Axiom-man Saga, Episode No. 0) by A.P. Fuchs
Doorway of Darkness (The Axiom-man Saga, Book 2) by A.P. Fuchs
The Dead Land (The Axiom-man Saga, Episode No. 1) by A.P. Fuchs
