Bleed

by Ed Kurtz

  “What if I want to? Is that a crime?”

  “Not in the least. But even ditch diggers can appreciate literature.”

  “You can feed me all the turds you want, Mr. Blackmore, but that don’t mean I gotta like it.”

  Walt smiled. A quiet and somewhat tense minute passed. Then he went over to the refrigerator, opened it up, and grabbed something from inside.

  “Heads up,” he said as he tossed a can of Lone Star to Jarod.

  The boy caught it with a wet slap against his hand. His eyes widened with disbelief. When Walt closed the fridge, he had a can of beer for himself. He cracked it open and raised it.

  “Bottoms up,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  Jarod’s face beamed like he’d just won the lottery and lost his virginity at the same time. He was quick to pop his can open and take a long swig that he finished up with a drawn out sigh.

  “Good shit,” Jarod said.

  Walt laughed. “Glad you like it.”

  “You’re not so bad, Mr. B. For a teacher and shit.”

  “Thanks, Jarod. That means a lot.”

  Jarod enjoyed another guzzle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, we’re done with this Romeo crap? I mean, you get me, right?”

  “Sure, Jarod. I get you.”

  “Solid.”

  The hardwood floor creaked somewhere on the other side of the house. To Walt it sounded like it came from the dining area. He did his best to ignore it, and Jarod didn’t seem to notice it at all. He was too busy snagging cheese-laden crackers from the plate on the kitchen island.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” Walt said as he moved his eyes from the dimly lit living room back to Jarod.

  “Beer gives me the munchies sometimes.”

  Another creak. Closer.

  Jarod darted his eyes in the direction of the dining area. Walt stiffened.

  “I’d better get that summer sausage out, then,” he said a little too loudly.

  “Nah,” the boy said as he returned his dull gaze to Walt. “This here’s fine.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Creak.

  ***

  Clem parked the car a hundred yards down the road from Blackmore’s house and killed the engine. The abrupt silence in the wake of his rumbling engine was oddly jarring. He could hear his own pulse thumping in his ears. There weren’t even crickets chirping outside. Just the cold, still air of the backwoods night.

  The clock in the dash read 5:40 when he stopped the car. That gave Clem plenty of time to get moving. He thought about firing up another jay, but settled for a Kool instead. He wanted to keep his mind as clear as possible for what was coming up.

  A robbery. The thought of it alone sent his heart slamming against his ribcage. It also scared him shitless. Clem had gotten himself mixed up with some reasonably wild misadventures, especially since he hooked up with Jarod at the start of the school year, but nothing quite bordering on a felony. Not until now. They’d spray-painted cocksucker on the I-30 overpass by the Pentecostal Church that one night, and there was the time he stood lookout while Jarod bored a hole in the wall between the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms at school. Clem never thought anything would get better than that, not after seeing a good quarter of the ninth and tenth grade girls’ tits in one fell swoop. Yet even though there were no girls concerned this time around, a real, honest-to-Christ home robbery somehow trumped it all.

  Particularly since it involved ripping off that shithead Blackmore.

  Clem licked his lips and sucked at the menthol cigarette. As soon as he was finished with it, he’d sneak over to the house, case the joint and have a look inside. Then he’d wait for Jarod to signal him, let him know what to do next. They had to play it by ear, neither of them having been there before. They didn’t know Blackmore’s routines or even what all he owned. But before too long, that dumb bastard was going to be kicking himself for being so smug and stupid all the damn time.

  Clem sniggered between drags on the Kool. Then he flicked it out the window and stepped out of the car.

  “Showtime,” he said.

  41

  Walt pulled another can of Lone Star from the fridge, cracked it open and handed it to Jarod. The boy gulped a third of it down before belching and then muttering, “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Walt said. He had not gotten another beer for himself.

  Jarod guzzled as another floorboard creaked behind him. He stopped in mid-swallow and his eyes drifted toward the source of the sound.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Is there somebody else here?”

  “No. Just me. Well, and you.”

  “Oh.”

  Creak.

  Jarod bunched his eyebrows.

  “It’s an old house. It makes a lot of little noises, especially at night. Me, I kind of like it that way.”

  “I think it’s creepy as shit.”

  “Different strokes.”

  “I guess…”

  After he polished off his beer, Jarod squashed the can in his fist and set it down on the island counter. It wobbled for a bit, throwing a tinny echo around the kitchen. When it stopped, it was replaced by an awkward silence. Neither Jarod nor Walt spoke, ate, or drank. They only stared uncomfortably at one another.

  “Well, if that’s it…”

  “Wait, you don’t want to talk about anything?”

  Walt stepped forward, his eyes a little too wide for Jarod’s comfort. The boy winced and stepped back.

  “Talk? No. I think I’d best be going…”

  “Aren’t you maybe a little worried about your grade, Jarod? I mean, let’s be honest—you aren’t doing so well in English. I’ll bet your other subjects are suffering, too. It might not seem like such a big deal right now, but down the road…”

  Jarod curled his hands into fists and adopted a defensive stance. His nervous expression gave way to one of rage.

  “I knew it!” he bellowed. “I fucking knew it!”

  “You knew what?”

  “I knew you was a queer, that’s what! You don’t give a shit about no Shakespeare, you just want to get with young boys!”

  “No! That’s not…no!”

  “Fucking sick, man!”

  “You’ve got this all wrong.” Walt apologetically displayed his palms. “It’s not like that.”

  “Yeah? A teacher, who lives by himself, has a fourteen-year-old kid come to his house? At night? And then you’re all like, how about them grades, Jarod? Well, I ain’t letting some nasty old homo touch my dick for an A in his stupid goddamn English class, I’ll tell you that!”

  Creak.

  “I ought to kick your ass!” Jarod raged on. “I ought to curb stomp your ass, is what I should do!”

  “Okay, calm down…”

  “No! Fuck you, man! I’m getting the hell out of here. Then I’m calling the cops!”

  Creak. Creak.

  “The cops! Now, come on…”

  “You know what they do to child molesters in prison, Walter? They kill ‘em! They fucking kill ‘em!”

  Creak.

  “What the hell is that?!”

  His face red and sweaty and his breath coming short and fast, Jarod spun around to face the direction of the creaking.

  He shrieked.

  “Hello, Jarod,” Gwyn whispered through clenched teeth.

  Jarod sucked in a gasp of air and froze. The reddish-brown creature in front of him grinned broadly and licked its jagged, scab-encrusted lips. The boy wanted to cry out, to ask Blackmore to help him.

  But it was Walt Blackmore who slammed two laced fists into Jarod’s temple, knocking him to the floor and making the world brown out around him.

  The last thing he heard was a low, raspy chortling.

  ***

  Clem crouched outside the darkened window and rubbed his cold hands together, occasionally exhaling warm, white steam into them. He couldn’t remember if it was this
cold when he and Jarod set out, but he didn’t think it was. It had been chillier than hell, to be sure, but now it was downright frigid. The stagnant air bit at his face. He hoped he wouldn’t have to sit out there much longer.

  What’s taking him so long?

  He could faintly hear murmuring, voices talking. Jarod and Blackmore, just chatting it up while Clem froze to death outside.

  He wondered if he’d been the object of a prank, if the whole robbery thing was bullshit and Jarod would end up laughing his head off that Clem sat out there half the night, waiting to be let in.

  But he decided that his buddy wouldn’t do that. Not to him, anyway.

  So he waited.

  If it hadn’t been so cold, he might have nodded off.

  He nearly did, anyway.

  Until he heard an ear-splitting scream, shortly followed by a hollow thump.

  Shit! What was that?

  Clem pulled himself up to the window and tried to look inside. All he could see was pitch blackness. It could have been a curtain, but it was too dark to tell. He sank back down to a crouch.

  Shit! Shit, shit, shit!

  His heart thudding and cold beads of sweat forming on his face, he bounced on his heels while he tried to decide what to do. If it was Blackmore who screamed, then all there was to do was wait. Jarod had it under control. But what if it was Jarod? Or somebody else? Clem didn’t know if Blackmore was married, or if he had any kids. He was relatively certain a douchebag like that lived alone, but one could never be sure. The thing of it was, he had no way of knowing who screamed in the house.

  He had no choice. He had to investigate.

  Once again, he pushed himself up to a standing position and then flattened himself against the cold aluminum siding that covered the outside of the house. He listened, but he heard nothing more than his own short breaths. Keeping his body pressed against the side of the house, he began sidestepping toward the front, where the porch light glowed orange in the otherwise black night.

  Through the frosted bay window he saw two indistinct figures moving around inside. One of them bobbed up and down, waving its arms. The other seemed to just watch and did not move at all.

  Jarod and Blackmore?

  Clem crept by the window and continued to peer in, but all he could make out were blurry silhouettes through the dense crystals of frost. The active one was relatively short and thin, not altogether unlike Jarod. But it was impossible to be sure. And Clem couldn’t think of a good reason the kid should be flailing around that way.

  Staying low and flush with the house, he snuck across the porch to the front door. The globe around the light hung directly above. Dozens of small black spots were backlit inside of it. Summer’s dead bugs. He frowned at them, reminded of how he always puzzled at them when he was younger. It never made a lick of sense to him that the stupid insects would continue to climb into the death trap when all their friends and family’s fried corpses were so obviously piled up in there.

  He reached up and gently grabbed the doorknob. He slowly twisted it, but discovered to his chagrin that it would not give. It was locked.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Something slammed inside, a sharp burst of sound like a belly flop in the pool. His shoulders jerked.

  Then a gruff female voice screeched, “Yes! Yes, Walt! Hurry!”

  Clem screwed up his face.

  Sex?

  Is Jarod involved?

  Maybe some kind of twisted three-way between Jarod, Mr. Blackmore and some chick. Mrs. Blackmore? Clem puffed up his cheeks and slowly let the air out. This was getting too far out for him.

  Another loud slamming cracked out.

  More like an old wooden baseball bat hitting a homer, he thought.

  Way too far out.

  With a deep breath, he looked out toward the dark country road. Just a hundred yards away, his car sat in the shadows. He had the keys. There would be nothing easier in the world than skittering back to the car and getting the hell out of there. Let Jarod do what he wants. I’m not getting naked with the goddamn English teacher.

  Slowly Clem rose and checked his front pocket for his keys. They were there, just where he put them.

  It was time to go.

  “Quick! Cut it off! Give it to meeee!”

  The skin on Clem’s back tingled. He looked back at the hazy forms in the frosted window one last time, and then turned to the porch steps.

  He pressed his foot down on the top stair and it creaked. He stepped on the next one more carefully.

  A high-pitched squeal erupted from behind him inside the house. He lurched, lost his footing. He shouted out and tumbled down the steps, every impact pounding loudly against the wood.

  Crashing footfalls raced toward him from inside, toward the front door.

  “Shit!”

  Clem scrambled away from the steps, anchored his palms on the cold, dead lawn and pushed himself up. He leapt to his feet, but his left ankle burned with pain when his weight fell on it. The ankle gave, and he collapsed to the ground.

  Something rattled on the porch and the front door creaked open. Partially obscured by the blinding globe of light above him, Mr. Blackmore loomed in the doorway, looking down at him.

  The older man gave a slight gasp. Then he started to chuckle.

  “I should have known,” Blackmore said.

  42

  The kid was sprawled out on the lawn, his neck twisted so he could look up at Walt.

  “Tad chilly out here, don’t you think?” Walt asked. “Come on, let’s get you inside where it’s nice and warm.”

  Clem reached out and grabbed handfuls of grass, desperately trying to claw his way forward.

  “S-s-s’okay, Mr. Blackmore,” he stammered. “I wa-was just going home anyways…”

  “Don’t be an idiot, son,” Walt growled as he lunged for the boy’s leg.

  Clem let out a terrified squeak when Walt seized his twisted ankle and began dragging him back up the steps.

  “I’ve got soup and fixings for cheese sandwiches,” the teacher droned on between huffing breaths. “Nice food for dreary weather.”

  Clem bumped and bounced over the steps. The last one caught him hard on the chin. He moaned in pain.

  “It’ll be just like a snow day,” Walt went on. He was holding the door open with his rump while dragging the kid into the foyer by his foot. “Just like Christmas.”

  “Please, Mr. Blackmore!” Clem mewled franticly. “Please! I don’t care what you did to Jarod! I won’t tell nobody! PLEASE!”

  The door slammed shut.

  Walt released Clem’s leg and secured the deadbolt and guard chain.

  The boy rolled on his back, sat up, and saw what he’d been listening to from the other side of the front door.

  A slick, glistening pile of chopped up meat and bones and guts. All dark red and pink and black. On one end was Jarod’s head, his mouth hanging open and his pale eyes staring at the ceiling. His tongue lolled out lazily, like it was just a prop he’d put there for a laugh. Surrounding the grisly, wet mound were Jarod’s arms and legs. They were bare. Clem did not see his pants, shirt, socks or shoes anywhere. But they’d stripped him. Stripped him and slaughtered him.

  Perhaps most upsetting of all was the dead boy’s groin, which had been split down the middle, the genitals sliced clean off. All that remained was an inverted chevron of butchered gore.

  A low, plaintive bray came from Clem as his eyes darted to Walt. His teacher’s pale green polo shirt was splattered with blood. Walt leaned over the butchered body on the floor and came back with a huge cleaver in his hand. It, too, was dripping.

  Walt grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

  “The lady was hungry,” he said, almost apologetically.

  Clem didn’t bother to wonder what that meant. Instead, he turned away from the reeking, bloody mess, and retched. He vomited for what seemed like a long time, lurching and puking in waves until his insides were completely emptied onto Walt’s sc
uffed wood floor. For a time after that he remained bent over the massive, stinking pool of vomit, spitting out strands of chunky saliva.

  “Better be careful,” Walt quietly warned. “You’ll ruin her appetite.”

  “Guh,” Clem groaned.

  “All better now?”

  “Guh.”

  Walt chuckled. He padded over to where Clem kneeled and eased the boy away from his own sick. Clem managed to sit up, his pink, swollen eyes leaking tears, his lips wet and shiny from all the spit and puke. Some of it had splashed back up from the floor and besmirched his faded Pink Floyd T-shirt. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Whew!” Walt blurted out. “You’re a frightful mess. Let’s get you out of those nasty clothes.”

  He leaned down to take hold of Clem’s jacket, but the kid jerked away. He groaned pitifully.

  “Ah, yes,” Walt knowingly announced. “You share your late buddy’s apprehensions. Please, let me set your mind at ease—I have no untoward sexual designs on you. In fact, I am very happily committed to the most incredible woman in the world. Perhaps you’d like to meet her?”

  “Nuh,” Clem mumbled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  He was beginning to really weep now. His chin trembled as he blubbered and whined. Walt shook his head.

  “Come on, Clem! You’re practically an adult now! Stop acting like a fucking baby!”

  The boy only cried harder.

  The emergence of Gwyn from the kitchen did nothing to assuage his fit.

  “Another one…!” she said.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” groaned Walt.

  Clem’s eyes widened as a nude woman with scabs for skin stepped out of the kitchen and into the light of the foyer.

  “Oh, God,” he said.

  Gwyn gave a throaty laugh. She walked like a model, sashaying her full hips from side to side with every step closer to him. Her motions were so exaggerated that hundreds of dry, brown flakes cascaded down from her scaly skin, leaving a trail of scabs in her wake. Wherever the crusty pieces split away from her, light pink tissue was revealed, piece by piece. It was a slow, repulsive striptease.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”

  “Who is thissss one?” the scabby woman hissed. She was addressing Walt, but her gaze was firmly fixed on the vomit-spattered boy on the floor.