All Kinds of Things Kill

by Robert R. Best

  “Hey! Dyke!” he yells. “Quit fantasizing about my girlfriend!”

  The cafeteria erupts with laughter. All Charity can think is Why? Why would someone do this? She looks at Jewel, who is laughing, too. Jewel’s eyes meet hers. Jewel blinks and stops laughing. She looks around, then slaps her boyfriend on the shoulder.

  “I didn’t say to throw things at her,” she says, then turns away.

  Jewel fell silent above the booth. Charity heard her run across the roof, then heard nothing. She listened carefully, gripping the stick hard. No noise came. She turned back to the window, straining to see through the smeared blood. All she could see was the street. She realized the bike she’d seen before was gone.

  Then the bike was flying at her. It slammed into the glass, which cracked but held. Jewel had flung it with such force that it hung there, pressed against the glass, for a second before clattering to the sidewalk.

  Screaming, Jewel threw herself against the booth. She rammed her shoulder against the glass, then again, then again. “Let me in!” she yelled.

  She stopped, staring at Charity. Charity gripped the stick and stared back. She knew what Jewel had become. The blood, the fangs, the inhuman speed and strength. In a sense, she’d seen it many times. Flat cardboard cartoons hanging in Halloween windows. Plastic teeth and screechy music on late-night television. She told herself these things weren’t real, but clearly Jewel was.

  She realized Jewel was looking past her. She turned her head and saw Jewel was looking at the locked door. She looked back. Jewel smiled, her fangs sliding past her curling lips.

  Jewel darted off to the side of the booth and entered the theater. Charity turned to face the door.

  Within seconds the door shuddered with a loud thud. Charity realized the door was weaker than the reinforced glass. The door shook again but the lock held. Jewel screamed and rushed the door again. It shook hard, and the wood around the lock began to crack.

  Charity turned and grabbed the bookcase. She pulled it over the other way, so that it now blocked the door instead of the hole. Jewel rammed the door again, grunting at the new resistance. She screeched and rushed it again, so hard the bookcase shook, then stopped.

  Charity stood facing the door, waiting. She didn’t realize her mistake until she heard Jewel drop through the hole in the ceiling and land behind her.

  She turned, stopping when Jewel grabbed her throat. Jewel twisted her around the rest of the way. Her eyes were wide and hungry and she hissed through her open, fanged mouth.

  Charity is in college now, sitting under a tree on campus, reading. She sees Jewel approaching and pretends to keep reading. She pretends to read as Jewel draws near and stops, staring down at her. Jewel sighs and sits down next to Charity.

  “Charity,” says Jewel, “I want to say something. I know I’ve been terrible to you since we were kids. I’ve done awful, awful things, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Charity continues to read, waiting for the joke. None comes. Jewel looks at her, waiting for a response, then looks down. Charity closes her book, gets up and walks away.

  Charity strained to twist away but Jewel’s hands were too strong. Jewel ran her tongue over her teeth and began to move in. Charity realized her stick had a point at the end.

  “Jewel,” she said, as best she could with the strong hands around her neck, “I forgive you.”

  Jewel blinked and her mouth closed. She looked like she was about to speak. Then she shook it off and opened her mouth. She leaned in towards Charity’s neck, her lips straining as her jaw opened wider. Charity plunged the stick into Jewel’s chest, hoping it would work.

  Jewel let out a mind-ripping scream. Light spread from her chest, engulfing both her and Charity. It filled the booth. Charity shut her eyes.

  Then the light was gone and so was Jewel. Charity fell to her rear. She opened her eyes and stared at the place Jewel had been. She looked around the booth and became aware of lights flashing. She heard sirens. She looked at the chaos around her, remembered the blood outside, and wondered how she was going to explain this to the cops.

  The Family Tree

  This Is Your Last Chance, said the faded sign as Rich’s headlights swept across it in the dark. Then it was gone, replaced by swiftly moving trees.

  “That may be,” said Rich, “but maybe I don’t want to go to the Lonesome Oak Motel.”

  “What?” said his wife Betty through the cell phone by his ear.

  “Nothing,” said Rich, shifting to get a better grip on the wheel. “Just talking to the road signs.”

  “Mmm. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving and talking on the phone at the same time.”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like you’re having a tough time focusing on the road as it is.”

  Trees appeared and disappeared in the headlights like ghosts. Like any one of them could be his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece or nephew.

  “Ha ha,” said Rich. “I’m just calling to check on you-know-what.”

  “I just got back from the store with the pregnancy test. I haven’t used it yet. So quit endangering your life to ask about it. Just worry about getting to your grandmother’s safely.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been up and down this road since I was a kid.”

  They both paused, knowing the implications of what he’d just said.

  She spoke first. “How’re you holding up?”

  “I said not to worry about me,” he said. “The question is how Na-Na’s holding up. That’s what I’m going to check on.”

  They both fell silent again. Rich stared at the road. The road that had taken his brother and his brother’s family. Rich didn’t know – he hadn’t wanted to know – exactly where the accident had happened. So it felt like the accident had happened everywhere along the way. They died here – they died here – they died –

  “They were going to her house when it happened,” he continued. “She must be taking it very hard.”

  “Just be careful, okay? And don’t tell her about us trying to get pregnant. We swore it would be a surprise for everyone.”

  “I will be careful and I won’t tell her. You just get on that test.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go chug a bunch of water right now.”

  Rich chuckled. “Okay. Call me when you know something. And keep trying until you get me. It's hard to get a signal down here.”

  “Okay. I love you.”

  “I love you,” said Rich. And they hung up. Rich hiked up one hip and slid the phone into his pants pocket. Another sign emerged from the dark.

  You Just Missed Your Last Chance.

  Twenty minutes later he arrived. He climbed out of his car and shut the door, chilled by the late fall air. His grandmother’s house sat thirty feet from the driveway, looking as pleasant and inviting as he remembered. But in between the house and the driveway was the Tree.

  Even now, as an adult and supposedly past such things, Rich capitalized the word in his mind. It was the only thing he hadn’t liked about visiting his grandmother as a child. The Tree’s hulking form had lurked over his nightmares. It was huge, with big bulky roots, thick dark skin and long twisting branches. In late summer its large leaves would turn a red that had been too close to blood for young Rich. He would dream of the Tree wrapping its bloody leaves around him and forcing the life from his lungs.

  And now – under the fall moon with no leaves – the Tree looked like the skeleton of a deformed giant, twisted in the agony of its death and full of hate for the world.

  He hadn’t thought of these things in years. He did his best to shake it off. He wrapped his coat around him, told himself he was just reacting to his brother’s sudden death, and started walking. As he neared the Tree, the air fell silent. The normal noises of the night – breeze, insects, night birds – were stilled. The gradual awareness of it gnawed at his mind, but he willed himself to keep walking.

  A breeze rustled the branches as he passed. He stopped, thinkin
g – How can it be quiet and breezy at the same time? He took another step and the branches rustled again. He could have sworn he heard his brother’s voice whispering something. Something awful that scraped at the edge of his mind. A breeze, he told himself. Now stop being ridiculous.

  Then he walked, a little more quickly, the rest of the way to the porch.

  Inside. Surrounded by warmth and comforting smells. If the drive and the Tree had made him a scared little boy, this house made him a secure one.

  “Richie!”

  His grandmother was there, small and plump with curly gray hair. She smiled.

  “Hey, Na-Na,” he said, hugging her. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Oh, as well as can be expected,” she said. “Sit, sit.” She motioned him to a chair. He sat and settled in. It was an old chair, one he’d sat in as a child. It was as comforting as seeing his grandmother.

  “Tea?” she said through her soft wrinkles.

  Rich moved to stand. “Let me, Na-Na. You’ve been through so much.”

  “No, sit, sit,” she said, and he did. “Humor what makes an old woman happy.”

  So he sat and luxuriated as his grandmother puttered a large mug over to him. “Thank you,” he said, taking it and sipping. It was sweet, with cinnamon and other spices he couldn’t place.

  She smiled and sat in an old rocker across the room. “I wish you wouldn’t drive so late at night.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I couldn’t get out of the office any sooner.” He took another sip. He loved his grandmother, but did she have to keep the house so hot?

  She nodded. “Was the drive okay?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” said Rich. “It was fine.” He wished he’d dressed cooler. He started to feel lightheaded.

  “You alright, Richie?” she asked, leaning forward in the rocker.

  “Fine, Na-Na, fine. Just a little dead-headed from the drive.” He took a third sip. “I really should be asking how you’re doing.”

  She nodded. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be too sad. After all, I did kill them.”

  Rich stopped mid-sip, wondering if he’d heard right. “What?”

  Na-Na nodded. “You’ll want to put the mug down before you drop it.”

  Rich stared at her. The mug slipped from his hand. Hot liquid splashed across his lap and the mug rolled across the floor. Every nerve in his lower body screamed, but he couldn’t move.

  “Told you,” she said.

  “Na…” he started, his tongue suddenly limp.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “Na-Na, Na-Na, Na-Na. I think we’re all a little sick of Na-Na.”

  Rich looked down at the mug on the floor. A puddle of tea lay next to it. Bits of wood sat in the bottom of the mug. Bark.

  The Tree.

  “I’d say we start using my proper name,” – and here she made a sound like a deep, growling gargle - “but as you probably can’t pronounce that, let’s just go with the Witch of the Forest.”

  Rich tried again to move, only succeeding in moving his head around.

  She stood from the rocker. “That’s right, witch. And I don’t mean any of that feel-good new-age Wicca twaddle. I mean power, Richie.”

  She moved to a closet and pulled out a thick, stained tarp. Big leather straps with large buckles hung from it. She dropped it in front of Rich.

  “The problem with power is that it fades.” She moved behind his chair and pushed forward. Rich fell onto the tarp, rolling onto his back. She began fastening the straps around his limbs. “Fades like youth.”

  She looked down at him. “You think I’m old, Richie? You have no idea how old I am.”

  She walked to one end of the tarp and grabbed hold. She began dragging the tarp, and Rich, across the carpet.

  “So here’s how it works, Richie. I get power and eternal youth from the Tree. And the Tree wants my progeny. You know what ‘progeny’ means, right? Of course you do. Always such a smart boy.”

  He watched the ceiling inch past as she dragged him towards the door. He strained his entire body to move. It was all he could do to blink. She opened the door and began to drag him onto the porch.

  “I admit it’s gotten harder as the generations have drug on. Families just don’t stay near each other the way they used to. And I have to time it just right. I can’t just kill them whenever it's convenient for me. There are many factors to consider. And then along comes your brother’s kids and … well it all just starts to give me a headache.”

  The cold air stung Rich’s eyes and made them water. She drug him off the porch and onto the walkway.

  “So I finally convince them to come down here. ‘Come see your precious Na-Na.’ And I give them to the Tree. Well, technically his wife didn’t have to die but, you know, witnesses and all that modern legal bunk.”

  The branches of the Tree came into view. Rich’s mind screamed to run.

  “Then I have to use my power – which is fading and I should really be conserving for the Ceremony – to set up an ‘accident.’ And that finally convinces you, the last one, to come see dear old Na-Na.”

  She stopped pulling and stepped into view, looking down at Rich. “But you’re in luck. Since you’re the last one, you get to witness the transformation. Wait here.” She chuckled then shouted at the Tree in the same gargling growl. “El Ath Kara!”

  She stepped out of view and the branches began to writhe. They reached down to Rich, entwining his limbs and head.

  No! his mind screamed. He tried to move but could only manage a furious blinking.

  The Tree lifted him up in its branches. It spun him around and held him high up against the trunk, facing the house. His grandmother was coming out of the door, holding a book in her hand.

  Tears ran down his face as she drew nearer. The book was covered with something dark and leathery. A large, crude inverted pentangle was on the front. Na-Na fished a pair of half-glasses from her pocket and balanced them on the end of her nose. She flipped through the book.

  She found a page and smiled up at Rich. “With any luck you’ll see me change before you bleed out. You’ll be surprised how attractive I can be. And I’ll find a new man and get some new progeny. You won’t see that part, of course.”

  She cleared her throat and raised the book. “Ready? No, of course you’re not. But oh well. Em Ortha Vortha Nal!”

  And hundreds of little branches punctured Rich’s skin. Pain shot through him but he couldn’t move or even cry out. He heard voices whispering to him. His brother’s voice, his niece and nephew, plus a multitude of others he didn’t recognize. Those taken by the Tree. He thought of Betty and wanted to call her. He felt liquid running down his torso and knew he was dying.

  Na-Na grinned up at him. “Yes, yes. Very nice. Al Ortho Vol Torka Zil Kala!”

  She paused. Rich kept bleeding. Na-Na cleared her throat. “Zil Kala!”

  And everything became very quiet. Clinically quiet, like a tape of ambient sounds had been switched off. The utter silence was like pressure in Rich’s ears. He was feeling lightheaded and the blood kept flowing.

  Then, with still no sound, the area was engulfed in white light. Brighter than any noon. His grandmother looked pale and sickly in it.

  Then, a sound. A voice, soft and almost childlike. A whisper from deep within a cave, but blindingly clear in the utter silence.

  “You dare ask for my blessing when progeny remain?”

  Na-Na frowned and snapped off the glasses. “Progeny? But I…”

  Then she was screaming. The light around her became brighter. She dropped the book and her arms shot out to either side. With a horrible crack her body split in two, down the middle. Light spilled out. Her scream became distant and the light faded.

  Then she was gone. Rich was left bleeding in the dark, wondering woozily what had happened.

  The cell phone in his pocket started ringing. Betty. The baby.

  Progeny.

  And Rich died smiling.

  Everything That's Damaged
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  It is 2027 and medical science has come a long way. My doctor keeps telling me this as she shows me a brochure for the pill she wants me to take.

  “Your heart is giving out, Jim,” says the doctor. She’s a nice lady with awesome cans. “We have to do something, and I think this is the best option.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t afford this little office visit, let alone some fancy drug.”