Tar: An apocalyptic horror novella

by Iain Rob Wright

  I’m tired from driving, but we’re close now and I’m glad we decided to do it.

  I was worried that it would be crowded when we arrived, but there was nobody else in sight. The boys scrambled out of the car and looked around them taking in the beauty of our surroundings. The furthest edge of England. A point of land atop crumbling cliffs, giving a glorious and panoramic view of the ocean. The boys asked if they could go take a closer look, and I told them they could, but not to stray too close to the edge. April made a sound at that. A whimper or a laugh, it was hard to tell which emotion from the single note. I held out a hand to her, and, at last, she looked at me. I saw fear and love, emotions that I didn't realise until that instant were more closely linked than I imagined. We walked hand in hand towards the edge, the boys a little way ahead of us. The boys did as they were told and stopped well short of the drop. April and I stood behind them, and as a family, we basked in the beauty of the scene.

  Waves lapped and crashed against the rocks on the floor of the dizzying drop beneath us, and seagulls chirped and squawked overhead. We stood there for a moment, just taking it in.

  “It really is beautiful, in a way.”

  I glanced at April. It felt like such a long time since I had heard her speak. I didn’t feel any need to answer. The view spoke for itself. Beyond the green scrub of land, the ocean stretched to the horizon where it met the sky, itself a lighter shade of the same colour. The twin white smudges in the sky looked like the unfinished work of a master painter, the bare canvas beneath his greatest and most beautiful work. One larger than the other, a pair of blemishes on a perfect scene. Closer inspection showed a mottled streak trailed them both as they neared the atmosphere, the twin harbingers of the destruction of all mankind.

  Edward said it didn’t looks as big as I had said it would be. He seemed almost disappointed, although that could have just been his childlike reaction to such a monumental situation. I reminded him that the larger of the two asteroids was as big as the state of Texas, the smaller the same size as Mount Everest. I told him that although it didn’t seem like it, both of them were hurtling towards the earth at almost fifty thousand miles an hour, and in just a few hours would impact and destroy all life on earth. I reminded him that there was nothing that could be done to avoid or stop it, and nowhere to hide from it when it came. He nodded and said nothing. We all knew why we were there, what we had to do. I squeezed April's hand, and she looked at me, lips pursed together, eyes streaked with makeup. I reminded her this was better. This way we would decide our own fate. We pushed between the boys, each of us taking one of their hands. In a line we stood, watching the instrument of our destruction as it made its unstoppable and relentless journey. We were in tears now, all of us. I asked them if they were ready, that they could take as long as they needed. Nobody objected. Nobody backed out. As a family we walked to the edge of the crumbling clifftop, staring straight ahead like we had practiced. We didn’t say we loved each other. We didn’t have to. We looked at the light in the sky that would bring the dark, then as one closed our eyes and stepped over the edge.

  THE END.

  JEFFREY’S WILD RIDE

  BY PAUL SEIPLE

  Paul Seiple is the author of the James Beamer Thriller series and the soon to be released Project Specter Mystery series. The first three books in the Beamer series—Chasing Fireflies, Babylon Girl, and Facing Hell—make up the Morning Star Trilogy and should be read in order.

  www.paulseiple.com

  1

  September 2011

  The fast-moving clouds, with their darkened hue, signaled rain. With the rate the clouds were passing it probably meant just a brief shower, but still enough to dampen the evening. As the first few drops hit the windshield, Sarah Miller felt like a little girl on Christmas morning. Ironic. The girl that hated rain welcomed it like a gift from Santa. At times mortal enemies can be allies and for Sarah this sudden shower was a lifesaver.

  Ben Skyles, Sarah's boyfriend, had tricked her into going to the county fair. Tricked was too harsh a word. More like begged and pleaded until Sarah caved. For Ben, fairs were an extension of his childhood — a happy time when his family was still whole. A time before cancer took his mother away. A time before Ben's father lost his way in the bottom of whisky bottle. But for Sarah, county fairs meant rides that mocked regulations and deep-fried food loaded with bacteria that even a nuclear bomb couldn't wipe out. Sarah knew how much the memories meant to Ben. Going to the fair with him was the least she could do after he stuck it out with her through the "cocktail" phase. The freedom of freshman year — away from home and no rules — seduced Sarah with its naked depravity. It must have been hard for Ben to hold her hair back as she vomited the evil. The smell of alcohol mixed with bad choices had to remind Ben of his father. Yet, he was always there for her. Ben loved Sarah. And Sarah loved Ben. To prove her devotion she would risk her life on the Tilt-A-World.

  The fairgrounds were just a few minutes away. Ben's 1999 Lumina chugged the country hills. Each spit and sputter sounding like a chant — "I know I can. I know I can." As the car topped a hill, the moonlight peeked between the clouds, batting come-hither eyes at the Ferris wheel in the distance. A yellowish glow beamed from the carts swinging in the breeze. The fair was still a mile away. But, in her mind, Sarah could hear the metal seats squeaking and clanking. The death rattle she called it.

  "It's going to rain, Ben. Maybe we should go to the movies instead."

  "Don't be silly. I checked the weather. Those are just wind clouds. Those drops are from a bird."

  The water beading on the windshield suggested that the weatherman should have his pants set on fire for lying. Sarah didn't buy the bird theory. Rain was her way out of this without breaking her boyfriend's heart. Let Mother Nature be the bitch.

  "I'm not sure," Sarah said, between shallow breaths. "It looks like a storm."

  "We don't have to ride anything, honey. The fair atmosphere just brings me back to my happy place. I miss it and tonight's the last night. I'll protect you and if you're lucky, I'll win you a stuffed bear." Ben winked at Sarah.

  "If I'm lucky? You mean if you're lucky. All of those games are rigged. Fairs are evil." Sarah chuckled. The laughter couldn't mask the nervousness of her tone.

  Ben smiled.

  "Come on, honey. Look at the halo over the Ferris wheel." Ben pointed to the moon's glimmer, which formed a perfect halo atop the Ferris wheel. "It's heavenly. Nothing to fear."

  "Heavenly means you die," Sarah said, only half kidding.

  When Sarah was twelve, she found herself stuck on a Ferris wheel. It's one of those fears, not much different than being trapped in an elevator. Something you think about every time you lock yourself in the seat. Knowing the odds are very low that you'll find yourself helpless, at the mercy of the ride, but for Sarah, it happened. She spent three hours swaying aimlessly in the wind with a persuasive gravity luring her to the hard ground below.

  Once the ride starting working again and Sarah's feet touched the ground after a soft six-inch landing, she swore never to step foot beyond a fair's gates again. Yet, here she was, going back on her word — for love.

  And here was Ben, trying to get her to tempt death once again. So much for love.

  THE LINE TO enter curled like a constrictor around the wooden fence. A snake waiting for the right moment to suck the life from unsuspecting zombies seeking cheap thrills. Through spacing between the planks, Sarah saw the neon lights and heard the screams of people laughing in the face of death as they rode the killing machines.

  "Smell that?" Ben asked, inhaling deep, leaning his head back, and pushing his chest forward. "Funnel cakes. Don't you just love that smell?" He squeezed Sarah's hand.

  Yeah, great, funnel cakes. French Fries drowned in sugar. That won't kill you, she thought. Way sixteen to die at the fair.

  "I'm not sure I can do this, Ben. You know how much I hate these places," she said, digging her red nails into the back of Ben's hand.
<
br />   The line began to shift. Through the next planks Sarah watched people strapping in for a high-speed descent down something called "Danger Mountain." The entire ride probably took less than twenty seconds from top to bottom, but death only needed an opportunity. One second.

  "It's going to be OK, honey. I promise. You'll see, by the time we leave you'll be a changed woman."

  Of course I will, Sara thought. I'll be dead.

  WALKING through the gate was an assault on Sarah's senses. She squinted from the shards of bright light; the loud music vibrated her eardrums, causing her jaws to ache, and the smell of everything imaginable being fried boiled the water, she had just gulped, in the back of her throat.

  "This is fun, right?" Ben asked. The gleam in his eye overshadowed the pulsing strobe of "The Avalanche," a centrifuge disguised as a ride that separates you from the hot dog you just ate while three-chord rock music rattles your bones. The county fair — the place where eighties rock-and-roll comes to die.

  Sarah nodded, looking over her shoulder.

  "Do you want anything to eat?" Ben asked.

  "No, I'm fine."

  How could anyone eat this crap? The Salmonella is probably playing Battleship with the E. Coli. Undercooked chicken nuggets. Congratulations, you sank another ten-year-old boy.

  Being a microbiology major, Sarah always wrestled with her food choices. She knew what lurked at the bottom on an unkempt pot. There was no way she was playing pathogen roulette.

  "I'm gonna get a funnel cake," Ben said. "I'll be right back." He darted off leaving Sarah standing in the middle of a group of obnoxious kids.

  The fair is evil, she thought, watching a little boy throw a half-eaten hot dog at another boy.

  Wetness on her forearm was the sprinkle of holy water for the exorcism that was just about to take place in her mind. She looked down. The drop spread and trickled down to her hand. Sarah felt another drop. Birds, my ass. The rain became steady.

  Ben raced back to Sarah, covering the funnel cake with his hand.

  "No rain, huh?" Sarah asked. "I told you it was raining."

  "I'm sorry."

  Ben shoved half of the fried dough into his mouth, smearing powdered sugar over his nose and goatee. He devoured the treat like a cokehead welcoming home a hit after a stint in rehab.

  "I swear rain wasn't anywhere around us," Ben said, a spittle of cake flew from his mouth.

  Choking, the twenty-first way to die at a fair, Sarah thought. Water tickled her face.

  "Let's find some shelter," Ben said, shoving the rest of the cake in his mouth. He grabbed Sarah's hand. The powder on his fingers mixed with the rain left putty in Sarah's palm.

  So romantic, she thought, as they looked for a place to escape the shower.

  "Look, there," Ben said, pointing to a ride with no line. A red sign flashed the words "Tunnel of Love." The letters shimmered between the raindrops.

  "I'm not going on any rides," Sarah said, digging her heels into the dirt.

  "It's nothing, just a slow romantic ride in the dark. A place to make out," Ben said, winking. His mouth still covered with sugar.

  Really romantic. I could go into a diabetic coma kissing those sugar lips and I don't even have diabetes, she thought. "I'm not going on a ride."

  Lightning danced across the fall sky, illuminating the clouds which showed signs of more rain to come. Thunder clapped in appreciation at the light show.

  Damn it, Sarah thought. Lightning, the thirty-seventh way to die at a fair. "I swear Ben, if this ride is scary; I'm breaking up with you."

  Ben laughed.

  "It's only scary if you don't want to make out with me," he gripped her hand tighter. "Come on before there's a line."

  The red lights grew brighter.

  "See, look, they've been expecting us," Ben said, chuckling and pointing to a smaller sign that read, 'Come Aboard, We've Been Expecting You.'

  A blatant rip-off of The Love Boat.

  "Uh Huh," Sarah said. "I'm serious, Ben. If this is scary, you're history."

  THERE WAS no greeter to take tickets. Cobwebs decorated the entrance which was vacant except for a handwritten sign. The words 'For True Lovers Only, All Others Turn Back Now' written in red ink, smeared across a piece of cardboard.

  "This ride isn't working," Sarah paused and looked around. "There's no one here."

  Before Ben could answer, a voice came over a speaker just above the entrance.

  "Welcome, lovers. Your journey will begin shortly. Hold each other tight. And don't let go."

  There was a slight hitch in the high-pitched male voice.

  "OK, that's creepy," Sarah said.

  "It's going to be fine." Ben hugged her in a valiant effort of reassurance.

  There was a rattling sound of metal — the death rattle. It marked the arrival of a small boat that resembled a gondola.

  "Come aboard, lovers."

  "Yeah, I know, you've been expecting us," Sarah said, under her breath.

  "And watch your step. There is water below," the voice said.

  Sarah looked down to see her face in the ripples of the water's reflection. But instead of Ben's face she saw a skull, mouth gaping open with a river of black liquid flowing from his eyes. She jerked Ben's arm.

  "I'm not going. I can't do this."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I can't do this. I can't. My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest."

  "Hop aboard, lovers. Best not to keep Cupid waiting," the voice said. The words were accentuated by shrill laughter that sounded like a leprechaun who finally found the other end of the rainbow.

  Ben kissed Sarah's cheek. His sweet-smelling, fried breath coupled with her anxiousness nearly made Sarah vomit. Ben stepped into the boat. It rocked. He almost lost his balance before grabbing the side with one hand and extending the other to Sarah.

  "Come on, honey. This will be fun."

  "I can't," she said, taking a step back.

  "Sarah, if you don't get on, you're going to be left here all alone," Ben said.

  The boat shifted, jarring Ben forward. A squeaking sound signaled movement.

  He stuck his hand out further. "Hurry up."

  "You're an asshole," she said, easing into the boat.

  "Sit tight, everyone. The voyage of true lovers is about to begin," the voice said.

  Sitting down, Sarah placed her hand on the hard, plastic seat. A warm thick liquid squished between her fingers and seeped over her hand.

  "What the hell is this?" she asked, holding her fingers in front of the glare from the "Entrance" sign.

  A dark substance covered her fingernails turning them from candy apple red to brick.

  "Is it blood?" she asked.

  Ben laughed.

  "No, honey. It's probably soda that someone spilled," he said, looking at a sign that read 'No Food or Drinks Allowed on Ride.' "You know no one reads those signs."

  "Prepare to fall in love all over again," the voice said. The word fall was drawn-out and over- emphasized.

  The faint sound of a piano started. Anne Murray's "I Just Fall In Love Again" played as paintings of lovers embracing lit up the walls which were covered with moss. The boat trembled on the metal tracks sending vibrations through Ben and Sarah's bodies.

  "That feels funny on my butt," Ben said, wrapping his arm around Sarah. "See, this isn't so bad."

  And it wasn't. Sarah pictured heart-stopping turns and gravity-defying loops. But this was nothing more than an afternoon drive with her grandmother behind the wheel. The boat barely moved.

  "Hold each other tight, we're about to take the big plunge," the voice said.

  The boat picked up speed to a slow crawl.

  "I don't like this, Ben."

  Sarah dug her nails into his bicep.

  "It's fine. The old folks at the mall walk faster than this thing," Ben said.

  A clicking sound caused a pause in the music.

  It's happening again, Sarah thought. I'm getting trapped.


  "Sit back, lovers. This is for your protection," the voice said.

  A black bar lowered and clamped over Ben and Sarah's thighs. Music started again. A different song played — "I'll Never Fall in Love Again," by Dionne Warwick.

  "What the hell is going on?" Sarah asked.

  The floor fell out from underneath the couple. Sarah screamed as the boat plunged. She lifted her arms in the air like kids do when they plummet down a steep hill on a roller coaster. Her shoulder-length brown hair reached out to the heavens for salvation. Ben didn't say a word. Not even a murmur.

  The descent felt as though it would never end. Sarah's future flashed before her eyes — the house, white-picketed fence, and the two kids she'd never have. She felt her stomach in her throat, wrapping around her windpipe, choking her. She coughed trying to expel the killer that was robbing life from her. Sarah couldn't breathe.

  The boat crashed into a pool of water, jarring Sarah, causing her to jerk her head forward. The impact was sort of a Heimlich maneuver. The jolt sent Sarah's stomach back into place, dislodging the lump in her throat. She grabbed her neck, gasping for air.

  Her clothes were soaked from the plunge. Her skin turned to gooseflesh, but Sarah's breathing started to return to normal. The smell of stagnant water and rotting meat singed her nostrils. She called to Ben, but there was no answer. She looked at him, in a faint light from an "Exit" sign, Sarah saw Ben with his eyes closed, head cocked to the side, and a trickle of blood down the bridge of his nose.