Swallowed By The Cracks e-Pub

by Lee Thomas, Gary McMahon, S. G. Browne, Michael Marshall Smith

  The whole scenario made for a rather impractical practical joke.

  Still, the paranoia was in his head, and for the next hour he checked his credit card and bank account statements online. He studied each transaction and played it against his memory but his financial records indicated no action beyond the authorized deductions for automatic bill payments and the few charges for CDs and DVDs he'd purchased online. He returned to his "sent mail" file and read the note to Barry again.

  Sorry, sorry, sorry!

  Throughout his exploration, a dull ache rose in his joints and the pain in his head persisted. By the time he closed the note of apology this last time, still confused by its content and origin, his face was shiny with sweat, and his back hurt.

  His thirst returned. He left the office and made it halfway across the living room before his knees turned to liquid. Walter saved himself from a damaging fall only by clutching the arm of his sectional. He considered calling an ambulance as he navigated himself onto the sofa cushions, but reconsidered. He'd had food poisoning before and in the previous instance it had been much worse than this.

  Walter lay down to let the cool grain of his leather sectional soothe his warm cheek and neck.

  But as he grew drowsy, Walter thought about a grizzled old ghoul, killing a Marquis and penning notes to the dead man's relations. He thought about The Voice on the Phone, and a dark shape inviting a young girl out for "some fun" while chewing on the decomposing flesh of her boyfriend.

  The soothing coolness of the leather hardened, dried and became like ashes on his skin. Walter spun in a tight arc until he again stood on an avenue of dust in a city of glass.

  This time, Barry stood at his side, holding Walter's hand in a painful grip. He stepped forward and yanked, trying to get Walter to follow. Walter resisted. The Teek, wearing forest green trench coats, wandered beyond the panels of glass. There were so many of them; they were everywhere. He tried to resist Barry's insistence.

  But the man was strong and his efforts were supported by a gusting wind at their backs, and Walter's feet slid in the dust, kicking up filthy ephemeral wings from his heels. He struggled harder. He didn't want to get near the glass tapestries or the creatures that roamed between the panes.

  Barry turned an angry face on him.

  "You can't shut it all out, Walter," he called, his voice still barely audible over the desert wind. "You can't live behind the glass, because that is where they hunt. Do you understand that, Walter? Do you?"

  Desperate to be free of Barry's demanding grasp, Walter yanked his arm so forcefully that the bones and cartilage in his hand snapped. Walter fell back in the dust and gazed up in wonder.

  Barry was still in front of him, but a paper-thin sheet of glass the size of a common household door stood between them. Through the glass, Barry gave him a final, mournful gaze and then turned away, leaving him alone in a settling cloud of dust.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Walter woke on the sofa with a foul taste in his mouth and a horrible scent in his nose. He wiped his eyes and sat up on the sectional. A dull ache thudded in his belly and chest and the act of lifting himself from the cushions seemed to take all of his energy. He balanced on his feet for several moments until he felt that he could move without toppling over, and then Walter walked to the bathroom in his office.

  Slowly, he brushed his teeth and covered the horrible taste in his mouth with minty paste. In the mirror, his face and eyes seemed to rest beneath a veil of dust.

  …a drug compound, administered with a filthy hypodermic needle, to expedite the death and decay of his victims…

  The fragment of text flashed into his head and was followed by the image of a woman in green, racing over a crowded sidewalk as Walter's shoulder flared in pain.

  He shook as if a stream of ice water cascaded down his spine. He spit in the sink; the foamy white paste was veined with brown and burnt yellow streaks. Gray flecks floated on the unwholesome foam. Disgusted, he ran the faucet to clean away the ugly wad, rinsed his mouth, and felt another wave of freezing cold crash down on his neck.

  …damned forever to exist on a diet of putrescence and decay…

  The terrible definition of the Teek continued to play in his head and the images of his dreams – the arid plain, the towers of glass and the things behind the glass illustrated the tale. He stumbled from the bathroom and clutched at the wall to keep from falling.

  Already his efforts to erase the miserable, filthy taste with brush and paste began to fade as the dull flavor of rot rode over his mouth on a tide of mint. Walter closed his eyes, which were already filling with tears. Panic surged and then faded, muffled by the pain that had begun to radiate from his shoulder.

  He must call help; he needed an ambulance.

  He fell into his desk chair and reached for the telephone.

  It rang, and with an excruciating effort he lifted the headset from the cradle.

  "Help me," he said, his voice raw and breathy. His lungs hung behind his ribs like dry bags of flour, heavy and rigid. "Help."

  "Walter, what's wrong?"

  The man's familiar voice was at first welcome, but the comfort of his tone soon rose to a siren-pitched alarm in Walter's head. He remembered snippets of his dreams, remembered the man with the wheat-colored hair trying to drag him toward the towering panels of glass and the creatures prowling the dust between them. As Barry continued to speak anxiously on the distant connection, Walter felt hope slip away.

  Only briefly did he consider that his convictions were irrational, but that voice was a whisper among screams.

  "Walter? Are you there?"

  Their date had been a trap; he saw that now. Barry had drawn him out into the dangerous world and one of his kind, the woman in the green trench coat, had injected Walter with sickness. He had to get Barry off the phone, had to call for…

  The weight of the phone doubled with every second he held it. Already it felt like he held an iron to the side of his head – then, a bowling ball. He couldn't keep his grip much longer as the ache in his shoulder had become unbearable.

  "Walter, what's your address? Give me your address so I can help you. Walter?"

  No, he thought, struggling to keep his grip on the headset. He didn't want him (didn't want them) to know where he lived. They'd come for him; they'd find him; they'd…

  He dropped the phone and leaned back in the chair, his eyes locked on the glowing screen of his computer monitor.

  An instant message box blipped open.

  GDTLP: Where ya been?

  Walter fell forward. He caught himself before crashing face first on the keyboard, his head swirling with hungry faces and transparent buildings. He gasped for air and the effort shot bolts of pain throughout his body.

  After a tremendous effort, he got his fingers positioned on the keyboard and wrote.

  WH61: Hel…

  From the front of his house, he heard glass breaking. His head lolled on his shoulders and a cry of panic sounded in his torso. The front door opened with a dry whoosh and a foot clicked quietly on the tile in the entryway. But he might have been imagining these sounds; he couldn't be certain. His pulse was too loud in his ears; his head hurt so badly that he couldn't be sure.

  GDTLP: Hel? LOL! Can't even write hello?

  A board groaned in the living room. This time, he heard the sound clearly, like a sheep bleating from a great distance. He struggled to look away from the screen. More footsteps joined the first.

  He panted frantically trying to fill his flour-sack lungs with air and again put his fingers on the keyboard. With great effort, he managed to write a simple note:

  WH61: 911 intruders here

  Walter fell back against his chair, exhausted by his exertion as the sound of footsteps whispere
d in the hall.

  GDTLP: I know.

  Barely able to keep his eyes open, Walter squinted to make out the message. When the words became clear their meaning connected in his mind like the terminals of a battery. Panic shot in painful waves through his failing system.

  GDTLP: Our path led us from a woman named Tess to a man named Gary. From Gary we found a man named Walter and from Walter we will find the next.

  The lines of blurry script wormed into his head, and Walter spun in the chair, attempting a final act of flight. He made it to his feet and took one lumbering step forward, but his leg maintained its integrity for only a moment. The corrupted bone and muscle crumpled under his weight, popping and snapping as he toppled forward. He cried out as gravity took hold. A spray of filth jetted from his throat and over his lips, spattering the carpet moments before he crashed to the floor, pinning and crushing an arm beneath him.

  Numb and broken, Walter scratched at the carpet with the arm that had not shattered. The nails pulled back and the tips eroded, coating the fibers in a foul porridge. Shadows fell over him, blocking out the glow of his computer monitor. The Teek entered the room and gathered around him; he saw their black shoes and the hems of their green trench coats, and he felt their eyes on him.

  Something was spread out next to him. Walter tried to see what it was, but couldn't turn his head. A moment later, he was being rolled onto a clear plastic tarp. They lifted him and carried him across the hall to the bathroom, set him gently in the tub. He tried to obey the panic in his mind and struggle, but his arms and legs were useless. One of the creatures carrying him leaned in to look at his eyes.

  The woman's face was almost human. Thick brown hair swept back from a normal looking brow, but her eyes lacked irises, just a black dot of pupil amid a glistening lens of white. Pronounced and narrow ridges at the cheekbones gave the woman a gaunt appearance. Walter noticed her mouth was filled with short blunt teeth like those of a baby. Distantly, he wondered if she was the monster that had grabbed his shoulder.

  Another Teek pushed into his view. He came at Walter with a pair of shears. Walter's heartbeat raced, bringing sharp pains to his chest.

  Carefully, the Teek cut away his clothing. A layer of skin and hair peeled away with the fabric.

  Don't, he thought. Please don't.

  More Teek pushed into the bathroom. Now there were five of them. Walter lay naked, looking up at them, unable to bear the sight of his rotting body. They all had the same iris-less eyes and the sharp facial bones. One male lightly licked his upper lip as he stared down at Walter.

  Tears spilled over Walter's cheeks. His struggle apparent only in the twitching of his left index finger.

  His clothing, now nothing more than swatches of material, made filthy by his decaying flesh, was distributed among the tribe. The Teek lunged for their share of the fabric. They licked and chewed on the torn clothing, slurping at the foul meat clinging to the fibers.

  Walter's body convulsed, but his weak muscles responded with little more than a shudder. Please help me, his panicked mind begged. Please. Please. Please.

  His index finger stopped twitching. The tears stopped flowing. His body could no longer manage these simple tasks.

  Then the numbness spread to his mind and the faces above him blurred; they faded. And a flare of panic, like the popping of a flash bulb, ignited as he endured a final, desperate wonder:

  Would anyone, anyone at all, notice he was gone?

  «-ô-»

  I'm Your Violence

  By Lee Thomas

  The victim's name was Charles Clarke. He was fifty-eight years old and apparently in good health – prior to death. Clarke had plans with friends to try a new trendy restaurant downtown before catching the premiere of Hole, a somber little play at the Wilkes Repertory Theatre on Jackson Street. He never showed for dinner, and he didn't answer calls. These behaviors were unlike Clarke, or so his friends claimed when they called the police station just after 9:00 p.m. A patrol car was dispatched and finding the back door ajar the officers entered and announced themselves before investigating the scene. Clarke was found in his bedroom.

  The officers who found the body reported the victim looked as if he'd been run through a food processor.

  Detective Dean Kaiser rolled this information around in his head as he ground his cigarette into the car's ashtray and exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke over the dashboard. He stepped from the car. Icy wind sliced along the collar of his overcoat and caressed his cheeks like frigid palms. He pulled the coat tight over his chest and hurried toward the house.

  Two patrol cars had joined the first in the street outside of the house for a total of three. Four officers wrangled the dozen or so neighbors who'd been drawn into the cold night by flashing lights and the prospect of a glimpse at some intriguing misfortune. A waist-high wrought iron fence ran across the front of the property, beyond it a low rise of lawn, beyond this a circular drive, beyond this a three-story Edwardian home, which in any other part of the city might have been considered a mansion, but amid the opulent domiciles in the Country Club neighborhood seemed simply typical.

  An unattractive officer with skin like a bleached pumpkin rind met Dean at the door. The officer nodded. Despite the cold, sweat clung to the young man's brow. Dean pegged him as a rookie who'd just seen too much, trying desperately to keep from losing his dinner to the bushes.

  That bad? he wondered. Food processor, he remembered.

  Inside he found another young officer, this one built heavier with a soft pudgy face and cool blue eyes. He approached the kid.

  "Where's he at?" Dean asked.

  "Upstairs. Third door on the left."

  "Has Detective Harper arrived?"

  A nod of the round head sent Dean up the stairs. He followed a red Persian runner along the corridor. A shape broke the light coming from an open doorway ahead, casting a shadow in the dimly lighted hall.

  Dean stepped into the room and saw Reg Harper on the far side of the bed. The man was looking down at the remains of Charles Clarke, which covered the bed in a crimson paste. His skin had been ripped away. Fluids still leaked from the body. The skull and sternum appeared to float in a puddle of blood and viscera. Bits of bone, yellow fat and pale skin showed like vegetables in a shiny stew. Blood pasted similar tissues to the headboard and wall in a ragged fan pattern.

  "Watch your step," Harper said, his voice low and gritty. He pointed his index finger, which was gloved in latex. "He's all over the place."

  "Jesus," Dean whispered, casting his eyes downward. His stomach rolled. He pulled a pair of protective gloves from the pocket of his jacket and snapped them on, before picking his way across the bedroom to join Harper. This vantage was worse.

  The victim's right hand had avoided the kind of damage the rest of his body had endured. Slathered in blood, it hung over the side of the bed, dripping. Dean made out the shape of a ring with a large stone on the pinkie.

  "You ever seen anything like this before?" Harper asked.

  "No," Dean replied. "Any idea what did it?"

  "I'm guessing it wasn't a butterfly."

  "I meant the weapon."

  Harper stepped toward the bed and reached out with a latex-covered hand to grab the dangling arm. Coagulating blood acted like a poor adhesive; the sheet lifted with the arm then peeled away.

  "Look at the wrist," he said.

  Dean leaned forward and immediately saw what Harper meant. The marks punched through the skin. Darker blood filled them.

  They were made with human teeth.

  * * * * *

  Dean stood on the porch smoking while the forensic teams worked over the house. The medical examiner had already confirmed Harper's supposition regarding the cause of death.

  You're telling us he was eaten alive?


  Not eaten. There's too much tissue here. Yes, his attacker removed the flesh with his teeth, possibly even masticated the tissue to some degree, but he spit much of it out. You can see it all around the body and on the floor. Clarke wasn't cannibalized, at least not completely. On the up side, your boys can make some good dental casts, and saliva samples are a given. You catch this guy and you'll have no trouble confirming the ID.

  How long would it take to do that to a body?

  As long as the killer wanted, the ME said. On the short end it wouldn't take long. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. I'd only be guessing. I've never run into anything like this before.

  Neither had Dean, and he didn't know what to make of it. He took another drag off his smoke and surveyed the sidewalk and the crowd milling there. Concerned faces hovered above the low wrought iron fence. Many of the aggregated gawkers hadn't dressed for the cold. A woman in a terry cloth robe trembled. Next to her a man built like a linebacker, wearing nothing but cargo shorts and an olive green T-shirt at least one size too small for his stocky build hugged himself against the cold. The guy laid a hard stare on Dean, an expression of unapologetic lust.

  Maybe some other time, Dean thought. The guy was attractive, no question, but his timing sucked.

  Harper appeared in the doorway, his face screwed into an uncomfortable grimace. "You need to see this."

  "There's more?"

  "Yeah," Harper said. He sighed. "We just hit a whole new level of fucked up."

  Dean dropped his cigarette on the porch and ground it out, then he bent down to retrieve the butt. He dropped it in the front pocket of his chinos and followed Harper into the house.

  Harper led him back up the stairs but instead of returning to the bedroom and its grisly content they continued down the hall and entered a home office, where he found sleek furniture and multiple flat screen monitors on a broad glass and iron desk. Harper crossed the room to a laser printer. With a pair of tweezers he lifted a sheet from the tray and held it by the corner, dangling it in Dean's face.