"Hi, my name is Blenny, spelled B-L-E-N-N-Y," said the young man to the dreadlocked fellow seated next to him. "I've been working at Shop-Rite since last week. I'm new. What's your name?" The man stank like garbage laced with cigarettes, but Blenny didn't say anything. That would be rude.
"My name is Cyrus, but you can call me Fate," the man answered in a raspy baritone. He tossed his head back and howled, huge bear trap jaws open wide, mirthful eyes squeezed shut.
Blenny was unfazed. "Hi, Cyrus, nice to meet you. My dad works at the post office. His name is Bill. Does your dad know my dad?"
Cyrus did a double take. "I don't know! I don't even know who my daddy is, man, never mind yours!"
"Oh. Do you know my girlfriend, Caroline? Jessica was my girlfriend before, but Caroline's my girlfriend now. She's pretty." (Caroline was the sweet blond volunteer who worked in the cafeteria at Alder Park Assisted Living, where Blenny now resided). His mother had been hesitant to let him leave home, but, after much imploring from Blenny, had eventually relented. He'd been living at Alder Park for six months now, and was very proud of this accomplishment.
"I don't know Caroline neither, kid, but I'll tell you what I do know."
He leaned in toward Blenny, suddenly grave. He kept his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead, talking to Blenny almost out of the side of his mouth. His voice lost its gravel, and became soft and smooth.
"You gonna have one biiiiig adventure today, kid. I guarantee it."
Blenny leaned away from Cyrus, wishing, for maybe the first time ever, that he had heeded his mother's instructions never to talk to strangers. The tone of this man's voice was starting to scare him.
"I'm not a kid, I'm twenty-four." Blenny hugged his arms against his chest. "I'm going to Shop-Rite. I bag groceries there. I'm new."
Cyrus leaned in even closer, keeping his eyes on traffic. He aspirated warm, fetid gusts into Blenny's face with each word. It smelled like a corpse's asshole stuffed to the rim with moldering tuna, like some unhallowed Thanksgiving offering in Sheol. This time, Blenny did not refrain from covering his nose.
Cyrus whispered his next words so softly, his voice was almost lost to the wind.
"Little Blenny Bunting."
Blenny recoiled.
Little Blenny Bunting—that was his nickname, known only to his parents and his best friend, Petey, at Alder Park. How did this scary stranger know his nickname?
"W-w-wha—"
"Be very quiet, Blenny. If you so much as blink, I'll tell that nice new boss of yours you've been stealing candy bars from the stock room, and he'll fire yo ass reeeal quick. Shit, you might even get kicked out of your little halfway house, how'd you like that?"
Blenny stared, shocked. He had never stolen anything from anyone, not since his mother caught him stealing a pack of gum from the store when he was six. Stealing was
a bad, bad thing to do, his mom said, and he would especially never steal from his new boss, nice Mr. Fairweather.
"I never!"
"Be quiet!" Cyrus snarled, whipping his head around to face Blenny with a wild-eyed stare. Blenny jumped. He couldn't speak; he was too terrified.
Cyrus smiled, satisfied. He nodded. "All you need to know," he said, his eyes once more back on traffic, "is that you got a big surprise comin' up today, and we need to keep you on schedule. Your surprise be comin' up real quick."
Now Cyrus' voice rose to the raucous, gravelly shout Blenny had first heard. "You goin' on a wild ride today, boy, yes indeed!" He doubled over with lunatic laughter.
Terrified, Blenny sat and stared rigidly ahead. The faintly surfacing stars seemed to be peeking at him, leering at him, from behind gray translucent cloud drifts in the rapidly blackening silver sky. Pedestrians hurrying by seemed far away, far on the opposite side of a glass winter world Blenny was unable to reach.
His tongue darted madly in his open mouth. He wanted to shout for help, but what if Cyrus told Mr. Fairweather lies about him? He might lose his job, his new home; it was too much to risk.
On the sidewalk in front of them, a hurrying man with gold spectacles and a long duster gave the chortling Cyrus a dirty look, and shouted "Quiet down! This is a public place." Blenny's heart leaped—maybe the man would come over and make this nightmare stop!
"Hey, fuck off, man!" Cyrus shouted, giving the man the same one-fingered signal Blenny's mom had told him was "A BIG NO-NO."
The man furrowed his brow and shook his head, but—worst of all—kept on walking. Helpless, Blenny watched his retreating back until it disappeared into the Hollywood Video on the next block. He wanted to yell, "Help! Come back, mister, please!" but knew he wasn't allowed to. Now he was all alone.
Cyrus whipped his crazed, grinning face toward Blenny. "Get ready for your surprise, Blenny! It's-a gonna be a doozy!"
Blenny burrowed into his coat as far as he could, squinched his eyes shut, and pleaded with Jesus: if He made the bus appear this very instant, and/or made Cyrus disappear, he would wash dishes at Alder Park for a whole month, and he would do it with a smile.
Cyrus hooted and cackled on.
A few minutes later the bus did pull up, looming over the shelter like an enormous metal caterpillar on wheels. Blenny heaved a shuddering sigh of relief.
The bus' doors accordioned open with their customary metallic wheeze. Blenny started up the steps, then halted. Strangely, the driver grinning down from the driver's seat was not Clifford, the jolly Irishman who had captained Route 6 for as far back as Blenny could remember. In his stead sat a pallid, skeletal shadowslip of a man with round glasses and thin, greasy blond hair tied back in a ponytail under a blue conductor's cap.
"All aboard, Blenny!" said the driver, tipping his cap. His voice was high, feminine.
Blenny gawped at the strange driver, then flicked a glance toward Cyrus, who waved at him from the bus stop. Blenny shuddered. "You know me too?" he asked warily.
The driver winked. He blew a greasy strand of hair off one sharp cheekbone, and said, "I suppose you could say that. You'd better hop on quick though, Blenny, before our good friend Cyrus there decides to board the ol' Route 6 dragon himself." He gestured toward Cyrus, who blew a kiss at Blenny from the bus stop.
A saucer-eyed Blenny threw himself up the bus' steps. He knocked his shins a good one, but hardly noticed. With shaking hands, he dropped his quarters into the coin box, then plunked down into one of the bus's brown plastic seats.
"I need to go to Shop-Rite, Mister. I work there. I'm new."
The driver smiled; the bus lurched forward.
Today there would be no animated conversation with Clifford (nor anyone else), for Blenny recognized neither of the other two passengers on board. He sat, silent, engulfed in an alien emotion that wouldn't quite show itself to his conscious mind. It twisted and shifted beneath the deep waters of awareness, a dark serpentine shape that undulated just beyond the periphery of vision. Blenny sighed and stared blankly out the window.
A pair of watchful eyes beneath a blue conductor's cap glanced at Blenny from the rearview mirror, corners creased in a mirthful smile.
The bus coasted onward.
Of the other two passengers, one was an obese, mustachioed man with shaggy blondish hair and cracked bifocals who sat clutching a walker. He dozed in and out of a snore-filled, drooling sleep, jerking awake when the bus hit a pothole only to stare blankly ahead until dozing off again. The other passenger, a stooped old lady in a violet polyester coat with rows of huge cloth buttons, continually startled Blenny and the mustachioed man with loud, random exclamations wondering where "the kitty" was.
Blenny had almost fallen asleep when the driver belted out, "Oh, we are getting so much closer!" shouting the last word so loud Blenny jumped in his seat.
At the volume spike of the word 'closer,' the fat man opened his eyes and glared at the driver, clearly irritated out of his slumber. The old lady cast him her own gimlet glare.
"Where's the kitty?" she snapped. "Is he hiding near the planter?
For God's sake, Albert, I told you to close the door!"
Blenny pooched his lip out. "For crying out loud! There's no kitty here!"
Blenny looked over at the obese man, and noticed a wetness spreading around his crotch. The guy noticed him staring. He smiled in return, exposing broken rows of jaundiced pegs.
"Stop! That man peed his pants!" yelled Blenny, pointing.
The fat man just uttered a phlegmy gurgle deep in his chest.
The old lady chimed in. "Where's the kitty? For God's sake, Albert, did you leave the door open again?"
"There’s no kitty!" yelled Blenny. He knew his mother would never tolerate him yelling at a stranger, but after the weird, stressful day he'd endured, he felt like he was going to explode. "There’s no surprise! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
Seized by panic, he yanked his hood over his face, grimacing. For crying out loud, what was this? Where was Clifford? Why was this happening? He had to get off this bus.
The harsh neon overhead lights began to blink; the rearview mirror reflected a pair of watchful eyes under a blue conductor's cap and a slowly widening grin.
Blenny was so distressed, he failed to notice that a huge black spider with a body like an arthritic knuckle had lowered itself onto his shoulder. When its furry black shape finally caught his eye, he leaped up and began jumping up and down screaming bloody murder.
"Icky bug, icky bug!" he yelled, beating at his coat.
The obese man stared, smiling a vacant, demented smile. The old lady joined in the fracas, screaming "Get the kitty! Albert, get the kitty! Blenny! Albert! Get the kitty!"
It was too much for Blenny to handle. He bellowed out one final "Uuuuhhh," then fainted dead away in his seat.
***
Blenny awoke on the side of a residential street that he had never before seen in his life. The lampposts glowing like torches in the dark told him that some time had passed; how much, he didn't know, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. All he knew was that his hands and ears felt like the ice block turkeys his mom stored in the freezer for their dinners, and his head ached something fierce. He scrambled for his mittens, then looked around.
Slowly and arduously, he squinted his eyes and sounded out a signpost: Bleak Street, it read. Fear as bright and lethal as blood slithered down his spine. Where was he? Did Cyrus put him here? For crying out loud, he'd never get to Shop-Rite now.
He buried his face in the orange cotton of his coat to escape the bitter wind. It was nighttime now: the stars gleamed like needle tips in a very dark, very cold winter sky. Mr. Fairweather would be very concerned by now, and would probably even have called his parents. He'd better hurry up and find someone to help him out of here.
On the left side of the road was a blacktopped parking lot in front of a two-story brown building. No lights shone in any of its many rows of windows. It radiated an aura like a haunted beehive; Blenny knew there was no one there to help him.
On the other side of the road was a small baseball diamond lit by a few tall streetlights. In the distance, a high stand of pines shivered and huddled as if clutching each other desperately for warmth. There was not a single person in sight.
Being alone like this was scary, but not as scary as being on the bus with those crazy people, or being with Cyrus. He thought of Cyrus' lunatic laughter, and uttered a quiet, "Uuuhh."
Apparently, there was no living creature near this wasted street, except...
Blenny jumped as an emaciated black dog seemed to materialize in the middle of the street.
Its eyes were rolled back in its head. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, spraying foamy spittle. Patches of its fur were missing. It possessed only stumps for hind legs, so it dragged its hindquarters along the ground, jerking its head spasmodically from side to side as it heaved along toward him.
Ordinarily, Blenny loved dogs, but this was not a dog he wanted to pet.
"Icky dog, icky dog!" he yelled, and ran down the road and across the baseball diamond, feeling like a bug about to be squashed by an enormous fly swatter descending from above. He could feel danger crackling in every direction. His thoughts were jumbled, as if the airwaves in his mind had been inundated by a barrage of criss-crossing radio signals.
Icky dog! Icky bug!
Where is everyone? Where are all the cars?
(Wild ride today...Surprise!)
Scattered lines of small, vacant houses flew past him as he ran, conjuring images of a broken Christmas miniature village on a haunted mantelpiece. His sides ached, and the November draft stung his cheeks and seared his lungs, but still he pressed on—until, what seemed like hours later, Blenny rounded the pine stand and stumbled upon a village.
He breathed hard, looking wildly around for someone, anyone. Something seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.
Ghosts.
Blenny rapped balled fists on his head, clenching his eyes shut. "Sh-sh-shut up," he muttered. There's no such thing as ghosts. Dad said so. He tried to sing over the bad thoughts.
"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."
Ghosts...Not Real!
"...all through the town."
The village was like a trailer court, only instead of trailers, there were about twenty busses lying on their sides and roofs in an overgrown lot surrounded by pines. Wheels spun lackadaisically in the wind. Some busses were half-buried in the snow. Many of their windows were broken, and all looked like felled dinosaurs being slowly devoured by the elements.
A hum vibrated throughout the lot. It sounded like something mechanical, electrical...
There must be someone here!
Blenny stepped uncertainly forward. "H-hello? Hello? S-somebody, please help! I'm lost!"
No answer.
Suddenly, he heard a thud. He jumped, looking around wildly; nothing...then, a voice: "Over here, Blenny. Come, now." The voice was an old lady's thin, papery cackle. A light popped on in one of the busses.
Shaking, Blenny trudged toward it. He didn't want to go on that icky dead bus, but what choice did he have? He couldn't stand around freezing to death in the cold. He
proceeded on, hands clutching his forearms and singing a monotone, tuneless song:
"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."
The lighted bus was sunken a few feet into the snow. Blenny mounted its two visible steps.
Before he could even raise his hand to knock, the doors opened, presenting a woman so old she reminded Blenny of a scarecrow. He looked down to where she sat in her wheelchair. She was bald and wore white petticoats with a stained but elaborate-looking poplin dress. Her eyes were gray discs hovering above a red-rimmed horizon.
"Come in," she croaked. "I am Iris Pubefant."
The butterflies in Blenny's stomach flared up anew, beating mad wings upon tight prison walls. This was a bad, bad place, and that old lady was bad too.
But he needed help him finding his way home. Mom and Dad must be beside themselves by now, and he knew that Mr. Fairweather would be, too.
Iris backed her wheelchair down the aisle. With one brittle white hand, she gestured Blenny in. Immediately, the nostril-choke of cat piss assaulted Blenny's nose. His mouth hung ajar. He was so petrified he didn't even think to spell his name out for Iris in his customary introduction.
The second thing Blenny noticed was a glass fruit bowl sitting lamely on the driver's seat. Rummage sale yellows and faded purples proclaimed the knick-knack's antiquity with melancholy layers of dust. The spirit of the entire bus village seemed contained within this one object.
Blenny looked beyond the fruit dish, and gasped.
The bus was filled with dolls.
Hundreds of them lined the seats. They stared back at Blenny with faded glass eyes that looked as though they had witnessed centuries elapse. Most were cracked so badly, Blenny thought they would crumble to dust if he dared to put even one finger to their ancient porcelain cheeks.
/> Wordless images filled Blenny's mind. The dolls—so old, so melancholy, so brittle—had survived centuries only to become the lonely relics of dead children. Although the children (the dolls had belonged to) had long ago lived, died, and long lay in their graves, he knew that the dolls themselves were very much alive.
Blenny goggled. There was an army of dolls here—they could easily converge upon him and tear the skin off his bones with their dull porcelain teeth, if they so desired. He knew that they would laugh with the voices of dead children as they did.
Sh-sh-shut up, not real.
Iris wheeled up to Blenny, cutting off his frightful daydreams. "It's almost time for your surprise, Blenny," she said. "This is certainly a very special mission that only one special boy could accomplish. Are you excited to discover what it is?"
Blenny cringed. Up close, he saw that Iris' dentures were wooden. Cracked and ancient, she looked very much like one of her dolls.
"Can you—c-c-can you—"
Suddenly, something moved. At the rear of the bus, one doll stood out from the rest.
Her wide cornflower-blue eyes stared brightly beneath wispy black lashes. She smiled at Blenny with fissured apple cheeks and fading, delicately painted freckles. She wore a frilly blue dress with a white apron, frilly white socks, and black patent leather shoes. Her auburn pigtails shook. She was gyrating rapidly.
At first, Blenny's eyes did not register the horror of what they were witnessing—however, it took only seconds for horrid comprehension to dawn.
The doll was masturbating with a toy shovel.
For the second time that day, everything. Went. Black.
***
The bus blurred back into vision some time later. Blenny raised his head and saw Iris Pubefant rocking back and forth in her wheelchair. She was smiling in an empty way that, to a wiser observer, would have indicated an imminent walk through dementia's doors. Her hands were folded neatly over a pig-tailed doll on her lap.
"Do you like my collection?" she inquired.
"I g-gotta go now. Gotta go home. B-bye." Blenny jumped up.
Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Page 22
