Boondocks Fantasy

by Jean Rabe

  There were a lot of boxes, a bicycle, and some suitcases. Most of it looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the Vicksons separated over a year ago. Probably full of stuff from the conjugal home that he had removed and hadn’t bothered putting into his new place.

  Bill inhaled deeply through his nose.

  No strange smells. And yet . . .

  His eyes focused on a trunk sitting on the floor, in the back behind most of the boxes. Bill’s extra-sharp vision could see a trail of footprints in the dust that went around the boxes. Vickson apparently only visited the storage unit to access the trunk.

  Another padlock.

  Bill crouched, quickly removed it, and opened the container. As he gazed at the contents, he rubbed his chin and nodded.

  Inside were sets of clothes that might have belonged to hookers—short skirts, mesh stockings, high heels . . . One of the blouses was bloodstained. A shoebox contained locks of hair, individually bound and tagged. “Rita.” “Candy.”

  It made Bill sick to his stomach. Contrary to what religious humans believed, he was quite capable of feeling empathy for the innocent. It had always been a misconception that beings of his type were soulless and cruel, but that just wasn’t true. Like any of the other overseers, Bill had a job to do and he did it without hesitation or remorse. It had been that way throughout time.

  And tonight he would do it again.

  Stephen Vickson conveniently lived in a trailer in the park near the storage facility. It was supposedly a crime-ridden area, but Bill figured the neighbors were all roughnecks who worked all day, got drunk in the evening, and slept like the dead at night. It seemed quiet enough.

  “He was such a nice neighbor. Friendly, but kept to himself.”

  It’s what they always said. Some things never changed.

  A Japanese-made SUV was parked in the drive beside the trailer. The mobile home wasn’t very large—probably had a bedroom, a small living room in the middle, and a cramped kitchen. Bill wondered where the secrets were hidden.

  A light was on in the living room. Bill finished what certainly wouldn’t be his last cigarette of the day, crushed the butt underfoot, and then stepped up to peer in the window.

  Stephen Vickson sat in a recliner, watching a television that sat on a portable freezer unit, the kind used for storing meat. The man was dressed in boxer shorts, an undershirt, and house slippers. There were three empty, crushed beer cans on the floor beside the chair, and he had another one in his right hand. The TV remote was in his left. The guy was perhaps just a few years older than Mary Sue. What was once a manly physique had turned to flab. Even from outside, Bill could tell that Vickson smelled of sweat and guilt. The man probably didn’t think much about it, though. He was quite used to doing what he did for a hobby. Only in the dead of night, when his dreams turned into nightmares, was Stephen Vickson forced to confront his crimes. It was no wonder the creep was an alcoholic.

  Bill had been studying humans for centuries, and he still didn’t understand why one would do those things. He’d seen it countless times. How did they live with themselves? He shook his head, moved away from the window, and knocked on the front door.

  He heard Vickson shuffle to the door. “Who is it?”

  “My name is Bill,” he answered politely. “Open up, Mister Vickson.”

  “Bill? Bill who?”

  “I’m a private investigator, Mister Vickson.” He knew that would motivate the guy.

  “Uhm, I’m not dressed. Hold on a second.”

  “That’s not necessary. Just open the door or I’ll break it down. Sir.” Bill’s voice could be very persuasive when he wanted it to be.

  Vickson unlatched and opened the door. His eyes were wide, more with anger than with fear. He looked Bill up and down and squinted. “You’re a cop?”

  “May I come in?”

  “You have ID?”

  Bill whipped out his wallet. Showed him the license.

  “You’re not a cop! You’re a private dick.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Get out of here before I call the real cops,” Vickson threatened as he started to close the door.

  “Go ahead and call ’em, Mister Vickson. Tell ’em what you’ve got hidden in the ice box.”

  That stopped the man. “What?”

  “Let me in, Mister Vickson. We need to talk.”

  Now the fear seeped into his eyes. “No.”

  Bill’s nostrils flared. He summoned the voice he used in extreme circumstances. The one he applied when he wanted undivided obedience.

  “Step aside. I’m coming in.”

  Bill pushed his way past Vickson, who stood there agape. He looked ridiculous in his underclothing. The beer was still in his right hand. Bill took it from him, shut the door and locked it, and set the can on a coffee table. He walked over to the television set and turned it off.

  “What do you want?” Vickson asked.

  “Let’s open the freezer.”

  The man shook his head. “There’s nothing in there.”

  Bill stared at the pathetic human. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Honest! Look, who are you? Who sent you here? What do you want?”

  “You asked that already. I want you to open the freezer.” Bill turned his back on the man and shoved the television set off the unit. It crashed on the floor, spurting electricity and smoke. Bill squatted to open the freezer, which was secured with a combination lock.

  “What the . . . Get the hell out of here! Now!”

  Bill felt the man behind him. He slowly turned to see Vickson holding a shotgun, pointed directly at him.

  “You’ll want to put that down, Mister Vickson,” Bill said.

  “No.” The man trembled. “I’ll shoot you! Don’t think I won’t! You’re trespassing!”

  Bill held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  “No!”

  “Give me the gun.”

  Vickson’s eyes went blank with fright and confusion. Bill stepped forward and gently took the shotgun from the man’s hands. Bill then spoke calmly, as if he were a priest. “Don’t be afraid, Mister Vickson. Show me your secrets. They’re inside the freezer, aren’t they? There’s no need to hide them anymore. Free yourself. Stop the torment. Show me your soul.”

  As if in a trance, Vickson wavered and then slowly nodded. Bill let the man pass him. Vickson stared at the freezer.

  “Show me,” Bill gently prodded. “Go on. It will do you good.”

  Vickson swallowed and bent down to twist the combination knob. Bill knew the man was eager to unload his burden. At the moment of reckoning, they all were.

  Finally, the lock opened. Vickson hesitated a moment, glared at the top of the freezer, and started to cry.

  Bill squatted beside the man and flipped open the lid.

  A woman’s foot. Attached to a leg, bent at the knee. Other body parts folded to fit neatly in the ice box.

  Bill sighed heavily and stood. “As I thought.”

  “Wha-wha-what are you going to do?” Vickson blubbered.

  The private investigator turned to face the murderer. “You know you must pay for your crimes, don’t you?”

  The man swallowed. “Yes.”

  “You know there is no redemption for you. What you have done is very serious. Very serious indeed.”

  “I-I understand. What do I gotta do?”

  “Mister Vickson, take comfort in knowing that there is a place for you. My employer will welcome you with open arms. You won’t be alone. There are others—many others—just like you. It’s a place where you’ll find acceptance.”

  “R-r-really?”

  “I do not lie about such things.”

  “What must I do?”

  Bill told him.

  “No! I-I-I can’t do that. I won’t do that! I’m-I’m a Christian. It’s-it’s a sin!”

  “And this wasn’t? Mister Vickson, you must. It’s the only way out.”

  “Never! I’d rather go to pr
ison!”

  “Prison? My dear Mister Vickson, you would receive the death penalty. There would be no prison for you.”

  Stephen Vickson shook his head, backed away, and fell over the coffee table.

  “No! I won’t! Go away! Get out! Leave me alone!”

  Bill closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was only one thing to do. It was the last resort. It always was. Bill didn’t particularly enjoy shedding his human disguise and revealing his true self to mortals. The result was never pleasant. However, it never failed to accomplish his goal.

  Stephen Vickson crawled away from the intruder and cowered in the kitchen. He shuddered, hid his head, and cried for mercy. “Please don’t make me do it! Please don’t make me do—”

  A strange sound interrupted his rant. A loud buzzing, unlike anything Vickson had heard before. The noise filled the mobile home, beckoning him to raise his head and look. But he was afraid. Something awful was there.

  The buzzing continued . . . and somehow Vickson understood what it meant. The thing in the room was communicating with him. Ordering him to open his eyes. Commanding him to behold the emissary from hell.

  Vickson couldn’t ignore the charge. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from under his arms, and opened his eyes.

  It was as big as a cow. The gigantic fly hovered in the trailer living room, its thousand eyes piercing holes through Stephen Vickson’s soul.

  The man screamed in holy terror.

  Bill lit the first cigarette of the morning, sat back in his office chair with a cup of hot coffee on the desk, and opened that day’s Limite Herald.

  There it was, right on the front page.

  TRAILER PARK MONSTER DEAD.

  Underneath that—BODY PARTS FOUND IN SUSPECT’S MOBILE HOME.

  Bill scanned the article but already knew what it said. Late last night police received a telephone tip from an anonymous source to check out the trailer of one Stephen Vickson. The unidentified caller told them that the front door would be unlocked and open. Squad cars rushed to the scene and discovered Vickson’s body in the bedroom. He had apparently died of a heart attack. Pieces of the women’s corpses had been stored in the man’s freezer since their disappearances. The sad case was now closed.

  Bill folded the paper and set it down. He searched the desk for the scrap of paper on which he had jotted down Mary Sue Vickson’s contact info. He found it, picked up the black phone, and dialed her number. A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize answered.

  “Is Mary Vickson there?” he asked politely.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Tell her it’s Bill, er, Detective Bubb.”

  “Just a second. . . .”

  He heard some shuffling and muffled voices. Finally, Mary got on the phone and said, “Well, speak of the devil. I was just talking about you.” She sniffed and blew her nose. She had been crying. She was upset.

  “You were?”

  “I was telling my friend Dorothy here how I’d gone to see you yesterday. And then . . . uhm . . . oh, Mister Bubb. Have you heard the news? I got a call from the police this morning.”

  Bill grunted. “Yeah, I know. I saw the paper. Are you all right?”

  She exhaled heavily. “I guess so. It’s a shock. I feel so . . . horrible. Those poor women.”

  “It’s not your fault, Mary. Don’t even go there.”

  “I know.” She sniffed. “I just can’t help it, though.”

  “You’ll feel better in a few days. Look at it this way. The guy was stopped. Take comfort that he won’t kill again.”

  He could imagine the tears running down her lovely cheekbones. Bill wished he could tenderly kiss them away.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I . . . I guess you won’t need to work on the case after all.”

  “No, I guess not.” He hesitated for a second before going on. “Hey, listen. After a while . . . next week, maybe . . . you wanna have a drink with me or something?”

  “Why, Mister Bubb!” She half-laughed, half-sobbed. “That’s awfully nice of you. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Why don’t I call you next week? When you’re feeling better.”

  “All right.”

  “Good. You take care of yourself. Don’t worry about a thing. Everything will be OK.”

  “If you say so. Thank you. You’re a real gentleman.”

  Bill grinned, said goodbye, and lit another cigarette. The smoke, slowly twisting and curling into the air, reminded him of home.

  He didn’t miss it.

  ETERNAL VIGILANCE

  Dylan Birtolo

  Dylan Birtolo is a writer, a gamer, and a professional sword-swinger. He pays for his passions through technical writing, but the evenings are filled with shapeshifters, Japanese demons, and epic battles. He has two fantasy novels and a couple of short stories published. Recently, he has also been writing short pieces for game companies in their worlds and helping to author game books. He trains with the Seattle Knights, an acting troupe that focuses on stage combat, and has been in live shows and video shoots. In addition, he teaches at the academy for upcoming acting combatants. He has had the honor of jousting, and yes, the armor is real—it weighs more than 120 pounds.

  Shawn Jacobs stood on the back porch of his shack, watching the sun sink ever closer to the horizon. As it dropped, the cypress trees and Spanish moss threatened to block it out completely and douse the swamp in utter darkness. He crossed his arms.

  “It’s almost time,” he whispered, scratching his cheek with his right hand.

  He took a couple of steps so that he was on the very edge of the porch, the toes of his boots hanging over, inches above swamp water. He put his hands out in front of him and started moving them in large circles. As they swept through the air, his fingers danced in intricate designs. Lines of blue light trailed behind his fingers like arcs of starlight. The trails grew more bright with each successive pass until two concentric circles appeared.

  Shawn held his hands out to either side of the circles and gave a gentle push. The circles floated through the air, expanding as they moved away from the small shack. When they were over the center of the body of water, they turned so that they were parallel to the surface. The energy gently sank until it touched the water, then it burst in an explosion of blue-white sparkles. Only then did Shawn drop his hands to his sides.

  Something moved underneath the trees to his left. Shawn sprinted into action, running toward the railing on that side. He held out his hand and an axe appeared in it, fingers gripping its haft. He vaulted over the railing and hit the marshy ground with a splash, angling in the direction of the sounds made by someone retreating through the swampland.

  Shawn heaved the axe into the darkness. Blue light danced around the edges of the weapon and lit up the shadows. The axe slammed into a tree just over the head of a teenaged girl. The sudden impact made her shriek and trip; she slid across the ground and crashed into a dying cypress. She turned to face her pursuer, skin pale in the light of the weapon and eyes wide.

  She froze as Shawn came forward and put his hands on the haft of the weapon. With a wrench, he pulled it free. The girl clamped her eyes shut and covered her face with her hands.

  “Come on, kid. Let’s get you home.”

  “You ain’t gonna kill me?” The girl trembled as she slowly lowered her hands.

  Shawn tilted his head to one side. “Where the hell would you get that idea?”

  “All them kids at school say you’re a witch! And ya kill kids and drink their blood!”

  “Interesting,” Shawn said. Then, as if he suddenly remembered what he was holding, he tucked the axe behind his back and held out his free hand. “I promise you, I’ve never killed a kid. And I drink Coke, just like everyone else.”

  “But them blue lights . . .”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Baylee,” the girl said, reaching out her hand to Shawn’s.

  “Well, Baylee . . .” Shawn gently pulled the girl t
o her feet, “you better forget anything you thought you saw back there. Trust me.”

  The two of them walked to the shack, exchanging very few words. Then he drove to Baylee’s house at the edge of town. Shawn dropped her off, waited to make sure she got in the front door, and then returned home.

  Shawn sat on his front yard in one of two wooden chairs, rolling a quarter across the back of his fingers. A young woman sitting next to him swirled her half-full glass of whiskey while she contemplated the late afternoon clouds. The partially drained bottle sat next to Shawn’s empty glass on the table between them.

  “I don’t understand how you can possibly enjoy living here. With the exception of keeping a watch on your friend,” the woman jerked her head at the pond behind them, “there’s nothing worthwhile for at least a thousand miles.”

  “It’s not that bad, Teri. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to just sit back, relax, and not have to worry about people breaking down your door in the middle of the night just because they thought they saw their Uncle Joe in the attic.”

  His retort brought a smile to Teri’s face. “You’ll never forget that one, will you? What did the ‘ghost’ turn out to be? Rats in the attic?”

  “Worse. Bats. I swear, there must have been hundreds of bats. They came at me from every direction in a giant swarm when I crawled into the tiny space they called an attic. I think I invented new words that night.”

  Teri laughed, leaning back until her chair creaked. She let go of the glass so that she could lace her fingers together behind her head. The glass hovered in the empty air. A glow highlighted the bottom of the glass, but it was faint enough in the afternoon light that it was almost imperceptible.

  “I just think that you should consider handing over watchman’s duty to someone else, Shawn. This is such a waste of your talents. There’s so much more you could be doing. Let some new initiate handle this babysitting job. And if you prefer the country, so be it. You know there are other options available.”