by Anthology
Then they were clear of the wiry foliage, and above them was only lifeless sky.
They slid off the cliff edge.
Horror dawned upon him—he was going to die. The world tumbled around them, still entwined in their deadly embrace. Sky, junk, river, sky, junk, river, sky…
Lirk reached back and drew the shotgun. He roared in pain as the wound on his arm opened even wider. Lirk shoved the barrel into the titan’s open mouth. He squeezed the trigger. The side of its head exploded. The recoil nearly tore his arm off.
The Dog hit the surface of the frozen river first, ice flying in all directions. Lirk gasped as the river engulfed him, swallowing freezing sewage and blood.
Everything was brown and green and cold. Cold beyond understanding. The current swept him along, a thick layer of ice keeping him beneath the surface. Vast amounts of garbage and junk was carried along the river, some of it drawing blood as it shot by. He pounded at the ice with his fist and the scattergun his hand held so tightly on to, trying to keep his head in the small pocket of air between ice and freezing water at the same time. His feet found something large that penetrated the surface. Lirk beat at the ice in desperation. Leveling the tactical shotgun, he opened fire. His sixth shot blew through the surface. His seventh opened the hole wide enough for him drag himself through, sucking in a lungful of the crisp air. The gun was more powerful than he had given it credit for.
On the surface again, he curled into a ball, shivering uncontrollably. With the Dog dead, he had new enemies to deal with. Hypothermia, frostbite and infection. He had to find his pack. He would not be able to build a fire without it in his current state.
Lirk struggled to his feet. He glanced at the object that had stopped his journey downstream. A rusty fishing boat. Turning his back to it, he made his way upstream, along the ice. His left hand was frozen to the pistol grip of his shotgun. He could not feel his feet. His chest was in pain. Lirk forced himself to think of other things.
The Dog was dead! His father would have much praise for him when he returned. He would also complain that Lirk had no hide or skull as Proof of Kill. Lirk forced a chuckle through his aching throat. At least the tribes of the EDUs would have their peace.
The ice burst open behind him. Lirk turned so quickly he slipped and fell to a knee.
The Dog dragged itself clear of the river, icicles forming on its underbelly. They hung red beneath the scores of bullet holes that littered its dying body. Shreds of torn flesh hung from the side of its face, its right ear missing. Bits of frozen brain leaked from the hole alongside coloured wires that crackled with electricity. It pushed itself to its feet and hopped forward, a hind leg hideously twisted. The Dog had taken the brunt of their impact on the river’s frozen surface.
Lirk’s eyes locked with dish that grew from its face. His fingers seemed to move of their own accord, taking the spare rounds from the side of the gun and loading them. A few dropped from his nerveless fingers. The Dog growled deep in its throat. Its lips peeled back as it bore its teeth.
“Well,” hissed Lirk, pumping a round into the chamber, “come on then, you ugly son of a bitch, let us be done with this.”
It began to circle him, wary of his scattergun. Lirk had earned its respect. It snapped at him, and Lirk blasted a round into its face, peppering its snout with led. He forced himself onto his feet, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. The Dog backed away, shaking its great head, then pounced. Lirk threw himself forward. Sliding under the monster, he struggled to his feet and fired a round into its rear. The Dog fell on its chest and fought to rise. Lirk clambered up a rear leg and onto its back, then ran along its spine and aimed the gun towards the opening in the side of its head. He pulled the trigger. The beast rolled at the last moment. The shot hit ice. Lirk spun in the opposite direction, barely saving himself from being crushed. He hit the ice hard on his wounded arm and pain shot through him once more. Lights exploded in his eyes.
He managed to raise himself to one knee. It was all he could do. The Dog came for him again, taking off. Lirk dropped to his back. Lifting his gun, he took aim. The Dog seemed to hang in the air for an age. Lirk’s finger squeezed the trigger. Then the dying Dog was on top of him, breaking several of his bones. He struggled for breath under the immense weight of the beast.
He could smell its fetid breath, its mouth a finger’s breadth from his own. Ropes of drool trickled from between its teeth, dribbling over his throat and chin. He could feel its labored breathing and hear it choking on its own blood. He could feel the ice beneath him, cold, lifeless. He could feel the warm blood pooling over him. His final shot had torn open its throat. He felt its great heart grow faint.
It breathed its last breath. Lirk breathed it in.
For a long while he lay there, upon the frozen river, the great weight of the beast above him. Many believed that to breathe the last breath of a beast was to inhale its strength and power. Lirk hoped that was true. He was going to need it.
A shadow fell across him. A man stood above him, his discarded rifle aimed at Lirk’s head. The dead sky silhouetted his features. Lirk squinted up at him.
“The cold alone should kill you,” said a familiar voice.
Steelchewer crouched. His left cheek had been torn away, a permanent death’s head grin replacing it. Strings of flesh still ran from cheek bone to jaw. He had come for Lirk, as he had promised.
“Yet the Dog God spared you such a fate,” continued the scavenger leader. “If this is the last gift of the Dog God, then who am I to go against His will?”
Steelchewer lowered the rifle and stood. He carefully made his way back across the frozen river, dragging a wounded leg behind him.
Lirk gazed up at the sky, tears freezing as they left his eyes. He had lived up to the Ironspear name. Now all he had to do was live.
BESSIE GREEN’S THUMB
Fran Friel
Fran Friel lives and dreams by the sea in southern New England. She’s a two-time Bram Stoker Award finalist and winner of the Black Quill Award. She writes horror, dark fantasy and science fiction, and like many “respectable” authors, she is currently working on a novel.
Visit Fran on the web at http://www.franfriel.com.
Often called the nicest person in the horror business, Fran is the person you immediately love as a friend. Then you read her Stoker-nominated novella “Mama’s Boy” and you’ll blanch at the notion of being in close contact to her.
—§—
The Lot
They’d never spoken before, but the young woman from upstairs addressed Bessie at the mailboxes.
“Pardon me, Mrs.…?”
“Green,” said Bessie.
“Yes—Mrs. Green.” The young woman stuck out her hand. Bessie gave it a wary shake. “I know this sounds kind of crazy, but my mom gave me a tomato plant—hinting that I need to eat more healthy, no doubt—but I’m never home. I was wondering if you might want to adopt it. I know you’d take good care of it, and when my mom asks I won’t have to lie to her after I’ve killed it.” The girl unlocked her mailbox and pulled out a stack of letters and waited for a stunned Bessie to reply. People just didn’t talk to each other anymore, especially to old widows like her. “So what do you say? Want to grow some tomatoes?” asked the young woman.
Bessie hesitated for a moment, but seeing the girl’s open face, she nodded. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”
With no one to care for since her husband’s death, Bessie took her new task to heart—fussing, pruning and watering—but no matter what she did, the plant languished from the poor sunlight of her windowsill. That’s when the image of the vacant lot next door jogged a memory—a welcome event for her increasingly sluggish thoughts.
Just before the economy in the town of Eastville went sour, a group of young people cleared the lot next door and erected the Pandemonium Books and New Age Emporium sign. Late one night, Bessie heard the sound of drums and crept outside to find the group laughing and dancing around a small fire in the cent
er of the clearing while others sat around the circle beating a steady rhythm on odd drums. A young woman waved a smoking wad of fragrant grass as she walked around the edges of the lot. She spied Bessie watching.
“Hello,” she called. “Come join us. We’re cleansing the land to invite in good energy and calling to the great spirit of Pan to bless the land. You can help me ‘smudge’ with the sage grass, if you’d like.” She swirled the wad of smoking grass in the air with a playful flurry.
Bessie blushed at being spotted. She would have been excited to join such an adventure, but feeling embarrassed, as well as old and out of place, she simply smiled and waved away the opportunity. Besides, it wasn’t long before her neighbor, Gertie Stonehammer, called the police about the noise. Bessie got to hear her ranting about “those outrageous hippies” for weeks to follow, but she never forgot the joy of the dancing young people and the pungent smell of the burning sage.
Sadly, the “hippies” never completed their project, so the lot was again abandoned, quickly filling with trash and weeds. But when Bessie’s tomato plant needed a sunny place to thrive, she knew immediately where it needed to be planted. The idea started simply enough. Bessie only needed a small spot for the plant so she cleared a path to the center of the lot where the sun could do its best work. The light was dimming by the time she dug the hole, but the soil was warm and oddly rich, populated with earthworms wriggling near the surface. Tucking the roots into the earth, Bessie inhaled the loamy smell and thought of the lovely fruit her plant would soon yield, enough to share with the young woman upstairs and even a few for her neighbors, including Gertie Stonehammer. That woman fussed about everything, but when it came down to it, they had been neighbors for thirty years and consequently friends by default, as well as the last of the old timers on the block.
Bessie bent a length of scalloped wire fencing, and shoved it into the ground around the plant for protection. On the final push, the metal tine struck a rock beneath the soil and her hand slipped along the wire surface, hitting a jagged edge. Blood from a gash along the length of her thumb pattered gently on the dark soil around the plant, until Bessie finally stayed the bleeding with her headscarf. Even as her hand throbbed from the wound, she chuckled to herself, blood sacrifice, like the Celtic wives tales her grandmother used to share about life in the old country. If granny’s stories had any truth to them, then the tomato plant was sure to thrive.
Before she left the garden to tend to her wound, Bessie made sure the plant was properly cared for. She lifted the watering can and showered the soil; she secured the fence being careful not to cut herself again; and she said a little prayer of thanks for such a fine plant. A breeze whipped up around her and trash from the lot spun in a dervish settling in the area she’d just cleared. The warm wind left her strangely chilled, but she quickly went to work picking up the fast food wrappers and bits of plastic bags left crowded around the scalloped fencing. Aware of the growing darkness, she tucked her trash bag under her arm and quickly gathered her gardening tools. As she made her way to the sidewalk, another gust of wind pushed her back into the garden, her frail body nearly toppling over. She recovered her balance and with her heart pounding, she glanced back to make sure her tomato plant was still secure. Relieved, she hurried home, bathed her aching body, patched up her cut, and was nearly asleep before she climbed into bed.
Waking to the sound of loud knocking, Bessie forced her foggy mind away from a dream—a dream of a lush garden. She shuffled off to answer the door. As she wrapped her robe around her small frame, she was surprised to find that she wasn’t stiff, the usual state of her body when she got out of bed in the morning.
Another knock sounded at the door.
“I’m coming,” she said. “Hold your horses.”
Her neighbor from across the hall was at the door holding a paper bag with a thorny twig poking out of the top. They had never really spoken beyond a nod and a hello.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I woke you,” said the woman noticing Bessie’s bathrobe. “ It’s after noon and I just assumed you’d be up.”
“Twelve noon?” Bessie couldn’t remember when she’d last slept that late. “I’m fine, dear,” she muttered, her cheeks flushed—embarrassed for rising so late.
“Must have been having a great dream,” said the woman with a wink. “Anyway, I noticed you were gardening yesterday. I just got back from my sister’s and I brought you a cutting from her prize winning rose bush. I bribed her with the promise of some babysitting, but the lot looks so beautiful, I thought roses might be a nice addition.”
“Um, thank you. I didn’t do much. I just tidied up a bit for the tomato plant.”
“Don’t be modest—you certainly have a green thumb. It’s amazing what you’ve done with that eyesore. Anyway, here’s the cutting. Take good care of it. No doubt my sister will come by to make sure it’s properly planted. You’d think she’d given birth to the thing herself or something. Well, gotta run. Thanks again for your work in the garden.”
Bessie stood in the doorway holding the bag with the thorny twig, feeling a bit confused. Finally she closed the door and headed for the kitchen to check the time. Sure enough, it was after twelve and her stomach rumbled in agreement. She put on the kettle and made a baloney sandwich. After a quick lunch, she got dressed and decided she better get the rose cutting tended to.
With her gardening tools in tow, she headed out to the lot. A small group had gathered near the old Pandemonium sign and as she made her way past them her breath caught in her throat. Not only was her tomato plant blooming with fat ripe tomatoes, the garden was awash in color. Overnight, wildflowers had sprouted where the weeds had choked the soil, and sunflowers swayed along the back wall as if waving to the amazed onlookers.
“Hey, lady, this your garden?” said a teenager girl, punctuating her question with a few loud smacks of her chewing gum.
“Well, I suppose so,” said Bessie still shocked by the scene.
“Cool. Hey, if you want some help cleaning the trash outta there, I need some community service points for science class so I can pass summer school. CJ and Willie ‘ll help too. Won’t ya’?” She put her hand on her hip and gave the boys a look that wilted any chance of declining the offer.
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Willie as he tugged at his baggy jeans. CJ offered no reply, only the patented look of a disinterested teen.
The look triggered a tirade from the girl with words Bessie had never heard before, but all in all she admired the girl’s gumption because it wasn’t long before both of the boys were deep in the garden hard at work picking up trash and debris. With their help and a full box of trash bags, Bessie and the kids soon accumulated a mountain of black bags at the curb. The blooming lot of wild flowers was clean for the first time in years. As a final task, they found the perfect spot and planted the rose clipping together. By then the boys had dropped their macho guy act and were laughing like kids as they stood with Bessie in front of the garden. The girl took a picture with her phone as “proof of her work” in the abandoned lot.
Bessie sent the kids to pick the ripe tomatoes while she dragged the last trash bag to the curb. That’s when Gertie Stonehammer emerged from the apartment building next door and, as usual, the cranky old widow had an opinion.
“I simply don’t understand why you need to make such a mess on the sidewalk, Bessie,” said the tight-lipped woman with her handbag hanging from the crook of her arm.
Bessie smiled and swiped a hand across her sweaty forehead leaving a smudge of dirt behind. Gertie rolled her eyes and stomped down the steps, her sensible shoes tapping out a tidy rhythm as she marched down the block toward the shops.
Bessie could only smile at Gertie’s negativity. Nothing could sour her mood as she watched the kids laughing in the garden, knowing that something beyond her understanding had happened there. She wouldn’t question it—at her age she’d learned that sometimes you just have to trust that things are the way they are supposed to be. Gertie
always chastised Bessie for her “Pollyanna” ways, but in truth it was the only way she had gotten through the loss of her young daughter so many years ago, and the more recent death of her dear husband. Since losing Leo, she had been desperately lonely, and her health and her memory had been failing, but she knew she had to keep going. Thankfully, the small act of adding a tomato plant to the lot had brought more people into her life than she had spoken to in years. Whatever was going on, she liked it and prayed that it wouldn’t end.
Over the next few weeks, Bessie practically lived in the garden. She felt more fit and alive every day, working to keep up with all the donations and offers of help. Neighbors were actually talking with one another and chipping-in to help spruce up the garden, making it a meeting place for everyone on the block. Benches were erected and stone paths were laid; a trellis was built for the fast growing roses—Tanya’s Roses—Bessie had named them in honor the young girl who had helped her plant the first cutting. Because of the sign still standing at the entrance, Bessie started calling the lot the Pandemonium Garden. Everyone agreed—it was a perfect name.
The Dreams
Shortly after the garden began, Gertie Stonehammer left town for her yearly visit with her son in Miami. Bessie was relieved when she saw her return taxi pull up in front of the apartment building. In the midst of the joy and purpose the garden brought to her life, Bessie had a worry weighing on her and she needed someone to talk to. Since that first day in the garden, she suffered from wild dreams, of which she only remembered snippets. At first they seemed innocent echoes of her day in the garden, but then she saw herself dancing with a man, and kissing him. She would wake from these dreams in a panic—not only was the man not her husband, but he wasn’t a man at all. Burdened by the guilt of being unfaithful to her late husband—even if only in a dream—Bessie was more worried at yet another sign of her faltering mental faculties. She’d wake in the morning, her feet caked with dried mud, her bed sheets covered in the black dirt of the garden. Confused, she could swear that she had surely bathed before retiring. She needed someone to talk to, and although she could imagine what Gertie would say, she knew her old friend was the only person she could really confide in.
