Splatterpunk Fighting Back

by Bracken MacLeod

  And then a gnarled hand burst into the cab through the side window and clutched at her shoulder with claw-like fingers. The nails were lined with red, blood or raw meat. It was that same old Ezra. He’d somehow crawled up and was standing on the truck bed behind her, reaching through the window. She tried beating his arm back with one hand and finding the key again with the other, but his single arm was stronger than it had any right to be.

  She screamed in frustration and rage as he grabbed a handful of her hair, dragging her inexorably through the opening.

  Flailing at his arm, she grasped the steering wheel with her knees and finally found the key, turning it with her other hand.

  The truck’s engine rumbled to life.

  As the old man pulled her head back painfully, Anna fumbled around with the column-mounted gear shift and finally slipped it into gear, any gear. It happened to be Reverse. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator.

  With a wet smash, Ezra’s face crashed horrifically into the window behind her. But his hand was somehow still tangled in Anna’s hair.

  Turning the wheel all the way to the right and jamming the stick into Drive, Anna made a doughnut in the front yard, the spinning tires kicking grass and dirt up as Ezra tumbled sideways into the bed’s sidewall.

  “Goddamn you!” Ezra hollered through broken lips and teeth, as he lost his grip on her locks. Then he slid on the bed liner all the way back to the tailgate where he hung on for his life.

  Anna had had more than enough of this bullshit. Gritting her teeth, she punched down on the brake, sending him rolling up to the front of the bed again, where he struck the back of the cab with a resoundingly wet thud. Then she immediately floored the accelerator again and Ezra tumbled to the back of the truck with a shriek. She cranked the wheel hard to the left, making a second series of circles in the yard, the centrifugal force pinning the old man in the corner of the bed.

  Then Ezra, struggling to stand, managed to fall off the rear of the truck.

  She stopped. Looking over her shoulder, Anna saw him staggering towards the front porch, gesticulating with one good arm and dragging the crooked other one.

  Not this time, old man! You’re never going to hurt me or anyone else ever again!

  Spitting out chunks of sod, the truck fishtailed in the soil she’d freshly turned over, as she mashed the gas pedal clear down to the floorboards. She wheeled around and framed the limping creep in the pickup’s headlights as she bore down on him. He turned his head at the last minute, and she may have heard him scream out “Noooooo…!” before the truck’s grille impacted with him and he was swept under the bumper.

  She could clearly hear and feel Ezra rolling under the truck’s frame as she ran him over. She spun the truck on a hundred and eighty degree arc and––finding his crumpled form on the lawn––proceeded to drive over him a second time, the suspension bouncing as she crushed his body under the truck’s wheels.

  She drove over Ezra another half-dozen times, until he was barely recognizably human. His head was a smashed pumpkin after Halloween, his body an array of unevenly stuffed trash bags tossed to the side of the highway. He was just a big greasy, bloody, broken mess.

  Not unlike what he and his disgusting offspring had done to innocent people.

  Now she’d be able to sleep at night, knowing that the boogie man was dead and gone––down for the count and then some.

  Anna sighed, relief overwhelming her. She cried.

  It was over.

  Easing the old truck down the driveway, she stopped at the turn-in. Maybe she could use the gas station they’d stopped at what seemed like such a long time ago, while on their way in, to get her bearings. Then she could probably find Jason’s house and call the police.

  No, home was what she needed. Home and a bath and a margarita or two. And a shirt. And another couple margaritas. Mandi and Krystal could tell her about how great the big party was when they got back into town. If she tried to find a phone to call the police she’d be right back where she started.

  The driver’s side door disappeared with a loud scream of tearing, crumpling metal.

  Anna barely had time to register what had happened when a nasty odor enveloped her at the same time that a hairy fist snapped her head sideways, then grasped her left arm and whipped her out of the truck’s cab as if she were a child’s rag doll.

  Her head burst with pain where she’d been struck and her arm popped out of its socket and there was nothing she could do, the scream frozen in her throat as the rest of her body sent her brain its pain readings.

  Some kind of creature grunted over where her battered body lay on the gravelly driveway. She tried to assess the situation. After all, Anna had made mincemeat of those asshole cannibals in the house, but this, this was something else.

  And it was worse.

  Her body and her brain agreed. Besides the pain, this was way worse.

  Thoughts a-jumble, Anna gave the last of her strength to an effort to roll to her feet, but then the shadow of whatever had yanked her from the truck enveloped her and for the first time she saw what it was.

  A gorilla-like, hairy, oversize human-shaped form with malevolent porcine eyes set deep below protruding brows. Wide-open jaws full of discolored fangs. Long, hair-covered arms, one of them withered. Grotesquely large uncovered genitalia that signaled just exactly what the monstrous form felt right then.

  Anna moaned, fear finally overtaking her every other emotion, erasing the pain of her dislocated arm, and filling her with a tangible dread.

  This was it now, the end.

  All because I wouldn’t give Jason head.

  She laughed bitterly, despite her grim situation.

  The monster––was he some kind of bigfoot, whatever they were called?––tilted its head at her laugh, which was already turning into sobs. A long, gristly tongue poked out and licked mottled lips, letting drool leak onto the hairy chin. He poked her belly with a long, smelly finger. Then he poked some more.

  Anna screamed.

  The thing stood then, and howled a strange kind of sound that was half-grunt, too.

  And more of them melted out of the trees. One, two, three of them. Mouths open, fangs clacking like castanets, drool leaking out in ropes. The stench was overwhelming, but Anna was beyond caring. One of the three was smaller, with flaccid breasts spilling onto a belly covered in fine hair. Reminiscent of the horror up in that room, where Ezra had gone berserk. The mother? Grandmother?

  Then Anna remembered the long troughs that lined the sides of the house.

  No, not hogs. The hillbillies fed their somewhat distant relatives body parts from their victims. Apparently every night, after sundown. And tonight the troughs were empty.

  Empty because of her.

  Anna had upset their routine, had prevented dinner from being served.

  The mother made a squeaking, wailing sound and pointed at Anna.

  “Yes, I’m a victim too,” she told the monstrous matriarch through dry lips. She tried to make her expression sympathetic despite her terror. “I can get you food.”

  The mother tilted her head and stared at Anna with large, oily orbs.

  Anna felt a thin tendril of hope around her stuttering heart.

  But then...

  The mother released a sudden stream of invective at her children. Two of them took Anna’s hands in their own twisted fists and pulled.

  Hard.

  Anna screamed in pain when they yanked on her dislocated arm.

  But they didn’t stop pulling.

  As Anna screamed incoherently, they continued pulling until her shoulders popped and flesh tore and they slipped backward, each holding one of her ruined, bleeding arms.

  Anna fainted. Just like that, the lights went out and she was elsewhere.

  Which was probably for the best, a little tiny bit of her brain whispered comfortingly as her consciousness slipped away.

  Because it was dinner time. And the children were hungry.

 
; The Going Rate – John Boden

  With the images on the television providing a strobing background, he held the cloth over her little mouth until her breathing slowed. She looked so much like her mother. As he stared at his daughter, Dennis felt the sad smile he wore wither. If it weren’t for that bitch, he wouldn’t be doing this now. She was the one who had left him with their daughter so she could “Find herself.” Had abandoned him with a replica of herself, one that called him Daddy—that and a mountain of debt. He sighed and sniffled back the tears that were coming again.

  It was a tax month, and this time Dennis had to pay in. He rubbed his eyes and watched the clock. The Collector would be by soon. Looking at the bill and the amount owed, he picked up the shears.

  He knelt beside the sofa and stared into his sleeping daughter’s face. He lightly slapped her cheek and watched for any sign of consciousness. As the normally pink flesh gave to bright red, with not so much as an eye twitch, he knew he was okay to proceed. He took her hand in his, folded the fingers, allowing only the pinky to remain extended. Holding it between his thumb and finger, he slid it between the blades. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth hard enough to taste the enamel.

  The bones snapped with a small crack. The girl winced but did not wake. Thank God for sedatives. He grabbed the ice pack beside him and held it against the slightly spurting nub, then took the shoelace and tied off the base of the finger as tightly as he could. He looked at the iron sitting on the table beside him, wavery lines of heat rising from it. He would cauterize it soon.

  He picked up the finger and wrapped it in the proper form, stuffed it into the red envelope and went to the porch. The porch lights winked on one at a time. There were three lights crying red.

  He slid the clear pane from the light box and swapped it for a red panel of glass, the one he kept in the decorative milk box by the door.

  At the far end of the street, a shadow broke free. A long shape that took on more detail as it stretched to the center of the roadway. Dennis stepped back into the house, closing the door. He peered through curtains as the Taxman approached.

  Tall as time and as long as hours, it strode down main street. Cloven feet clicking like boot heels on asphalt. Its fish-belly skin glistened like fungi under the full moon. A black suit, stitched with black hole and strychnine. Taxman's arms ended in hands like squid. Impossible fingers, like lengths of living rope. It stopped at old man Ordini’s house, where it stepped onto the porch, knelt and picked up the red envelope from the mat. The thing swiveled in the direction of Dennis’s house. It smiled at him. The smile was stitches and railroad ties. The eyes that nested above it were beetles in cataract flesh. Dennis felt his bowels somersault.

  The Taxman tore open the parcel and extracted something red and dripping. He ate it, reached into the mailer and, with a bloody finger, drew a large circle on the door. The light went out on the porch and the Taxman was back in the street.

  Dennis shook as he watched it collect its wages. A tongue from the Melvoins. Mrs. Fallon owed something small. Old man Mellick must have owed more than anyone, for his envelope was bulging, a slender hand dangling from the unsealed end.

  Dennis closed his eyes and when he opened them the thing stood on his stoop. It's face inches from his, only glass between them. The eyes were bottomless. Reminding him of the dark and fetid water of the sinkhole on his grandfather's farm. He sighed and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He could not bear to watch this thing eat his little girl’s finger. To see its face up close was almost enough to shred his mind. His wife had always done the taxes. She was the one who knew the ins and outs, not him. He heard a scraping noise as the thing drew the circle on the door. He could smell the rich scent of the blood.

  Had he still had a tongue, he'd have screamed.

  Darla’s Problem – Kristopher Rufty

  “Excuse me, officer?”

  Sitting behind the wheel of his cruiser, Sgt. Bruce Thompson chewed his ham sandwich. It was a pleasant October day, and he was backed under a shade tree in the rear parking lot of the public park, enjoying the fall smells drifting in while he ate his lunch.

  He looked out his window. Nobody stood there. Checking his side mirror, he could see a volleyball game between a pack of teenage girls was taking place in the field on the other side.

  “Down here,” said the shy voice.

  Bruce leaned over, poked out his head, and looked down. A little girl, no older than eight, gazed up at him. Her hair was dark, pulled into a long ponytail at the side of her skull. She wore pink short overalls, matching socks, and white shoes that were grass stained. Tiny scabs and scratches spread across knees, evidence of a kid who liked to play outside.

  Bruce swallowed his food. “Sergeant,” he said.

  The girl’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”

  “You called me an officer. I’m a sergeant. A guy has to work really hard to become one, you know.” Though he smiled, he noticed his voice held the same snarky tone it usually did whenever he corrected someone for addressing him by the wrong rank. Even if this little girl was too young to understand, it still drove him crazy.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

  Still smiling, Bruce said, “It’s okay. What can I help you with, Miss…?”

  “Oh, I’m Darla. Darla Kendrick.”

  “Well, Darla Kendrick, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Bruce.”

  She giggled, showing a mouth with a lot of gaps between her teeth. She’d probably made a fortune from the Tooth Fairy.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  Her laughter stopped right away. The sweetness that had been on her face dipped to show hints of anxiety. “No. I…I have a problem.” She bit down on her bottom lip and stared at her dirty shoes.

  “Hey,” he said, putting his sandwich on the unfurled wrapper in the passenger seat. “You can talk to me. You came over here, remember? So you must want me to know what’s wrong.”

  “Well…” Her lip bent as her few remaining baby teeth chewed it. “Yeah.”

  “So, it’s fine. See this?” He tapped the badge pinned to his dark blue shirt. “That means I’m someone who can help. Right?”

  “Right.” Her voice showed no sign of conviction. “I…I’m afraid to go home.”

  Bruce struggled to keep the smile on his face. He knew from years on the job if he changed anything about his manner right now, he might run her off.

  He did a quick scan of her exposed arms and legs, even what he could see of her neck. He saw no bruises, no marks at all, except her knees.

  Doesn’t mean she isn’t being abused, though.

  “Why are you afraid, darling?”

  “Darla.”

  Bruce chuckled. “Right. Dar-la. My bad. Why are you afraid to go home?”

  He watched the color drain from her face. Eyes rolling upward, she tilted back her head and let out something that might have been a groan. When she lowered her head, she looked up at him again.

  “Because there’s a…monster in my house.”

  Bruce almost laughed out loud, but he held it in. A monster? That was all this was? She was spooked?

  “A monster?” Bruce shook his head. “Is it on the TV?”

  “No. In my house. Walking around. It’s my fault it’s there. I let it out.”

  “Let it out?”

  Darla made a face, nodding as if it hurt to move her head. “Yeah…I…” She gulped. “I’ve been trying to send it back, but it’s not working. It’s trapped in my closet now.”

  Bruce whistled. “That’d keep me from going home, too.”

  “You believe me?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “About the monster?”

  “You bet. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Nobody else does.”

  “Not even your parents?”

  Lowering her head, she shook it a few quick times. “No. They never would. I kept telling them the monster was there, but they just laughed about it. I tried to show them how I let it o
ut, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Want me to talk to them for you? Tell them monsters are a big deal?”

  Darla didn’t look up. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re dead.”

  Bruce felt the taste of his ham sandwich rise back into his throat. “They’re what?”

  “The monster got them.”

  What the hell is this?

  A job for Social Services, it sounded like. But Bruce couldn’t make the call, not in front of her. She’d take off for sure. He had to keep playing along. Though it was probably meager, he’d at least established a bond of trust with her. No way had her parents been killed by a monster. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but something had traumatized this girl enough to create quite a farfetched story.

  “Why didn’t you call for help?” he asked. “From the phone?”

  “I don’t know where their phones are, and…I was too scared to look.”

  “You don’t have a house phone?”

  Darla’s nose wrinkled. “A what?”

  “Never mind. So what happened?”

  “Mama sent me to play over here, so her and Daddy could be alone for a little bit. They do that when they want to take their clothes off and flop on the bed. I think they like to be alone because they get loud sometimes.”

  Bruce felt the heat of a blush in his cheeks.

  Darla didn’t seem to notice. “So I played on the playground for a little bit.”

  The girl’s eyes began to fill with moisture. A single tear spilled down her cheek. She wiped it away with a finger. “When I went home and…Mama wasn’t in the kitchen. Daddy wasn’t in his office. I went upstairs to see if they were still naked and found them in their bed. They were…torn up.”

  “Torn up?” Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. The hairs back there stood on end.

  She nodded. Her cheeks were glossy from tears that continued to stream. “Daddy’s head was on the floor.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He shook his head. “All right. Okay. That’s enough. You don’t have to keep talking.” He let out a long breath that puffed his cheeks. He looked down at her again. “Want to hop in? We can ride over there so I can take a look at things.”