by Unknown
All doubt left Colin as his moment approached. He stepped into the pentagram and immediately felt its warmth. Outside the star, frost was starting to form on the windows as all the room’s heat was drawn inward. Colin’s chills were replaced by beads of sweat that dripped from his forehead. He pulled an ordinary kitchen knife from his back pocket and gripped the blade in his right hand. In his left he held the handle. He pressed down and pulled, drawing a jagged line across his palm, grimacing at the pain. Keeping his hand balled into a fist, he turned it so that the rivulets of red could pour upon the spot of lost innocence. Blood for blood was what the ritual demanded. Now Colin stood back to watch.
It didn’t take long. The moment Colin’s blood dripped onto the form below, it began to writhe. The small nickel-sized hole in the sternum of the body slowly closed as the runnel of blood that had seeped out hours earlier seemed to pour back into the body. The form twitched and spasmed, then the convulsions began, thrashing the body with such force that Colin became concerned that it might explode as it hit the hard concrete floor.
Colin realized he was holding his breath and had to release it to keep from passing out. As soon as he let go of the air within him, the body stopped thrashing and the eyes flickered open. Colin sucked air back in again. The form lifted its head and gazed about. Recognition replaced fear and the body sat up, starring at Colin.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It appeared to be an adult version of his grandson. “Colin?” he questioned, looking through new eyes.
“Grandpa?”
“Colin, is that really you, son? Is it really you? Or is this just another vision to drive me even further insane?” the form asked in a voice that was not his own.
“It’s me, Grandpa. It’s me. I brought you back.” Colin spoke with true sincerity in his voice.
“You did what? You brought me back? Brought me back from where?” his grandfather asked, alarmed.
“I brought you back from the dead, Grandpa.”
“You did what? How? Why?” his grandfather quizzed.
“I brought you back for me, Grandpa. It must have been horrible where you were.” Colin felt like a little kid for the first time in years.
“Horrible, yes, it was horrible. You cannot imagine the horrors I have endured. I have had my flesh shorn from my body and been beaten with the tail of a long black scorpion, only to have my flesh reapplied with staples and nails so it could be done all over again. I’ve been dipped in wax and burned like a human candle. I’ve been frozen and smashed into a million pieces. My all-too-feeling flesh was consumed by an acidic beast, only to be regurgitated so the pain could continue. All I have known since I died has been pain and suffering. All the while I asked why my Lord had forsaken me. Why did He allow me to suffer so? I was dedicated to the church. I paid my tithes. But now I see that I have not been forsaken. He has remembered me through my grandson. But how? How did you do this?”
“I made a deal, Grandpa.”
“A deal?” His grandfather looked around and noticed the pentagram he was standing in. He noticed the black candles, and suddenly it dawned on him. “A deal? My boy. What have you done? You have just damned yourself to suffer like I have!”
“No Grandpa.” Colin spoke timidly at first, and then pure hatred poured from his heart. “You damned me a long time ago, Grandpa. On that very spot. My blood spilled over when you took my innocence. Now it’s your turn. The suffering you have gone through will be nothing compared to what I have in store for you. And when that body gives out I have another one waiting for you.”
His grandfather looked over and saw a crumpled body on the floor. It was female, her glazed eyes said all that needed to be said about her condition. Colin didn’t have anything against the couple who had been living in his grandparents’ house. This was a necessary evil.
The foreign body now possessed by Colin’s grandfather struck a familiar smile. His once blue eyes were now green, but they still held his devilish charm. A charm Colin had felt one too many times. Colin proceeded to wipe that smile off of his grandfather’s face, one slice at a time.
TRASH CANS
BY F.L. BICKNELL
The trashcans sat on the far side of the yard. Toby studied them, wondering if his big sister would notice if he left the bag of garbage next to the porch step instead. He shuddered. Who was he kidding? Vanessa noticed everything. The last thing he wanted was to endure another ass-chewing from his sister. Vanessa’s purpose in life was to make him miserable. Ever since she’d become his legal guardian, he’d walked on eggshells to avoid her explosive temper and bizarre punishments.
He eyed the trashcans again, a tendril of unease winding around his heart. Three black plastic ones and a shiny aluminum container sat in a line on the curb. The moonlight glimmered on the lid of the metal one. A cat’s howl drifted up the street, and Toby whipped his head toward the noise, his heart stuttering with adrenaline. Ever since Mr. Voker had discovered the mutilated body in the alley, Toby had been uneasy about going outdoors after dark. He stood listening, straining to detect anything out of the ordinary.
He took a deep breath. Tightening his grip on the garbage bag, he descended the porch steps as perspiration popped out on his upper lip. He wiped it away with the back of his free hand. Don’t be stupid. You’re seventeen. In a couple of months, you’ll be an adult. Start acting like one.
He took another step. His sneakered foot had barely made contact with the flagstone path when the cat screeched again – closer this time. Turning back to the house, he decided he definitely felt more like seven than seventeen. A loud round of Vanessa’s screaming was better than facing the unknown residents of the dark alley.
But Vanessa’s voice ripped through the house, “Toby! You better take the trash out, or you’ll be scrubbing the toilet bowl with your toothbrush!”
“Whatever you say, Bitchzillawitch,” Toby muttered. He clutched the garbage sack tighter, his palms sweaty.
Halfway to the alley, he paused. Blood thundered in his ears as he pondered what might be lurking behind the trashcans or down the black, gaping maw of the narrow back street. There wasn’t anything to fear down the dark lane - of course - but the irrational part of his brain wouldn’t listen to reason. He’d always had an overactive imagination. Mr. Voker’s decrepit ‘62 Ford pickup sat at the edge of his yard, surrounded by skeletal weeds and bags of empty beer cans.
Toby glanced up at the clouds, which had begun to block the moon’s ghostly illumination. He gulped, his gaze moving to the lonely security light casting its feeble glow at the mouth of the alley. He’d been to Cincinnati once and had been amazed by the lights, which had all but chased away the night. Here, in the little community of Potter’s Beacon, security lights were a luxury. Should have brought a flashlight he thought. If necessary, he could have used it as a weapon.
“Get moving!” Vanessa shrieked through the screen behind him.
Toby performed a startled jig, his heart floundering in his chest as if it would burst free.
“And make sure you put the garbage in the metal can – do you hear me?” she shouted. “The others are full.” Her footsteps receded, but her muttered “stupid kid” still reached him outside.
The aluminum trash can’s lid twinkled in the feeble security light. Toby focused on the dancing reflection, imagining a superhero inside it sending him reflective directional codes to guide his way.
“Fine, I’ll leave!” Mrs. Doppelmin’s voice sliced through the night air.
Toby glanced across the yard at his next-door neighbor’s house. The Doppelmins’ porch light popped on, and Ethel shoved the front door open.
“You asked for an honest opinion, Ethel,” Mr. Doppelmin whined from inside.
“You said I was fat,” she shot back, her voice shrill and slightly hysterical.
Grateful for the extra light spilling into the yard, Toby tried not to listen to the couple’s argument. He lugged the garbage over to the plastic containers. A whiff of somethi
ng putrid assaulted his nose, something that inspired his supper to rise in his throat. Toby paused, sniffing at the first trashcan, before moving on to the next. Shaking his head, he stopped at the last container, the metal one. He inhaled again, and gagged. He pulled his shirt collar up over his nose.
The black containers looked greasy in the bluish light. He glanced at the aluminum can, frowning at how the same light sparkled brightly on its lid. A breeze blew along the alley, tossing grit and leaves against the trashcans. The odor of a rotting carcass was unmistakable. What could possibly smell so bad? Hesitantly, he reached out to lift the lid, hands shaking, stomach in knots.
Toby raised the lid, glanced inside, and wished for the second time that he’d thought to bring a flashlight. With his nose still inside his collar, he peered a little further into the trashcan.
Even in the feeble light, there was no mistaking the blood and guts filling the container. The odor wafting out of it was overwhelming. But it was the amber eyes, and the low, ominous growl that shocked him into slamming the lid back on the can with a clang. He stumbled backward. His heels caught the edge of the sidewalk, and he toppled over, landing flat on his back. The air whooshed out of him, his heart thrashing so hard it ached. With a whimper, Toby scrambled to his feet. He stood eyeing the line of trashcans, knowing what he’d just seen, but still denying it.
He couldn’t move. Maybe the entrails had been a trick of the light. No, seeing a face in tree bark at dusk was an optical illusion. What he’d just seen was real blood and slimy, gore-covered guts with – he gulped – with eyes.
A strangled cry broke past his lips, and he spun on his heel, bolting toward his back door.
Just as his feet hit the bottom step, Vanessa appeared in the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s – there’s something in the garbage can!” Toby gasped.
“Yeah, stupid. It’s called trash.”
“No, Vanessa, I mean it!”
“Did you put the garbage in the empty can?” his sister asked.
He shook his head. “It’s full of…”
Vanessa shot him a murderous look and burst through the screen door. She grabbed him by the nape of the neck and propelled him across the lawn to the alley. “You will get your ass out to the curb and finish your chore or you won’t be coming come back in the house tonight.”
A plan formed in Toby’s mind as she marched him across the yard. He jerked out of his sister’s grasp. “If you take the lid off the can,” he said shakily, “then I’ll put the trash in.”
With a hurricane sigh, Vanessa replied, “Fine, whatever.” She yanked the lid off the trashcan and gagged. “What is that smell?” She peered into the container.
Toby relished the look on her face. Eyes wide with shock, she barely had time to squeal before the mass of guts and gore rose from the trashcan, the sound of it wet and slurpy as it snatched her by the arms and pulled her into the bin.
With her head stuffed into the thing’s guts-covered body, her cries barely reached Toby’s ears. The monster absorbed her. Right down to her flip-flops. Then a long, sinewy arm emerged, grabbed the lid and set it back on top of the container, almost closed, but not quite. The thing’s amber eyes glowed as it focused unblinkingly on Toby.
“Feelsssssss betterssssss booooy?” it hissed.
Horror wedged his throat shut.
“Goooodsssss… ” The lid settled on the container with a faint pop.
REDEMPTION’S EDGE
BY DAN CAMPBELL
Johnston woke to the burning odor of antiseptic. A medical curtain surrounded him, framing a rough ceiling that had been hacked out of rust-stained rock. He began to lift his head to look around, but stopped.
He couldn’t feel his legs.
Breathing slowly, he concentrated on wiggling his toes. He thought he felt movement. He looked at his feet, and did the same thing, but saw only stillness. Panic rose in his throat. He pushed himself up on his elbows. The room spun, and he lay back down, blood pulsing in his ears.
With slow, deep breaths, he pushed the anxiety to the back of his mind. He noticed the beep of two, maybe more, EKG machines, monitoring heart rates. One was overhead, behind him, most likely his own. The others were elsewhere in the rusty room.
He was calmer now. He took more care in looking around. An IV line ran from the cannula implant in his left hand up to the wall behind him. Wires ran from electrodes on his chest to the same location. A light blanket covered his legs and lower torso.
He poked his thighs with his hands. He thought he could feel that and hoped he was right.
Thinking back, the last thing he remembered was seeing IMPACT WARNING on the viewscreen of his ship. It should have been a simple fly-by of Hatze’s mining colony, Salazar – an easy reconnaissance for his first assignment as Commander. The Commonwealth had sent in Johnston and his crew, after a report by the Outer Rim Company of three missing interstellar freighters. Prices for rare earth metals were skyrocketing, and the Trade Commission wanted the metal back in circulation.
But the debriefing before departure had been high-clearance, for him alone. Central Command was mobilizing the Thirty-Second Fleet on the assumption that another workers’ revolt was to blame for the interrupted shipments. In two weeks’ time, they would be near enough for a rendezvous. Once he reported back, Salazar would be locked down. If he reported back. Where was he now? And what about his men?
A door squealed open. Johnston closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Footsteps approached from the left side of the room, stopped a moment, then came towards his bed. He heard the rustle of cloth as the curtain surrounding his bed was pulled back.
Johnston opened one eye just enough to make out an indistinct figure in white, holding something and looking down at it. An older man, presumably a doctor or nurse, stood near the foot of the bed. His face was gaunt. The bones of his wrists protruded. He made notes on a tablet. His white coat was dingy and stained rust-brown near the bottom. He looked up at Johnston, meeting his gaze.
“Awake, I see,” said the man. “Can you speak?” He had a nasal accent.
Johnston licked his lips, feigning hoarseness. “Yes. Where am I?”
“Redemption’s Edge.”
Johnston’s brow crumpled in confusion.
“You may know it as ‘Salazar’?”
Johnston nodded.
“Ah. I had wondered. What do you remember?”
“Passing out. We were ambushed – ran into a field of stealth mines on our approach along the Belt.”
“Yes.” The man looked at his tablet, then asked, “How do you feel?”
“Not so great. I can’t move my legs.”
The man nodded, making notations in the tablet. “Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Yes.”
“Any other symptoms?”
“No.” Johnston paused. “Where are my men?”
“One moment, please,” the man said. He walked to the head of Johnston’s bed and made note of what he saw in the displays. Johnston tried to crane his head around to see, but gave up when the room spun.
“Your pilot, Ensign Reynolds, is in the bed over there,” said the man, gesturing to Johnston’s right. “Your engineer, Lieutenant Po, is there.” He gestured to Johnston’s left. “I expect both are still unconscious, though I’ve not yet visited the lieutenant. The rest of your crew are in other rooms in the facility.”
“Do you know who attacked us?”
The man made another notation, then said, “Yes. We intervened during the attack and brought you and your crew back to safety. You were on a mission to investigate interrupted shipments of niobium, yes?”
“Yes. Who attacked us?”
The man looked up at Johnston. “A pirate band, so I hear. They’ve been active in this sector the last several quarters. Half the time, they raid us instead of the shipments.”
“And who are you?”
The man considered Johnston a moment, his eyes devoid of emotion. “In yo
ur terms, we’re just miners, just men, women and children caught up in the cogs of industry. In our terms, we are the Redeemers.”
“Redeemers?”
“Do you know anything of Old Earth’s religious history?” the man said. “Of how pious men and women sought out the wilderness to toil in the love of their God?” His eyes darted away. “Such is our toil, Commander Johnston. We are His hands in the desert. We sing His praises unto the night. Through His work, we are Redeemed.”
The man turned to go, heading towards Lieutenant Po’s bed.
Johnston asked, “Who are you, sir?”
The man turned, distracted. “Oh, of course,” he said. “My name is Doctor Reid.” He tugged the curtain back into place and walked across the room. Johnston heard him stop, then heard nothing but the heart monitors. A minute or so later, the doctor returned the way he had come, opened and reclosed the squealing door, and was gone.
Johnston awoke. A faint sound, close to the bed, had roused him. He kept his eyes shut, listening. A slight rasp and a whisper of cloth sounded nearby. Opening his eyes, he looked toward the sound.
The young boy who had delivered the last two meals stood near the food tray on its rolling cart. He was tucking something into his shirt, and did not notice Johnston watching him. The boy’s movements were slow and careful, as though he were trying to make as little noise as possible. Like Doctor Reid, he was thin and bony.
Johnston looked at the food tray. He suspected a piece of bread was missing. Ignoring the boy, he pushed himself up on an elbow, reaching for the tray. The boy froze, then recovered, standing up straight and pushing the cart closer to the bed.
“Can you help me with this?” Johnston asked. The boy adjusted the bed so that Johnston could sit up, and helped him settle the tray on his lap. Then he turned away.
“Thank you,” Johnston said. The boy turned around at the curtain. He gave a wan smile and nodded, then drew the curtain closed.
