by Aaron Polson
"Boooo!"
The cheers evaporate. Murmurs travel around the seats in waves away from the man in the fifth row. He cups his hand to the side of his mouth.
"Cheater!"
She narrows her eyes and tightens her fingers around the base of the trophy, feeling the cold marble and metal bars. Her head spins, blood throbbing in her ears. Heat crawls across her neck.
"Boooo!"
She springs toward the divider between the stands and the court, her rubber soles squeaking against the clay surface. "Boo this, you son-of-a-bitch," she howls. The trophy swings in one hand as she hurdles a Lexus advertisement. The crowd parts, scrambling for the exits in a noisy bustle.
All except him. The man with black eyes still holds one hand against the side of his mouth. "You cheat," he says. His other hand pantomimes an injection.
She grasps the trophy in her left hand like a club and brings it down against the concrete steps. It snaps in two with a metallic tang. Both ends glint in the afternoon sun, sharp and jagged.
The man doesn't move.
She storms the final three steps and thrusts one crooked point into his torso, just below his left arm. The metal slips in too easily. She expected ribs...some kind of resistance.
"Gonna have to do better," he says, smiling, his mouth curling a little too far.
The blood hammers against her temples, her neck tight and bulging like match point. The other hand swings with a downward jab, driving the second fragment of trophy into the flesh between his neck and shoulder.
There is no blood.
"Sorry," he says, still smiling.
She stumbles backwards and collides with the back of a seat. Pain shoots across her back.
The man stands, plucks both pieces of trophy from his skin and drops them with a clatter to the ground. His fingertips tug at the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head. They find the hole in his side and peel away the skin in both directions. The space grows, black and empty, nothing inside his chest.
His eyes almost sparkle. "Empty. Kind of like your victory."
Chapter 48: Little Awful Things
The first of them hits a window with a wet thunk. Valerie jerks upright at the sound.
“What the ‘ell was that?”
Richard mumbles, rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head.
Valerie clutches the quilt, listening. A few more smacks—amplified noises like insect kamikaze against a windshield at high speed—echo from the kitchen.
“Richard, wake your lazy arse.” Valerie shakes Richard’s shoulder.
He moans, sucks a breath into his lungs, and opens his eyes. “What you want to go and wake me for?”
“Something’s outside the house.”
Smack, ping, crunch.
“Probably cicadas.”
“Too big for cicadas.” Valerie clicks on the bedroom lamp. “It’s so damn hot in here besides…”
“My allergies,” Richard says, sniffing as loud as he can. “You want me to suffer?”
Valerie hops from the bed and shuffles to the window. “I got to have a breath of fresh air.” She shuffles through the hallway, into the kitchen, and unlatches the sliding patio door. Tiny shapes flit in the darkness as Valerie pulls her nightgown close to her throat.
Bit chilly, she thinks. Then she hears the sound, soft and flapping. Tiny wings. She reaches backward, pulls open the patio door without looking, and fishes for the light switch. The tiny shapes sharpen in the light.
“Fairies?” she mutters.
Drawn to the sound of her voice, the little creatures flap their bat-black wings, swarming toward her. They reek of rot and decay with gray, poisoned skin. Valerie stumbles on the patio steps, bangs her knee against the glass, and struggles with the door. The minute undead dive bomb Valerie’s semi-prone form, seeking bare skin with their yellow, pin-prick teeth and snatching fingers. She moans, and the flitting, black leather of their little zombie-fairy wings cover her body like an undulating shroud.
In the bedroom, oblivious to Valerie’s plight, Richard stifles a sneeze and calls out, “Shut the damn patio door, will you?”
Chapter 49: The Long Contract
Two men walk the hallway from the entrance of the museum, their feet tapping out a broken rhythm against the marble floors. The long, pale man wears a suit too dark for his complexion. The other man clutches a hat in both hands; his fingers work the brim like a baker kneading dough.
“You will be impressed, Mr. Bixley.” The thin man steps to the wall and snaps on the main switch. Lights come to life down the hallway as electricity works through the circuit.
“I’ve heard good things, Mr. Gaunt.” Bixley looks down at his hat. “The endowment from the Arts Council…the respect of my colleagues…”
Gaunt clicks his tongue. “I’m glad they understand the value of what we do here. Come, let me show you the new exhibits.”
The two men continue walking. Soon, tall, glass-walled enclosures flank them. A simple scene plays out in each. On one side, an grey gentleman reads in his library; opposite, a pair of men sit playing checkers; two windows down, a man stands, hands on hips, admiring a model ship. A damp paintbrush rests in one hand. Each window opens to a living diorama, immaculate to the embossed titles on the spines of the library books.
“We take special care to make sure each exhibit is accurate.” Gaunt folds his hands. “Sometimes, our models balk at the stiff Victorian dress, but one wouldn’t want false advertisement. It would mar our reputation.”
“Women?” Bixley asks.
Gaunt’s lips part, showing a slender line of white teeth. “Females are so hard to find, especially in our usual…haunts.”
Bixley rubs the back of his neck. He returns the smile despite the sweat that has started to form on his upper lip. “Where…well, what kind of recruitment do you do?”
“Most are vagrants. Last week we pulled two from the alleyway behind First National, one empty bottle between them.”
The man with the model ship looks out of the glass. His eyes appear black, glistening. Bixley shudders and steps away from the glass.
“He can’t see you, of course,” Gaunt says, his voice deep enough to resonate in Bixley’s chest. “One-way glass.”
“Oh. Of course.” Bixley brushes the perspiration from his lip. “Do they know?”
“Do any of us know?” Gaunt’s eyebrows knit together as he tilts his head downward. He steps to the wall. “Are you, Mr. Bixley, afraid to die?”
With a shake of his head, Bixley says, “No…well, yes…at times, I suppose.”
“Nothing is more natural.” Gaunt brushes his long fingers over a wall panel, revealing three buttons: one red, one blue, one green. “But still, we fear so much.” He burns his gaze into Bixley’s eyes. “A sampling, for your trouble. Drowning, asphyxiation, or perhaps something quicker. Something messy.”
Bixley swallows even though his mouth is dry. He runs his tongue across his lips. “I really don’t…no need.”
In a slow, thoughtful motion, Gaunt tilts his head. “I insist.” His index finger pushes the blue button. “Drowning it is.”
Water begins to pour into the top of the ship-builder’s cubicle. The man inside looks up, watching the downpour for a moment, then tries the door at the back compartment. His face flashes back to the glass. The water level rises quickly, already now at his waist.
“Really…” Bixley starts, but his voice vanishes.
The cubicle fills in less than a minute. Inside, the water distorts the man’s face into pale rubber—white as the belly of a fish. His cheeks puff like balloons. He struggles, pounding his fists against the glass. The sound barely registers in the hall.
Bixley makes a small motion with one hand, but stops.
It takes a few minutes for the man to open his mouth, but as he does, natural reflex takes over, and he inhales a lungful of water. After thrashing about, his body hands limp, bobbing inside the cubicle like a discarded toy.
Gaunt smile
s. “You can see the importance of our work, can’t you Mr. Bixley?” With another push of the blue button, the water drains from the room. “I would have stopped the process at a word, of course.”
Bixley’s eyes open wide, watching as the corpse drifts to the compartment floor with the receding water. Both hands latch onto his hat, kneading again. His eyes won’t meet Gaunt’s. “Of course,” he mutters.
“I hope to see you on the next inspection.” Gaunt extends a hand. “We seldom have repeat visitors.”
Chapter 50: Tending the Garden
John Wilton found himself in his sun porch clutching the handle of a stirrup hoe. Rain had soaked the yard for the past few days, and he knew—following Karen’s example—that the garden would need a good weeding. It was her garden, suggested by her therapist, a hobby to occupy her troubled mind—something living to help her forget the baby.
But Karen didn’t forget. With her in the hospital, he was left with the house and the garden to tend, alone.
He took the hoe in both hands and began at one end of the plot. With steady thrusts, he pushed the blade into the topsoil and raked it clean of small green weeds and stray grass. John took care around the base of each tomato plant. With a surgeon’s precision he worked the dirt down the rows of lettuce. An earthworm, close to the surface after the rains, accidently came in the path of the hoe and was split in two. John smiled as each segment wriggled away into the ground.
He came to the potatoes and paused.
The dirt swelled at the base of each plant. Karen made neat mounds to encourage growth, covering the fledgling potatoes to urge them higher, to make more room for the tubers. In the center of each mound, a plant thrust toward the sky—in the center of all but one.
Little miracles, she had called the potatoes. They grow in secret, underground. Dig the potatoes up once the plants have died.
John laid the hoe at the edge of the garden and knelt near the odd hill of dirt. He brushed away the top layer of soil, the layer dried by the sun, and found wet, dark mud beneath. The rains had saturated everything. Close to the ground, the heavy, earthy scent hung in his nostrils. He pushed his fingers under the surface.
Just a little at first. Then more.
His index finger struck something smooth. Not too firm.
A potato?
John’s face crept into a smile. No plant. Karen was right. He dug into the hill with both hands, letting the pungency of good, dark mud fill his senses.
They’re my babies, she had said on his last visit to the hospital.
With the dirt cleared away, he saw the skin of the thing, a light tan, almost flesh-tone with a hint of pink. He glanced at his mud-marred hands, but something tugged at his vision, pulling his gaze back to the hole at his feet.
The thing moved. Pulled away deeper into the ground, twisting like a thick earthworm. John’s throat tightened, squeezed by invisible fingers.
Too thick…couldn’t be a worm.
As thick as a baby’s leg.
John lurched back, sickened by the sight of the pale skin working in the ground, kicking back and forth. He staggered to his feet, stooped for the hoe, and swallowed a breath as the blade snapped to the hole, cutting into pale, twitching flesh. He struck again and again until the small hole filled with blood, dark as the soil.
Chapter 51: Ergonomic
The principal drones on, and Bob's chair comes to life.
At first, he is only aware of a dull sensation in his buttocks like bits of broken wood poked him through his shorts.
Bob shifts his weight, trying to wake his slumbering muscles. The chair moves with him. The metal feet skid across the tile floor, creating a jarring screech. The other teachers glare, some with mouths open. Voices blur together.
"I never...”
"Bob, really..."
"What's wrong?"
He answers with a yelp. The dull sensation sharpens as jagged bits of plastic snap off and push through cotton and into the meat of his upper thighs. The chair, it seems, has claws. As Bob stands, the chair comes too. He stumbles a few awkward, chair-stuck-to-butt steps and collides with the table. The others mumble as they hurriedly skirt around Bob and out the door. Blood trickles down the back of his thighs, staining his calf-high athletic socks. Tears squeak from the corners of his eyes.
"Pull..." he begs, slumping to the floor, but the room is empty.
Empty except for the other chairs, all of them now awake and snapping their sharp plastic teeth as they march on the downed man.
Chapter 52: Man Bites Man
Action Six News Team—Four Men: One Team!—were getting cramped and antsy in the back of the uplink van. There were only seconds to go and tonight had to be big.
“Why’s it got to be so damn dark in here?” said Terry as he snapped the Steadicam into place. “It screws up my light balance.”
“Terry, you’re a pansy,” said Mick. There was a chink as he chambered a round. “Why don’t you just do what you usually do and screw everything up—”
Benny, the field producer, broke in.
“Guys—we need to move in, three, two, one… go!”
The back doors of the van spilled open, and the four men piled out onto the blacktop. Terry cursed under his breath and scrambled to adjust focus and light filters. Mick straightened his tie, brushed back a little hair behind his ears, and shuffled toward the front door of a modest bungalow.
“Benny: time?”
“Uplink slot in, forty-two… forty-one…”
Mick glanced over his shoulder. “Nate, details?”
Nate, an intern at Action Six, scrabbled over the paperwork on his clipboard. Mick knew the kid’s look. Nervous type, a planner. Thought accidents didn’t happen. Would he be ready for prime time?
“Door unlocked,” said Nate. “Mr. Gruber is at the dinner table. Mrs. Gruber is in the bathroom. We’ve got him. We should go now.”
“No,” said Mick, holding up an arresting finger. “Wait for it.”
Benny touched at his earpiece. “She just flushed, Mick!”
“Go!”
Mick he kicked the door open, pushed inside and strode through the foyer to the Grubers’ small dining room. Mr. Gruber, middle-aged and balding, stopped with fork in hand, a bit of pork chop speared on the end; a globule of gravy hung from it, eager to fall. Mick leveled his automatic and popped him in the face.
The man’s body snapped back, his head snapped back further, then nearly all of him lurched forward to crash on the table. Silverware clattered and span up in a fountain of forks and spoons.
A squeal sounded from the hallway.
“Ready, here she comes.” Mick slipped the gun in his pocket and took the microphone from Benny.
Mrs. Gruber appeared in the hallway arch. When she saw her husband’s body and the news team, she clamped a hand clamped across her mouth. A small noise squeezed between her fingers.
“Uplink live,” said Benny. Mick spun around to face Terry with the camera.
“Mick Armstrong here with Action Six News. We are at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Gruber, the site of a grisly murder earlier this evening. Mrs. Gruber, can you tell us—”
Benny waved his hand frantically. “Mick! Cut!”
“What the Hell?”
“We’ve lost the show. Action One News just set fire to a school choir practice. Dress rehearsal. Doors are locked and they had minicams up ahead of time. Quality’s all to hell but the cassocks, man… Those kids are going up like matchbooks.”
“Clever bastards!” cursed Mick, his blazing dentistry hidden behind angry lips. He was not going to be defeated by incendiary news reporting. He had to think.
Mrs. Gruber slumped against the wall, sobbing. “I—I missed it, didn’t I? I missed my fifteen minutes...” She waved a furious hand at her husband’s ruined head. “He got his big moment!”
Mick looked at her, his heart full of sorrow. He had to comfort her, somehow.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Gruber. You’ll get anoth
er shot. Benny, get the station manager on the horn.”
“What you gonna do, Mick?”
He fixed on his eyes on the hole in Mr Gruber’s face. In one fast, professional movement, he whipped off his belt and reached into his pants.
“Whatever it takes to stay on top.”
Chapter 53: Old School
