Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  THE END

  Bio

  Jim Goforth is a horror author currently based in Holbrook, Australia. Happily married with two kids and a cat, he has been writing tales of horror since the early nineties.

  After years of detouring into working with the worldwide extreme metal community and writing reviews for hundreds of bands across the globe with Black Belle Music he returned to his biggest writing love with first book Plebs published by J. Ellington Ashton Press. Along with Plebs, he is the author of a collection of short stories/novellas With Tooth and Claw, extreme metal undead opus Undead Fleshcrave: The Zombie Trigger, co-author of collaborative novel Feral Hearts and editor for the Rejected For Content anthology series (taking over the reins after volume one Splattergore. He also has stories in both Splattergore and Volume 2: Aberrant Menagerie).

  He has also appeared in Axes of Evil, Terror Train, Autumn Burning: Dreadtime Stories For the Wicked Soul, Floppy Shoes Apocalypse, Teeming Terrors, Ghosts: An Anthology of Horror From the Beyond, Suburban Secrets: A Neighborhood of Nightmares, Doorway To Death: An Anthology From the Other Side and edited volumes 2 and 3 of RFC (Aberrant Menagerie and Vicious Vengeance). Coming next from Jim will be appearances in Tales From the Lake Volume 2, Drowning in Gore, Full Moon Slaughter, MvF, Trashed, another collab novel Lycanthroship as well as follow-up books to Plebs and Rejected For Content 4: Highway To Hell (editor).

  He is currently working on two new novels with plans to wrap them up before beginning further instalments of both the Plebs saga and The Zombie Trigger.

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  HELP ME

  Neil Buchanan

  Help me.

  Jo raised one eyelid. “Whu…there?”

  From a million miles away, sirens wailed.

  Help me.

  He tried to focus and forced both eyes open. It hurt. He hurt. Oval-shaped walls stretched towards a warped door upright upon one hinge and his rucksack which lay discarded upon the wooden floor. His bedroom remained exactly as he’d left it the night before, empty.

  From beyond the mould-encrusted window, shrouded with thick pleat curtains, pencil-thin beams of daylight poked into the room. A sudden flash of amber lights danced across the ceiling and outside an emergency vehicle raced down Rudiment Hill. The flat trembled.

  A fire engine retreated into the distance, fast becoming somebody else’s problem.

  Groaning, Jo rummaged for his packet of Golden Virginia. He’d been dreaming. But the voice had been so loud, shouting in his ear. A woman’s voice, full of urgency, desperation—

  Vague and insubstantial, a memory swam before his mind’s eye. From the vastness of space, a giant had peered at the world, head ablaze with fire, bigger than the fucking planet, like something out of an Olympian nightmare. An egg, dark and mottled, formed within his continent-sized hands. Eyes full of stars, glowing with the fundamental building blocks of life, had stared at him. Through him. And then…then…

  He couldn’t remember, something about the end of the world, but that’s how it went with dreams, even drug-induced dreams. Someone, somewhere, had rules and they weren’t supposed to be broken. He shook his head. A dream, that’s all, a fucking dream. To be expected after the coke, alcohol and ecstasy binge from Friday night. Today would be . . . Sunday, maybe Monday. Stayed out for nearly the entire weekend, partying…where…oh, yeah, the squat, until he’d been sick. Actually, the money had run out and drugs stopped being magic after a while. Home then, in the loosest terms: bedroom slash lounge, kitchen, bog and door. Not even a shower or bath. All his washing took place in the sink, but that was okay, better than living on the streets.

  Jo had roughed it for five years in Manchester before finding the flat and a landlord prepared to wait for his rent, such as it was, and he wasn’t going back for love nor money. He rubbed his arms; his stomach felt like lead. Nausea and bile battled in the back of his throat. Yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything until he felt a shit-tonne better.

  He rolled a fag, fingers barely working through the process, lit it and collapsed in his bed, which consisted of a mattress, sleeping bag and coverless pillow. Smoke trailing from his mouth, he closed his eyes and allowed the events of the party to wash over him. Had he had sex with Lucy in the bog? Yeah, he thought so. He scratched at the scars on his arms, tiny white worms, reminders that on his bad days he was still capable of feeling, even if it was pain. Lucy was a fuckin’ skank. God, what had he been thinking? He’d have to avoid her for a few weeks. She’d only be round trying to snag his dole and scabbing fags and….

  Jo’s eyes snapped open. “Fuck.”

  Money. He had no money. The bastards had cancelled his dole. He was going through the process. No money to eat, let alone drugs. Which meant…which meant he’d got it on tick. And the only bloke who’d have given him that amount was Len McDurmon.

  More sirens outside, the rumble of heavy vehicles as they raced past.

  What had he said? What deal? An image of Len reared like a snake: tattoos, muscles and a face even his mother would disown, staring at him over a joint as if he were a piece of meat on a rack. A room full of weed, the smell pungent and offensive, crammed with Len’s cronies laughing, laughing… Christ, what had been so funny? He had until Monday. That was it. Pay it back on Monday. Because he’d have his interim by then. He’d give all the cash to Len and live off bollock all for a week.

  Jesus, what a wanker. But what choice was there? Len was a full-on hard bastard; the stories surrounding the man didn’t need to be embellished because he was the real deal. A hard-as-you-like drug dealer with a fondness for young men. They had to be thin and small, almost girlish, like Jo. And hadn’t Len spent the time staring at his arse and cock. Fuck, yes, he had. A cunt of the highest order.

  Jo rubbed his scars, fingernails digging into the hardened tissue. When he felt bad, when the day was too much, when moving took a herculean effort, he considered bowing out. It was the hardest option. Maybe not so bad if you believed in an afterlife, heaven or hell, but Jo was a dyed-in-the-wool atheist, death meant nothing, an absence of anything, the utter destruction of all that he had once been. Not that he’d ever amounted to much. Jo forced his fingernail into the scar tissue until he bled. But that wasn’t going to happen today, at least. And if he ever did, he wouldn’t make a song and dance about it. If the world ever got too much, he’d know what to do, take a tumble from a tall building, one last trip then goodnight Vienna.

  Get a grip. Jo put his hand to his heart. This wasn’t going to help anyone. It was Sunday. Still a day to get it sorted. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s bit--

  Help me.

  The suddenness of the voice made him jump; he twisted about in his sleeping bag, legs tangling and fell off the mattress onto the floor.

  But the sound had been so close? The room, the flat, was empty, unless there was someone in the kitchen or the toilet? There was no way he’d have somebody back. Not that he didn’t mind socialising, but to see the contempt in their eyes... Nah, he hadn’t invited anyone from the squat, which meant an intruder.

  Jo scrambled, not unlike a crab to his rucksack where he kept his claw hammer – he wasn’t completely stupid. Grasping the handle, back to the wall, he slowly stood up. The room swayed; he lurched forward a step. A cold sweat broke upon his brow and he licked at his dry lips. Let it pass. Let it wash over you.<
br />
  It did. The room straightened and he set off at an uneven pace towards the door. If there was someone from the squat, he’d ask them to go. Insist upon it if he had to. He never invited people back, even for a shag. The flat was too much of a shit-hole to entertain guests. And he didn’t want them to see how crappy his life had become. How fuckin’ desperate he was.

  The toilet, which stank, and hadn’t in the six months he’d lived in the flat ever been cleaned, was little more than a cubicle. Empty save a lone turd floating serenely in the pan. Which left the kitchen. As he shifted about, he glimpsed himself in the mirror and stopped, mouth falling open in a silent ‘o’ of surprise.

  A woman stared through the glass. Pale like milk, eyes wide and full of smouldering emotion, hair not just red but crimson. Energy, power, all resided within her, barely held in check beneath the skin—he blinked – and caught the suggestion of wings and tail, he blinked again and she was gone. Just him, just Jo: a scrawny, near-death drug addict with scars on his arms and shit tattoos.

  No one. He laughed nervously, but the sound was flat and lacking any humour. The drugs playing with my mind, that’s all.

  The door to the kitchen was closed so he stood listening, waiting for the slightest noise. Faintly, outside, someone ran past the window.

  “I know you’re in there,” he said, unable to bear the silence a second longer. “Get your arse out or I’m coming in. I’ve got a…a fuckin’ hammer.”

  He regretted speaking. Now they knew where he was. And they were in the kitchen with all manner of weapons.

  Like what? He went through a mental tick list: saucepan, butter knife, fork, spoon, there was a carving knife, but it was blunt, could barely pierce the top of a plastic sheet, let alone stab anyone. But that’d be the weapon of choice. Fuck it, he had to be fast.

  Jo thrust open the door and leapt inside, eyes closed, brandishing the hammer and swinging it wildly from side to side.

  The kitchen was empty. The sink full of washing up, the floor dirty and stained. Thin daylight seeped in through cracked windows. But that was all. That was it.

  Outside, someone was crying, the sound strangely disjointed. It faded almost as soon as it began.

  He was alone. There was no one in his flat. How could there be?

  In his head then? A kind of auditory hallucination. He’d heard of those, drug-addled brain making up all kinds of weird shit as it tried to make sense of the chemical soup frying his insides.

  He realised he’d been holding his breath and let it out. Just his head fucking with him. Nothing more. He almost laughed.

  Help me.

  Jo twisted about, jarring his arm against the wall. He dropped the hammer which in turn landed on his foot. Shrieking, he fell over.

  “I can’t go crazy,” he whispered. “I haven’t got my shit together yet.”

  Please.

  He puked, although nothing came out other than sticky strands of bile. Again. By his ear. No, closer, as if…as if it were in his head.

  Jesus, he didn’t feel well. He wasn’t sure how long he sat that way. A good hour, maybe more, waiting for the voice to return. Fear kept him still, rooted him to the floor as if he were an abnormal growth. When, finally, his bladder had had enough and the urge to piss became intolerable he staggered up and relieved himself in the cubicle. The urine was dark and stank of sperm and who knew what chemicals his body extruded.

  Through the small window, a group of children raced past, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as if playing a deadly game of catch, red school uniforms flashing between the railings. Over the rooftops, a helicopter appeared, the machine gun fire of its rotor blades made the glass tremble. He watched for a while, before shaking his cock and shoving it back into his pants. It took a while for his brain to catch up. School kids? Which meant Monday. Not Sunday.

  “Fuck,” he said again, then glimpsed the woman from the corner of his eye, peering at him through the glass.

  “Go away,” he said. “You’re in my head.”

  A sudden bout of cramps and he doubled over, clutching his stomach. Sweat dripped from his face and his body rushed hot then cold, enough to plant him on his arse.

  The woman, God, she was beautiful, stared at him the entire time. She couldn’t be real. None of this was real. What the hell had been in the coke he had taken? Had Len sold him something else by mistake, or perhaps on purpose -- the bastard. If I’m going to die, then perhaps it’s for the best. He closed his eyes and tapped the back of his head against the wall. Once, twice, when he opened his eyes she’d be gone, three, four, because she wasn’t real, five, six, never had been.

  He opened his eyes. The mirror was blank. Jo hauled himself to his feet. “Mind over matter,” he said to his pale reflection. “If you don’t mind then it don’t matter.”

  Jo no longer had a phone, having pawned the last model months ago, but he did possess a small television, recovered from the tip last year. He switched it on, then using the remote checked the time and date.

  3:25. MARCH 27th.

  He’d slept through Sunday and most of Monday. Why? That’d never happened before. Because, said a small voice in the back of his mind, you didn’t stop until Sunday morning. A proper two-day bender.

  He was as good as dead. Len would already be cruising the streets, searching for him. He didn’t know where he lived, so there was that, but plenty of people did. He had no friends. And Len could be real persuasive when he wanted to be. He was out of time and shit out of luck. Jo pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. He couldn’t stay here a second longer and he had nowhere else to go. It was back on the street or an anal beating from Len and his mates.

  No choice. None. None at all. He’d lay low for a while, that’s what he’d do. Wait for his money, send it to Len, courier if he had to, maybe a bit more. Just had to avoid the mad fucker for a while.

  Which meant leaving for a week or two.

  An image had slowly sprung into life upon the set. A newsreader looked harried at the camera whilst behind her, a helicopter broadcast images of…was that the construction site at the bottom of the hill? Emergency vehicles, police, ambulances, fire trucks scattered like toys before it, people running in all directions. The camera zoomed to something red and meaty lying on the ground, like a vat of raw minced meat had been upended into the dirt, shreds of cloth that might have once been clothes had somehow become tangled in the mess. Underneath, scrolled the words: Thirteen dead in explosion in Manchester. Unknown cause.

  His hand strayed to the volume control before he remembered himself. No time. And not his problem.

  He yanked the plug from the wall, surprised when it took the plaster with it, and shoved the set into his rucksack. Cash Generator would give him at least twenty. Enough for a train or bus to … where… where would be far enough away from Len? Jo had no family. Mum was dead and Dad had kicked him out six years ago. The insufferable prick. Down south, Cornwall way, there was fuck all there anyway. He’d lose himself in the seaside towns. He might even find work. Easter, wasn’t it? He’d find work. He was sure. And not to worry about the drugs. Those places had their own versions of Len. They’d be drugs aplenty if you knew where to look. Do that for a couple of weeks, then come on back. By then Len would have his sights on another poor unfortunate.

  Help me.

  Jo didn’t jump as such. He half-expected the voice.

  “Why?” he blurted to the empty room.

  Help.

  “Fuck that.” Jo heaved the bag onto his shoulder and after a moment’s hesitation, scurried through the flat to the back door, kicked an overflowing rubbish bag out of the way, fumbled with the key, before forcing it open.

  The back garden, loosely defined, was a slab of stone surrounded by four-foot red brick walls, one of which had collapsed. The air was crisp. A few defiant daffodils poked from the neighbour’s derelict garden amidst an old bathtub and broken rabbit hutch. Sirens continued to blare, muted but close by and the street, even a b
ack street, was curiously empty considering the time of day.

  Help.

  “Don’t start.”

  He set off over the broken path, but before he had reached for the gate, a black BMW pulled around the corner, slowly, deliberately, like a shark sensing blood in the water. Music thumped from inside. The fact it was Len’s car was assimilated in an instant as was the reason he’d come to this end of town. On instinct rather than any rational thought, Jo threw himself over his neighbour’s wall, landing on the other side and jarring his arm further. The soft crack of glass revealed he’d shattered the television set and he forced himself not to scream. Instead, he slipped free of the rucksack and rolled against the wall, face pressed into the brick, heart slamming in his chest, desperately trying to control his breathing. Surely, they’d see him. Or worse, they’d already noticed him diving across the garden and were too busy laughing about it.

  Tyres crunched gravel. The rumble of the engine cut to silence. The beat of music stopped as if the musicians had abruptly died.

  Help me.

  No time. Go away.

  The click of car doors, boots scrapping on stone, then Len’s voice, deep and resonant. “George stand by the door, whilst me and Danny go in through the front.”

  “But Len, what with all the trouble shouldn’t we just, I dunno, fuck off?”

  “Screw the terrorist wankers. They’re not concerned with the likes of us.”

  “Is that what you think it is then?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Dunno, the telly said something about a giant egg.”

  “George, try to think once in your life. Christ, a giant egg? Fuck, man, really?”

  “Yeah…I suppose it sounds a little weird.”

  The gate opened. Boots upon the path. He could hear their breathing, the creak of leather jackets, even smell the cheap aftershave Len liked to use. If he glanced up he’d see them striding past, all they had to do was look down and they’d notice him too, curled into a ball amongst the rest of the dirt and rubbish of his neighbour’s garden.