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Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

Page 20

by Matt Shaw

At present, he is working on the extreme horror novel, 'The Club'.

  Kyle resides in Glasgow with his long suffering partner, an arrogant, half-demented cat, and an imagination that keeps him up all night contemplating therapy.

  His parents are currently wondering what went wrong.

  Kyle can be found causing trouble on Facebook at:

  https://m.facebook.com/kylemscott123/

  HEY-ZEUS

  Duncan P. Bradshaw

  MAUNDY THURSDAY

  Guy passed the driving license to Ed, giving him the biggest of grins, “Here you go mate, get your eyes round that bad boy.”

  Ed snatched it, and turned it this way and that, checking for the quality, he nodded in approval, “That’s some good work mate, real top notch, should be able to get our drink on later tonight huh?” Guy nodded enthusiastically.

  “Wait a moment mate, why have you changed my name?”

  “Duh, why do you think? If you get nicked, the last thing you’ll want is for the po-po to know your real name huh?” Guy rapped his mate on the head with his knuckles, “Not the brightest bulb in the box are ya?”

  “Why the fuck am I called Jesus though? Of all the names you could’ve gone for, you’ve called me Jesus,” Ed whinged.

  Harry nudged Guy in the ribs, “You didn’t, did ya? Ha ha ha, that’s well funny. It’s cos of the beard isn’t it?”

  Guy picked up another slice of pizza and started to pick the chunks of pepper from it, “Yeah man, and besides Ed, it’s pronounced ‘Hey-Zeus’, ya know, Portuguese or summat. You’ll be fine, not as if anyone is going to challenge it eh? You said it yourself, it’s top notch.”

  Ed launched a disc of pepperoni at Guy’s face, catching him on the nose, “You’re such a bell end. No one is going to fall for this.”

  “Only one way to find out mate,” Harry butted in, “get down to the offie, pick us up some cans, we can neck ‘em as we head into town. Maundy Thursday innit? Everyone goes out and gets pissed. Except this time gentlemen, we shall be amongst them. Heard some birds from college are heading to this pub called ‘Hey Jude’. Reckon we head down and see if we can get some, you know what I mean?” As if to emphasise what he meant, he shoved an index finger into his other balled fist and slid it in and out.

  “I think we understand what you mean, you dick,” Guy whinged. With the pepper removed, he folded the slice of pizza in half and shoved it in his mouth.

  Ed sighed and stood up, “Fine, I’ll pop out now, give us some money though, not paying for it all myself am I?”

  With a pocket full of shrapnel, Ed felt as though his jeans were going to fall down. The last thing he wanted as he entered the off license, was to begin proceedings by baring his Iron Man underwear to the proprietor. He was certain that any ID, regardless of its quality, would be rendered useless if the owner clapped eyes on his gaudily stained underpants.

  As the door opened a bell rang out -and the shopkeeper, stood behind the counter reading The Sun, eyed him suspiciously. Ed could already feel beads of sweat blooming in his fringe as the door closed behind him and his palms were tacky. Striding past the counter, he managed a grunt of “Evening mate,” before he walked down the aisle to the promised land.

  With his entrance made, he looked around and saw, to his dismay, that he was stood amongst the wine. He could feel the eyes of the shopkeeper on him, so decided to act the part. Ed picked up the first bottle he saw, and turned it round, pretending to read the description. Why the fuck would you buy something that had ‘elements of jasmine and oak’ in? Tutting, he replaced the bottle on the shelf, though feeling it nearly slip out of his hands as he did so.

  “Can I help you?” the shopkeeper called out.

  Ed wiped his hands on his jeans and squeaked, “I’m looking for the lager,” his voice coming out like he was thirteen again.

  The man smirked and pointed with the folded up paper, “Over there mate.” With the interaction complete, for now, Ed flounced round the back of the aisle.

  A wall of cans greeted him, he felt as overwhelmed as he had when Emily had pulled her top off and volunteered her bra covered boobs to him. No matter how hard he pulled at the damn clasp, the promised land had remained stashed away. Bollocks to it. Ed knew he had twelve pounds and fifty eight pence in available funds, mostly in twenty pence pieces. Choosing from the wealth of garish coloured adverts available, he plucked three different four-packs from the shelf, did a last check to make sure they were in the same offer, then began the trek to the counter.

  Time itself slowed down, each step a booming thud, the change slapped against his thigh, the shopkeeper, preparing for the inevitable, slung the paper onto a stool and crossed his arms, the words formed already.

  Waiting for the right moment to be delivered.

  With the cans dumped on the surface, Ed scratched his burgeoning beard, which grew sparsely on one side, and like a wild thicket on the other cheek. “Gonna need to see some ID mate,” the shopkeeper asked. Ed gulped, pulled out his wallet and passed the driving license across, giving him as confident a grin as he could muster.

  Like a hawk eyeing up a shrew, the shopkeeper turned the ID in the light, before sticking his bottom lip out in acceptance. Just as it was about to be passed back, his eyes screwed up, “Hang on. Jesus?”

  Ed swallowed hard, “Yeah…erm, my parents are bible bashers, they erm…ya know…”

  The shopkeeper smirked, “Don’t suppose you could do me a favour could ya?” Ed’s mouth hung open, catching flies, the barman stooped down before slapping a bottle of water on the counter, “Could you turn this into wine? I’d make a killing.” He looked at Ed expectantly, raising his eyebrows in time to ‘Hallo Spaceboy’, which was blaring out of the radio.

  “Huh?” Ed asked dumbly.

  The shopkeeper sighed, “Was only a joke mate,” and passed the ID back, “if you want a carrier bag, they’re five pence each.”

  “Yes please,” he squawked back, before fishing around in his pocket and depositing enough change on the counter to keep a slot machine addict happy for a few hours. The shopkeeper tutted, rolled his eyes, and began to fish through the pile of coins.

  “I fucking hate cider,” Guy whinged. With every swig, he pulled a face afterwards as if he was going to throw up.

  The trio walked through the park, the bag of booze swinging in Ed’s hand, Harry laughed, “Shut it you nobber, everyone does, unless you’re a farmer. Anyway, it’ll get you pissed quicker though won’t it? Hurry up, we’re nearly there,” he pointed to a lit up building beyond some wrought iron railings.

  Ed belched, “There’s no way we can drink this lot is there? Reckon we stash the others in a bush, pick them up on the way back, what do ya reckon?”

  Guy and Harry nodded, and chinned the rest of their drinks. With the bag secreted in the hedgerow, out of sight, the three of them started preening. “So, we get in there, me and Harry will go find somewhere to loiter, and you go get the drinks in. Lager this time, OKAY? Otherwise, knowing my luck, I’ll pull some bird only to yak up all over her as we’re snogging.”

  Ed and Harry started to snigger. They pushed their way past the ostracised smokers and entered the building to the tune of ‘Hey Jude’. It was bustling, Guy and Harry pointed to a murky corner, Ed nodded and looked at the bar. It was two deep. He walked round the scrum and managed to squeeze into the throng, then bided his time.

  “Can I see some ID mate?” the voice asked, stirring Ed from his thoughts about bra’s and their infernal workings. Ed stuttered and dug the driving license out again, passing it to the smartly dressed barman. The instant he read the name, he raised an eyebrow, “Jesus?”

  “It’s pronounced, Hey-Zeus, it’s Portuguese,” Ed replied.

  “No, no, it’s fine. It is providence that has brought you here, to us today. Here, this lot is on the house. Take them to your friends and come back, we’ve got something special for you,” the barman said.

  Ed scowled, though it was short lived, free booze
was free booze, they only had a tenner each, which wasn’t going to last too long judging by the prices stuck to the pumps. The barman placed the second pint on the bar, and winked, making Ed feel a little uncomfortable, “Don’t forget to come back,” the barman reminded him.

  “They’re free?” Guy asked incredulously, Ed nodded. “Well where are you going?”

  “The barman said he has something for me, be back in a bit,” Ed answered, Guy shrugged his shoulders and went back to chatting to Harry about football.

  Ed fought through the crowd again and got to the bar, though when he looked around, he couldn’t see where the barman had got to. “Jesus?” a soft voice asked from behind him.

  Ed turned around and looked straight into the buxom chest of a scantily clad lady, she looked down at him seductively, nibbling on her lip. Ed realised his mouth was open and promptly shut it, his teeth clacked together. Finally remembering the English language, he mumbled, “Yes?”

  The lady smiled at him and grasping his hand, she winked and began to lead him off to a door marked, ‘STAFF ONLY’. “Where are we going?” Ed asked, though not really caring.

  She just smiled at him and pushed the door open, revealing a near pitch black room, “You just get in there Jesus, I’ve got something for you.”

  With a buffoons smile on his face, Ed walked into the room, the door shut behind him and clicked closed. “Hello?” he asked the darkness. There was a WOOSH rendering him unconscious.

  GOOD FRIDAY

  Ed came to and could feel air blowing over his back, opening his eyes, he could see stone tiles beneath him. He felt that he was laying down on his front, trying to stand up didn’t work, and he realised that he was tied to whatever it was below.

  “Jesus,” came a stern man’s voice from behind him, “so glad you woke up in time. It’s Good Friday, and you have been delivered to us, by the ever knowing Judas Iscariot.”

  “Eh?” Ed asked dumbly, he tried to look around to see who was speaking to him.

  “We have much to do Jesus, so let us begin,” as the voice ended, Ed heard a cracking sound, splitting the air around him. He wracked his brain to remember where he had heard that sound before. CRACK.

  CRACK.

  CRACK.

  That was it, Indiana Jones, it sounded like his whip.

  Hang on.

  “Erm, excuse me, but what are you going to do? I thought the lady wanted to…you know…have sex with me?” he said to the room.

  A bassy laughing ran around him, covering him like a blanket, “Oh you’re good, we know that you are pure and chaste. You have kept yourself this way. For the offering.”

  “What are you on about? What’s the offering?” Ed asked.

  “Hello?”

  Another crack rang out, this time ending in a slash of pain running across his back, just below the shoulder blades, Ed cried out in pain, “What the fuck man?” Another crack, another fork of agony slashed his body, the lash wrapped around from one rib to the other. It continued. Each crack ended in another sting, the site would go numb temporarily, before warm liquid ran down his sides.

  Ed lost count at thirty one, the sound was at a steady pace, and the end result was the same. His body rocked with each strike, the wood beneath him chafed his skin, rubbing it raw. Thick strands of spit and blood dribbled from his mouth, spooling from the beard hair before spiralling to the stone slabs beneath him. Eventually he lost consciousness and the world went black.

  He was lost in a dream where he was trying to find his way home. Ed was in the park with Guy and Harry, they staggered about the place, cans in hand, swearing at him, telling him to stay out and not be such a baby about going home. As he crossed the divide between park and street, a blinding white light seared his eyeballs.

  His own screaming brought him to. The cracking had stopped, but he could feel coarse hands rubbing his back. Thick fingers pressed into the gashes and lacerations, fingernails dug under his skin, seeking out the meat beneath. They smeared a gritty powder into his wounds, “Salt the flesh, make it clean,” he could hear the gruff man chanting to himself.

  With his strength expended, he saw a robed figured kneel down in front of him, and unfasten the rope which bound him. Once he was released, cold hands were thrust under him, turning him onto his back. As he was spun around, he could see that he was in a basement; tall oak casks were stacked against a far wall. He saw that he had been lying on a thick table, still wet blood glinted in the thick wooden grain.

  The pain which coursed through his body as his mutilated back was placed beneath him, nearly made Ed pass out again, he cried out, hoping that someone would hear his cries. His eyes were forced open by cold salty fingers, he looked into the face of the barman, “Jesus. You have gone through stage one of the preparation. Behold, stage two. The bleeding.”

  Ed felt clammy hands hold his near lifeless arms against the table top, with his eyes released, he tried to see what else was around him, nothing except stone, beams and stacks of barrels. The barman appeared in his eyesight again, “Behold, a crown fit for the King of the Jews.”

  A coronet of metal was held above his head, something sparkly was wrapped around the circumference. As it was brought closer, he could see that the metal ring was laced with barbed wire. Ed tried to squirm, but hands held him firmly in place. The barman disappeared from view, though he could feel his damp breath against the tips of his ears.

  Then he felt it. Barbs dug into his head, gently at first, more like an irritation, but it grew in ferocity, before he could feel it scratching against the bone of the skull. “Stay still now,” the barman’s voice warned.

  TAP TAP TAP

  Ed couldn’t work out what was making the sound, perhaps it was someone trying to save him. The barman appeared in his eyesight once more and he saw that he was holding a hammer.

  TAP TAP TAP

  The jagged metal bit further through the skin, embedding itself in his skull, he could feel blood trickling down his head, dripping off his hair and onto the table beneath him. The barman worked his way around, and then stood over Ed, “There, that’s better, you look like a true King now. Not much more to endure, then your journey will be complete. I promise.”

  There was a clap of hands, and Ed was released, the relief was temporary as the same clammy hands hauled him to his unsteady feet. “Please mate, I’m not really Jesus…” Ed begged.

  The barman raised a hand, “You’re not? But your driving license says it is? You’re not trying to deceive us are you?”

  Ed sobbed, “No…yes…look, please, it’s been a terrible misunderstanding. Please…let me go.”

  Hands dragged him across the floor, towards a treadmill, “You cannot fool us with your lies Jesus, we know who you are. Do not be afraid, we have been waiting for you for some time. We can finally complete the ritual, and He will be awakened.”

  Two robed figures dumped Ed onto the treadmill, before disappearing off to one side. “Who will be awakened? What are you on about?”

  “Judas of course. He will be reborn, the true apostle will walk amongst us once more, and guide us anew,” the barman lectured, he gestured to the two shadowy figures who bowed and knelt down.

  “I don’t understand…” Ed whimpered.

  “That is of no consequence. Now. Jesus, the deceiver, it is time for you to walk the way of suffering, I hope you have kept some of your strength. For now you will need it.”

  There was the sound of wood scraping against stone, Ed tilted his head and saw the two robed men materialise out of the gloom, dragging a large wooden cross. The barman walked to the head of the treadmill and punched in a target distance of one mile into the display, “Arise, false prophet,” he commanded.

  When he did not, the barman punched Ed in the face and hauled him to his feet. The figures stood to one side, with the crucifix running in parallel to the treadmill, they lowered the corner of the cross onto Ed’s shoulder, the weight nearly forced him to his knees.

  “Now Jesus. Wal
k,” the barman commanded, he hit ‘Start’ on the machine, and it whirred into life. Step after agonising step, Ed plodded on, the pace was slow, but persistent. As he staggered onwards, the three figures would take in turns to spit on him, clout him around the head, or push down on his burden.

  Ed sunk to his knees a number of times, after each collapse, the machine would be stopped, he would be pulled to his feet, and it would begin again. After what felt like eternity, the machine beeped that the journey had been completed.

  “Good, you have arrived Jesus,” the barman cried out.

  Ed looked around, “But I haven’t gone anywhere…”

  “I think you have, both in body and mind. Now, the final act,” his eyes darted to each of the robed figures, who dragged the cross off Ed’s blistered shoulder and rested it on the floor.

  “You have done well, now you have but to embrace the end. Your end,” the barman picked Ed up under his armpits and dragged him backwards. His legs were leaden and every time he tried to stand, they faltered.

  Ed felt his back rub against rough wood again, splinters wormed their way into the red raw wounds. His arms were splayed outwards, and his feet straightened. “No, please…no…” he murmured through fat lips.

  He felt something cold press against the palm of his right hand, like a fifty pence piece, he heard a clang and felt something be driven clean through, he screamed. The hammer came down again, until the nail was flush to the skin. The other hand was next, before his trainers were ripped off and thrown into the corner of the room. As his feet were nailed to the cross, he floated between reality and dream.

  Another scraping sound woke him up, he saw the ceiling flip and turn the right way up. As gravity took hold, his body sagged, pulling on the nails, opening the meat of his hand up. “And lo, it has been completed. Die well, Jesus.”

  Ed fought to keep his eyes open, but each felt like they had weights attached to them. His head sunk to his chest, and he gave in.

  EASTER SUNDAY

 

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