by Steve Wands
After refueling his truck, Henry drove around town tacking the flyers to telephone poles, street signs, walls, and anything else he could find. Hairball sat curled up in the passengers seat as Henry zigzagged through the staggering dead whom held no fear for Henry or his truck. One of the dead things even left part of its face on the side of the truck. Henry tried his best to avoid hitting the dead thing, but the street was becoming thick with them. He was starting to draw too much attention and would have to return home or park down a side street till they dispersed.
“Get out of the road, you fucking idiots,” he yelled.
He began to grow angry and instead of avoiding the dead he began to target them, running down several of them before realizing what he was doing. There was a large woman in the middle of the street, naked and covered in bite marks. Dried blood ran down her body and her lower jaw was missing. A tongue dangled out of her mouth and rested atop the torn flesh of her former jaw. She staggered forward like a bull, and Henry couldn’t resist the urge to run down just one more. He jammed down on the pedal. The truck sped up and knocked the large woman to the ground, creating a loud wet smacking noise that sickened Henry and made the hairs on Hairball’s back stiffen. The truck bounced up and down as Henry drove over the woman’s body. He looked in the rearview mirror at the dead woman’s massive body as she began to pull herself up. Some of her intestines had spilled onto the road and shards of bone ripped through her chest and arms. Henry shuddered and took the first turn he could, speeding away from the growing swarm of dead townsfolk.
He finished posting his flyers and returned home. The truck was covered in gore and was starting to drive funny. The steering was off and the breaks felt loose. Henry began to regret running down the fat lady from earlier. It didn’t seem serious yet, but if the truck began to break down he wouldn’t be able to fix it. There were plenty of other vehicles he could steal, but Henry had grown fond of his truck. He considered the vehicle a sort of pet. He extended traits and gender to it. He knew his truck. He didn’t know any of the other vehicles in town and he didn’t want to get to know any of them either.
“I’ll take it easy from now on, I promise,” Henry spoke softly to the truck, gently padding the dashboard. “No more zombie road games, honest. I’ll take care of you.”
Hairball curled up next to Henry as he lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling. Tomorrow was the opening day for Henry’s Gallery of Horrors. He knew the name wasn’t terribly original. But it was fitting, and Henry always thought if something fit you wear it. It didn’t have to be fancy it just had to serve its purpose.
He nervously chattered to Hairball about the show, and eventually after he found the conversation to be a bit one-sided he began to drift off to sleep. He dreamt of nothing and slept like a log.
The big day was here, or rather night. Opening Night! Henry always read that the big gallery shows opened at night. So, the Gallery of Horrors had to open at night too. He paced around the showroom, nervous that no one had shown up yet, aside from a few staggering dead corpses outside. Which he momentarily considered letting in, but ultimately decided against it. Hours passed and still not a living thing came by. Henry was heartbroken. He walked among his exhibits. His favorite consisted of a scene at a dinner table of which he transported a small dining table with four chairs and fixed four zombies to the chairs. They were painted white, resembling grotesque mannequins. Henry glued silverware into their fists and nailed their arms to the table so they sat properly. On the table was a velvety red tablecloth with his mother’s fine china resting atop. Each gleaming white plate had some manner of gore sitting cleanly atop of it; brain, heart, lungs, testicles. He pulled up a folding chair and sat among them, taking part of the conversation that should’ve been going on if they could’ve talked.
When the door burst open Henry nearly fell over. Hairball leapt off his lap and ran behind the exhibit that had two men playing cards. Both men were glistening white; their lips were pulled back by fishhooks to expose their yellowed teeth and painted red gums. Their eyes were painted black with black paint dripping down their cheeks resembling tears.
“Hey! You made it,” Henry yelled excitedly once he recognized one of the faces that burst through the door.
“What the fuck is this?” The wild looking girl yelled, holding a rifle in her hands.
“My show! My Gallery of Horrors,” Henry replied.
“This is sick,” the girl continued.
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“We can see from here it’s sick. These aren’t your playthings! They’re dead people for Christ’s sake!” Yelled a man from the group, as he disbelievingly scanned the room.
“You just don’t understand,” Henry mumbled, stepping down from the exhibit.
“No. It’s you who doesn’t understand. It’s people like you who caused this! Got no respect for the dead, boy,” another man from the group yelled.
“Whatever, man.”
The girl raised the rifle and pointed it at Henry.
“Whoa! What’re you doing?”
“Dad, should I take him down?”
“Shoot out his knees. Let the dead have their way with him.”
“No! Wait—”
The girl fired. Henry dropped clutching his leg. Her shot was off, about two inches above his knee. She stepped closer. Her eyes were like lightning and when she squeezed the trigger a second time thunder cracked and sent sharp shards of pain into his other leg, shattering his kneecap. Her aim was true. She looked at him with vehemence and then turned and stormed out.
“You can’t fucking leave me like this!” Henry yelled.
“No respect,” the older man repeated.
The older man, the girl’s father and the rest of their small group wedged the doors open. They sped away in a pair of trucks as the dead began to shamble into the old factory. They moved as quickly as the employees of yesteryear did on any given morning. Unready to start the day but compelled to do so regardless.
Hairball licked Henry’s shaking hand as he tried to crawl away, but every pull forward was agonizing. His legs throbbed in pain. Tears fell freely and when the screaming began Hairball scurried away, leaving his master to die alone. His furry friend skittered over Henry’s open sketchbook. The sketch eerily resembled Henry’s own fate.
END.
Please enjoy these two additional tales of terror from my collection:
HORROR STORIES
A Macabre Collection
Available at http://www.smashwords.com
*
From The Page
*
The walls oozed moisture. It dripped like sweat down the bowing walls, down to the well-worn and warped hardwood floors that creaked with every uneasy step. The windowsills screamed as the soft rotting wood gave way under pressure. Rats scurried through the walls, their thick ropey tails thumping along the sheetrock as wads of insulation stuck to their hairy hides.
The whole house swayed in sync with the whipping winds of the escalating storm. Gutters overflowed with rain, dead tree limbs, and fallen leaves. The downspouts swelled like clogged veins in an old woman’s leg. The window shutters slapped against the siding, echoing the lightning.
In the backyard, a tire swing spiraled by a rope tied around a large tree branch. The soft sounds of playful ghosts were kept secret by the roar of thunder overhead.
I know this house. I’ve been here before… but this place doesn’t belong here. This is the house in my dreams… my nightmares… It doesn’t make any sense.
The paint is peeling, cracked, and sagging like skin in some spots. The front door is open, hanging by a single screw in a rusty hinge. Mold has taken over the front porch and the cement steps have weathered into jagged chunks of rock.
Something wants me here. Is it the house? How did it get here? Why me? Why now?
A light on the porch flickered on. The door began to bang against the wall, calling her to come inside. She went.
She stoo
d in the doorway, half in, and half out. She stared at the fluttering insects that danced around the light. She stepped further inside. There was something familiar about the place to her but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Hello,” she said. “Anyone home?”
There was no answer, only the sound of the storm, and the rats. There was a sketchbook lying in the middle of the hall with a pencil next to it.
I remember now. I know why I remember this place. I drew this… I made this… but, I was only a kid. This isn’t possible.
She sat down and opened the sketchbook. It was empty. The pages were crisp white, screaming for lines to be drawn on them, crying for a purpose. She picked up the pencil, examining the tip. When led struck paper the house creaked. She began to sketch furiously. The walls straightened but somehow appeared more menacing. Footsteps could be heard upstairs as she created the inhabitants. The rats squealed in terror as she drew them and then erased them.
She would sketch well into the morning, filling the pages with the things that haunted her mind: the mutants and monsters, the nightmarish architecture, the killer cars and the creepy kids. The house moaned in delight.
I have to do this. I have to get them out of my head. The world can deal with these horrors, I can’t. They can figure them out. They can stop them. Someone has to…
*
Of Dust and Dirt
*
He gagged and heaved, choking on the fetid remains of the dead piss-drenched rat that filled his mouth. The rat’s stiff hairs prickled at his gums and irritated the roof of his mouth. Every time he began to throw-up, his vomit either erupted out of his nose or was chewed back down so that he could breathe. The same duct tape that wrapped around his mouth, head, and ankles, rendering him useless, bound his hands. He could hear feet shuffling on the ground, walking around him. He heaved again, the stiff rat-tail felt like a tendril of sandpaper on his tongue.
He knew there were at least two people doing this to him and why he didn’t know. Mistaken identity he hoped, but knew deep down in his queasy-sick stomach that it was most likely for fun. People did the damnedest things just to make the ten o’clock news nowadays. All he wanted to know was why, and to know if he’d ever live to never tell anyone about the things they did to him. Now he waited, listening to the footsteps around him, waiting for what horrible act they would perform next. Were they recording this? Was that what this person was doing walking around him? Then he heard a door open and a man’s voice yelling.
“Get up here! Leave the little piggy alone till later,” the man’s voice roared.
He heard the set of feet skitter away. Too light to be another man—a woman, he decided, lovers from hell, he guessed. All he could do was gag, tasting the filth in his mouth, and wait till later.
“I told you not to go down there alone.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Well it does, do it again, and that’ll be you down there. You don’t want that do you?”
She shook her head slowly from side to side, staring into the man’s baby-blue eyes making certain he knew she didn’t want that to be her down there in the dark.
“Good, then. Listen, I got to run out for a bit. You just keep an eye on things till I get back and don’t go down there. Let the piggy play with his pet, okay?”
“Okay, whatever.”
The man left, grabbing a set of keys on his way out the door. He walked out into the sunshine. It was a beautiful warm day. The kind of day fit for a trip to the beach, but the man, Jerry, wasn’t dressed for the beach, nor did he aim to go there. Jerry was on his way to Club 18, the local gentleman’s club, which was full of anything but gentlemen. It was barely four in the afternoon, and Club 18 would be nice and empty for a bit.
Jerry reached into his glove box and pulled out a flask. The flask had seen plenty of action, its surface scratched and dented, but its innards full of warm whiskey that went down as smooth as spit. By the time he reached Club 18 the flask was empty and his dick was getting hard. The club had a reputation for finding the youngest, stupidest girls around and turning them into perfect little whores both onstage and off. Jerry came for both. He worked himself up watching them, even though he already knew whom he came for. By now he had his favorites and knew their schedules. He was, after all, a favored regular with the owner and the whores alike—he paid well and he paid often. So what if he was rough? So what if he was an asshole? He paid in cash and he kept coming back. He might as well have been Jesus H. Christ to them all. He sure as shit acted like it when he strode in.
Today was different, though. He came with a purpose more important than his pecker, though he’d get that taken care of as well. Today he would set up his next little plaything. He tired of the man downstairs. How much more could he take, he wondered. And he wasn’t keen on men, but when a piggy presented itself for play, who was he to say no?
Her name was Red, and for good reason: she dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood—the sexy adult version—and had reddish hair the color of fallen leaves. Her skin was pale and freckled, toned and tight, flexible and smooth to the touch. He wanted her bad. Almost so far as to keep her all to his self, but that wasn’t right, he figured. He found his way to his usual spot near the stage, between the entrance curtain and the stripper’s pole. How he wished the strippers spun around a blade instead a dull cylinder. His pocket was full of singles and they were burning a hole.
The music clambered on and a new dancer took the stage, as the previous one picked up her clothes and headed off. He didn’t know her name and didn’t give a good Goddamn. She was a fiery-hot brunette dressed up like a businesswoman in a tight black suit and skirt. Her hair was tied tight in a ponytail and her dark brown eyes glistened behind a pair of fake glasses. She carried a clipboard and strutted on a pair of high heels that were downright deadly. Jerry couldn’t help but smile, and clap, and throw down a pair of singles. Whether it was the whiskey in his belly or the scent of pussy in the air, Jerry automatically put her on the list of candidates for the next open slot in the take-all-you-can-until-you-die-or-I-get-sick-of-looking-at-you reality show filmed right in his very own basement. She’d have to take a number and get in line of course. The DJ faded his usual dance music-bullshit into some classic Ozzy Osbourne and Jerry felt right at home.
Jerry sat through another two dancers before his girl took the stage. Red had to be the youngest of them all, probably not even eighteen, but fit to dance and damned if she didn’t. He wished her hair was streaked with blood and pulled taught in his fist. Her eyes were wide and surrounded by dark, thick eyeliner that almost appeared to be streaked by nervous tears. Dance, bitch, he said to himself. Dance for daddy. Let’s see what you can do today. The DJ was back into his dance music-bullshit but Jerry didn’t care. The heavy bass synced perfectly to his throbbing member and the rhythmic thrusts of her hips. It looked like she was fucking the air beneath her. She shed the top of her dirty little red riding hood outfit, exposing her supple natural breasts. Her nipples were standing erect and he longed to tear them off with his teeth and taste her warm blood. He figured it tasted like honey, how could it not? He watched in a daze as she bounced and bucked, stripped off the rest of her outfit and fucked the pole. She worked it up and down, extending one leg as high as her head and then spinning around with the other. She was magnificent, a real talent, a natural. The things he would make her do.
She came around like she always did; a soft whisper in the ear, a sensual rub of the shoulder, and a kiss on the neck. Her scent alone made his dick ache. He didn’t need any convincing, but he loved the approach. He adored the ritual. He knew something of ritual and longed to show her his own. Soon, he thought, very soon.
Twenty bucks bought him two minutes, but since they all knew him and knew he’d be back they let it go for twice that. She took it slow, cause that’s how he liked it. Too fast and he’d be asking for a hand job the first time around. The place was dead, there were four other old
guys swooning over the dancer of the minute and the bouncer didn’t think twice about Jerry. They’d gotten to know each other and Jerry had yet to cause a scene, and even if he did, he was a regular, so it didn’t really matter. Frequency was as much a currency as cold hard cash.
She rode him hard, burying his face into her sweet-smelling tits, rubbing glitter all over him. He licked her sweaty breasts and ribs and even though that was frowned upon Red was too dumb to care and no one else was watching.
“Red,” he gasped, “want to make some real money?”
She moaned, turning away from him and riding his cock with her ass, “of course. You know I love real money,” she giggled.
“Good girl, that’s what I thought. You and me after hours…I’ll make it worth your time. Name your price,” he said, knowing he’d never have to pay up.
“Price depends on what you want, sweetheart,” she said, sucking her finger.
“Let’s just say everything,” he smiled.
“A grand for the night, and you supply all the drinks and candy I can handle,” she rode him harder.
“Done, and done,” he said.
“I’m off Thursday, and don’t have to be in till late on Friday, and don’t say a word of this to anyone. I don’t want any of your friends coming in here asking for the whore of all whores, you get me?”
“I got you,” he smiled, grabbing her hips, “and don’t worry, no one will ever know.”
Time was up. He paid. She smiled. And they left the private corner as if they were a couple. She walked him back to his seat and she went to the back to refresh for round two. He stuck around for a few more dances and another lap dance from a different girl then split. He was eager to get back home and the put the piggy to rest. He wanted the place nice and fresh for his little red cock-riding bitch.
