* * *
"It is done," said Percy.
"Good," said James.
"A few scientists have said that we probably shouldn't have done it."
"Scientists are whiners."
"Trees were the natural habitat for millions of species that will now go extinct."
"Eh."
"Fruits grew on them. We'll have no more apples."
"When was the last time you ate an apple? Do they even sell those anymore? Just eat a power bar."
"And trees did something nice for the air. I forget what it is, but it was pretty important."
"Well, the trees should have thought about that before they dropped a giant frickin' branch on me. I didn't want to do this. They forced my hand."
"Technically, sir, trees aren't conscious beings. It's probably more accurate to blame..." Percy started to say "the wind" but he didn't want James to go on a rampage against the wind, so he left his sentence unfinished and instead tried to mentally prepare himself for the end of humanity.
* * *
One year later, humanity was awesome. As it turned out, trees sucked. Everybody was happier without them. The millions of animal and insect species that had gone extinct apparently contributed nothing to society, because nobody really missed them.
"Gosh, we sure do feel silly for having wasted our lives," said the tree-huggers.
"I apologize, sir," said Percy to James. "I never imagined that your cold black heart would bring about utopia."
"You are forgiven," said James, crushing a piece of steel in his hand. His arms had healed to twenty times their original strength, so he did that often, even though he had no particular use for crushed steel.
"It's almost like we're living in..." Percy trailed off, and then cursed under his breath. He'd come up with a hilarious pun involving the lack of trees, and now he couldn't remember it.
James Newman, the kindest, gentlest person you'd ever know, laughed anyway. Together they laughed and laughed as they watched the sun set over paradise.
* * *
NOTE: Though the story you've just read was a flight into fancy, it's true that trees suck. The next time you see one, kick it. Thank you.
Conversations Kill
by Tim Waggoner
Originally published in CEMETERY DANCE #60, 2009.
Tim Waggoner wrote his first story at the age of five, when he created a comic book version of King Kong vs. Godzilla on a stenographer's pad. It took him a few more years until he began selling professionally, though. Overall, he has published close to thirty novels and three short story collections, and his articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest and Writers’ Journal, among other publications. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction program. He hopes to continue writing and teaching until he keels over dead, after which he wants to be stuffed and mounted, and then placed in front of his computer terminal.
She became aware of motion first, a steady rhythmic jostling that caused her to sway from side to side. Next the rumble-growl of a hard-running car engine, felt as much as heard. Heated air blowing on her skin, seeping into her flesh, penetrating her bones, until it felt as if her body was filled with warm golden honey. So soothing, so peaceful, so tempting to remain swaddled in darkness, warmth, and comfort. She almost gave in, surrendered herself to the safety of nothingness. Instead, she opened her eyes.
She saw a splash of garish yellow light surrounded by velvet blackness. Her vision cleared a little, and she realized she was looking at headlights illuminating a patch of asphalt. Blackness meant night, asphalt meant a road, headlights meant a car.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
A man’s voice, familiar. She turned to her left, saw him sitting at the steering wheel. He didn’t turn to look at her, kept his gaze on the road ahead. In the soft blue glow of the dashboard lights, she examined his features. Lean face, prominent cheekbones, strong chin. Short straight hair, neatly trimmed beard. There was no way to tell for sure in this light, but she felt certain that his hair and beard were both reddish brown. He wore a brown suede jacket, faded jeans, and ratty running shoes that desperately needed to be replaced. His expression was impassive, almost as if he were wearing a mask, or was perhaps a mannequin someone had buckled into the driver’s seat of the car as a bizarre joke. She knew that face, knew it better than she did her own.
“Walter.” Half statement, half question.
He didn’t answer, but his gaze flicked toward her for a brief instant before returning to the road. In that moment she thought she saw a resigned sadness in his eyes, mingled with a touch of anxiety that bordered on fear.
Why would he be afraid of me, of all people? I’d never . . . The thought trailed away as she realized she couldn’t move her arms. Her seat belt was on, but surely she should still be able to move them, at least a little. She looked down at her lap and saw the reason for her immobility: her wrists had been wrapped together with duct tape. She also saw that she wore a sleeveless green dress – a garment she didn’t recognize – along with a black belt around the waist, and no shoes. No bra or panties, either. She tried to move her legs and discovered her ankles were also bound with tape. An icicle spear of cold panic lodged in her heart, and her first instinct was to scream at Walter to let her go, to thrash about in an attempt to break free of her bonds. But she forced herself to remain quiet and still. She was a slender woman, not weak by any means, but even though she was in good shape, she knew she couldn’t tear the tape apart with sheer strength. In the end, it was confused disbelief that helped her maintain control more than anything else. She simply couldn’t conceive of any reason why Walter would tape her wrists and ankles together like this. Walter loved her; he’d never hurt her. This was all too weird, like something out of a nightmare. It couldn’t possibly be real.
“You’re probably wondering what’s going on.” He sounded almost apologetic.
She glanced out the windshield. For the last few minutes since she’d wakened, the road had been winding gently uphill, and large pine trees rose on either side, so high that the car’s headlights couldn’t illuminate them fully, leaving their tops shrouded in darkness. She had the impression that the trees might continue on upward forever without end, that perhaps they were holding the heavens themselves aloft, the stars nothing more than bits of frost clinging to their branches, glittering with reflected light from the nearly full moon.
“I know this area,” she said. “It’s Krahling Hills. We come up here every summer. We rent a cabin, go hiking, fishing, swimming in the lake . . .”
“That’s the thing. We don’t. We never have.” Walter’s tone held a measure of pity now, and for some reason that frightened her more than anything else since she’d awakened.
“How can you say that? I remember –”
“I’m trying to tell you!” he snapped.
The sudden intensity of his words scared her, and without thinking she scooted away from him, closer to the passenger door.
He turned to give her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just . . . this isn’t easy for me, you know?”
“No, I don’t. I’m the one who woke up with duct tape around her ankles and wrists, not you.” She was surprised by her own bravado, wasn’t sure where it had come from. But the words, and more importantly the attitude behind them, felt right.
“I know. And I’m sorry.” Walter turned his attention back to the road but continued to talk. “It’s just that I didn’t know how you were going to react, and I thought restraining you would make things easier. For both of us.”
“What things?” Her confusion was quickly becoming replaced by anger. She loved Walter, but his stubborn reluctance to directly answer her questions infuriated her. “I don’t remember getting in the car, and I don’t understand why I’m dressed like this.” She sat only inches from the passenger side window, but she could feel the outside col
d seeping in through the glass. She guessed it was late fall, maybe earlier winter, but why couldn’t she remember? “Where are my shoes? Why don’t I have a coat? Why am I your prisoner?”
“You’re not. Well . . . not exactly.” He took a deep breath and let out a shaky sigh. “This is going to sound weird, but try to hear me out, okay? This is . . . well, it’s therapy. For me.”
She felt her body pressed back against the car seat as the road’s incline grew steeper. We’re getting closer, she thought. But closer to what, she didn’t know.
“Therapy.” The word came out flat, toneless. Nothing more than a nudge to keep him talking, like the single swift hand motion of a juggler trying to prevent a spinning plate from falling off the stick.
A nervous laugh, pitched high, an almost feminine sound. “This is probably going to sound weird . . . hell, forget probably –” another laugh – “but I’ve been seeing a psychologist for a while now. Her name is Dr. Naislund, and she’s been working with me on, as she puts it, my ‘issues’ with the opposite sex.”
She frowned. She didn’t remember any Dr. Naislund, but she decided to keep quiet. Now that she’d gotten him talking, she didn’t want to interrupt.
“Dr. Naislund thinks that my problems stem from my inability to relate on a fully mature level with the women in my life.” He paused, shook his head. “I sound like a parrot mindlessly repeating psychological terminology, don’t I?” He glanced at her, gave an apologetic shrug. “What do I know? I’m just a heating and cooling technician, barely a step or two up from a Mr. Fix-It. Dumb as a box of rocks.”
The bitterness in his voice as he said this last bit didn’t surprise her, though it did make her heart ache. Walter had always suffered from low self-esteem. It was what had kept him from taking more than a couple quarters’ worth of college classes, what kept him from starting his own business instead of working for Builder’s Depot.
“Honey, I know things haven’t always gone smoothly for us, but I think we get along pretty well.” At least, we did up until the point that you duct-taped my arms and legs together.
He pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose, actions she recognized as signs of frustration.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” His voice was tense, and he gripped the steering wheel so tight that his hands shook. The car edged into the opposite lane for an instant, before he corrected and pulled back.
Sudden anger flared hot and bright within her. “Maybe I’d get it if you’d take this goddamned tape off me!” She raised her bound wrists and shook them for emphasis.
He turned to look at her then, and she saw cold hatred in his eyes, so intense that seeing it hit her like a slap to the face. She knew Walter could get angry sometimes, but this . . .
“You’re not real.”
Of all the things he might’ve said at that moment – Fuck off, bitch; shut your damn mouth, cunt – she hadn’t expected Walter to negate her very existence. This whole situation was already way too bizarre, and this last comment of Walter’s only served to push it over the edge into total insanity. She couldn’t help it; she laughed.
Walter faced forward and kept driving, his hands continuing to grip the steering wheel so hard they trembled.
“What’s your name?” he asked softly.
Her laughter died. “What?”
“Tell me your name.” He sounded calm now, though his hands still shook on the steering wheel.
“Are you kidding? Have you gone completely –” She was about to say nuts, but then a horrible realization struck her. She didn’t know her name. She struggled to recall it, wondered if Walter had drugged her in addition to binding her arms and legs. That would explain why she couldn’t –
“Joy.” The word popped out of her mouth as if of its own accord. “My name is Joy.”
Walter half turned to look at her, a small sad smile on his face. “That’s my ex-wife’s middle name. Kind of a joke on my part, since the women in my life haven’t brought me much. Joy, that is. She’s the one I used to come up here with, not you.”
She felt like a vast chasm had just opened up in the pit of her stomach. “Ex-wife? But you’ve never been married to anybody but me . . . we met in high school, for god sakes. We got married the August after we graduated.”
“That was Laurie Hissong. And I didn’t marry her after we graduated. She broke up with me and started going out with Darrin Weidemann. They eventually got married and had four kids. Darrin’s the manager of a grocery store now. Doing pretty well for himself, too. Well enough to afford a better car that this old beater Chevy of mine, that’s for damn sure.”
Laurie . . . Darrin . . . The names meant nothing to her.
“A few years later I met Susan. I was working on the air conditioning at the car parts store where she was a cashier. We got to talking, and she told me she was separated from her husband. We started going out, but it didn’t last. She went back to her husband six months later. He was in charge of loans at a bank, made a lot more money than I did. With women, it always comes down to money in the end, doesn’t it?” Before she could respond, he shook his head as if to clear away that last thought. “Sorry. Dr. Naislund says I shouldn’t generalize about women like that. She says it’s a sign of displaced anger.”
“I don’t understand . . . I used to work at a car-parts store years ago, you know that. But you never told me about any Susan. Are you telling me you had an affair?” Her stomach clenched tight at the thought that Walter could have betrayed her like that.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I met Karen a year or so later. Karen Joy. She was a massage therapist. I strained my back on the job, and my doctor sent me to do some rehab at the hospital. Karen helped my back heal, and then when she agreed to be my wife, she healed my heart.” His laugh was self-deprecating. “Sounds cheesy, huh? But that’s how I felt.”
“Walter, honey, I don’t know why you’re so confused, but I’m a massage therapist. Remember? I got tired of being a cashier and went back to school. I’ve worked at the hospital for almost five years now.”
“After Karen left me – for a goddamned radiologist almost twice her age – I got depressed, started drinking pretty heavily, messing up on the job . . . My boss told me if I wanted to keep working for Builders Depot I had to get my act together. So I made an appointment to see Dr. Naislund. This was all her idea.”
Her hands and feet were starting to go numb. The tape was too tight, cutting off her circulation. “You’re not making any sense, Walter. Something’s wrong, really wrong. Please, stop the car, get this tape off me, and let’s go home. In the morning I’ll call the hospital and we’ll find someone who can help you.”
“I’m already seeing a therapist, Joy. And what’s wrong – really, really wrong – is you! In case you haven’t guessed by now, that’s the whole reason for our little late-night drive!”
The sudden fury in his voice frightened her, but not as much as the expression of sheer hatred that twisted his features.
She fought to keep her tone calm as she spoke, but she couldn’t keep a quaver of fear out of her voice. “Walter, sweetheart, whatever it is, we can talk it out. I love you.”
“Don’t you fucking GET IT? There is no YOU!” He practically screamed this, eyes wild, spittle flying from his lips.
Ice water sluiced through her veins as she realized her husband was gone and a madman had taken his place.
They drove on in silence for several minutes after that, Walter taking deep breaths, letting them out slowly. When he spoke again, his tone was even, his words controlled.
“I told you earlier: you’re-not-real. There is no Joy. You’re . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . a combination of the women in my life. The women I have issues with. Laurie, Susan, Karen . . . You look a little bit like each of them. You have Laurie’s eyes, Susan’s figure, Karen’s long black hair . . . and you’re wearing my favorite outfit of Karen’s. She wore that dress when we went to Mexico on our honeymoon. She had no bra or
underwear on, either. Said it made her feel sexy to go commando.”
She felt dizzy, her chest felt tight, and she thought she might be on the verge of losing consciousness. Maybe it was because of the tape, maybe it was because she was trapped in a car with a lunatic that was wearing her husband’s face. Most likely it was both.
“Dr. Naislund says my resentment toward women is the cause of my drinking problem, that I’m turning my anger inward and punishing myself. What I need to do is get my anger out, to release it and let it go once and for all. Dr. Naislund’s one of those new-agey types, into all sorts of weird stuff. One of the things she’s big on is role-playing. She uses it a lot in therapy sessions. She suggested I . . . what’s the word she used? Personify my resentment and deal with it in a symbolic way. That’s what you are: a personification.”
Her fear edged a notch closer to outright terror. “You can’t be serious! Are you saying that you . . . imagined me?”
“Yep. I have a good imagination, Joy. Really good. Have ever since I was a kid. I just never did anything with it.” A pause. “Before now, that is. To be honest, I’m surprised at how well you turned out. It’s almost like you’re really here. It’s pretty amazing, actually.”
She stared at Walter for a long moment. “So if I’m real, I’m just a . . . what? A voice in your head? An image in your mind?”
“That’s about it, yeah.”
“And you imagined me bound in duct tape?”
He gave her a smile that turned her already chilled blood to ice. “Like I said, I have problems with resentment toward women.”
“You’re insane.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She doubted it was a wise move to tell a crazy person you knew they were crazy, but it was too late now.
“Am I? Then let me ask you one simple question: what we were doing tonight before we started our little –” he smiled – “joy ride?”
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 2
