Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  Lack of oxygen. A failing heart. Just like her son.

  Her head spun from the strangeness of it.

  “You found me,” Coldman’s Other said.

  Sara lowered her head and gripped the edge of the rock. It squirmed in her hands. “I came to get help.”

  The Other grinned. His gums were studded with razors. “Yeah, I know what you want.” He watched her through slitted pupils. “Ready for the pact of your life?”

  Sara smiled. On her face it felt like a wound. “Save my Johnny.”

  * * * * *

  She had fancied death to be a black-and-white film, surreal with a chiaroscuro beauty that would delineate the soulful absence of life.

  Instead, death was boring. And slow.

  The doctors swam around her, their limbs elongated and seeming to float. The ET tube rippled in her mouth as an OR technician ambled to the Harvest Cube and drew out the shelf with the freshly grown heart.

  The pulseless heart was deep red, nearly purplish.

  Lack of Oxygen, Sara thought in death.

  They placed it in her chest and sewed her back up.

  “Good as new,” said one of the doctors. She remembered his voice. He was the one who had ordered the junior resident to start cracking her ribs.

  Sara felt the new heart beat for the first time; and at once death sped up. Loud voices, a phantom surf (my pulse!), the rising mounds on her skin as blood rushed through her pores. She tried to wake up, but the drugs wouldn’t let her.

  The last thing she saw before a second, more vibrant darkness took her was the rapidly hitching vertical slits of the demon’s eyes, as it gazed at her.

  This world. We are all hearts in reverse here, someone said.

  Then she was out.

  * * * * *

  The Diary of Sara Tilling,

  August 5th, ‘97 AA.

  About a month ago, I gave my heart to a dying demon.

  The xenotransplant was a success. The doctors are still marveling at the wonder of it. The World Now Development Reconstitution (WONDER) Project is furiously writing it up. Interspecies dialogue teams are exuberant.

  Most of all—and perhaps oddly—I’m happy. At peace for the first time in a long, long time.

  Maybe it has to do with Johnny.

  Two days after the transplant, Johnny woke up with up another nosebleed.

  I freaked out and rushed him to his pediatrician. Dr. Useless scratched his pimply nose again and murmured that something was different this time. Something didn’t quite make sense. He ran a series of tests and X-rays, and told me in a dazed voice that the original diagnosis must have been wrong.

  Johnny’s heart is in the center of his chest and a smidgeon to the left. Exactly where it is supposed to be.

  The doctor also did an audiogram on Johnny and said his hearing had improved miraculously. Doc Useless is at a loss. He cannot explain it. But I can.

  Agares kept his promise.

  Maybe demon magic can cross over sometimes. Maybe, my peace has to do with knowing that I will be dead soon. Some of us do better once we know death is certain and our time is short.

  I had a dream last night about my mother. It was about the day she secretly went to Church and I followed her.

  In my dream, Mama’s dress was black and rippled in the night wind. She was lighting candles on the altar, as I watched from the shadows of the vestibule across the pews. The candle flames blazed as tears ran down Mama’s cheeks, and even though I shouldn’t have been able to hear her murmurs from afar, I remember dream-thinking she was saying, I come, O Lord, I come.

  I remember turning and running madly down the steps of the church hunched in the darkness like a beast. Such a hypocrite, my mother. All her life, she hated God and this curse He’s unleashed on the world.

  But then a realization hit me in the dream, and I lurched and stopped.

  Maybe she didn’t hate God. Maybe she just hated Father.

  I don’t know if that’s true, why it would be. But if it is, it makes me sad.

  I’m sad for these people, my people. I’m sad for these strangers who have been forced into our midst. They never asked for it, did they? Something snapped in the universe, and plop! Here they are.

  Giving my heart up has changed me, I guess.

  Sometimes I wish I had grace in my heart before I gave it up. If I did, maybe some of it would have passed into the demon’s soul.

  A demon graced?

  Maybe that’s exactly how it should be.

  * * * * *

  She took Johnny to the park.

  It was a new spring day and the blossoms were furrowed. Dandelion heads floated drunkenly around them as they settled under an old elm and watched the squirrels chatter. Beautiful day. Beautiful world.

  Sara’s heart skipped a beat as if in reminder. She glanced down. Already, she could see the absence of dimples in her ankles from fluid retention.

  Death in waiting.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She smiled at her son who would grow tall and handsome and healthy and live a long, long life. “Such a bright, beautiful day.”

  Johnny kicked the elm trunk hard and ran around it. “Ring-a-round a rosie, a pocket full of posies,” sang Johnny softly, his face full of tree shadow. “Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down.”

  Sara’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. Perhaps, that was what it was.

  Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down.

  A dandelion head eddied and swept upward in a gust of wind. She watched it rise, rise, until it was a speck of gold against the red edges of the torn sky. It winked out before the world-hole.

  Briefly she thought, At least my son’s not a mutant lizard. Then Sara Tilling pushed the thought away, ashamed.

  - END -

  Cages

  by Peter Giglio

  Originally appeared in AFTER DEATH…, edited by Eric J. Guignard

  An active member of the International Thriller Writers and the Horror Writers Association, Peter Giglio is the author of five novels and four novellas, most recently WHEN WE FALL and LESSER CREATURES from DarkFuse. His works of short fiction can be found in a number of notable volumes, including two comprehensive genre anthologies edited by New York Times Bestselling author John Skipp. Peter resides on the Georgia coast with his wife and frequent collaborator, Shannon Giglio.

  1.

  Here’s Dad, impressed that the car’s parallel parking itself.

  “What will they think of next?” he says.

  I shrug off his question and just look at him, a man who’s been dead for the better part of twelve years. Though I’ve known this was coming for more than a week, I’m still unable to process what’s happening.

  Last night I watched the Abraham Lincoln interview on CNN. He didn’t seem right without a beard; had probably been told by his handlers that facial hair no longer looked presidential.

  Iconic majesty washed away in one brief moment of televised absurdity. Most disheartening: all the racist crap that spewed from The Great Emancipator’s mouth.

  “A product of a different era,” the talking heads reminded me—all of us—when the interview ended.

  But that’s bullshit.

  Dad’s still looking at me, waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to care.

  I want to tell him that anyone who touched the hand of God, like he and Lincoln had, and looked into His or Her eyes (everyone saw the Lord differently) should carry a measure of enlightenment transcending time; a modicum of grace that shatters the shackles of our nature.

  But there is no grace. Not anymore. Dad’s the embodiment of that argument.

  Humanity lights his face and tells me we’re doomed.

  “What’s for supper?” he asks.

  He’s following me dumbly through my small apartment. He’s always been like this. An uncomfortable guest. Fidgety in social situations.

  “Relax,” I tell him, trying to smile. But my smile’s not working. How can it?

  She hasn’t
returned to me yet.

  She…

  The one who I’d believed in. My God. My Savior. Taken away by a deity who was supposed to be immortal, all-knowing, loving.

  “Have a seat, Dad. Watch some TV. I’ll make sandwiches.”

  “Sandwiches for dinner?” he asks.

  Same as he ever was.

  I glare at him. “I didn’t plan ahead.” Hell, how do you plan for the death of God? And who would suspect the deity’s demise to reverse the nature of mortality? Coughing the dead back to us.

  The headlines read God Is Dead. I wonder if the Russian headlines scream Told You So! But that musing carries no humor. Monica would have laughed. She always did. And I always joined in. Until the doctors said, “There’s nothing we can do,” and hope was lost. She kept laughing, of course, right ’til the last second. So don’t ask me why I loved her so much; you would have, too.

  Dad changes the subject. “You hear from Monica yet?”

  And I wonder if he’s reading my mind. No. Just my face, like he always has. “Talk to Mom yet?” I respond.

  His face reddens and he backs away from me. “Well, no, I... not yet... not... ”

  Dad always pushed too hard. Too much advice. Thought he knew everything.

  Mom’s down in Florida now, with her new husband. She’s finally happy, and Dad, I can tell, hates it. Hates that I’m all he has left in this world. And probably senses that he barely has me.

  Mom will talk to him, of course. She still loves him, in a way. But she won’t say what he wants to hear. “Have him call me,” she said. “But tell him not to expect anything.” I think of telling him this, but I can see he already knows.

  I make the sandwiches, pile extra salami on his. That’ll give him heartburn, but I don’t care.

  He’s sitting on the couch when I hand him the plate. I sit in a recliner across from him, turn on the television, and take a bite.

  “She’ll come back, son.” He’s not looking at the TV. He’s staring at me, getting ready to push, looking like he might jump up at any moment. I can feel it in my solar plexus. Now I’m the one with heartburn.

  “She’ll never take you back. ’Til death do us part, remember? Hate to say it, but she did her part.”

  “No, I realize that. I mean Monica. She’ll come back. Some of us just take a little longer. Get lost along the way. Like me.”

  I find a rerun of Green Acres, his favorite. Maybe that’ll shut him up.

  He chuckles. “This is classic. One of the best.” But then he turns back to me and repeats, “She’ll come back.”

  I nod, finish off my sandwich, put the plate in the sink, and walk toward the bedroom. “You’ll be okay on the couch?” I say.

  “You going to bed already?”

  “Long day. Tired.”

  “But I just—”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. G’night.”

  2.

  I’m not really tired but try to sleep.

  Shadows twist and turn, passing car lights plentiful on the street where I live. Curtains would help, but I can’t bring myself to shop for such extravagance. If I can’t eat it, I don’t need it.

  Things are only getting worse in this population crisis.

  Debate about mass-sterilization is hot in the House of Representatives right now. But they can’t agree on anything. Never could. Those assholes are more worried about questions like, “Where’s Hitler?” and “Where’s Jesus?” All of them empty-headed when it comes to practical solutions for pressing matters.

  Although I have to admit it, the Hitler and Jesus questions are intriguing.

  But I’m more consumed by, Where’s Monica?

  That’s all I have now... that question.

  And Hell on Earth with no hope for escape.

  That doesn’t stop people from trying. I saw a girl run in front of a city bus yesterday. It hit her doing forty-five. She walked away, and I could tell that she wasn’t crying because of broken bones, though she was pretty messed up. No. Hers were the tears of a prisoner that’s given up hope.

  But I don’t like to think about that mangled girl.

  I like to think about Monica.

  I see her face, always do, but the image grows stronger when I concentrate on her. She whispers to me, “Our bodies are cages.”

  Here in my mind, she’s dying again. A moment I’ve relived thousands of times. Always fresh. Tragic. Painful. And yet it’s the moment that’s most vivid. If only I could remember the good times...

  “I’m going home,” she tells me. “Going home.”

  I don’t believe her. Her home is here, with me.

  “Don’t leave... ”

  Death comes and still she smiles.

  You see, she believed.

  I never could. Never did.

  “Ignore denominations,” she says. “Don’t focus on factions. Give yourself to God and He will find you. You’ll know when it’s God, know when it’s right.”

  I pretend to understand. Though all I can really see is how much I love her. Every grin, kind act, sway, frown, fart, tear...

  ...Perfection.

  The memory of her, nearer than now, is my altar.

  In the next room, Dad snores.

  Couldn’t the hand of God at least cure shitty sinuses? Myth was that the Almighty could cure lepers. Or maybe that was His son. What’s the difference? Why should I care about someone who dies and leaves us all caged?

  And yet...

  I once knew God.

  A true God. All I ever had. All I ever loved. My Everything...

  And She died.

  Give yourself to God and God will find you...

  3.

  I approach her gravestone, shovel in hand. Most of the other stones are gone, and wounds scar the ground where bodies once rested.

  For me, the real wound is the marker that bears her name.

  I dig, not worried about being caught. This is no longer a sacred place that warrants monitoring.

  Last week, people camped outside these gates, waiting and hopeful.

  Now hope is gone and reality has set in. New mouths to feed. Cramped living quarters. Old arguments rehashed.

  The gates aren’t even locked anymore.

  My muscles ache, my body drenched in sweat. I’m not an active man, but I will myself to keep digging.

  Walls of dirt surround me, and the shovel hits something hard.

  A shadow moves over me, and I know who it is without looking up.

  “Who’s right, Dad?”

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “The Christians? The Jews? The Muslims? Someone has to be right. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “God never talked in those terms. And I never thought to ask. It seemed... wrong.”

  “Wrong? Why?”

  “Because it was clear that God was right. Not us.”

  I turn and see how sad his eyes are. He’s starting to mourn the death of truth. Or maybe he’s been mourning it all along and I’ve been too pitiful to notice.

  “Help me,” I say. And he does.

  The two of us, covered in dirt, huddled together in this narrow trench, digging... digging...

  When I was five, I fell from a tree and broke my collar bone. He stayed with me all night and let me sleep in his arms. This is the closest we’ve been since.

  Using the shovel, we pry open the coffin.

  And there she rests; a hideous shell. Her eyes are empty sockets and mouth is agape. Her white dress turned yellow.

  Dead.

  I turn and vomit, and Dad clutches my shoulder.

  “She must be one of them,” he whispers.

  My eyes stinging with tears, I can hardly breathe. But I manage, “She’s... what?”

  His grip tightens, becomes an embrace. “Let’s go home, son.”

  4.

  Here’s Dad, holding me close as I weep. Stroking my hair like he did on that long-ago night, letting me know, “Everything will be all right.”

&nbs
p; “Are you going to tell me what she is?” There’s accusation in my voice, though I know none of the blame is his.

  He looks down, and I see he’s crying, too. But his tears are different than mine. His slight smile betrays hope.

  “Please,” I say.

  The moment of silence lingers, until he replies, “She’s God.”

  I pull away and stand.

  He shakes his head, holds his hands out in defense, getting ready for my rebuttal. But I don’t have enough energy to properly fight.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” he says.

  “But you said, she’s one of them.”

  “God is many and one, and sometimes articulates grace and evil through human form. To test us, teach us, help us become better.”

  “So she was an angel? A messiah? What?”

  Dad shakes his head. “More like an ember from an inferno. She’s as much God as your hand is you.”

  Hanging my head, I amble to the window. I Look at my hand, then look out. “So she’s gone?”

  “Yes, but... ”

  There’s an unusually large congregation on the street. Something’s brewing out there. And I wonder how Dad can be so hopeful in here.

  “But what?” I say.

  “God found a way to break free,” he says. “Moved to the next level.”

  I turn and shout, “And left us behind!”

  Dad says, “God loves us.”

  “Is that what’s giving you hope, old man?”

  He nods. “That’s part of it.”

  I intensify my glare.

  “God couldn’t help us anymore,” he says. “Like a teacher that runs out of lesson plans and has to deal with a class that thinks it knows everything already.”

  “Where does that leave us?” I whisper in a growl.

  “Alone—”

  “Exactly! Alone!”

  “But just for a while.”

  Loud voices bark through the window. Outside, a fight breaks out. A woman screams. Police sirens wail.

  The last of my strength leaves and I sink to the floor.

  “It’s all for us. It always has been,” Dad says. “And this is only temporary. I know that.”