Extremities: Stories of Death, Murder, and Revenge

by David Lubar

  Stu turned back to Mike. “We’re cool. They aren’t following us. Nobody made the van. We don’t need hostages anymore.”

  “Where?” Mike asked.

  “Let’s take ’em down by the river.”

  I thought about diving for the steering wheel. The road was lined with trees. Maybe I could yank the wheel hard enough to crash us. They weren’t wearing seat belts. Neither was I, but at least I’d know it was coming. Still, if I was leaning over far enough to grab the wheel, I didn’t see how I could keep from flying through the windshield.

  Even if I could get away, what about Eddy? He was mumbling something and moving his hand in a pattern above the floor of the van, watching his own blood drip. At first, I thought he might be leaving a clue for whoever investigated our murder. But it didn’t look like he was writing words. All I could make out was a flattened circle and a couple of lines.

  “Take a left up ahead,” Stu said.

  “I know where the river is,” Mike said.

  I recognized the top of the old train trestle out the side window. We were on Mill Road. The next left would take us down near the boat launch. There wasn’t much time left.

  “Eddy,” I whispered, hoping he could help me jump them, or at least distract them. Maybe he could fling his hand and get blood in their eyes. Anybody would flinch if he was sprayed with blood. Even a killer.

  Eddy ignored me. I called his name again. He just kept mumbling. I tried to figure out what he was saying, but the words made no sense. They didn’t even sound like English.

  I braced against the side of the van as we turned left. A moment later, we turned again. A sharper turn this time, cutting back to the right. I could hear the surface beneath the tires change to gravel. We were on the access road to the river. There wouldn’t be any traffic. Nobody comes here since they built the new boat launch up by Twin Forks.

  If I was going to dive for the wheel, it had to be now. I looked at Eddy again, wondering whether I should warn him to hang on.

  The van stopped.

  “End of the line,” Stu said. He pointed the gun at me. “Let’s move nice and slowly.”

  I heard my own heart beat. Then I heard a different sound.

  Something hissed like boiling water.

  The hiss bubbled up from the floor of the van. The blood—Eddy’s blood—began to move. It slid together, growing thicker. One end of the circle formed into a blob the size of a baby’s fist.

  “Come on,” Stu said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I glanced up at him. He hadn’t noticed what was happening. I looked at Eddy. He winked at me and whispered, “Blood magic.”

  The blob was now a head, shaped like a lizard but covered with red feathers. The head was mostly mouth. The mouth was mostly teeth. Behind the head, a body took shape—long, slinky like a ferret, supported by short legs with claws. All red. Bloodred.

  Something cold pressed against my cheek. The hard edge of the .22 dug into my skin. “Let’s go!” Stu said. “Don’t make me ask again. Not unless you love pain as much as your friend does.”

  Eddy raised his bloody fist and shouted a word that made no sense to me.

  The blood beast leaped at Stu. It tore into his throat. His arms shot up. A crack, far louder than the others, deafened my right ear as the gun fired inches from my head. The bullet tore through the roof of the van.

  Stu let out a gurgling scream. Then a whimper. Then nothing. The creature seemed to be slowly dissolving in the bath of blood.

  Mike, wide eyed, had watched all this, as paralyzed as I was. Finally, grunting an incoherent scream of his own, he reached for the shotgun. Too late. The blood creature, its rear legs now half dissolved, jumped the short distance from the passenger seat and landed on Mike’s face with the splat of a wet washcloth.

  I turned away. Mike’s scream grew louder, rising in pitch. It stopped as quickly as Stu’s. I didn’t want to look at him.

  Something splashed to the floor next to me. It was barely recognizable now. Half the body had dissolved. The front claws swiped feebly at the air. In seconds, the creature melted into the growing pool of Mike and Stu’s blood.

  Eddy was drawing again, dipping his finger in the small puddle of his own blood, then sketching more designs on a clean area of the van’s floor.

  As I stared at him, he glanced up. “Sorry,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Same problem they had.” He motioned with his head toward the front of the van. “You’ve seen behind my mask. You’re a witness.” He turned his attention away from me and continued his blood magic.

  The new creature formed quickly. A head—this time like a snake—rose from the floor. Eddy added two short legs to the front of the body.

  I scuttled away. My fingers bumped into something that slid from contact. I groped for the gun. “Stop it.” I raised the .22 and pointed it at Eddy.

  He didn’t look up. Beneath the snake head, narrow shoulders lifted from the diagram of blood.

  “I’ll shoot.” As I spoke, my hand trembled. The first jolt was so strong, I almost pulled the trigger by accident.

  “No, you won’t,” Eddy said. “You aren’t the cold-blooded kind.”

  “And you?”

  “This blood is far from cold,” Eddy said. He stared at me with the same expression I’d seen when Stu was deciding whether to kill us. Then Eddy smiled. He stopped moving his hand. The beast, already trying to crawl with its forelegs, remained unfinished.

  “On the other hand…” He paused and smirked as he looked at his wounded hand and then his drawing hand. He wiggled the bloodstained tip of his index finger at me. “On the other hand, no one would believe you if you talked,” Eddy said.

  “I’m not planning to talk.”

  “I could use a friend,” Eddy said. “It would be nice. We could do stuff together. Hang out. Yeah, I’d like that. I could teach you all kinds of things.” He held his right hand toward me. Blood dripped slowly to the floor of the van. “Let’s shake on it.”

  I froze as my mind weighed the horror of being friends with him against the certain death that would come if I refused. It seemed as bad a choice as the one between the bullet and the road.

  “Let’s shake!” Eddy flung his hand out. A spray of droplets hit my face and I flinched.

  That’s when my fist clenched. I felt a jolt through my wrist as my hand kicked up in the air. At first, I wasn’t even sure where the shot came from. Eddy opened his eyes wide. He looked at the gun in my hand. I looked at the gun. Then Eddy fell forward onto the pool of blood on the floor of the van.

  I thought it was finished.

  Then Eddy moved. I hadn’t killed him. Relief flooded through me.

  But it wasn’t Eddy that was moving. It was something beneath him. Something red and solid began to emerge from under Eddy. The blood beast, its snake tongue flickering red in the air, tore itself free with a sound like a boot lifting out of mud. The front legs pulled the body from under the dead weight of Eddy. There were no back legs. The body of the beast ended where the transformation had stopped. The creature couldn’t grow any further without Eddy’s blood magic. But it could move. It crawled and slithered toward me.

  I emptied the gun into it, squeezing the grip with both hands. The bullets passed through, leaving no mark. I yanked open the side door and tumbled from the van. Behind me, I heard a moist smack as the blood beast fell to the gravel.

  I ran. It chased me, slithering, skittering, streaking across the ground. Only a lack of back legs kept it from catching me immediately. As it was, I barely managed to stay ahead.

  Water. I ran toward the river. Blood and water. The beast would lose its shape. Dissolve. I ran down the bank and into the shallow water at the river’s edge. The half-formed creature followed me. I ran through ankle-deep water, slipping on the algae-covered rocks. I looked over my shoulder and realized my mistake.

  The blood beast shot through the water faster than it had moved on land, no longer hindered b
y a lack of rear legs. There was no sign that the river caused it any harm.

  I fell. My hands clutched at the rocks and I tried to drag myself up.

  The beast was nearly upon me.

  Blood.

  It dissolved in blood.

  I hesitated for an instant as I thought about my guitar. A very brief instant. I slammed my palm against the corner of a rock. I felt a sharp sting, then numbness. I grabbed at the beast as it reached me, wrapping my fist around its neck, putting my bleeding palm against its bloodflesh.

  If I was wrong, I was dead for sure.

  I’d expected it to be slippery, but the skin was hot and firm. It tried to fling itself free of my grip. Its strength was almost more than I could handle.

  But I could feel the body dissolving beneath my hand. I wrapped my other hand around my fist and squeezed harder, willing the blood to pump from my wound.

  The creature hissed, angry, raging against my hold.

  The neck dissolved. The ends parting. I opened my hand. The head fell into the water and rolled away with the current. The body twitched, then grew still. It lost its solidity, spilling into the water like hot candle wax.

  I rinsed my hands in the river, staggered back to the shore, then dropped to my knees. I didn’t try to fight the nausea this time. I just let my body purge whatever it could. My hand was still bleeding. I watched the blood trickle to the ground. For some reason, I moved my hand, drawing a figure on the flat surface of a rock—sketching a crude outline of an animal.

  Come to life, my mind whispered. “Live,” I said out loud.

  I watched the shape, unsure whether I was looking for proof of the magic, or assurance that Eddy’s power wasn’t in my blood. Overhead, a cloud brushed the face of the moon. The dark swirls on the rock seemed to shift beneath the changing light.

  I squeezed my fist and stood, afraid to go any further. Turning from the rock, I stumbled to the van. I could see Mike pressed against the driver’s window. I walked around the back of the van, then went to the passenger side. I halfway expected to find Eddy sitting there, playing with all the blood, drawing new horrors. But he was just the way I’d left him.

  “Sorry, Eddy,” I said out loud. “I didn’t mean it.”

  I headed toward the road, wanting to leave all this behind me. I wanted to go back to the life I’d known, a life of school and television and late-night snacks. Not a life where any cut or scrape could spill temptation from my wounds.

  But with each step, the images flowed through my mind. And with each step, the blood flowed through my veins, whispering its secrets. Whispering its magic. Waiting.

  A Cart Full of Junk

  Turk was in a mood to do some harm. He was hanging out at the corner of Fourth Street, where the movies used to be. The place was boarded and shut, like almost everything else on the block. Gray was with him, along with Mackler, Johnny, and a couple of others. Across the street, an old guy came around the corner, pushing a shopping cart stuffed with junk. Bad timing.

  Turk stepped away from the wall. “Let’s go shopping.”

  He strolled across the street, angling to end up ahead of the old man. Gray and the others followed. There was no need to rush. The old guy couldn’t run with the cart, and Turk knew there was no way he’d leave it behind.

  The one flickering streetlight behind Turk jabbed his shadow at the old man like a spear. The rest of the lights had been shot out long ago.

  “Hey, man,” Turk said as the old man got close. “Mind if I look?”

  The old man stopped walking but didn’t speak. As Turk stepped toward the side of the cart, the old man reached under the blanket that draped the shapeless mound of possessions. Turk froze, ready to dodge if the guy pulled a knife. He’d seen street people could go crazy without warning, slashing out with a surprising fierceness. Turk knew how easy it was to end up sprawled across the curb in a puddle of blood and intestines.

  The man removed something soft and small from beneath the blanket.

  “A gift.” As he rasped the words in a low voice, he flicked his arm. “From all of us.”

  “Hey!” Johnny shouted.

  Turk turned and looked. Johnny was clutching whatever the man had thrown.

  “Gloves?” Johnny held them up. “This is crap. There’s a finger missing.” He threw the gloves down.

  Turk grabbed the edge of the cart. “You giving us junk?”

  “Gifts,” the man said. He barked out some sound between a laugh and a cough.

  Turk shoved him with both hands. The guy had no more mass that a stack of paper bags. He tumbled, and stayed curled against the sidewalk. It was too easy to be much fun.

  “Come on,” Turk said. He led them away, in search of something more amusing. He found it soon enough.

  Some fool had parked a new Altima on Third Street. Turk hadn’t expected to stumble across such a generous gift that night, so he wasn’t prepared to make the most of it, but he figured there’d at least be time to snatch the stereo and a couple of tires. Like a pit crew, they went to work at their usual tasks. Turk yanked the stereo while Gray popped the trunk and pulled out the jack.

  It went fine until Johnny grabbed the right rear tire. The car slipped off the jack. The rim slammed down on Johnny’s hand.

  They left the tires, but Turk kept the stereo under his jacket when they dropped Johnny off at the emergency room. There was no point waiting for him. It would be hours. And the screams were getting on Turk’s nerves.

  Gray kept babbling about it the rest of the night.

  “It wasn’t my fault.

  “I didn’t make it slip.

  “Johnny should have been more careful.”

  And on and on until Turk felt like hitting him in the face with a brick. It was as bad as the screaming.

  The next night, Turk saw the old man again. As Turk crossed the street, the man was already reaching into his cart. He pulled something out and threw it toward the group.

  Gray caught it. “One sneaker? This is useless.” He hurled it at the old man, nailing him in the shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Turk said. “What’s wrong with you? You think we want junk.” He pushed the old man down. Then he grinned. It might not be any fun to push the guy once, but it could become an enjoyable part of his nightly routine. He gave the guy a kick in the ribs, but not too hard. He didn’t want to break him just yet.

  “Let’s go get Johnny.”

  * * *

  When Johnny came to the door, his hand was wrapped in a huge wad of bandages.

  “Freakin’ mummy,” Turk said.

  “I lost a finger,” Johnny told them.

  Turk’s gut rippled. He didn’t like the idea of losing body parts. “You coming?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Johnny joined them.

  They walked ten blocks to the closest subway stop. Turk hoped there’d be something interesting underground. Something to play with. Or someone. But nothing exciting was happening.

  Until Gray slipped on a piece of a meatball sandwich someone had dropped near the edge of the platform.

  He fell at a bad time. There was an express train coming. He almost managed to scramble clear, but he got clipped. His left foot was mangled so badly, even Turk didn’t have the stomach to look at it. At least Gray passed out, so they didn’t have to listen to any screams as they carried him up the steps.

  “One foot,” Turk said aloud after they dropped Gray at the hospital. “One sneaker.” He realized a person with one foot would need only one sneaker. And a person with a missing finger would need gloves with the same finger missing.

  “Let’s find that old man,” he said. It was time to stop this. Whatever was happening, Turk knew how to end it.

  They didn’t find him that night. When Turk spotted him the next evening, two blocks from the subway, a chill ran through him. But he didn’t back off. Fear was a sign of weakness. Weakness got you killed.

  “Hey, you!” He jogged toward the old man. Turk expected him to keep walking, or t
o turn and run.

  The old man did the unexpected. He shoved the cart toward Turk. Then he scurried for the corner. Turk didn’t bother to chase him. He knew he could catch up with the guy after he checked out the cart.

  “What’s this crap?” Mackler asked, pulling aside the blanket.

  The cart was filled with scraps of cloth. As far as Turk could tell, they were all the same. Turk reached in and lifted out a piece of knitted wool. The others all reached in and grabbed one. The shape seemed familiar, but incomplete. Turk noticed a label. SIZE 7½.

  A hat? Turk thought.

  “Half a hat,” Mackler said, completing his thought.

  Turk looked up. The old man was gone. He looked back in the cart just as Mackler pushed aside the mutilated hats, revealing an object underneath—something made of wires, batteries, a mousetrap, and several dark sticks the size of road flares.

  Snap.

  Turk’s brain screamed for him to turn away, but the bright flash erupted too quickly for his body to obey. The explosive force struck him and the others full in the face.

  When the rain of flesh and bone was finished, any of the singed and smoking half hats scattered across the sidewalk would have fit nicely on what was left of Turk’s head. Though Turk and his gang were beyond caring what they wore or how they looked.

  Around the corner, the old man hadn’t flinched at the sound of the explosion. He had other things on his mind. It was time to look for a new cart.

  Morph

  To a white boy like me, Chinatown is a movie, an adventure, and a horror show all rolled into one. To my friend John Fong, it’s just home. No matter how often I go there to hang out with him, I’m always amazed by the activity. Everyone is moving, walking, talking, selling, and buying. The whole place seems to vibrate. I’ve heard there are bigger Chinatowns in other cities. Maybe so. But I’d bet there isn’t a busier one.

  John’s parents own a bakery right around the corner from their apartment. It’s not the kind of stuff I’m used to—not like the pastries they sell across the river or the fancy breads you can get uptown—but it’s pretty good, especially since everything tastes better when you get it for free. John and I had just stopped by the bakery for a snack, and then headed to the Lucky Pleasure Arcade. We were on our first day of spring break from Jefferson High, so we were pretty much ready for some serious fun.