Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

by Ochse, Weston

  Inside was a big lump of coal.

  Casey’s box held the same thing. What had happened last night now seemed surreal and dream-like in the morning.

  “Merry Christmas, man,” Casey said, holding his coal up at his friend.

  Renny picked his own lump out of the box and held it up. They knocked the coal together like wineglasses. “Lord knows we deserve it, man. Merry Christmas, my friend.” He put his hands in his pocket and then frowned. “Oh, that jolly, fat thieving fuck.”

  “What?” Casey asked, rubbing his coal with a big smile.

  “My last two blunts are gone.”

  The Sterility of Earthly Rage

  by Weston Ochse

  The angry explosion died — disparate sounds of violence sliding softly to the ground along with the mottled pieces of flesh, leaving the scene silent and lonely. There was no blood. There never was. Only the way the body had fallen, arms and legs slightly askew as if it had merely tripped and fallen backwards, reminded Greta of its former humanity. The 12-gauge hole in the stomach reminded her of its current deadness.

  Greta worked the pump hard and the quick snick of the ejected shell was followed by its small, hollow bounces along the wet asphalt of the alley. She aimed from the hip at the still form and cautiously approached, stepping over white pumps, a flowered handbag and the few surviving beads of the white faux-pearl necklace that had disintegrated in the blast. Wary of hands reaching out and gripping her ankles, she pinned a wrist to the earth with a booted foot and stared into the wound.

  The movement was imperceptible at first, and she would have missed it had she not been staring so intently. What could have been mistaken for tiny pieces of exploded flesh began moving. At first minutely, they picked up speed until faster and faster the maggots became an undulating mass of writhing bodies as they tasted the purer air of the alley. They rubbed and slithered in an intertwining knot of protection around and against each other as if they knew her intentions.

  The bile rose in her throat and threatened to add the Technicolor ingredients of a pepperoni-and-cheese pizza across the length of the dead body. She fought it back, determined to stay long enough to finish her work. Greta curled her nose at the putrid stench. She gritted hard, keeping her meal in and the taste of deadness out, and invaded the mass of maggots with the still smoking end of the barrel. Its touch sizzled the sightless beasts and sent them pushing away until what lay beneath was revealed in all its bleak, ugly truth — an unborn, disfigured fetus staring at her with wide, intelligent eyes.

  The hellish creation reached up with tiny clawed fists as if it knew her next intention, begging, pleading for her not to do what her conscience insisted. It opened its mouth revealing needle-sharp teeth and emitted a tiny peal of terror. Its scream went unheard as she blasted it apart.

  Greta jerked a tin of turpentine from the cargo pocket of her pants and doused both the host and the thing she’d never think of as a baby, concentrating the toxic liquid into the wound. She tossed aside the empty container, lit a wooden safety match, dropped it and stepped back. With a whoosh, the body caught fire and thick oily smoke poured into the clean mountain air. The cheap dress caught quickly, flames racing along the nylon seams.

  Greta stepped around the inferno and, with the toe of her boot, flipped the blonde wig that had fallen off into the greedy flames. Resting the barrel on her shoulder, she strode down the alley in search of more prey.

  She couldn’t help but feel the irony of the situation. She’d seen specialists in several different states and each, in their own condescending way, had told her that she’d never be able to conceive, yet this was the third pregnant man she’d killed this week.

  The world was certainly on its ass. Greta had first noticed them about a month ago. The first indication was the general absence of men in the town. Then the businesses along Main Street had started closing their doors for good.

  Tellico Plains had never been a bustling metropolis of financial activity, but it had its share of tourists. As the last stop before the Tellico, Citico and Hiawasee Rivers, the small town afforded fisherman their last chance for food, beer and the necessary bait before they attempted to conquer the diminishing population of Tennessee trout. No one was getting rich, but as long as the rivers survived, there’d always be decent business.

  Posy, the bartender over at the Silly Goose, said the town was dying because of the new highway they’d put in over by Sweetwater. Still, the Tellico River ran through Tellico Plains, so folks still had to travel through.

  No, Greta had a different theory.

  A few weeks back she’d been making a midnight run to the Golden Gallon for a pint of ice cream and a twelve-pack of beer when her headlights had illuminated a figure staggering drunkenly along the side of the road. She’d figured it was just another drunk redneck, but as she’d passed, she’d noticed the dress and the plump pregnant stomach of a woman in the third trimester.

  She’d pulled over, stopping some twenty yards in front of the woman. She’s grabbed a blanket from behind the seat, the flashlight from under the dash and then hurried from the pick-up back towards the woman. She’d hoped all the television doctors and medical documentaries she’d watched had prepared her for the impending delivery.

  But when the beam of the flashlight had shone on the woman, they’d both stopped. She’d noticed the bloody stockinged feet, the hopelessly out-of-style flower-print dress, broad shoulders and a week’s growth of beard on the square jaw. The long, red wig hung askew, revealing a graying crew cut beneath.

  They’d stared at each other for some thirty seconds. Then the man had shrieked and bolted, disappearing into the darkness of the kudzu-covered trees, arms wrapped carefully around his pregnancy.

  Then leaving the town’s lone fast-food restaurant a week later, she’d accidentally bumped into another pregnant woman, almost knocking the poor lady ass-over-teakettle. Greta had kept her from falling and stood aside to let her in. It wasn’t until Greta had pulled into traffic, eating a handful of curly fries, that she’d realized the excuse me she’d heard had been deeper than her father’s.

  Then in the doctor’s office a few days ago, everything had clicked into place. She’d just put her jacket back on and was leaving with her prescription of allergy medicine, when she’d passed by the door to the other examination room. Greta wasn’t nosy by nature, but her eyes had found their own way and the image of the man stopped her cold. He sat in support hose held up by lacy black garters. The blue veins of his pregnant stomach were stark against his pale skin. He held a wig in his hands as the doctor peeked into his ears.

  She’d stayed, riveted on the anachronism, until she’d heard the sharp cough of a nurse behind her. Unwilling to confront the strangeness, Greta had lowered her head and left as fast as she could.

  Chaotic thoughts of Jerry Springer, Oprah, Geraldo, the front page of the Enquirer, N.A.S.A., and the Center for Disease Control had spun through her mind. There was no mistaking what she’d seen. No way was the man’s pregnancy any kind of special effects. It had definitely been the real thing.

  Worst of all, the pregnant man had been Henry Jenkins —lifetime friend of her father and Tellico Plains’ Chief of Police.

  The only person she felt safe enough to talk about it with was her father, but it had been his death that had brought her back home two months ago. She’d come for the funeral and to clear up some loose ends. She’d only planned on staying a week, but the amount of loose ends surprised her.

  She’d tried to sell the old house, yet in the recessive market no one was buying any edifice whose primary color was tarpaper black. He also had many debts and, faithful to her upbringing, Greta had been determined to pay them off. It wasn’t like she’d anything better to do. After leaving the army two years ago, she’d worked at a series of meaningless minimum wage jobs and hadn’t been looking forward to working her way up to the esteemed position of Senior Fry Chef.

  The funeral had been a closed casket affair. Not the
way she’d wanted it, but the coroner had thought it best due to the condition of the body. The Chief of Police had told her on the phone that her father had been found by fisherman, his body burned almost beyond recognition. “He’d been camping,” they said. And like he was a whale-bellied tourist from Yankee Land, they said he must have rolled into the campfire in his sleep, his nylon sleeping bag going up like a match.

  Her father would have never been so stupid.

  To make matters sadder, even with all the friends he’d had, only three other people had attended the funeral. In retrospect, it was probably because the rest were having a Mary Kay party.

  When the funeral ended, she’d finally some time to think. With all the weirdness in Tellico Plains and seeing Henry in garters and ready to pop, a nagging feeling grew within her.

  The feeling started at midnight two days ago when she’d finally confirmed her fears with a shovel and a lantern. Not a single burn marred her father’s body. With trembling fingers, she’d unbuttoned his suit and shirt, revealing a long ragged incision the length of his stomach. It was nothing that any skilled doctor would make. Even a veterinarian could have done a better job.

  It was as if her father had made the cut himself — a self-made abortion.

  And her perplexity had turned to rage.

  The hunter had become the prey.

  Greta had just left Leroy’s Bait and Ammo, a bag of assorted ammunition gripped in her arms, when she’d noticed her stalkers. At first she’d chuckled. She could pick them out of a crowd, now. She knew what to look for. And the three men dressed in 1950s women’s clothes, criss-crossing the street behind her like poorly trained spies, fit her mental profile perfectly.

  But it was daylight and she missed the comfortable feeling of the Mossberg shotgun that had become her nighttime companion. Under her leather jacket hung the .357 colt python, snug in a quick-draw shoulder holster, but that only held six rounds. Granted, they were six rounds that could turn a rampaging bear on crack and intent on tasting her long juicy legs into upholstery, but it wasn’t her Mossberg.

  She finally managed to give them the slip near the back door of the Silly Goose. She was safe for now, but what then. The fact that she’d been followed meant that they knew about her. She couldn’t return to the house. They’d probably be waiting.

  The image of Henry Jenkins sitting on her father’s living room couch and aiming his police special at the front door sent her in the other direction. She needed time to plan. She needed to quell her rage and remember the lessons she’d learned in the Army.

  Two hours later, she sat in a hotel room in Sweetwater sipping on a Coors Light, forming a plan.

  She’d counted thirteen pregnant men. Henry, George from the shoe store, Alvin from the garage, Jimbo, Steve, Rick —- the rest she’d recognized but really didn’t know. On her third beer, she’d made the connection. All had been members of the Benevolent and Protective Brotherhood of Elks: a group of men who got drunk, played bingo and in some miracle of modern medicine had gotten themselves pregnant. And, if they hadn’t changed their schedule for some reason, they had a meeting tomorrow night.

  It wasn’t until all twelve beers were scattered around the bed like discarded large-caliber bullets that she fell into a deep and drunken slumber.

  She was in a forest, the tall long-leaf pines of Fort Bragg surrounding her, penning her in. She was in her battle rattle: a belt with two canteens and ammo pouches stuffed with magazines of 5.56 mm blanks, a rucksack filled with enough food and sundries to keep her alive for days, a Kevlar helmet, and an M16A2—deadly except for the clunky, red blank adapter that tipped the barrel.

  And she was alone.

  She’d been kneeling deep within an azalea bush for over an hour and many of the super stud soldiers trying to complete the last week of their special forces training had blundered by. She could have taken any of them, at any time, but she had a specific target in mind.

  Fifteen minutes later, an A-Team slipped into view. Of all those who’d passed by her, these were the quietest. They made the forest a part of them — each tree and bush an extension of their limbs. Five men functioning as one. The very best of the United States Army.

  When they finally crept within the kill zone, she smiled. “Don’t fucking move,” she’d whispered.

  The A-Team halted. Greta felt them tense, especially the leader, Sgt. Henderson. He’d been caught by a woman and he’d never live it down. Sgt. Henderson was of the old school where women had no place in the Army and no place in combat.

  And Greta had made it her personal goal to prove him wrong.

  “I got two claymores in a V-shape ambush and you’re dead fucking center. Throw your weapons down. And do it now, Old School.”

  It was just a game. War games to make the soldiers better. Hone and sharpern their skill. Too many people cheated, however. That’s why the special forces had invented their own unique claymore mines. Instead of firing enough ball bearings to kill everyone within a forty-five degree arc and out to thirty meters, these sprayed red paint pellets. She held the clackers in her left hand, ready to paint the men red if they decided to cheat.

  She heard their cursing and counted as five rifles hit the ground. Greta stood and left the protection of the bush. She couldn’t help but laugh. As Sgt. Henderson turned around with the other men and she caught the agonized look in his eyes, she’d laughed harder.

  Her only mistake.

  He’d launched himself across the five feet that separated them and she’d squeezed the clackers. The rest of the A Team was suddenly covered in the violent propulsion of plastic and red dripping paint. But Sgt Henderson was outside the arc. She saw the fist as it hit the side of her face, and then she saw blackness.

  When she’d awoken, she’d simultaneously felt the throbbing from her cheek and the minute breeze that teased her naked skin. She’d felt the roughness of pine bark against her back and buttocks and the rope, impossibly tight against her wrists and ankles. She’d opening her eyes, but realized that they already were open.

  She’d been blindfolded.

  And tied naked to a tree..

  She began to pray.

  “You can’t do this,” she’d cried. “This isn’t fair.”

  “War isn’t fair, bitch. Did you think you could kill us?”

  “But the rest of the team’s dead. You killed them,” she said, reasoning and happy that the instructors would discover the deaths and the man’s incompetence as a leader.

  “Those uniforms are trash. We changed them. Now, it’s your word against ours,” he said, his voice changing from confidence to speculation. “I wonder what we should do to you?”

  She felt hands move along her legs and wanted to scream. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. More hands grasped and pulled painfully at her breasts she bit back a scream. Fingers wound through her thick mound of pubic hair and she still refused to scream. It wasn’t until the end of the M16 entered her private place that she’d finally screamed and felt her soul withdraw to a safe dark place.

  She’d swirled in the blackness of pain.

  Misery was in her every breath.

  She couldn’t feel her body.

  She couldn’t feel the men.

  She was in a different place.

  A safe place.

  “Why do you care,” came a voice, silky and warm.

  “They raped me,” she heard herself mutter, rage and pain shuddering against her soul. “I want them to die.”

  “Why do you care,” repeated the same voice. The words were a salve to her pain.

  “It isn’t fair. I won,” she whimpered. “I’m a soldier.”

  “You aren’t a soldier,” said the voice, the sound changing to nails. “You’re a woman. And women are meant for one thing.”

  “No!” she heard herself scream.

  “You’re nothing more than a baby-maker. You recycle sperm.”

  “No!”

  “You aren’t strong enough. You are weak
. You are a woman,” the words scraped her like broken shards of glass.

  “No!”

  “Then what do you want?” it asked, soft and warm again.

  “I want... I want them to feel what I feel. Let them be what I am,” she heard herself say.

  “All of them?” asked the voice.

  “Every fucking one of them,” she heard herself say. “Every fucking one of them.”

  Her last words trailed off and the darkness left her. The ropes disappeared. The men disappeared. When she opened her eyes, she saw the cheap wallpaper of the hotel room and the beer cans scattered across the floor.

  A memory of the warm metal of the barrel of the M16 still teased her insides, and as always after the dream, she wept.

  Greta huddled in the bush. She was going to finish what she had started. Inside, the meeting had already begun. She heard them, laughing and drinking. Their very frivolity made her throb with anger.

  She wore her battle rattle again, one of the only things she’d kept from her four-year stay in the Army. This time, there were no blanks. She carried enough ammo to kill a hundred pregnant men.

  Greta slid from the bush and followed the shadows along the side of the clubhouse. She reached the corner and peaked around. When she saw that it was all clear, she sprinted around the back. With bolt cutters, she removed the lock from the basement door. She slipped the bolt cutters back into her rucksack and opened the door upward. She stared onto the depths of the basement and trained the Mossberg into the darkness.

  After a few seconds of listening, she descended the stairs and tugged the door shut behind her. From atop her head, she pulled down the AN-PVS 7 night vision goggles. Flicking the switch, she was greeted with a small whine. She blinked twice to get used to the eerie sensation and the darkness of the basement came to life in green and white. She stepped quickly to the fuse box.

  It was less than a minute from when she shut off the power until she burst into the upstairs room.