Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  The Slipstream closed in on Quinn and his mouth opened in a scream she couldn’t hear over the tumult. He was swept up by the shimmer. No… swallowed. No. Just… gone. Disappeared.

  Shit! She couldn’t go out there. She’d have to risk a collapse. Tempt death again. Diana had known Ivy couldn’t return, but Quinn had said something about…

  Ivy slammed the door and turned; one door closes… Panic rose like a tidal wave as she peered into the darkness. It had to be here! It was the only thing that made sense in this senselessness.

  Was that a light? Yes! Ahead of her. Just a sliver. But it was something.

  She ran; from death and to it. Dirt rained down as the walls shuddered, straining beneath the Slipstream’s annihilating force. Arms protecting her head, Ivy rushed the light, throwing herself into its luminescence with a yell.

  Brightness beyond anything she’d ever experienced enveloped her; a warm, golden glow that seeped into her, and brought with it an overwhelming sense of peace. Is this Heaven—

  Her shoulder hit the ground hard, yanking her breath, her yell and the light from her. She rolled onto her stomach, squeezed her eyes shut and covered her head with her hands. The scar from the subdural haematoma throbbed beneath her fingers as she braced for impact. And braced…

  Nothing.

  The ground wasn’t shaking.

  Silence ruled.

  Ivy rolled over and sat up, looking back the way she’d come. A solid brick wall stretched so far into the night she couldn’t judge its height. And it was as long as it was high. But beyond it, a legion of stars lit the sky. She’d never seen anything like it, not even when she’d spent a week camping in the country. The night bulged with them.

  It’s here, and that’s its collection.

  Ivy pushed to her feet and turned.

  A different landscape. One she knew.

  It was her childhood neighbourhood. Only here, time had ravaged what had once been manicured lawns and Federation houses. Sagging roofs sat above broken windows; walls were missing from some, while others were nothing but burnt-out frames. The park on the corner that had been the gathering place for the local kids was overgrown; the large oak tree as dead as Andy Shaw had been when they’d found him hanging from it. The swings and slide were eaten almost entirely by bracken. Forest Grove’s true face. Decay had always sat beneath the perfect façade.

  The air was dry and hot, each breath scorching Ivy’s throat. She was already sweating. Ivy ran fingers along her jaw, then opened her mouth wide and closed it. Not even a dull ache. The coppery taste of blood was also gone. Just as the cut to her palm had healed when she’d passed through the first door of the Slipstream. Everything gets reset. But blood had to be spilled at each. Rituals maintained.

  Blood had gushed from the back of her skull, birthing her into that neither-world; Diana had bled her, and she’d bled Quinn. Now she understood. Doors had opened with each offering, and Ivy had been Diana’s oblation, as had Quinn. How many had the woman sacrificed to keep death from her door?

  Ivy removed the athame then carefully transferred the coins from her coat to her jeans. The bitch had said Ivy would know what to do with these if and when the time came. Soon. She was sure of it. The air was charged with the promise of battle. And battle she would – she had a score to settle, a freshly-painted blood-red door to kick down.

  Ivy dropped her coat to the ground and faced Arbour Avenue. Her home lay halfway down the block. Athame in hand, she stepped off the path and made her way along the middle of the road.

  Bumps rose on her arms as she passed the first house. The squeak of the porch swing was loud in the silence – the place Len Nicholson had eaten his gun. The Bertolli’s casa was nothing but a slab, but the sweet scent of freshly-baked sfogliatelle wafted from its remains; nothing like the smell when Nonna Bertolli had put her head in the oven.

  Ivy concentrated on the dull slap of her boots as she marched past Old Mad Max’s place. She ignored his home just like he’d ignored the cries and begging that had often spilled from hers. “Learn your place,” he’d told her mother. He’d learned his wasn’t smoking in bed.

  Death, it had been a constant companion since she was a child. Ivy had nursed her mother through it, watched contentedly from the sidelines as sepsis ate away at her father. It had shaped her life; put her on the path to becoming a hospice nurse. Ivy knew death, and it knew her. But stopping in front of the house, her house, she felt no fear, no anger. Just… nothing. The gate was missing, the wooden fence leaned precariously and the mailbox sat on the path that led to the house. The door stood open where it had only ever been locked. Always locked.

  If Diana and the Reaper thought bringing her here would break her, they were wrong. She’d survived it once, she’d survive it again. But she wouldn’t go inside. She’d vowed never to set foot in it again. The Reaper would come to her, she had no doubt. It wanted the dregs of her soul.

  The hairs rose on the back of her neck and the fear returned fast and sharp. It screamed at her to run but she threw it aside and drew on the only other thing the Reaper had left her. Rage – pure and powerful. “Come on then! I’m here!”

  It surged from her home, and the terror returned a thousandfold. All thoughts of fighting fled. She was back in that moment. Piss streamed down her legs as the Reaper swooped over that rickety fence, black tendrils rippling in its wake.

  Ivy threw herself back, only this time it was the crack of her elbows hitting the road, not her skull. Pain sluiced up her arms as it bore down on her, but it was nothing compared to the icy touch of those skeletal fingers on her jaw.

  Its eyes were blacker than she remembered, endless pits that spoke of a nothingness far older than the world itself.

  Ashen filaments made up its face, stretching and twisting as it drew its mouth wide. An unholy choir of screams burst forth – hers among them, loud and tormented.

  It lowered its mouth…

  “No!” She drove the athame upwards.

  It shrieked, growled, roared, wailed – endless voices unified as one, washing over her on a foetid breath.

  Ivy drove the athame deep, deeper still. Burning liquid flooded over her hand as she snarled the words Diana had taught her. “This blade, blessed by the four elements – earth, fire, water, air – seeks its fifth: the spirit. My spirit. United and free.” She glared into those black pits and carved the five lines of the pentangle that joined the elements before adding her own words to the battle, words born from the depths of her suffering, her fury. “Return it now,” she snarled. “All of it.”

  It threw its head back, mouth to the sky as it let loose a single, torturous scream. Her scream, born on the beak of single raven birthed between those black lips.

  The bird took flight, corkscrewing into the sky, fixed on its destination.

  Ivy shoved the Reaper onto its back, ensuring the athame remained at the apex of the pentangle. The black liquid that coated her hand burned like acid, and continued to leak from the wounds she’d inflicted.

  It turned its gaze to hers, and she stared into obsidian eyes that didn’t seem as bottomless as they had moments ago.

  “I’m no one’s sacrifice, you piece of shit.”

  It smiled at her – a hideous thing that spoke of secrets and lies.

  A screech.

  Close.

  Ivy turned as the raven dove toward her, a galaxy of stars trailing from its wings, dragging them out of the sky. All of them. And she realised her mistake.

  The raven speared into her chest, knocking her backwards. Pain exploded through her; wave upon pulsating wave of agony bombarded every part of her. Consumed her. It burned white-hot through her insides, stretched her skin to bursting. A cruel and unrelenting torture that had no end.

  There was nothing but the pain.

  Until there wasn’t.

  She didn’t know when it stopped, only that it had.

  Reaper.

  She turned her head

  It lay at her side, a
thame in its chest, flayed of skin. It was nothing but a mess of rotting muscles and seeping pus with that black liquid pooling around it. So much more than a body had any right to hold. But it was staring at her, its eyes dark-brown pools.

  “Through you I pass...” Its voice was like stone grinding against stone. Ancient. Time worn.

  It stretched an oozing hand toward her, curled in supplication. Even death yearned for an ending. But there could be no end to death.

  Under the weight of souls, she pushed slowly to her feet and fished the two remaining coins from her raiment and placed first one then the other over each eye of the carcass, her skeletal fingers glinting under the glow of a full moon and starless sky.

  DANGER’S BALLS

  Ken MacGregor

  THE amount of blood was surprising.

  For a moment, no one moved or spoke.

  “Not the lens.”

  Gil Norman, Director of Photography on Slow Bullet, would apologize for those words in both public and private dozens of times after. Defending the camera was always his first priority, but in retrospect, he admitted it was an insensitive thing to shout.

  It took him hours of careful cleaning to remove the blood from the glass and surrounding mechanism. The lens was salvageable though, whenever he used it, Gil imagined he could still see a red tinge.

  The accident was stupidly avoidable. Clay Danger (born Clayton Dupuis) did his own stunts - everyone knew that. It was a point of pride with him and the studio. It was one of the things that sold so many tickets.

  Clay Danger was a living legend. From 18-22, he was on the front lines in the Marines, fighting for freedom in the desert. When he came home, he immersed himself in hand-to-hand combat. By the time he was 25, Clay was fighting full-contact, no-holds-barred pit fights for money. He won a lot. A talent scout searching for the next action star scooped up Clay Danger and threw him into a sci-fi thriller with aliens, guns, naked women and more punches per minute than any film in history.

  With Clay’s high cheekbones, square jaw and lethal combat skills, he rocketed to B-movie stardom. He took a page from Henry Rollins and kept his mind and body free of drugs and alcohol. He took two pages from Jackie Chan by doing his own stunts and bringing humor to his roles. Clay Danger was 34 years old and verging on making the A-list when he did his last stunt. Clay’s foot slipped on a tiny spot of engine oil and, instead of leaping over the whirling thresher blades as planned, he fell into them.

  The tech guys shut down the blades in under two seconds and at first, from the side, it looked like Clay was unhurt. He lay on his back looking at the sky. He wore a mildly surprised expression, lips parted as if expecting a kiss.

  Then, they saw the blood. The whole back half of Clay Danger was shredded to pulp. The chrome blades under him and for two feet to either side were stained bright red. Gil’s camera lens had been shooting from a low angle and had caught the outer edge of the splash, prompting his infamous yell.

  They rushed what was left of Clay Danger to the closest hospital, though no one was holding their breath.

  ***

  Benjamin Melkie sat on the edge of the bed. His spine was locked, a rigid line, and he kept his knees pressed together. The hotel room smelled like stale sweat and bleach. Benjamin kept his eyes glued to the picture on the wall. It was a flamingo standing on one leg in the water. Tall reeds made up the background. The glass before it was stained by the smoke of countless cigarettes.

  The girl stepped in front of Benjamin, forcing him to look at her. Her skin was light brown, mottled in several places with paler, almost Caucasian tones. Benjamin knew there was a term for that skin condition, but it escaped him. That skin, so different from everyone else there, so different from anything in his experience, is what drew him to her in the first place. The bright yellow bra that pushed her small breasts together contrasted sharply with the brown and beige beneath it.

  With effort, she peeled off her jeans to reveal a hairless slit. Above this, a pink Vagazzled unicorn pranced. It was missing an eye and most of its front legs, but it caught the light and sparkled. The pants were so tight the top button had left a circular indent in her skin. With a tentative fingertip, Benjamin felt the spot. He ran it back and forth twice, riding over the bumpy edges. His eyes were fixed on the unicorn and the smooth folds below it.

  “I’ve never done this before,” Benjamin said. Sweat dripped from his sideburns. His growing erection made him shift his legs, though he kept them together as best he could.

  “I guess I’ll have to walk you through it then.”

  Her speech was slurred, with drink or some other chemical. Turning red, Benjamin stammered his reply.

  “That’s not... I don’t mean... I’ve done, you know, this, but, um, I’m married.”

  “Oh. That’s okay. Lots of guys are married. I won’t hold it against you.”

  The girl unhooked the clasp at the front of her bra and her breasts popped out. Benjamin looked at them, comparing them to Heather’s breasts. The ones before him stood up well, he thought. When Benjamin had seen her in the bar, he had pictured her naked. The reality, while not the flawless image he had conjured, was still pretty great.

  “Do you want to touch me?” the girl said. “Or, if you prefer, I can do all the work.”

  Gently, the girl pushed Benjamin back onto the bed. He lay there, staring at the ceiling. Superimposed on the white paint was an afterimage of a flamingo with pert breasts and a shaved unicorn snatch. Blinking it away, Benjamin laughed a little. The girl had his pants undone and was just reaching inside Benjamin’s underwear.

  “Something strike you as funny?” she asked. There was a hard edge to her voice, a dangerous edge. Benjamin felt his erection sag.

  “No. Just, um, it’s hard to explain.” Benjamin tried to pull up his pants, but the girl’s hand was in the way. She pushed his hands away and tugged on his prick harder than he liked.

  “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea,” Benjamin said. “I should go.”

  The girl shot him a smile. Her teeth were brilliant white; one of the top, front ones was slightly crooked. She shook her head no and dropped her mouth over him. Benjamin’s resolve faded as he stiffened against her clever tongue.

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess I’ll stay for a bit.”

  The girl looked up at Benjamin and licked her lips. Pulling a condom from her purse, she slid it over him. Then, she slid herself over him, too. In less than five minutes, Benjamin lost control and filled the rubber. She gave him a grumpy look.

  “I wasn’t finished,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “Couldn’t help it.”

  “How long before you get it up again?”

  Laughing, Benjamin shook his head.

  “I’m not in my twenties anymore. Sorry.”

  Wriggling off him, the girl scooted up Benjamin’s body until her glistening sex was poised above his face.

  “Okay. Then you can go down on me. You need to make me cum. You owe me. Quid pro fucking quo.”

  She lowered herself toward Benjamin and he turned away.

  “I don’t, um, do that,” he said.

  The look in the girl’s eyes was flat and cold. It reminded Benjamin of the look he’d seen in the tiger’s eyes at the zoo.

  “You owe me, old man,” she said. “You finish me off or I’ll take payment.”

  Benjamin stared up at the girl, trying not to look at the two-toned cunt inches from his face.

  “You’re kind of scaring me.”

  “Good,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re missing, you know?”

  Sliding a finger inside herself, she pulled it out and wiped it on Benjamin’s upper lip. His nose filled with her scent and he jerked his head as far back as he could.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. In her eyes, Benjamin saw it was true.

  “Don’t you say that. Don’t you fucking say that to me.”

  Pinning his shoulders down with her knees, the girl punched Benjamin i
n the face.

  She hit like she did it a lot. Benjamin could taste blood in the back of his throat.

  She hit him again, with the left this time. The blows kept coming and Benjamin’s eyes swelled shut around the vision of lovely, swaying breasts punctuated with painful jolts as her fists came down, one after another.

  Benjamin thrashed under her, trying to buck her off, but he had no leverage. He blacked out.

  Benjamin faded into consciousness. When his eyes slitted open for a second or two, before he faded out again, he saw things.

  The girl, still naked, rooting frantically in her purse. The flamingo under its dirty glass. The glint of light off stainless steel.

  She held his cock again, pulling and stroking. He had started to stiffen a bit when he felt cold metal on his scrotum.

  White hot pain and a burst of warm wetness filled Benjamin’s groin. His eyes opened as wide as they could and he pushed a strangled scream through broken teeth.

  ***

  When Benjamin came out of anesthesia, he slugged the day nurse, knocking the man down and out.

  “Vitiligo,” Benjamin said. “That’s what it’s called.”

  The orderly who was changing the sheets in the next bed stared at him.

  “Don’t hit me, but what the hell is vitili-whatever?”

  “I don’t hit people.”

  “Okay.”

  Ben shook his head. His voice sounded wrong. He probed his teeth with his tongue. Five were missing or broken. He enunciated carefully.

  “Vitiligo. It’s a mottled skin condition, where a black person has white, well Caucasian, patches. I couldn’t think of it earlier. It was bothering me.”

  The orderly glanced at the unconscious nurse.

  “Clearly.”

  Months later, after extensive dental work combined with an abundance of bed rest, Benjamin could again walk with hardly any pain.