9 Tales From Elsewhere 13

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  Under the distant buzz-flutter of incoming helos, the General turned to Edal, who had stepped closer with his mottled mesh-uniform from multiple hits. "Their waste products, which the pollution couldn't break down, had bubbled to the surface after they'd arrived," Minlog addressed his last standing Spec Op soldier. "It was detected, sampled and studied to develop some kind of chemical weapon. It turned out their waste products were an exotic form of ammonia. So our scientists figured out a way to increase the alkalinity of the sludge and ionize it. It increased the toxicity of the ammonia, or weaponized it, and it killed them."

  A half-dozen of the small Med-los were beginning to descend. "I didn't use this earlier," said the General, to Edal's sweating face with that question written all over it, "Because it was only partially tested. If the crusties had somehow distributed the right chemicals into that polluted ocean, the whole Pacific could have exploded, and we'd all be dead now too."

  "How come we are the only ones still standing, General?" asked Edal, staring up at the large blue biped officer.

  "I suspect ... because we both have some Insectoid characteristics," answered General Minlog. "Or outer skin that tends toward an exoskeleton, although not as strong as crustacean shells. I'll have someone research that and do a report."

  Edal nodded and turned, as the Med-los landed, corpsmen jumping out to attend to the wounded soldiers, most at least semi-conscious. General Minlog looked up watch the scanner-helos zooming by overhead, and out over the polluted ocean, to scan for surface lifesigns and any still-dangerous weaponry.

  Then the General looked back, at the distant tanks which had turned and were retreating. The media-helos were inching closer, but still held back by the military-police helos. And farther back in the sky, were arriving private fly-craft, families and thrill-seekers jockeying for position to witness this momentous end to a First Engagement.

  Several small craft rose to unfurl homemade banners. "Earth One - Cursties Zero!" said one banner. But suddenly Edal laughed and pointed out another banner to Minlog: "Crusties Crushed Under Minlog Roller!" The General let out a hearty laugh. Then - Click! Chug! - refolded his Mod-Rif.

  THE END

  8.

  CHARLIE & FRANCES

  By Hollis Whitlock

  Charlie sat in the corner beside the stove and stared at the floor. His tummy rumbled, but food was scarce. He crept like a mouse searching for fallen crumbs by the kitchen door. Dry bits adhered to his fingertips. He rubbed them on his tongue. Sweetness soothed the pangs. He looked to his left.

  An apple core, next to the garbage can, was brown, but still fleshy and moist. He grabbed it and nibbled on it, savoring the sweetness. Then he glanced up, ever so slightly, at the cookie jar that was perched on a shelf. A solitary cookie remained.

  Charlie glanced around before climbing onto the countertop. He reached up to the jar with both hands, but the glass was too heavy to lift. His fingertips slid up to remove the lid. It fumbled in his hands, as he lowered it to the countertop. He trembled placing the lid down.

  Footsteps were near. Charlie reached up and stuck his fingers into the jar. He clenched a cookie, but it snapped in his grasp. He withdrew what remained and smiled. Half was better than nothing was. He placed the cookie on the counter and grabbed the lid. His arms fully extended, as the lid rattled the jar. The lid wasn’t secure, but it was balanced enough to stay. Charlie sat on the counter and grabbed the cookie.

  Sweet smoke permeated the room. A man carrying a cigar entered. His name was Doug. Charlie tried to climb to the floor, but the cookie occupied his hand and prevented his descent. The man grabbed Charlie by the throat and butted his cigar next to the cookie jar.

  “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” Doug asked. Shannon, a woman of no more than fifteen, entered the kitchen followed by a group of children. “I was going to buy a rat trap, but I guess I won’t have to now that I’ve caught the Goddamn varmint,” Doug said with a laugh, as he secured the lid onto the jar.

  “They’re all hungry,” Shannon said.

  “I guess we’ll go shopping.” Doug dropped Charlie to the floor. Charlie coughed and rubbed his throat. “You little bastards are costing me a fortune.” The children rushed Charlie and pried at the cookie. “You’re going to have to learn to earn your keep.” Crumbs and fragments sprinkled to the ground. “Get them dressed. We’ll take them to the market. You can let them graze.” The children knocked Charlie to the floor. Charlie sat up and coughed. He rubbed his throat, as the children fought over the crumbled bits. “Get dressed you little bastards!” Melted chocolate oozed between Charlie’s fingers. He licked them.

  Charlie’s only friend, a primordial dwarf named Frances, rushed to his side. She had a hooked nose and nimble appendages. Their combined ages satisfied hunger. Frances grabbed Charlie’s arm and pulled him toward the children’s communal bedroom. Charlie offered her a lick of his fingers.

  “It’s ok Charlie. We’re going to the store.” Frances said. Charlie sat up. “Come on.” Charlie and Frances walked through the living room to the bedroom door where the other children were dressing.

  “Not you.” Doug picked Frances up at the armpits and held her in the air. “Someone’s here to see you.” He smiled. Then he looked at Charlie. “What you looking at you little bastard.” Charlie scuttled into the bedroom. “Hurry up.”

  Charlie was the smallest of the six orphans and the last child abandoned. An older child, named Steve, put on a jacket.

  “That’s mine,” Charlie said.

  “No, it’s mine,” Steve said, laughing.

  “No it’s mine!” Charlie grabbed an arm of the coat. Steve pushed him to the floor. Shannon walked into the bedroom.

  “Here Charlie. You can wear this one,” Shannon said.

  “No!”

  “Just put it on!” Shannon tossed the jacket at Charlie. It landed on his head. Charlie grabbed the coat and threw it at Steve. Then he scurried into the closet and sat in the corner. The closet was one of Charlie’s hiding spots. It wasn’t the best, but there was a route to a secret hiding place that not even Frances knew about. Charlie peered around the corner like a rat and then scurried along the wall behind a makeshift curtain barrier and dresser. He stopped behind the dresser next to the doorway. “Where’d Charlie go?” Steve giggled like the idiot at the fair.

  “He’s, he’s probably hiding in the closet,” Steve said.

  Shannon walked to the closet and stepped inside. She reached down and lifted some clothing. Charlie darted from the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom. He glanced through the crack between the wall and the door. Doug held Frances around the waist. A man, woman and juvenile admired Frances.

  Charlie inched along the wall and stepped into the kitchen. He scurried to the cupboard door and opened it. He slithered behind the pots to the far corner beside the sink. Yesterday’s cookie was there. He put it in his mouth and chewed. He tucked his heals to his buttock and wrapped his arms around his shins. He stared at the floor and exhaled.

  Multiple footsteps entered the kitchen. Frances squealed.

  “Quiet down. Everything’s going to be alright,” Doug said.

  “I can’t find Charlie.” Shannon said.

  “He must be around here somewhere.”

  “What are you doing with Frances?”

  “That couple made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty thousand.” Doug stared. “Get the rest of them out of here.” Shannon nodded.

  “Ok.”

  The kitchen table scraped along the floor. Frances’ muffled moans terrified Charlie. Multiple footsteps entered the kitchen.

  “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” a man said.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” a woman said. Footsteps entered the kitchen.

  “I can’t find Charlie,” Shannon said.

  “The stupid little bastard can starve. Let’s go.”

  Three chairs scraped along the kitchen flo
or. Frances’ muffled moans increased. Charlie gulped the pasty mouthful of chocolate cookie and coughed. He placed his hand over his mouth and listened. A thud resonated with a cry for help.

  The screams were more telepathic than real. An image of Frances, bound and gagged, formed. Tears streamed from her deep brown eyes. Saliva formed around the edges of her mouth. Her wrists burned from the friction of a tight rope. Her heart thumped like a sprinter’s, about to burst. Blood streamed from her skull down her left cheek.

  The image was too vivid for Charlie in the dark confines of the kitchen cabinetry. Tears pooled in his eyes, as he clenched his fists and breathed deeply. Charlie grabbed a pot by the handle and stormed from the cupboard.

  Charlie rushed the kitchen table where three people sat holding mallets. Frances was wedged between two halves of the table at the neck. She twisted toward Charlie trying to escape her entrapment. Deep red blood ran against her pale skin. Bloodshot eyes pooled.

  Charlie swung the pot, striking the man’s right arm, and knocked the mallet to the table. He swung again striking the woman across the shoulder. Her mallet fell to the table. Frances wriggled from the entrapment and tumbled to the floor. Charlie dropped the pot and rushed to her side under the table.

  The man stood up cursing. He bent down and grabbed Charlie around the waist.

  “Put me down!” yelled Charlie. The man dug his fingers into Charlie’s abdomen. Charlie yelped.

  “Do you want to take her place?” Charlie swung like a cat, with his fingertips extended, clawing at his foe, but his reach was short and merely angered the man. “Alright then. You can take her place.”

  The man stuck Charlie between the table and pushed the two halves around Charlie’s neck. Charlie coughed. The man sat and picked up his mallet. Frances pulled on Charlie’s legs. Charlie wriggled free.

  Charlie and Frances scurried from under the table and clambered onto the kitchen countertop. They threw every cup, saucer, and plate at their foe. Shattered fragments of porcelain lacerated the flesh of the man, woman, and child. The man backed his family out of the kitchen into the living room.

  Charlie and Frances looked at each other. Perspiration ran down their bright red cheeks. Blood was dripping from a blow at the top of Frances skull. Charlie and Frances climbed down from the countertop and peered into the living room. The man glared.

  Then the front door in the living room opened. Doug, Shannon, and the children entered.

  “What the Hell happened?” Doug asked. “I could hear shouting down the road.”

  “The table wasn’t properly secured!” the man said.

  Doug, Shannon and the children entered the kitchen.

  “What happened in here?” Shannon asked. Frances glared. Doug looked at all the broken dishes and glasses. He rubbed his forehead. “ Did Charlie hit you?”

  “No.” Frances replied.

  “You’re, you’re in big trouble,” Steve said, giggling.

  “Shut up!” Charlie yelled.

  “What’s going on Doug?” Shannon asked. Doug’s right arm shook. He pointed to the living room.

  “Get them out of here!” Doug said.

  “Where do you want me to take them?”

  “Take them to the store and let them graze.” Shannon motioned for the children to follow her out the front door. “Leave those two here.” Doug said, pointing at Charlie and Frances. Doug walked into the living room and addressed the man and his wife.

  “I want that little one with the curly locks,” the man said.

  “You can’t have that one,” Doug replied.

  “Look at us! My wife is bleeding! He needs to be punished!” Doug turned and faced Charlie.

  “You stupid little bastard! Why don’t you do what you’re told?” Doug stepped toward the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’ll get the table properly secured this time.”

  Charlie grabbed Frances by the hand and pulled her toward Doug’s bedroom.

  “Charlie,” Frances said.

  “I know where the fire sticks are.” Charlie and Frances entered Doug’s bedroom. He grabbed two pistols and box of bullets. “Here. Take this one,” Charlie said, handing Frances a gun.

  Charlie and Frances stepped from the bedroom pointing the guns at Doug. Charlie slammed the box of bullets onto the table.

  “Oh. You stupid little bastard. Put the damn the guns down.” Doug said.

  Frances motioned to hand over her weapon.

  “Don’t give it to him.”

  Doug stepped forward to take the weapon. Charlie pulled the trigger. A loud resonance erupted. The television exploded in a cloud of gray smoke. Doug backed away.

  “What do you want Charlie?” Charlie looked at Frances. Her arm was falling to her side. The weapon was too heavy. Charlie felt fatigue in his arm. He grasped the gun with both hands. Doug smiled. “If you give me the gun everything will be alright.” Charlie looked at Frances. The barrel of her gun pointed at the floor. “Those bullets won’t kill me Charlie. They’re only twenty two’s.”

  “Can’t you get control of them,” the man yelled.

  “Give me a moment.”

  Charlie couldn’t hold the gun up any longer. Tears streamed down his face. His breathing was convulsive in grunts of rage. Charlie handed his weapon to Doug and ran into the children’s bedroom. He sat in the corner of the closet under a pile of clothing and listened.

  “I want that little bastard.”

  “I told you. You can’t have him. You can have who you paid for.”

  “Alright.”

  “Have a seat in the living room. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” Footsteps pounded into the kitchen. A high pitched voice squealed. Clunking echoed from the kitchen as the table scraped along the floor.

  Charlie bit his lip and closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks. He shook his head and stepped from the closest. He walked to the bedroom door and peered though the keyhole.

  A burlap potato sac was bound over the head and secured with a thick rope. The body dangled from the two halves of the kitchen table. Legs writhed in an attempt to escape. Gentle moans terrified.

  The man and woman sat down at the table. Teeth were clenched. A laceration on the cheek of the man ran red. He wiped it with a white cloth. The man and woman picked up the mallets.

  Charlie hyperventilated. His body shook like a hypothermia victim. He wiped tears streaming down his face and slowly opened the door. A soft creak echoed. The mallets slammed down like the judge’s mallet onto the skull.

  “Charlie. I’m over here,” Frances said.

  END

  9.

  SLEEPING

  By Michael Sims

  His brain was restlessly active, although his body was motionless, breathing slow and steady. He wasn’t sleeping.

  Outside, beyond the double glazed sealed windows, the small professionally tended garden that nudged next to the visitors’ car park was quiet, currently home to a middle aged weeping woman and two elderly men smoking and regretting.

  It was warm outside, a summer sun free and unfettered from clouds. Grass was green and tidily clipped, sky was as blue as it should be. In his room the temperature was maintained at a constant that was healthy but some degrees below the natural rhythm of the day.

  ‘It was a lovely day like this the day he was born.’

  The younger woman looked up from the hard uncomfortable chair she had been sitting in for three hours. ‘Did you have an easy labour?’

  The older woman made a noise that might have been a laugh, half strangled at birth which is what she had on many occasions wished she had done to her son. ‘When did he ever do anything easy?’

  ‘That’s a no then?’ Everyone was tired and irritable from the waiting around.

  ‘Fifteen hours I was pushing him out. Cut from here to there when he finally made an appearance. I was so out of it that when they put him in my arms, the cord still attached, I thought it was his thingy, you know.’

  ‘You thought he had a big cock?’
>
  When she was growing up you didn’t use language like that and she was still sensitive to most crudity. ‘I’m his mother. You’d know more about that than me.’

  ‘Me and half the women in town.’

  ‘He always comes home to you, always home to his wife.’

  ‘Usually because he needs an alibi.’

  His mother turned away from the windows. She was already over familiar with the view, by day and by night. Eight days. It was a long time to wait but in all honesty she had been waiting for her son in some way or another all his life.

  That was another pattern of thoughts linked in to join with the others spinning around his brain. He would have thought that the monitors would have picked up the activity, the ceaseless exhausting jumble of thoughts that were colliding around inside his head.

  His parents had told him so many times about the night he was born, he had seen so many photographs of himself as a baby and as a child growing up that he almost felt as if he could remember that night in hospital when his mother had endured the lengthy pain of labour to give him life.

  Now his mind was repeating the events of that night over and over, the memories mixing with the thousands of thoughts already fermenting inside his head.

  ‘I think I knew even then, when they first put him in my arms, that he’d be trouble.’

  ‘Don’t talk soft, what are you psychic now?’

  ‘Hardly, if I had been I might have stopped that oaf of a husband of mine knocking me up in the first place.’

  The younger woman smiled at the thought of trying to stop Frank Anderson doing anything if he didn’t want to. She’d seen the photos of May Anderson when she had been a younger woman, around the time she would have become pregnant with Jamie, and she was an attractive sight. Frank would have been proud to show her off at his clubs and to his business associates, as he liked to call them. If he wanted to make her pregnant there was little or nothing May would have been able to do about it.