Aberrations
Page 13
I drained the beer in one gulp, irritated that I hadn’t something stronger and began to pace.
They found me, I thought, struggling to stay calm.
Outside in the back yard, Max began to growl. The phone began to ring.
And the world went to hell.
* * * * *
A state of emergency was declared, the media descended on Harperville like vultures and the stench of death permeated the air as people began to succumb to the effects of the infestation.
The next morning, accompanied by the echo of shotgun blasts and distant screams, I tuned out the world behind my faded curtains and switched on the television.
A weary smile creased my lips as I read the banner CNN had chosen to tag their lead story: BLACK DEATH 2002—HARPERVILLE, OHIO
Images of half-chewed bodies and twitching disease-ridden victims flashed across the screen but barely registered. I had been sensible enough not to stop drinking since Sanderson delivered the news and now my head felt light as a feather.
I felt guiltily satisfied that my rotund neighbor, who had derived such morbid glee from the ‘plague’ was probably himself now portioned out into hundreds of piles of rat shit.
Occasionally something would thump down low against the side of the house but I was too drunk to let it frighten me. Besides, it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this kind of thing before.
The alcohol wasn’t strong enough to dampen my grief however at the loss of Max. The golden retriever had been my only real friend since leaving Garretsburg and the sight of his mutilated body, lying on its side and still chained to the doghouse, brought tears to my eyes.
Grief turned to rage, then guilt.
I think now if I owned a gun I wouldn’t be recording this. I’d have swallowed the barrel and gone the easy route out of this nightmare.
The only consolation is that it will soon be over anyway.
* * * * *
He came at midnight.
I was jerked from a fitful slumber in the armchair by the sound of someone knocking on the door. Disorientated, I rubbed my eyes and wiped drool away from my chin with the sleeve of my shirt.
The television was still broadcasting the atrocities that continued to take place at the center of the town. Apparently old Harlan Masterson had tired of watching the pond and was now lying face down in the murk.
I tried to tell myself as I hoisted my aching body from the armchair that it was the authorities at the door, come to take me to safety but I knew it wasn’t. There are no safe havens for people like me and it was only then I was coming to realize that.
When I opened the door and saw the stranger standing there, I felt only the smallest twinge of surprise. The light from the room failed to reach his eyes and I trembled as I stared deep into those cold orbs.
Around his feet the rats swarmed like a living carpet, all fangs, claws and hair.
His face was all angles and completely bloodless as he looked over my shoulder as if checking to see if I had company. I stepped back and let him enter, leaving the rats at the threshold climbing over each other and squealing. Obediently.
I shut the door.
“Nice place,” he said in a voice that sounded deceptively human. He sat in my Lay-Z-Boy armchair and clicked back the lever that folded out the footrest. Clomping two thick black boots up, he turned to look at where I stood paralyzed by the front door.
“Take a seat,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion and I felt an inner pang of disgust at how fast I obeyed his command. I lowered myself into the high backed armchair in front of the window.
He cast a glance at the television and his lips curved into a smile, admiring his handiwork.
“You were expecting me,” he said then, the smile gone, those black eyes boring into my skull. I realized that if I chose not to respond, he could simply tear the answer from my mind.
I nodded slowly. “I had hoped…”
“Hope is not something you have the luxury of entertaining anymore, Piper.”
My head snapped up at the mention of the name. It was something I had forgotten how to hear, something I had prayed I would never hear again. How foolish of me to think I could ever step out of the shadow painted for me by past masters.
“Don’t call me that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it something you’re ashamed of?”
His impossibly long, almost feminine fingers drummed a tattoo on the arm of the chair.
I locked mine together to keep them from trembling.
“Do you miss them?” he said, nodding at the front door. The rats screeched in response.
I shook my head, bile filling my mouth with the return of memory.
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
“I find that hard to believe, Piper. A legend such as yourself should be proud of his achievements.”
I looked down at my hands. “I told you not to call me that.”
He sighed and the drumming stopped. “Can you really sit there and pretend that you’re the victim? That the atrocities you so willfully caused were forced upon you?”
I heard the creak of the chair as he sat up and dropped his boots to the floor.
“I did what I was supposed to do, but it’s over now. I’m just as human as the people you’re killing.”
He scoffed. “I’m afraid you’ll never be as human as them, Piper. Never. You may have hidden yourself away in this shell of yours and you may act and smell and shit like them, but you’ll always be one of us.”
I looked into his viscous eyes, watched as the darkness shifted like tar. “Why are you here?”
He produced from his pocket a seven-inch flute, the mouthpiece solid gold, the pipe burnished silver. He twirled it in his fingers and grinned. “Play,” he said.
I swallowed. At the sight of the instrument, my lips began to burn and God help me, I wanted to take it, to play the tunes that had been the signature of my old life, the melodies that had carried me from village to village, from Hamlin to Harperville. A desperate longing swelled in my chest, a sudden powerful urge to shrug off the pretense of my new found existence and bring the flute to my mouth, to fill it with my breath, to rub my fingers over the holes in its proud body with sensual fingers, to return to the world I had forsaken. To kill again.
No. I remembered. The children. Buried across vast plains of nothingness, their innocence torn from their naïve young bodies as payment for the deceit of their parents.
I remembered and oh, how it ravaged my insides. All the lives taken, all the violence. Lured from their homes with the promise of being carried to Heaven on the notes of a song only to find their mouths filled with dirt, their fingers removed and sent in crimson parcels back to their families. It would continue, of course. Nothing on earth had the power to stop it, but I could retain hope of salvation by resisting the urge to return to that life, to plunge my fingers back into the bodies of the innocent, to tear them asunder. In the face of such evil, I still had the power to say—
“No.”
“It will never leave you,” he said, visibly infuriated by my refusal and it was then that I knew that he too would be forced to pay a price if he failed to bring me back. “You are a pitiful sight, Piper. You concern yourself with the implications of a return to your old life. You fear the sight, smell and taste of the blood of children but yet you are willing to let me wipe out this town if you refuse. Do you think that will redeem you?”
I forced myself to look away from the flute, afraid that if I stared at it any longer then I would have it in my hands and to my mouth before I knew what I was doing.
“Do you think anything can redeem you?” he spat and something rippled beneath his skin. Beneath the anger, I could see the faintest trace of fear.
“What will they do to you if you go back alone?” I asked in as calm a tone as I could muster.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. This time, when he crouched forward I thought the creak came from his bones and not the chair as I
had previously thought.
“It took you some time to adjust, didn’t it?” he asked, ignoring the question.
“What are you talking about?”
He fluttered a hand at me. “This…disguise. This shitty little mortal life you prescribe to. It took you some time to get used to it, didn’t it?”
The sinking feeling in my stomach told us both that I knew what he was referring to. I could feel soft fingers probing at my brain and I shook them off.
“How could it be any different?” I replied, knowing he had dealt his best card.
“I didn’t say it did. But by human laws, murdering children is one of the most heinous crimes of all. You no longer have your status as Piper to use as an excuse. You no longer have the treachery of mortals to use as an excuse. As a supposed human, the act of murdering children and burying them in your backyard leaves you viable to the most horrendous form of punishment.”
Dejected and sick, I lowered my head and shrugged. “I didn’t know how to do anything else.”
His tone lightened, his face adopting an ill-fitting look of compassion. “Of course you didn’t and I think if you look long and hard into yourself, you’ll realize that you still don’t know how to do anything else. You should be proud of what you did in Garretsburg, not ashamed.”
I couldn’t disagree with him. My transition from Piper to mortal had not been a smooth one. Infiltrating myself into humanity had only brought me closer to the children and the smell of them, the taste of them. I was trusted more than any Piper had ever been trusted and that made the killing worse. I fled from Garretsburg with blood on my hands and grief—a strange and savage new emotion—tearing at my insides.
I had found peace in Harperville. Now even that had led to disaster.
On the news, a shaky handheld camera shot showed the town square in flames as someone decided that the only cure for the plague of vermin was to torch them, and themselves. I sighed.
“I have one advantage over you,” I said quietly and he cocked an ear toward me, straining to hear.
“Which is…?”
I looked defiantly into those orbs of darkness, the same black pupil-less pools that hid behind my own contact lenses. “I can die.”
Alien color blossomed beneath the dead skin of his cheeks and he rose to his feet, his coat billowing out behind him. His eyes were full of murderous black thunder flecked with the lightning of fear. It was clear that he was not accustomed to rejection.
I almost laughed. Poor spoiled piper.
“Is that your decision then? You won’t come back?”
“I made that decision a long time before you showed up.”
He stared at me for a while and then brandished the flute like a knife, the mouthpiece clenched in one pale fist and for a moment I thought he was going to stab me with it.
“Very well then, Piper. If you insist on that I will do you the honor of seeing you out in the traditional way.”
He put the pipe to his lips and began to play. The eerie music was like Heaven to my ears.
It echoed sweetly in the air long after he was gone.
* * * * *
The boards I nailed over the window are loosening. It won’t take them long now.
I figure there’s not a lot of tape left in this thing anyway, so I’ll finish soon.
I’d like to have had more time, to discover all the things humankind takes for granted, but it is all too clear now that we can never walk among you. Not if you are to survive.
The rats have gone, led away by my brother, their bellies full with the souls of those lost.
All that remain now are the children, tearing, ripping, snarling outside my house, and looking for a way in.
I suppose there is a kind of justice to be found in the fact that those children I murdered have come back to escort me home. My brother piper’s touch.
Consider this my farewell.
Until this ends I am going to relax in my chair, pop the tab on another beer and maybe watch a little television.
Just like one of you.
Author Bios
Kealan Patrick Burke is an actor, photographer, editor and Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Turtle Boy, The Hides, Currency of Souls, Master of the Moors, and Jack & Jill. Visit him on the web at www.kealanpatrickburke.com or find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/kealan.burke
Nate Kenyon is the award-winning author of Bloodstone, The Reach, The Bone Factory, Sparrow Rock, and Prime, as well as dozens of short stories. His novel StarCraft Ghost: Spectres, based upon the bestselling videogame franchise from Blizzard Entertainment, will be released in September 2011 from Pocket Books. Kenyon is a three-time Stoker Award Finalist, and two of his novels have been optioned for film. He is currently working on a new novel based on Blizzard’s Diablo videogame franchise. Visit him online at www.natekenyon.com.
Elizabeth Massie is a Bram Stoker Award- and Scribe Award-winning author of horror novels, short horror fiction, media tie-ins, mainstream fiction, historical novels, poetry, and nonfiction. Her newest works include Homegrown (a mainstream e-book and print novel from Crossroad Press), Playback: Light and Shadow (an e-novella from Random House, prequel to the 2011 horror film, Playback, starring Christian Slater), and Sundown (a soon-to-be-available collection from Necon E-Books.) Massie lives in the Shenandoah Valley with illustrator Cortney Skinner. She is the founder of Hand to Hand Vision and Circle of Caring on Facebook. She likes snow and hates cheese.
Joe McKinney is a sergeant in the San Antonio Police Department who has been writing professionally since 2006. He is the Bram Stoker-nominated author of Dead City, Quarantined, Apocalypse of the Dead, Dodging Bullets, Flesh Eaters and Dead Set. His upcoming books include The Zombie King, St. Rage, Lost Girl of the Lake , and The Red Empire. As a police officer, he’s received training in disaster mitigation, forensics, and homicide investigation techniques, some of which finds its way into his stories. He lives in the Texas Hill Country north of San Antonio . Visit him at http://joemckinney.wordpress.com for news and updates.
Lisa Morton is the author of four books of non-fiction, two novellas, one novel, six feature films, lots of television you’ve never heard of, and nearly 50 works of short fiction. She is a three-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, and her first novel (THE CASTLE OF LOS ANGELES) was a Black Quill Award nominee. Lisa is one of the world’s leading experts on Halloween, and has been seen in documentaries on The History Channel and in the pages of The Wall Street Journal. She lives in North Hollywood, California, and can be found online at http://www.lisamorton.com.
Joseph Nassise is the author of more than a dozen novels, including the internationally bestselling Templar Chronicles trilogy. He has also written several installments in the Rogue Angel action adventure series from Harlequin/GoldEagle. He’s a former president of the Horror Writers Association and a two-time Bram Stoker Award and International Horror Guild Award nominee.
Scott Nicholson is author of more than 20 paranormal, suspense, and mystery thrillers, as well as six screenplays, four comics series, and four children’s books. He also writes the Cursed! and Supernatural Selection series with J.R. Rain. His website is www.hauntedcomputer.com.
Jeremy C. Shipp is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of Cursed, Vacation, and Sheep and Wolves. His shorter tales have appeared or are forthcoming in over 60 publications, the likes of Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, Apex Magazine, Withersin, and Shroud Magazine. Jeremy enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse called Rose Cottage. He lives there with his wife, Lisa, a couple of pygmy tigers, and a legion of yard gnomes. The gnomes like him. The clowns living in his attic—not so much. Feel free to visit his online home at www.jeremycshipp.com. His twitter handle is @JeremyCShipp.
Lisa Tuttle made her first professional sale forty years ago, with the short story “Stranger in the House”—now the opening entry in Stranger in the House, Volume One of her Collected Supernatural Fiction, published by Ash-Tree Press. Perhaps best
known for her short fiction, which includes the International Horror Guild Award-winning “Closet Dreams,” she is also the author of several novels, including The Pillow Friend, The Mysteries, and The Silver Bough, as well as books for children, and non-fiction works. Although born and raised in America, she has been a British resident for the past three decades, and currently lives with her family in Scotland.
Simon Wood is an ex-racecar driver, a licensed pilot and an occasional private investigator. His short fiction has garnered him an Anthony Award and a CWA Dagger Award nomination. His titles include, Working Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated and We All Fall Down. As Simon Janus, he’s the author of The Scrubs and Road Rash. His upcoming books are Did Not Finish and The Fall Guy. Curious people can learn more at www.simonwood.net.
Table of Contents
Money Well Earned by Joseph Nassise
Bug House by Lisa Tuttle
The Thing in the Woods by Nate Kenyon
Survivors by Joe McKinney
The Hounds of Love by Scott Nicholson
Goat Boy by Jeremy C. Shipp
Tested by Lisa Morton
Bus People by Simon Wood
Beggars at Dawn by Elizabeth Massie
From Hamlin to Harperville by Kealan Patrick Burke
Table of Contents
Money Well Earned by Joseph Nassise
Bug House by Lisa Tuttle
The Thing in the Woods by Nate Kenyon
Survivors by Joe McKinney
The Hounds of Love by Scott Nicholson
Goat Boy by Jeremy C. Shipp
Tested by Lisa Morton
Bus People by Simon Wood
Beggars at Dawn by Elizabeth Massie
From Hamlin to Harperville by Kealan Patrick Burke