Then there are the Rats. Rats are a nervous, suspicious, dangerously-clever bunch, and family-oriented in the same way that street gangs tend to be. They are also careful, never going into a place without an exit plan, and have amazing muscle-memory when it comes to running away. That makes them especially dangerous ambush hunters. And in case you are wondering, no, they don’t shrink down to the size of real rats - it’s a Newton-conservation-of-mass rule-law-whatever thing. They remain human-sized and vaguely human-shaped. It’s not attractive.
So the owner is waiting for me in the alley behind his store, something I expressly asked him not to do. I mean, where did he think the Rats were coming from? He was very concerned about his “two-fold problem”: the damage his store might suffer during the extermination process, and the damage his reputation might suffer if word of this problem got out. I guess he didn’t think about the third problem he’d have if the Rats took him up on his offer to become their dinner by loitering in the alley. After he brought me up to speed, I shooed him away.
I was looking for three Rats: two males and a female. The boys had to be brothers. There’s no way two unrelated Rat males hang out with a sole female and not try to kill each other. I figured it was even odds that the intruders were running around sporting their pointy-toothed rat heads. It’s a foolish myth, probably started by lycanthropes themselves, that they only “change” during a full moon. Their change is an emotional thing, not a lunar thing. Think about dogs wagging their tails.
The hallway immediately leading in from the alley was narrow and grimy. That’s real chic décor for my targets, but I knew they weren’t responsible. The dry twig of a mop I found in the slop-sink couldn’t have seen a soapy bucket in months. There were also a lot of dusty inventory boxes stacked up against the walls. I noticed a few square-shaped blank spots on the floor ringed by dust halos. Somewhere in the building, probably in the nest, I’d find the missing merchandise.
It didn’t take long to spot the Rat hole in the floor that probably led to the nest. Rat holes tend to be impossibly narrow from a normal-sized person perspective, and I briefly thought about that kid in Texas who fell down an oil pipe in the mid-eighties and I shuddered.
The hole was clean and hair-free. That meant they were coming through looking human, probably also naked. Things like shoes and belts tend to get hung up in the rims of Rat holes. They were also likely armed. You don’t find that too often with other lycanthropes. Mostly they are just a bite-and-scratch bunch. Unfortunately this is not so with Rats.
I could hear one of them rustling around up front. It appeared to have missed my scent. Thank God for potato chips; they might be the only things more pungent to a Rat than people. I snuck up to within ten feet of it while its head was buried in a bag of Chip-O’s. Before I could act, however, it spun around and checked me out with weird red-backlit eyes. It still looked somewhat human – a very hairy and ugly human – and not currently baring its Rat teeth. I should mention something about Rat teeth: they can bite through a two-inch iron bar.
It was faster than me, but I was the one with the gun. I found myself struggling under its smelly corpse when an avalanche of chips and salsa tumbled down on us from the smashed display rack above. I first thought that it had managed to bite me after all until I realized I wasn’t looking at blood but spilled picante sauce. I had managed to shoot the Rat cleanly through its still human-looking head.
I crossed myself before standing up. Remember how I mentioned earlier that I almost became a priest? I’d been accepted to seminary and was all set to go when I met Molly. She herself was considering becoming a nun, but I guess we convinced each other that a life spent together was probably better and more fun. So, anyway, I don’t think Ratboy wanted me to give it its last rites, but I crossed it anyway. I guess I’m just mean that way.
Brother Rat jumped out and began screeching something, I don’t know what. I try not to get involved in a monster’s personal problems. I did care that it pulled out a semi-automatic and, judging from the way it cocked the gun, seemed very comfortable using it. I also noted dismally that it was in full-on rat mode – big ears, fangs and all. I managed to scramble behind a condiments island before the Rat sprayed the store with bullets.
I quickly did the math: I had my two eight-shot 9-millimeters, which still had fifteen silver bullets between them, not counting my now-missing reloads; my spare clips were now lost under the bags of chips on the floor. The Rat itself had several banana clips for his semi-auto, each clip having many more rounds than I currently possessed.
The next few moments were ugly. Giant sheets of refrigerator glass panes exploded into nasty shards. Fortunately I avoided getting cut by any of it. I was not so lucky with the fridge contents or the island condiments. Ketchup, mustard, relish, soda, energy drinks, chocolate milk, orange juice, fancy water, and beer sprayed everywhere. I was being marinated and turned into a sticky-sweet appetizer. Worse, I couldn’t see through the mess dripping in my eyes, and my hands and feet began to stick to the floor.
Somehow, though, I scrambled up and emptied my pistols in the Rat’s vicinity when it stopped to reload. I think being a lycanthrope must make you forget about mortality; except for silver, what can really hurt you? It, as I hoped, didn’t even bother to duck. I managed to bury most of my slugs into the Rat and blow its limp body out the front window. It took me a few moments to register with the mess around me before I thought, “Oh good, now the police will come and find all of this.” I wasted no time calling the IRTEF. They could explain it to the cops.
I had a few minutes to clean up and look around before the cavalry arrived. I quick-changed in my van and grabbed some ammo before heading back to the hole. There was still a female hiding somewhere, one that most likely bolted to the nest the moment the shooting started. The floorboards around the hole were soft enough to break through when I pounded on them with a heavy sign. Once the hole was big enough, I dropped to the bottom and made my way back.
One of the things I’ve noticed after ten years on the job is that my senses have changed. I stopped needing flashlights and binoculars a few years back. I don’t know if it’s a professional thing or it’s because I’ve been infected so often that I’ve begun to mutate. I really hope not. I’ve also noticed I get more stares from priests and nuns than from before.
Anyway, I had no problem moving through the dark tunnel. And I heard the monster gasp as soon as I’d dropped to the floor. When I saw it, I think I used some sailor talk that I’d later have to confess; it looked like a young girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen, and pregnant out to about California. This ‘girl’ was definitely lycanthrope, but her baby might not have been. I couldn’t kill either one of them. She didn’t know that, though, and took off in a flash after I pointed a gun at her and said that I would.
My life is admittedly strange. IRTEF cleaned up afterwards and held off the police. I guess they recognized these boys or at least their work. The City keeps an unofficial casualty count from these kinds of monsters, although no one there will admit it. These Rats must’ve been real troublemakers, hence the courtesy. I almost always get stuck with the broom and dustbin afterwards.
I fudged the debriefing a bit. No, there were only two monsters, not three. Yes, the owner was safely away when I arrived. No, I didn’t believe there were any witnesses or innocent victims caught in the crossfire. Reality intruded during the meeting; Molly called to ask if I could bring some milk home with me. That kind of intrusion is always okay with me.
Trying on Tobias
by Jacqui Canham
They’ll regret this. Wrenching me out of The Lodge, forcing me into a metal tube and tossing me so carelessly into this putrid place. And boy! is it putrid, with all these different-coloured people milling about. I had to sit next to one mid-air while she chewed on her gristly meatballs, mouth open, eyes boggling. I was taught to close my mouth when eating. It’s really not that difficult.
I shuffle with the herd, trying not to touch any
one, until we spew out into Arrivals. The striplights, buzzing yellow, are already making me feel queasy, hot around the neck. You’ll see your name on a sign. Go with the man holding it. Yeah, and I know exactly who ‘the man’ is. Mister Specialist. Third this year. But apparently this one is ‘different’ because he practices in ‘London’. He’ll think he can fix me, of course, find the old ‘empathy centre’.
I scan the signs beyond the ribboned barriers. Lots of them. Welcome to the Big Smoke, Katrina Jenkins. . . Here for Mr Bushanjee. . . Congratulations Team Dulwich U R The Champions. . . Doctor Hogarth for Stephen Burrows… Excuse me? Who the fuck is Stephen Burrows? It’s Steven. With a ‘v’. What a fucking arsehole, getting my name wrong. You need to start showing some respect. I’ve a good mind to…
I scrutinise him, this Doctor Hogarth. Sarcastic smile, dull-eyed, tweedy. Just like the rest. He’ll live in a ‘character property’, natch, with ‘stressed floorboards’ and ‘exposed brickwork’ (million pound hovel). He’ll have a dog (fleas). And he’ll be waiting for ‘Stephen’ to approach him, reporting for fucking duty, but little does he know ‘Stephen’ has just given his escort the slip. Well, not the slip exactly. The escort is having his luggage searched and there is no way ‘Stephen’ is gonna hang around waiting for him. Anyhow, there's something round here I find far more interesting than Doctor Hogarth.
She’s standing some way back, with a neutral expression on her face, not grinning like most of the idiot Cheshire Cats round here. Her hair is dark and her skin white. An excellent juxtaposition of tone. Coffee and cream. Her glasses are thick. But best of all, she’s small. Fragile. And she’s holding up a sign for ‘Tobias’.
“Hello,” I mumble.
She focuses on me. “Sorry?”
“I'm Tobias.”
She's staring at me now. Maybe she's met Tobias before, or seen a photo, or been given a description. Well, if that's the case I’ll walk away. I might even introduce myself to the goofy doctor.
“Tobias.” Is she flushing around the cheeks? “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
She's been dying to meet me.
You've been dying to meet me. That’s nice. That's. . .
Your car is cramped inside and there’s an irritating creak every time you change gear. You keep taking little glances at me as you drive. What are you hiding under that woollen dress? A skinny neck I bet, tiny shoulders, crushable hips…
“How was the flight?”
How was the flight, you say?
“Alright.”
“And the food? Getting better these days d’you reckon?”
No, I don’t fucking reckon.
“Yes, it was adequate.”
There's not much of an aroma to you, is there? From this distance anyway. Maybe close up you'll smell a little creamy. Perhaps vanilla notes.
“I hope everything will be to your liking, Tobias.”
“Thank you. I'm sure it will.”
A half-smile from you. Feeling more comfortable around me now are you?
“Have you been to London before? For work?”
“No, I haven’t.”
So, it’s Tobias the businessman, is it? Tobias has a seminar in the City tomorrow morning and you're putting him up. You're greedy like that, exploiting newcomers to your city by renting out a room in your posh house. More fool you.
“Though it’s not really relevant is it.”
“What?”
“That you've never been to London.”
Why are you smirking? What's so funny about that? And why is your car so stifling? It’s disgusting you can’t be bothered to put air conditioning on for your guest. You're a rude bitch, aren't you!
That crawling feeling is back under my skin and my blood’s pumping too fast. My meds are still with the escort. Shouldn’t matter. As long as you don’t upset me. I mean, I chose you, so you’d better treat me with respect.
*
I was hoping for something a little more ‘Gucci’. You live in 'London' for Crissakes. But this is a dump. At least we have nice lamps in The Lodge, not solitary light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Can't you be bothered getting a lightshade? And, Jeez, the stench of damp is catching my throat and there’s no escaping from it because your flat is in the goddamn basement and there’s no air. You’re gonna pay for this. Why are you gesturing at that sofa? It's full of holes and I know there'll be something living in the fabric, but you want me to sit down on it. No way. I'm staying standing.
“You’ll never know how much I appreciate you agreeing to this. I was so very excited when we connected.”
Oh were you, now? So it’s a blind date, is it? A blind date with Tobias? How predictable. Got him off the internet, did you? Got me off the internet, but no photos swapped to enhance the anticipation? Plenty of photos of you in here, though, aren’t there? Little Miss Prissy riding a horse, sitting in a café with mummy and daddy, collecting some trophy for some tedious achievement. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
“I suppose it’s pretty niche, what we do. Not something you want to shout about from the rooftops.”
Yeah, I'd want to keep it quiet too, you little hussy. If you’re making plans in advance for a fuck. you can't complain if someone gets carried away can you. I’m thinking blindfolded, handcuffed, pinned down on that table over there. Better still, I'm liking the look of that cupboard under the sink. I reckon we could squeeze you in there and nail the doors shut.
“Down there.”
Down there, you say? Alright, down there it is. All these stupid little steps. I didn't know basement flats had cellars. Perfect for what I have in mind. You'll be wishing you'd never taken my word for it. Tobias! As if I'd have a name like Tobias. And here we are in the dark, though there’s a faint glow from the candle you’ve just lit. How romantic.
What are all those buckets? The highchair? That's novel. And those dark stains, splashed up the walls, across the floor? Where have you gone? Trying to tease me, are you? Shall we just get down to business? Let's get down to bloody business. If there was just more light so I could see what I was doing, if I could just get hold of your scrawny little neck and…
Ow! What's that in my arm? A needle?
“Makes it easier, Tobias, when I cut.”
“Hang on a minute.”
“Like we agreed.”
*
“You’re coming round now. As I explained to you, the injection knocks you out temporarily as it dilates your blood vessels.”
“Wngggg.” I can’t speak. Can’t move my limbs.
“I have to admit, I’ve never had one before who wanted to be tied and gagged, but I'm glad it excites you. Me too. When I cut, I'm going to let your right hand free so you can, you know. . .”
No. No I don’t know.
“Pleasure yourself. Or are you left handed?”
Get me out of this highchair. Why am I tied into a highchair?
“I'm quite overwhelmed to be honest, it’s rare to get any interest. I got the idea from that thing in the news years back, you know, the German guy offering himself up as a meal to a cannibal.”
Oh sweet Lord.
“But that's tawdry. Our interests transcend that, don’t you think? I get upset when people call it a fetish, don’t you?” She's pulling something out of her pocket. “It's not a fetish. It's an imperative. There are lots like me.”
What are you doing with that scalpel? Playing with it, staring at my neck.
“They usually expect me to use my canines, like in the films, but what a load of nonsense. This is far more efficient, though I warn you I’m not very good at controlling the spurt.”
Listen, I need to tell you something. I'm not Tobias, I'm Steven, with a 'v', and you're moving in now with the scalpel and I really need to clear this up. Read the notes here in my pocket. I’m supposed to show them to people when I get the crawling feeling and haven’t had my meds. Please read them, please, please, please, you’ll see… lots of big words… delusional paranoia, inappropriate thought
patterns, uncontrolled association paths, but look again… incapable of following them through, condition benign, not a tangible threat. . .
You've cut. Is that my blood spurting all over you, all over your snow-white skin? You're saving some in buckets, but your lips are parted, too, and you're drinking. Feeding your face. With my blood. Tobias's blood. And there's no going back. No going back.
Sodor & Gomorrah
by N W Twyford
The whistles sound a bit like screams, Tom thought, sometimes. They were certainly shrill enough.
He had heard them, on certain nights, his entire life. The trains.
Always late at night, when his family slept. Sometimes when it was clear, when the moon washed his bedroom in silver light, and at other times when it rained; the sounds carried through the downpour.
The chugging and the whistles left no doubt: these were steam trains. But no steam trains ran anymore on the only line that passed nearby, he had checked. Researching the line and its history thoroughly, it had become something of an obsession to him.
His parents had no idea what he was talking about. The services were cancelled years ago, a thing of years gone by. But he knew what he heard, on those seemingly random nights when he discreetly smoked out his window without his parents knowing. His insistence only served to elicit confusion and concern from them, who found his fixation unsettling.
The trains became a topic unspoken, a subject that would not be discussed. Yet the mystery gnawed at him, and he knew he had to learn more.
That was why Tom waited until his parents were asleep before going out, telling them he was going to stay up and watch the late night film, keeping an ear open for the sounds of slumber.
Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 11
