by Mr. Deadman
Now ain't no dog or k-eye-yote-ee I've ever heard sounds like that, damn it. I betcha every little nerve in my body is standing at attention at that sound. My fight or flight response curves straight up into the get-the-living-heck-outta-here-now top of my mental RPM gauge.
The thing comes right into view. No warning. No suspense. It just appears, all lanky and unblinking and ready to gore me into plastic wrapped man steaks. Well, I didn't get through all I went through just to end up a decent meal to be processed and flushed away. Nope. Not me. So what if I came out West to make it as a musician, but ended up doing odd jobs?
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say to the thing. Not sure where I get the strength to open my trap like that.
But to hell with that thing. I ain't having it. It isn't having me and my smart mouth, either.
It comes. Covered in a grey-white fur, its arms long and lanky, its face determined and . . . goddamn it . . . intelligent as all hell. This is not some stupid animal. This is something with smarts. Probably smarter than me.
Every bit of my body goes cold, then hot.
I’m going to die right here. No doubt.
I brace myself. The thing is going to rip me to shreds. I know it. I look it in the eye and neither of us blink. He knows. And I know it’s a guy. Instinct. Not sure how or why. Maybe it’s the obvious lack of female bits, but that’s never a sure way to know, now, is it? But there is something in the creature I recognize as being male. Maybe it’s the aggressiveness. Maybe there’s a hidden scent I haven’t recognized.
I understand what it is, though.
La Criatura.
The desert creature we heard about as kids. Like our own version of Bigfoot, only instead of it hiding in the northwestern woods, this thing hides out in the desert.
Someone’s messing with me. It’s someone in a suit. Just screwing . . .
Its mouth opens and a shriek unlike anything I’d ever heard offends my tender ears. I cover the sides of my head with my hands before I have a chance to think if the gesture could be misinterpreted, and of course, it right away is.
The Criatura charges me, its feet so fast I don’t even register to get out of its way. It crashes into me, its head lowered, connecting with my sternum, sending me about ten feet back. I launch full out, arcing backward in a humiliating backward dive, landing flat on my spine, my head banging the hard earth, and the wind pummeling out of me.
For a second all I see is black.
After a few blinks, the stars come into focus.
I raise my head, look around, but don’t see the Criatura anywhere.
It’s gone.
You’d think I’d been dipped in pain sauce and fired over a spit, I hurt so bad.
Now goddamn my ass no one’s gonna believe a piss of this is true. Some dumb desert monster Big Foot come out and kicked my ass. And I got all the painting stuff to get to the site for tomorrow. If I don’t show up, I got no job, and Jerry was taking a chance trusting me for the first time. Mother. Fucker.
Even with the supernatural evidence afoot, my boring old practical mind is trying to keep normal and keep straight. If I survive, after it’s all over, I still have to go to work. There'll be no free ride waiting just ‘cuz I'm going through something like getting beat up in the desert. Imagine it's best to keep the whole thing to myself, anyway.
Got the bat in the backseat. If that thingamajig comes back, I can have a go at it. Maybe not win, but maybe at least scare it away long enough so I can get the hell somewhere relatively safe.
I picture my phone in the cab, just sitting there in the cup holder. Just get in the Jeep. Lock the doors. Call someone. This will all be over. And . . .
Something lands right on top of my gut.
My body flinches in response, my legs and arms going upward, my face turning down to see what it is.
Another head, looking half-decomposed. Can't tell if it’s a man’s, or a woman’s, or even a person’s.
The Criatura is here.
It’s not alone.
Several stand around me, staring, and blocking my way out.
I crane my head a little to see if my path to the Jeep is clear.
Two Criaturas block the way.
Shit. They thought of that.
I am so dead.
Might as well resign myself.
What the hell do they want from me, anyway?
I sit up just a bit and the head rolls off. A pungent odor like vomit mixed with spoiled fruit overwhelms me. It takes all my will not to throw up all over the desert ground.
A raspy bark-like voice makes a noise. Then I turn round. The first Criatura I saw—distinguished because his, or its, fur has a long grey stripe going from head to neck like a lightning bolt—is doing a little up-and-down dance. It puts its arms out and seems to be gesturing my way.
Probably a signal for his friends to draw and quarter me.
My heart races. Is this it? My awful end come to pass? No goodbyes?
Goddamn it, Bertha! Why the hell did you have to break down again? What in hell is wrong with you? You see the trouble you got me in again?
I think I hear her talk back. Tough shit, Chuck. You knew what you were getting when you got me.
There is something in that first Criatura’s hand, too.
It holds a head.
Then the sonofabitch looks me in the eye, its own eyes twinkling, then lifts the head to its mouth and tears into the noggin like when my uncle Marty was having a Disneyland turkey leg for the first time.
Thank God the face is away from me. I don’t think I can stomach seeing it eat the face off anyone, even if I don’t know the guy. My tolerance has got limits.
Taking the head from its mouth after what felt as long as the two songs you get when you pay for a lap dance at Jimbo’s, the Criatura again looks me in the eye.
I am still on the ground, on my back, as vulnerable as a chick that’s fallen from its nest.
It nods at me.
The others grunt.
They all grunt.
What the hell do they want?
I look around.
One points at the head on my stomach.
It lifts the head in its hand to its face, and then I know what it wants.
Oh, hell.
Hells to the no.
I inch backward; my body burns like holy water tossed onto a bloodsucker.
The Criaturas growl and howl and lurch. Their claws curl—long black nails twitching, ready to butcher me into a thousand cuts of useless, bitter man meat.
One advances from the back, rushing at me, its arms raised, a yell erupting from its throat loud enough to chill my insides.
Thing’s gonna kill me.
I cringe, raising an arm by instinct, just as the thing winds its arm back, coiling back for the strike . . .
Another scream.
The first Criatura . . . the one that’s pegged me with the severed head . . . clotheslines the aggressor, makes it fall right on top of me.
Its eyes are half a foot from my own. They look right through me, and the light brown colors remind me almost the same as my dad’s.
Letting out an ear shattering roar, its maw opens, lined with pointy dark shark teeth.
Hope I’m dead when it tears into me. Those are going to hurt like hell.
The thing’s breath could make the heartiest sewer worker lose their guts.
Warm spittle covers my face, and I can’t help but shut my eyes and mouth.
I’m going to die. Think of something fast.
A prayer.
God.
Yes.
Save my soul, dear Jesus. Make this be over quick so I can be by your side.
The howl stops.
I think I am dead.
You’re not dead, you idiot. You’re eyes are closed.
So I open them to find the Criatura still on top of me, only sitting on me cowboy-style. It holds the severed head in its claws.
Its weight is such I know there is no way to es
cape.
It shakes the head at me twice and grunts.
The foul stench of the head makes me gag.
It wants me to eat the head?
The Criatura’s gestures make it clear.
“Well, when in Rome . . .” I say, “. . . or Canyon Country. Same shit.”
Knowing full damn well what I have to do, I breathe out, steel myself, reach out and grab the head, my hands clamping it on either side. The hair’s wet and moist. And warm. The damn thing’s warm, like maybe it’s relatively fresh, or, after the briefest moment’s consideration, recently up-chucked by one of the Criaturas.
I give them all one last look, and they glare back. All of us are apprehensive, like pre-teens hoping our uncomfortable signals at the square dance are accepted.
They couldn’t fit this whole thing in their mouths.
I raise the head toward my face.
Maybe they yacked on it and their bile is melting it, kinda like what flies do.
The reek is overpowering.
There is absolutely no fucking way I can be . . .
I bite down on the nose. Not sure why. Maybe because it is sticking out and is the easiest target.
It’s all chewy and salty. My gag reflex is on fire. There’s nothing else I can think about other than keeping it down.
Don’t throw up, man. This is do or die.
The Criatura still straddles me. Only stronger. I’m not going anywhere at all.
I try, and try, and chew and gnaw.
I swallow. I open my mouth wide and stick out my tongue.
The Criatura roars, only it isn’t angry; the thing is overjoyed.
I’ve partaken in their ritual, after all.
And that’s what they wanted.
Once I finish the nose, I labor on the cheeks. The flesh comes free, and it tastes like it’s been cooked in hot stomach acid. There is another flavor, too, that I can’t quite place—greasy and robust, like fish oil.
My lips go numb, then so do my tongue and throat. My head spins a little like I’m high off some hallucinogen. This works out well, because my inhibitions break down. I feel like I’m in a heightened, trance-like state as I gobble. Soon, I don’t taste anything. I don’t care about what I’m doing. I’m so high I probably could saw off my own pecker and eat it as if it were nothing more than a raw hot dog.
Happy to report things didn’t come to that.
After I consume both cheeks, two lips, and the chubby part of the chin, my head goes light.
The Criaturas roar. I swear they are laughing at me.
My head spins and twists. Whatever is soaked into the flesh of the detached head is winning the fight. I can’t keep my mindfulness any longer. Nope.
I pass out.
Last thing I feel are the remains of the head pitching off my chest and plopping into the sandy ground next to me.
A moment later, I feel something on my right eyelid. Then I see the Criatura ogling me—one last glance into that peculiar, reptilian face, ringed with matted white fur. It draws back my eyelid to see if I’m alive. I bet my pupils are as enormous as quarters, too. Whatever it recognizes makes it okay for the thing to get off me.
I’m so baked I can’t even blink. Or swallow. Or breathe.
Somehow, my body manages without my mind being there.
***
Dew covers me. I wake to find myself lightly coated after a night asleep in the desert. Morning comes, and I rise just as the sun breaks.
I realize I’m alone. Even the semi-dissolved head is gone. Thank the Lord.
When I get up, nothing hurts. Nothing at all. I feel fine, considering what I’ve been through.
The real problem is that Bertha still won’t turn over. I’m not visible from the highway. The phone, though? I’m lucky on that one. The battery is still okay, and I have plenty of power.
Before I call Jerry, I glance in the rearview mirror to see how I look. Even though I’ve been worked over, there is nothing to show for it. So, my planned explanation that I’ve been attacked won’t fly. I settle for something that doesn’t sound too far-fetched.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” Jerry asks when I reach him.
“Well, look. I broke down last night up in Canyon Country. Everything was closed, so I just had a few beers and crashed out in the back of my Jeep. Didn’t want to wake you up, and didn’t want you to worry about the supplies. We should still play with the band tonight, too.”
“Okay,” Jerry says. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “But Bertha may need her walking papers sooner than later.”
“You and that Jeep have the most dysfunctional relationship.”
“I like the drama. Keeps things fresh. So, I think I still have a AAA tow left. Can you meet me a little later for the handoff?”
“No worries, Chuck. I can just come to the shop and get the stuff. Give you a lift home. Just call me when you’re close.”
Jerry does just that.
The tow truck comes. Brings me and Bertha to Pasadena. I pay a little extra on account of the distance, but am grateful to do so.
Right after Jerry drops me home, I take a nice long, hot shower. By then, it’s night again, and I crawl into bed. But the damn sheets are so itchy. Feels like there are mites or bedbugs crawling all over me. I just can’t sleep.
I scratch at my skin. The hair feels unusual in places. Rougher.
After I turn on the bedside light, I observe straight white hairs rising out from places in my arms. I try to brush them off, hoping they aren’t mine, but they are growing from me, no doubt about it.
Soon there are more and more of them.
My stomach growls and I grasp I haven’t eaten anything since the night before when I’d . .
The thought makes my mouth water and my aching stomach rumble.
I miss my breath, and then, when I catch it, my voice sounds like something else—something animal—something primal.
Then I itch inside like I ain’t ever itched before.
I feel pulled. Called. Compelled. Every bit of me knows what I have to do.
I have the need to feed.
About the author:
John Palisano has a pair of books with Samhain Publishing, Dust of the Dead and Ghost Heart. Nerves is available through Bad Moon. Starlight Drive: Four Halloween Tales was released in time for Halloween, and his first short fiction collection All That Withers is available from Cycatrix Press, celebrating over a decade of short story highlights. Night of 1,000 Beasts is due soon from Sinister Grin Press.
He won the Bram Stoker Award© in short fiction in 2016 for “Happy Joe’s Rest Stop”. More short stories have appeared in anthologies from Cemetery Dance, PS Publishing, Independent Legions, DarkFuse, Crystal Lake, Terror Tales, Lovecraft eZine, Horror Library, Bizarro Pulp, Written Backwards, Dark Continents, Big Time Books, McFarland Press, Dark Scribe Magazine, Dark House Press, Omnium Gatherum, and more.
Non-fiction pieces have appeared in Fangoria and Dark Discoveries magazines.
Say ‘hi’ at: www.johnpalisano.com, http://www.amazon.com/author/johnpalisano , www.facebook.com/johnpalisano, and www.twitter.com/johnpalisano.
Bitten
Christopher Powers
The two men settled into armchairs around the warm glow of a fire and listened as rain pattered gently against the pane. It was rhythmic and relaxing. Not like that other sound coming from just beyond the window, thought Jason, who commented that perhaps Charles should let his cat into the house so it might stop scraping at the door.
“I don’t own any pets,” he replied.
“Then what is that sound?” asked Jason with noticeable irritation.
“It’s just the bushes outside.”
Jason gave an understanding tilt of the head, and moments later, they were locked in conversation, which was more like banter with little substance. It was a precursor to the main course – a drizzle of cream on top of steaming coffee – followed by lighthearted exchanges that were bookended with ric
h knee-slapping laughter.
Jason visited several times a year, and had almost started looking forward to their get-togethers. However, he would be first to admit that, had Marjorie not been so adamant that Jason stop over occasionally, he’d just as well leave the visiting to others.
“The Congo is a vivid landscape full of lush and wonder,” said Charles, whose work as a botanist had taken him all over the world. Sipping whiskey from a crystal decanter, he added, “I’d never seen so many plants in one place. It was marvelous!”
“How long were you there?” asked Jason, reaching for his own glass.
“Two weeks.” Fidgeting awkwardly in his chair, a shadow of doubt passed over Charles’s grey eyes, as if a sudden unpleasant thought had crept into his mind. “Should have been four, but we returned early.”
Jason paused with one hand clutched around the body of his own drink. “Early?” he pressed, eyebrows raised in a lurid fashion.
Charles hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting about the room. His voice, when at last it came, sounded forced and cracked. “Something…happened out there.” He took a long swig of his drink. “One of our party expired.”
“What on earth happened?” asked Jason.
“Nothing,” said the botanist hastily. “At least, nothing worth hearing.”
“Did he come down with a case of jungle fever?” persisted the younger man. “I hear that’s positively awful.”
“It is. And no, he didn’t.” He shifted uncomfortably in the armchair. “If you insist on knowing, I’ll tell you.”
Jason dropped his drink back on the table with a clatter. He gaped at Charles wide-eyed. “Were you attacked?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. We all were.”
Jason leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees.
Charles cleared a space in his throat. “You won’t believe me,” he said stoically. “And I cherish my relationship with Marjorie too much to risk you going back to her with stories about how I’ve gone crazy.”
“Who says I won’t believe you?”
Sighing, still shifting in his seat, Charles asked, “Do you believe in monsters?”
For a moment, Jason was left to consider the question. Eventually he answered, “Can’t say that I do.”
A smile formed on the botanist’s face like an oil slick breaking water, and as tears welled in his eyes, Jason noted for the first time how puffy and bloodshot they appeared.
