by Rachel Caine
Crazy bitch.
“Wait!” I cry, but the door to the rocking room is already open and already I’m being forced inside.
The door clangs shut behind me.
“I don’t want this. I don’t want to become a carrion. I don’t.”
The Geek shrugs nonchalantly. “What you seek is there before you.”
I turn slowly to find a crate in the center of the gently rocking cell and atop it a box, wooden on all sides but one, where a metal plate is set into a grooved frame, a handle in its center.
“It’s a nightmare box, to be sure, but it’s the source of Zed. It’s what you’re after. It’s what everyone is after—a new outlook to experience!”
“If that’s the case,” I say, sweat trickling down my face, “then I just need to get it back to my doctor. That’s all I need. I don’t need to see it.”
The Geek smiles again—actually, he never stopped smiling, the gold glinting in the darkness like a tiny constellation. “Oh, no. You do. You need to see it. And you will. After all, you’ve already brought your payment and everything. I don’t renege on deals.”
“We haven’t made a deal! I haven’t paid!”
He motions toward Gretta. “You’ve brought us a wonderful gift, and in return, you’ll have your transformation.”
“No, I won’t. Let Gretta go!”
“Let me rephrase. You’ll have your transformation. Or your friends will die.”
Gretta’s eyes are wide with terror now, and a few more of the carrion begin to sniff around her; one thunks her belly like a watermelon. I glance at the box and then back to the Geek.
His smile is insanity. His shiny teeth grinding out sparks.
I’m out of choices.
I reach for the handle on the metal plate. When I wrap my shaking fingers around it, I feel a thud jar the wall of the crate. There’s something inside. Something moving. I release it and push back, shaking my head.
No.
I can’t do it.
What the fuck is it?
“Go on,” the Geek coaxes in his hoarse, overly amiable voice.
I can’t stand to look at him again, and outside of the cell I can hear Gretta moaning. Or maybe it’s inside the cell. A guttural gurgling reverberates all around me. Coming from inside the box.
Three steps. Grab the handle and lift off the side and then I’ll know.
Pull off the bandage, I think. Do it quick enough and it won’t hurt.
I lunge forward. The thing inside thuds against the wall as I feel the metal plate’s weight. I lift, slipping the square up and out of its tracks, and fling it to the floor with a clatter.
But all that’s behind it is another flat surface. I can see this one has an oval cut into it, though a dirty pair of curtains mostly covers it. Something flutters against them. I swipe them open frantically, unable to take the nightmare a second longer.
What I see there stops my breath dead in my chest.
The rotten ear and gray flesh of a corpse.
A zombie. Trapped in a cell within a cell. Its head braced with leather straps nailed to the ceiling of the box so it can’t turn.
But something else too. Something I’ve never noticed in any of the walking dead I’ve come into contact with—this one is leaking something from its pores. Dark. Gelatinous.
Purple.
More of the juice trickles as the thing cranes its neck, teeth snapping.
“Lick it!” the Geek hisses. “Lick it and transform!”
I scream. Fall to my knees and hold my head in my hands. There is no hormone. No easy fix. Annick has sent me on a doomsday mission. Did she know? Was she just trying to get rid of me?
I look back at the zombie and see myself. We are the same, all of us trapped in our own cells. The juice trickles.
“No!” I cry. “No!”
“You must!” The Geek giggles both words.
“I’m not turning into one of them.”
“No,” he agrees. “Not turning.”
I don’t need him to elaborate. We are them. We feed. We consume. It’s all a trap. Carrion, zombie, flesh. All the same.
“I’m done with this,” I say, scanning the distance for Gretta, who is sobbing softly. Her prosthetic torn open. Empty.
“Is that your choice?” the Geek asks.
I train my eyes on him, muster up all the hate I have, and hiss, “Fuck you.” I cram my hand into my purse and wrap my fingers around the gun that waits for me there. The door of the cell clangs open and suddenly he’s there, a knife raised, lunging across the cell toward me. I lift the purse in the Geek’s direction and fire. And he’s on me.
I feel a stitch in my side. And then warm wetness. And I damn myself for not practicing with the gun more.
The stitch turns into five.
Twelve.
—
I WAKE IN the darkness. I’m hungry.
Insatiable.
I’m bound about my chest and legs. I can’t tell by what. I can’t see. My arms are shackled behind my back. But I don’t care. There’s that. I don’t care.
I hear a sharp swipe to my left ear. Close.
And then light pours in and I strain to see a familiar face. Neuter. His eyes are downcast.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and leans in as though to kiss me.
To comfort me.
I try to forget the pangs scratching at my gut. The scent of him. The sweet iron of his flesh. And I close me eyes, tilting my cheek toward his lips.
But it’s not a kiss he delivers.
It’s a slow, wet lick.
“The Werewife”
Jaye Wells
Brad should’ve turned around and left the minute he saw the kitchen. His first hint of danger was the penicillin growing on the plates. Annie never left dirty dishes in the sink, much less piled on the counter. He glanced at the wall calendar next to the phone. There he saw what he’d been dreading—a huge red X over that day’s date.
Oh, shit, he thought, it’s that time of the month.
Work had been crazy and he’d been out of town for a couple of days dealing with a crisis at the Bridgeton warehouse. Still, that was no excuse for forgetting. With Annie, you always had to be careful.
He cupped his balls as he walked into the den—just in case. Annie lay on the couch with an arm covering her eyes. Tiptoeing through the room, his silent feet dodged dirty clothes and empty dog treat boxes. He prayed she’d just ignore him.
“You’re late,” she barked. “Did you get the steak?”
Brad winced and turned slowly. No sudden movements, he reminded himself.
“Sorry. I forgot.” Like he hadn’t had enough on his mind with the business trip. Why couldn’t she have gone to the store herself before nightfall? He swallowed the question when he saw her ferocious scowl and knew he’d never win this argument. “I’ll go now.”
Her eyes glowed in the dim room, a predator’s stare.
“Don’t bother.” She swiped a furry hand through the air. “I’ll eat out tonight.”
Brad felt the blood leave his face in a rush. “But, honey, last time—”
His words died as she hunched over, grabbing her belly. Sympathy and terror duked it out in his gut. Then she got on all fours and let loose an unholy growl.
Screw sympathy, he thought. The last time he let it influence his actions, he’d ended up pissing blood for two weeks.
As he ran the usual path toward salvation, Brad took some comfort in the fact that he was near the basement this time. He hadn’t always been so lucky and bore the scars to prove it.
He skirted the bistro table and the fridge before leaping over the overflowing basket in the laundry room. Her rage-howls nipped at his spine. But then a frantic skittering sound echoed as her claws struggled for purchase on the slick floor. Just before he slammed shut the basement door, he saw a blur of teeth and fur barreling toward him. The third dead bolt slid home an instant before the heavy body slammed into it.
Claws screeched
over the coat of semigloss he’d applied exactly a month earlier. High-pitched yips and low, angry growls sneaked under the doorjamb and made the hair on his neck stand at attention. He closed his eyes and slid down the wall with a shotgun cradled in his lap like the baby they’d never have.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the snarling stopped.
Toenails clicked on the linoleum.
Shattered glass and splintering wood followed.
A mournful howl split the night.
Brad leaned his head back. Light from the kitchen spilled under the jamb to illuminate the weapons and cans of soup he’d stashed there. It really wasn’t so bad in his makeshift panic room. He had plenty of beer and food to get him through the full moon. And he knew that when the moon time passed, his Annie would go back to making his breakfast and ironing his shirts. They wouldn’t discuss what happened, of course. They never did. But at least he’d have a few weeks of relative peace before the next full moon.
Still, he thought, he probably should go ahead and install that doggy door.
—
THE NEXT MORNING Brad unlocked the basement door and went to find his wife. His stomach pitched when he found Annie naked in the backyard.
Her pale body was smeared with blood and brown smears he could only hope were mud. Sighing, he bent and threw her over his shoulder. She murmured something but barely stirred as he carried her over to the side of the house. Her body instinctively protested the cold water from the hose, but he knew if he didn’t clean her off before taking her inside, he’d hear about the stains on her white carpet for weeks.
Once he had her dried off, he helped his sagging wife inside and tucked her into bed. She rolled over and was snoring before he made his way back out the bedroom door.
His body felt heavy, like he had lead weights tied to his wrists and ankles. He hated this part: the cleanup. He never knew what grisly surprises waited for him in the neighborhood, but he had to hide Annie’s trail of destruction before the neighbors woke up for work.
Luckily, it had been a light night. No human bodies this time. Just the remains of two feral cats in the alley. He made quick work of burying the evidence in the abandoned lot that had become his makeshift graveyard. The pets of several neighbors had been laid to rest there without anyone being the wiser.
Leaning on the shovel, he wiped the sweat from his brow and watched the sun come up over the peaked roofs of Holiday Lane. How much longer could they go on like this? In the year since Annie changed, he’d almost filled up the lot with remains. Soon they’d have to move—or find a cure. But how?
The walk back to the house was like a death march. His hands were blistered and bloody and his heart felt heavy in his chest. A whisper in his head suggested he just keep walking and never look back. Start a new life in a new town. Find a new wife who didn’t need flea dips or kill the neighbors’ pets for fun.
“Hey there, neighbor!” Ernie Rasmussen jumped up from behind his midsize sedan like a jack-in-the-box. Brad jerked and dropped the shovel with a loud clang. His heart was doing some clanging of its own in his chest.
“H-Hey, Ernie. You’re up early.”
“Oh, you know how it is. Early bird gets the worm and all that jazz. What ya got there?” He shot a pointed look at the shovel, which lay between them like evidence in a murder trial. Ernie winked. “Doing a little grave robbing?”
Brad scrambled for an explanation. With an awkward laugh, he went for the sort-of truth. “Something killed a feral cat in my backyard. Wanted to take care of it before Annie saw it and got upset.”
Ernie nodded sagely. “That damned coyote again. I tell you, I’ve called animal control out here must be five times after that blasted animal got our Muffy, and they still haven’t done anything about it. We need to start a petition or something.”
Rasmussen’s little fur ball used to shit on Brad’s pristine front lawn and shred his newspapers every morning. That particular kill of Annie’s had been one of the few Brad hadn’t mourned.
“I hear you.” He needed to change the subject. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get to the office.”
“Hey, listen.” Ernie’s eyes lit up like he’d had a brilliant idea. “Lisa and I were planning on going to that carnival this weekend. Would you and Annie like to join us?”
Brad perked up. “Carnival?”
“Oh, you know. Came here last year?” Ernie snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “Carnival Diablo or something?”
“Carnivale Diabolique.” Brad’s heart picked up pace again, only this time with excitement. “I hadn’t heard it was back,” he said, trying to sound casual. “When’s it start?”
“Friday night, I think. Lisa picked up a flyer at the Piggly Wiggly. Can’t stand the things myself,” Ernie said, shrugging. “But Lisa gets a kick out of having her palm read, and I suppose the rides are okay. What do you say?”
Brad had every intention of going, but not to have a double date with the Rasmussens. “I’ll have to get back to you. Annie said something about cleaning out the gutters this weekend.”
“Okeydoke.” Ernie nodded like a man who knew the tyranny of the honey-do list. “Just give us a jingle if you want to come along.”
After that, Brad extricated himself as fast as he could. He walked away at a dignified pace, though the minute he was out of Ernie’s line of sight, he broke into a run. Ernie Rasmussen, despite his annoyingly sunny disposition and love for yappy asshole dogs, had just offered Brad the solution to all of his problems. He couldn’t wait to get home to tell Annie.
—
“I WON’T GO!” Annie shouted in her best and-that’s-final voice.
“But, honey, do you really want to spend the rest of your life howling at the moon?”
It’s not so bad, she thought silently. It’s the only time I feel really free. Not that she could tell Brad that. He’d just sulk.
She stared at him hard for a full minute before answering. With each passing second, Brad’s posture fell another centimeter. Finally, she said, “This again?” Her words dripped with disdain. “How many times do I have to tell you? I have a medical condition.” She enunciated the words like he was one of the mentally impaired kids she used to work with before her condition made her unsafe around children.
Brad just stared back at her. His chin had the stubborn tilt it sometimes got when he remembered he was a man.
“I’m not going.” Her voice tremored a little, and she hated that she was so close to admitting she was afraid.
Brad looked her dead in the eyes, leaned forward, and delivered his trump card. “If you don’t, I will leave you.”
Her stomach bottomed out. An icy wind passed over her skin, causing gooseflesh to rise. If he left her, she’d surely end up dead. It was only a matter of time until the neighbors or the authorities realized she was the one who stalked their quiet neighborhood at night.
“I just don’t know what you think it’s going to accomplish,” she said, keeping the rising panic from her tone.
“Maybe nothing,” he said. “But we have to try, Annie. Aren’t you tired of waking up naked and covered in blood every month?”
No, the beast whispered. The only time I’m happy is when I’m on the hunt.
“There’s evil there,” Annie—the real Annie—whispered to Brad.
His mouth set into a grim line. “There’s evil in you, too, Annie.”
The words hit her squarely in the gut. For the first time, she allowed herself to see the fear and revulsion Brad tried so hard to hide from her. She’d done such a good job of not noticing the weapons he’d stashed around the house, the locks on the insides of doors, the silver cross he’d taken to wearing.
Her pride reared up. “If you love me, you won’t make me go.”
He wiped a callused hand—earned from all those graves he’d dug—over his haggard face. “If you love me, you will.”
With that, her husband rose from his chair and walked away, leaving those awful words to hov
er over the table like a hangman’s noose.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
ANNIE ALWAYS HATED carnivals. She hated the mud and the hay. She hated the scent of fried dough mixed with horseshit. But most of all, Annie hated the sideshows and the freaky carnies who ran them.
To her, the tops of the moth-eaten tents drooped over like drunken clowns. The rides clanked and groaned like arthritic performers. And the screams of the riders weren’t joyful but instead had the high, hysterical pitch of terror.
“The Carnivale Diabolique?” she snorted. “Give me a fucking break.”
“Don’t be such a downer. It’ll be fun.” Brad pulled her arm. “C’mon, I’ll buy you some cotton candy.”
Fun was the opposite of what it was, and cotton candy sucked, but the counselor had warned her that she needed to learn to keep some opinions to herself for the sake of their marriage. So instead of telling her husband she’d rather brush her teeth with barbed wire than go stare at the ridiculous freaks in the red-and-black tent, she pasted on a smile and let him lead the way.
Just like when we have sex, she thought—another observation she wisely kept to herself.
While Brad chatted with the pimply teen behind the cotton candy machine, Annie turned to look at the freak tent. The structure itself was a large affair with vintage posters tacked to the red-and-black panels on its outside. One image was of a man in a pin-striped suit whose face was dominated by an elephant trunk. Another depicted a woman in an evening gown swallowing a sword. The bearded lady, the dog-faced boy, and the Fiji mermaid all stared from their own posters with grim, if misguided, dignity. And there, on the very end—almost in the shadows—was a different sort of image. The background was bruise purple and midnight black. Against it, a picture of a pale man in nothing but a black loincloth. His face was upturned, as if he were praying for salvation. Not surprising, Annie guessed, since his entire chest was skewered with what appeared to be metal hooks.
