It Was a Dark and Stormy Night...

by Kurtz, Matt; McKenzie, Shane; Strand, Jeff

  “Ah,” the priest said, “but Francis Stone—”

  “I know,” John said. “The half-vampire, half-werewolf, half-zombie on the top of the dark, spooky castle that was probably built on top of ancient Indian burial grounds, right?”

  All of his companions looked at him with wide eyes.

  “I never told you about the burial grounds,” Dom said breathlessly.

  “It’s seriously built on top of Indian burial grounds?”

  Dom nodded.

  “Why do people always build on them?” John said, but nobody responded.

  “Seems like we’re all after Stone, for one reason or another,” El Nabo said. He turned his head to the side and spat. “Let’s head to the castle and finish this.”

  “I still think we should split up and investigate that noise,” Bebe said.

  ***

  John flicked on the flashlight that Bebe had given him. She’d brought enough for everyone. Nothing happened. He turned it off, then on again. Nothing.

  “Hey, Bebe,” John said. “The flashlight doesn’t work.”

  She turned to him, a perplexed expression settling on her face. John unscrewed the base of the flashlight and peered inside. The empty hollow of the shaft explained the malfunction.

  “You brought flashlights without batteries in them?” John said. “You didn’t think to, you know, test them before you left the house to see if they were working?” He looked at the rest of the group. All of them looked a mixture of guilty and confused. “None of you thought to test them?”

  Bebe pursed her lips, one hand on her hip, looking as thoughtful as she could manage. “I dunno,” she said. “I thought I’d wait to test them until I really needed them, you know? Like right when one of those monsters is around.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  John sighed, forcing himself to turn away from the woman before he used the flashlight as a weapon. She’d brought flashlights with no batteries, cell phones with no antennae, and keys to a car with no fuel. And if she suggested that they split into small groups one more time, he was going to strangle her with the white towel from the hotel.

  The group was nearing the edge of town. John could see the dark forest ahead of him, daunting and shadowy in the light of the moon. On the other side would be Francis Stone’s castle.

  El Nabo punched John in the face.

  At least, that’s what it seemed like. He’d quickly extended his arm—the signal for “hold”—right into John with incredible force. John cupped a bloody nose in his hands, swearing profusely. The other members of the group stopped in their tracks, obviously more prepared for El Nabo’s military gestures.

  When John looked up, wiping the tears from his eyes and plugging his nose with two fingers, he saw them. A field of monsters, a few blocks down to the left. From this distance, he could only see that they were humanoid in shape. Some knelt down over corpses, making slurping and crunching noises. He felt sick. It didn’t appear that they’d noticed the group yet.

  “Bunch of Stoners,” El Nabo muttered, his arm still in the air.

  “Stoners?” John said. “That’s what you call them? Stoners?”

  El Nabo didn’t answer. “You all stay here,” he said. “These bastards are mine.”

  Everyone had a solemn look on their faces. Bebe was weeping softly. But nobody was arguing.

  “Uh, El Nabo.” John placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “They’re pretty far off, you know. I don’t even think they know we’re here. We could just…keep going. To the castle.”

  “No,” he said. “You all have a purpose, a fate. This is mine.”

  Father Reus was crossing himself in the air, muttering things in Latin. It sounded like he was giving El Nabo his last rites.

  “Really, man,” John said, stepping in front of him. “It’s not necessary. They’re really far out there. We should just keep walking. Come on.” This was the only man in the group who had thought to bring weapons—John felt as though he should try to keep him around. “Look, let’s go to the castle, get Big Frank Stone, and go home.” Big Frank was the nickname John had come up with. It just sounded right.

  Pyotr said something in a language that John thought might be German. That damned organ music was still playing faintly in the background. Dr. Thompson cackled softly, eyes darting back and forth as though he thought the world suspected him of something dastardly.

  “It’s just like the Farm,” El Nabo said. His eyes were hard. John didn’t even think he was listening to him anymore. “I won’t let it happen again. Not like this. Not like the Farm!”

  Before John could try to dissuade him any further, the large man took off with a roar, ammunition belts bouncing up and down on his shoulders as he ran. John watched their only means of defense run away from them with a sinking feeling.

  The distance was so great that he heard El Nabo take a breath three separate times in order to continue his war cry before he met the confused group of Stoners. A cacophony of explosions, bestial screams, and gunshots followed. In a few seconds, however, all was silent. The creatures went back to their feeding as though nothing had happened.

  There were a lot of questions running through his head, but for some reason John found himself asking the group what the Farm was.

  “Fantasy Farm Day Care Center,” Dom said. “I heard his parents put him there for a whole week when he was a four. A hard place. Lots of clowns.” Dom offered no further explanation, and John decided it was better not to ask for one.

  Bebe screamed. John could understand, having just seen someone torn to shreds by vicious monsters, but she seemed to be repeating something over and over again that John couldn’t understand.

  “What?” he said. “Slow down, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I have to get upstairs!” she clarified.

  John wasn’t sure what to think of that until she sprinted off toward the nearest building. A small house was only a few feet away, and Bebe leapt up the stairs of the front porch, breaking both of her heels at the top. She tumbled backward, breasts bouncing in all manner of creative ways, and skidded to a halt. Apparently unperturbed by the delay, she leapt up, screamed “I have to get upstairs!” again, and ran at the front door of the house. She opened it and froze. Stoners, seven of them, waited inside, looking as stunned as John was.

  John thought for sure she’d turn back then, realizing that sequestering herself upstairs was so far beyond stupid that it bordered on insanity. He was wrong. She actually shoved one of the Stoners aside as she ran up the long stairway to the left and disappeared from sight. The Stoners slowly turned and followed her up the stairs, moaning softly. One took the opportunity to come outside with what John thought was a canteen and began filling it from the bloody gutters. When it was done, it screwed on the cap and sauntered back inside, likely to join the feeding fest.

  John turned around to look at the four remaining members of the group. None of them looked particularly surprised or disturbed. Dr. Thompson, the self-proclaimed mad scientist, looked guilty.

  “It never should have happened this way,” Thompson said in a whisper.

  John turned to him and sighed. “Let me guess,” he said, holding up a hand. “The government was doing illegal secret experiments on human beings, and you were the head researcher. You created the Stoners, and Big Frank was your masterwork.”

  The doctor’s face hardened and took on the look of someone who had just had their thunder stolen. He turned away, stomping off toward the castle like a petulant child. Father Reus gave John a shaming look and a shake of the head, turning to walk away as he muttered something about John’s connection to demons.

  Pyotr aimed his camera at John and took a picture. “Maybe I find ghosts in film!” he said gleefully.

  ***

  “You think we kill Herr Stein?” Pyotr said, still smiling. They had nearly reached the base of the castle, and the organ music was getting louder. Deadtown was far behind them, and Dr. Thompson a
nd Father Reus were engrossed in some conversation ahead of them that he couldn’t hear. Dom had fallen asleep standing up several hundred yards behind them. It had happened more than once, but he always caught up when he woke.

  “Herr Stein?” John said. “You mean Big Frank?” The tourist hadn’t stopped talking the entire time.

  “Ja,” Pyotr said. “Stein, German word for Stone. Herr Stein. We kill?”

  John stopped in his tracks, and turned to Pyotr. “Wait,” he said. “Stein. Frank Stein?”

  “Ja wohl!” Pyotr clapped his hands once. “Das is stimmt! Frank und Stein! You speak German?”

  “Oh. My. God.” That was it. He was in Hell.

  A few moments later, when a Stoner leapt from the bushes, tore Father Reus in half, and dragged his body away, John didn’t even flinch. He just kept walking toward the castle.

  ***

  Stone lions and gargoyles stared at him accusingly as he stood in front of Stone’s castle, one hand on a large iron doorknocker. The castle was intimidating to say the least, its giant towers looming over John like long, slender demons wearing pointy hats. A Bach fugue erupting from an organ was leaking out of the front door with such volume that John could barely hear his knocks as he pounded on the door with the iron ring. After three raps, however, the organ music suddenly stopped.

  The heavy wooden door swung slowly open, the un-greased hinges groaning in protest. The creaks echoed off the broad, tall stone walls of the foyer of the castle, lit only by dim torchlight. Cobwebs dangled from almost every corner, and the smell of blood and mold was so overpowering that John’s eyes began to water. In the center of the room at the base of a spiral staircase stood, presumably, Francis Stone, dressed in a foppish tuxedo, complete with tailcoats. His gaunt, unnaturally hairy face broke out into a warm smile that brightened his dark, glowing-green eyes.

  “Welcome, my guests,” he said in an overly dramatic baritone. “I’ve been—”

  “Expecting us,” John said, “yeah, I know. Look—”

  “Hello, Father,” Stone said, ignoring John for the moment. His face, already pale, became ashen at the realization that Dr. Thompson was in the room. His creepy smile melted.

  “Son,” the doctor said. “What you’ve been doing in this town is deplorable. I thought I taught you better than this.”

  “You didn’t teach me anything!” Stone’s voice reached a high tenor and quivered with anger. “You were always too busy at work! ‘Sorry Francis, someone in inventory lost a brain again.’ Or, ‘Sorry, Francis, one of my other creations has a baseball game.’”

  John heard something coming from the road behind him, but he couldn’t make it out. He glanced back toward the city, saw some lights flickering in the distance.

  “You know my work is important to me,” the doctor said, clearly hurt by Stone’s accusation. “And if I only paid attention to you, how would all of my other creations feel?”

  The noise behind John grew louder. It sounded like rushing water. Dom snored quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

  “I don’t care about your other creations,” Stone said. He actually stomped his foot. “How many of your other creations are half zombie, half vampire, and half werewolf?”

  “That’s not even possible!” John blurted. Stone and Dr. Thompson looked at him sharply, unpleased at having their exchange interrupted. “You can’t be half of one thing, half of…” He trailed off as the noises behind him became too loud to think straight. Slowly, he turned around.

  Several hundred men and women were running up the path to the castle. Many of them were holding torches, and the vast majority of them were holding aging farm equipment. It was an angry mob, come to storm the castle. Dramatic, but hardly surprising.

  What was surprising was the figure at the head of the group. Father Reus. Holding a large, spiked hammer in his hands.

  “You’re dead!” John said, pointing at the priest as the crowd stopped at the front door of the castle.

  Father Reus looked outraged, yet confused. “Just because I was taken by one of your Stoner friends doesn’t mean I’m dead, foul spirit! You’re in leagues with Stone, and we’re here to take back Deadtown!”

  “No.” John waved a hand. “No. I won’t have it. You can’t be magically resurrected just because this mob needed a leader. I saw you ripped in half. That’s not even a questionable, mysterious disappearance from which you could return at your moment of triumph. That’s a definite, visceral, irrefutable death.” John felt his face flush with anger.

  “It doesn’t matter, demon!” The priest pointed at John. “I’ve found my Faith again.” He patted the large weapon in his arms. “Faith—my warhammer!” John could see it actually written on the haft in large lettering. FAITH.

  “What the hell is wrong with this place?” John yelled, his hands dramatically raised above his head. Apparently, the theatrics were contagious.

  The crowd’s cheers drowned out his voice. Father Reus turned and yelled something to the crowd about ending this monster once and for all, and the crowd only cheered louder, waving their torches—didn’t these people have any flashlights?—and pitchforks in the air. They were all looking at him with bloodlust in their eyes.

  At last, Father Reus turned toward the entrance of the castle and pointed a long, crooked finger at John. The mob ran forward, parting around the priest like river water around a rock. As John felt the first pointy end of a pitchfork enter his chest, he thought that maybe he should have ran up the stairs to escape.

  ***

  John came bolt upright in his bed, sheets and pillows flying everywhere. His alarm clock was blinking, the 6:30 a.m. alarm wailing in the dim light of dawn. His body was covered in cold sweat, his clothes sticking to him like melted plastic wrap over a hot dish of food. Pulling up his shirt, he looked at his chest. No holes. No blood. It was a dream. No, it was more than a dream. It was…

  He sighed. He knew what was coming. John closed his eyes and fell back on his pillow.

  Wait for it…

  “About time you came to.” A breathy, hollow voice was speaking from somewhere in his room. John didn’t open his eyes.

  “Skip it. I’m dead, aren’t I?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “A good one,” Death said. “Unfortunately, you can only learn the lesson about passing out in your kitchen while cooking once.”

  “I figured,” John said. “Look, if we can just get this over with, I’d like to be on my way to Heaven or Hell, Nirvana or New Jersey. Wherever it is that I belong.”

  Death actually laughed, a wheezing sound like dry leaves scraping across the street in a strong wind. “Everyone always thinks that’s where they go. I find it amusing, really, the kind of slop you humans will believe.”

  “Oh?” John still refused to open his eyes. “Where am I going then?”

  “We actually call it Deadtown. Silly name, I know. But it’s unambiguous, wouldn’t you say?”

  John didn’t hear Death say the last part. He was too busy screaming.

  Squawk at the Moon

  by Graeme Reynolds

  “After two hundred yards, turn left,” the vehicle’s navigation system said.

  “Ye can shut up, ya snooty bitch,” he snarled at the machine. “Four hours. Four hours of driving around Romania listening to ya with no bloody idea where I am. Why in God’s name did they have tae put the launch site all the way oot here?”

  “Turn left, turn left” the machine replied.

  Shane McTavish locked the steering wheel and gunned the engine of the sports car, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The car slid onto a dirt track, barely visible between the trees. “Morrison will lay an egg if I’m late,” he muttered, and planted his foot onto the accelerator.

  ***

  Mihaela Svagalli smiled as she scattered corn for her babies. The chickens gathered around her feet, making gentle clucking sounds as they pecked at the grains in the dust.

 
Her favorite, a russet bird called Honey, hopped onto the fence beside her and let the old woman scratch the back of her neck. The chicken clucked with contentment and jumped down to join the others.

  Mihaela walked back to her caravan to get more corn. The chickens were all she needed. They gave her companionship and eggs that she could sell in the village. If she spoiled them occasionally, so be it.

  A low bass growl echoed through the trees. Mihaela paused, confused by the strange noise invading her tranquil home. Her eyes widened as she recognized the sound—a car.

  Fear fluttered in her chest and her limbs refused to move. She grabbed the corn container and shook it. “Come on, girls. Come to Mummy.”

  Her flock looked up and ran across the clearing toward her.

  The growl of the approaching car became a roar and it burst into view, sliding sideways around the corner.

  In unison, the chickens looked at the source of the noise, just as the car plowed into them. Feathers and gristle flew into the air as the birds were ground under the wheels.

  Honey flapped her wings, her neck down as she tried to reach Mihaela. She turned midflight and avoided a wheel as it rushed past. She clucked in triumph and turned back to Mihaela. Then the trailing wheel hit. Honey burst like a balloon, feathers and entrails raining down on the dirt road.

  Mihaela fell to her knees and screamed. The crushing loss tightened around her heart like a vice. They’re gone. All gone.

  The car reversed back over the corpses so that it was alongside her, and the window slid down. A red haired man peered out. “Excuse me, love, but I dinae suppose you know where the ESA spaceport is?”

  “Murder. Bastard son of a whore.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” he said and spun the wheel away from the weeping woman, showering her in a spray of mud and internal organs.

  “I curse you. Gallus Gallus Lycanthropus,” she screamed at the car.