by Rick Hautala
“I can’t today. It’s my time of the month.” He didn’t know she was pregnant of course.
“Oh.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and gave it to her. It was for the mortgage and spending money. “Gave you a bonus this month for helping me out.” He coughed. His old heart couldn’t take the excitement.
She looked at the amount. A hell of a lot of money. It was a big bonus. She’d been cutting corners the last six months, saving as much as she could. Plenty to live on if—don’t think it.
“Do you mind if I run out for a few minutes. I need to pick up some food and just spend some time alone.”
Father Morrissey’s old dark pink mouth, buried in the crinkly old man light pink skin said, “Sure.”
She walked out to the garage. She beeped the horn and the cop on duty—there was always a cop out there thanks to the church—cleared the onlookers for her to get by. Beginning of the end, Connie, she thought as she drove down the road out of sight of the house. Beginning of the end. Sally smiled hard and accelerated, heading for the bank and then the mental hospital.
*****
Sally left the bank feeling very good about life. She could do this. Would do this. In five months she was having a baby and there wouldn’t be any room in her life for Connie. No more gathering souls for her. No more streams of half-dead people begging at the door and windows, like the zombies from Night of the Living Dead. No more being afraid. Sadly though, she’d have to give up the big house.
But with what she had saved plus what she thought she could get out of Father Morrissey for blackmail, she could get a nice condo somewhere. Sell the house to the church at a mark up for its miracle potential. People would be sad for a little while that Connie died, but the church could make Connie a martyr. Father Morrissey could turn the house into a shrine when Sally moved, and people could come and pray to her spirit. Sally snickered. They’d have no idea that all along they had been worshipping an evil child caught in between here and hereafter, surviving on the lives she snuffed out.
There was only one way to kill her. She’d have to be mutilated. Physically ripped apart. If her body was destroyed, she couldn’t go on. Doctors wouldn’t stitch her back up because she defied reason by being alive. They wouldn’t mess with the miracle girl. To everyone else’s knowledge, Connie hadn’t opened her eyes, spoken, or understood a word in three years. They’d just let her die.
And even if she survived by some supernatural miracle, she wouldn’t be beautiful anymore. No one would deify a disfigured child. She’d be too flawed to be their savior.
Sally didn’t have the strength to do what needed to be done but knew some people who did. Connie might take some of them out if she awoke and struggled, or might just snatch their souls to save herself, but the souls of the people Sally would send would already be lost. It would be win-win. The people who lived would be happy they got to touch what they thought was greatness, Sally would be rid of that horrible monster of a daughter she was stuck with twenty-four/seven, and Connie’s death would make her even higher in the church’s eyes. But she had to go about it very carefully for all the pieces to come together just right.
She called Father Morrissey’s cell and told him the skewed version of the plan. He agreed it was a great idea and promised not to tell anyone about the special midnight viewing of Connie for the homeless people.
“I’m not feeling well and can’t deal with the crowds today, Father. Do you think you could take care of all this for me and just have the nurse stay with Connie overnight? I’m going to treat myself to a night at the hotel. I just need a night away from, well, you know, the sadness of seeing my little girl so lifeless.”
“Of course, Sally. Keep your hotel receipt and I’ll make sure you are reimbursed. I’ll call the mental hospital and tell them to get a bus ready. I know some people at the local shelter in the city and they can round up all the homeless people you talked about.”
“Thank you. But please, just in case Connie can hear, don’t call anyone from the house. Wait until after the crowds go and the nurse is there then call from the rectory. I want her to be surprised. She was always such a compassionate child. She’s going to love helping these people, but it has to be a surprise.”
“Oh, Sally, always optimistic that Connie still knows what’s going on.” He laughed. “I guess you do need a night off. To humor you though, I’ll make my calls later when I get home.”
Sally hung up and drove to a nice hotel. She set the alarm for ten o’clock that night, and fell into the first restful, peaceful, hopeful sleep she’d had in years. It was almost over. She was almost free from Connie.
*****
It felt like only about ten minutes had gone by when the alarm went off, but it had been six hours. Sally shook her head awake and clapped her hands together like a kid ready to run downstairs to see what Santa left. Almost time, almost time.
She called the Runcy Psychiatric Center and got the cell phone number of the driver.
“Ernesto, hi, this is Sally Boucheron,” she said when he answered.
“Miss Boucheron, hello.” He had a thick Spanish accent. “I have all the homeless people loaded up and I’m on the way to your house. You sure it is all right because they are a little smelly.”
“It’s fine. Connie can’t smell anything, and we’re all God’s creatures, right?”
“You are wonderful, Miss Boucheron. They are frenzied though. They are chanting that they’re going to see a miracle tonight. Already some of them seem a little less crazy; they are so filled with hope.”
“That’s just how I hoped they’d be. It will mean so much to Connie to help them. We don’t know how much longer she’ll hang on, and if anyone needed saving it’s all the patients your hospital was forced to release last year because of budget cuts.”
“So you will meet us at the house?”
“I’d like to meet down the street first. I don’t want the nurse to know about the secret visit. She’s liable to tell someone, and all the others on the waiting list will get angry, so I want to get there first and send her on her way. Meet me on the corner of Main and Scranton.”
“See you there.”
She hung up and called Father Morrissey. “Hi Father,” she said. “I called Runcy Hospital and they said their bus had some problems with the engine and now they won’t be able to come ’til morning. They also thought it would be too much strain on the people, having all that excitement in the middle of the night.”
“Well that’s a relief. I didn’t think I could stay awake that late.”
“Why don’t I meet you at my place at eight in the morning? They’ll come at nine and that will give us time to prepare.”
He yawned on the phone. She pictured him in his white long underwear, drinking warm milk, sitting on his bed. His teeth were probably in a cup on the sink. “That’s a great plan. See you tomorrow, Sally. I think you’re doing a great thing here.”
“Me too, Father. Me too.”
*****
Connie was asleep when Sally walked in alone at midnight. She may have been faking but that didn’t matter now. It was almost over. The lights were off so Sally turned them on all at once for the full effect.
“Behold the savior!” she yelled as she opened the front door to forty-eight crazed and desperate people. All sizes and races and ages, but all willing to do anything to get a glimpse at Connie. Ernesto wanted to come in. In fact, he wanted to bring two more aides and let the guests in a few at a time, but Sally said he doubted the healing power of Connie. So he conceded and came as the lone guardian, waiting in the bus.
The dirty destitute group pressed their grimy faces against the glass partition and oohed and aahed.
They dipped their soiled hands in the holy water and splashed it on their dirt-covered foreheads. The smell of urine and whiskey filled the house, and she knew it would rouse Connie. Having her awake was better, when her soul was in her body and not traveling around eavesdropping.
Sall
y heard Connie moan.
“Did you hear that?” Sally said and cupped her ear. The guests stood silent, poised.
“Hnnnnn,” the little girl croaked.
Sally smiled. She hadn’t looked into the room and refused to. Maybe without eye contact Connie couldn’t read her thoughts.
“You’re doing it. You’re waking her up. Bringing her back to life. Christ said eat my body and drink my blood, and she wants you to do the same thing. She will live again if you make her live. And Christ may awaken, too. Go, feast on her! Take your piece of the miracle!”
She opened the door to the viewing room and hunched against the wall as they tumbled over each other trying to get to Connie.
They were on her in seconds like hungry rats. Connie woke up and screamed.
“Feast on her!” Sally yelled again then ran out.
Ernesto ran from the bus. “Everything all right, Miss Bucheron?”
“Yes, they’re just watching her through the glass and praying. Let’s give them a few minutes. The looks on their faces was pure ecstasy and I don’t want to take that from them. They can’t get into the room, don’t worry.”
Sally stood far across the street. Shadows of the feasting danced in the barred picture window. Ernesto was reading the paper with a flashlight and didn’t see.
“You know, I’m feeling a little woozy. I think it’s the flu. Do you mind going in there and checking things out? We usually only allow fifteen minute visits and it’s been nearly that long.”
“Sure thing.” He shut off his light and folded up his newspaper.
Sally stayed on the bus for safety and watched for Ernesto to come out screaming. But he didn’t emerge. Her body shook all over. This had to work. It was time for Connie to go whether she liked it or not.
She felt a small warm hand on her shoulder and jumped.
Connie was sitting behind her on the bus. The light from the streetlamp shone around her face: perfect teeth, rosy lips, and piercing haunting eyes.
“You tried to kill me, Mama. That wasn’t very nice.”
“But, you’re in there.”
“No, the nurse is in there.”
“I saw her drive away. I talked to her.” Sally tried to get up, but Connie’s death grip pinned her shoulder down.
“That wasn’t real. I made you see that. This is real.” She stopped smiling.
“But you haven’t walked in three years. Your legs couldn’t hold you—”
Connie moved from behind the seat with unnatural fluidity. “I floated.”
Sally looked down and saw Connie hovering a few inches off the ground, her dead bare feet pointed down.
Sally screamed and then felt something explode in her chest. Ripping from the inside out. She looked down but there was no blood.
Then she felt different. Cold. Hungry. More hungry and thirsty than she’d ever been in her life. She could feel her body lying prone on the cold floor of the bus but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t open her eyes. Help! Help! But no sound came out.
She heard the beeps of someone dialing a phone. Then she heard her voice scream. But it didn’t come from her. It came from over there, where she had been standing. “My baby! Oh my God, my baby! Father Morrissey, there’s been a terrible accident!” The voice was hysterical, or pretended to be.
“I decided to come home after all because I missed Connie so much. I brought her into bed with me because I wanted her to sleep on a real bed for a change. The nurse was still here and said she’d just spend the night in Connie’s bed.”
Sally lay still. No. This couldn’t be.
“And then we heard the bus pull up. They broke into the house and all the homeless people were jumping all over the nurse, eating her. I think they killed her and the bus driver, too. Thank God, my little girl is okay. It’s another miracle. Call the press and an ambulance and come right over. I snuck Connie out the back and we’re safe in the bus now. We’ll just wait here.”
Sally lay on the floor in Connie’s undead body.
Her daughter had known her plan all along. Had played her. Now Sally would be in the bed unconscious forever, begging for a soul, just one, to keep her alive, to feed her.
“And don’t you worry, Mama, I’ll take good care of the new baby. I might just have to pawn you off on the church or put you in a home. Or a laboratory. Isn’t that what you threatened?” Connie laughed in Sally’s voice.
Help! Help! she cried again, but her mouth didn’t move. Nothing moved. I’m cold. Please cover me with something. I’m so cold. Please get me someone, Connie. Please, just one person. Please.
She knew it was useless.
Connie would leave her and take over her life. Sally would very, very slowly starve to death. She couldn’t kill others to survive. Couldn’t—
Mr. Wilkin was sleeping in his bed across the street. Sally could see him as she hovered above her daughter’s body and her own, now inhabited by Connie. She could see through the roofs and right to the warm bodies of all the humans in the neighborhood. So many people out there. All bright points of light with beating hearts and souls filled with life.
If it meant survival, wouldn’t one be all right?
Just one.
Mr. Wilkins was within reach.
Sally dove into his chest and into the light.
*****
Tracy L. Carbone lives in Massachusetts with her daughter and a house full of pets. She writes in her spare time, mostly late at night or on the train as she commutes to her day job. She is Co-Director of the New England Horror Writers and edited their first anthology Epitaphs, which was nominated for the prestigious Bram Stoker Award. Her YA novel, The Soul Collector, was released November 2011. Her short stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies in the US and Canada. Please visit her website for more details about her writing, or contact the author at www.tracylcarbone.com.
SHARPE IS EXTRAORDINARY
David Dunwoody
Sharpe wakes up at nine in the morning. He wakes up again at eleven-thirty, then at quarter of one. The last couple hours ain’t worth shit for sleep, but the dreams are decent and they stay with him. He gets up at three-fifteen.
Going straight from the hide-a-bed to the computer always puts a snarl in his spine but he does it anyway. Sits naked in the chair and plays with his balls for a minute while the PC boots up. His balls stick to the faux-leather seat and make a dry peeling noise when he gathers them in his palm. His prick is a sorry-looking character first thing in the afternoon. It slumps dramatically over those balls like Scarlett at Tara’s threshold and something that isn’t quite piss beads in its stupid empty eye socket. He flicks the head with his finger and reaches for the mouse. It’s dark in the room still, besides the monitor, the window covered by ten-pound vampire curtains.
His day doesn’t start until after emails are done. Once emails are done he hobbles to the shower.
He dries himself off in the stall with a towel that just seems to move the water around on his pulp. Dropping it on the floor in lieu of a bath mat, he sits on the toilet with his wet ass. Pushes until he sees fractals.
He decides to go on an adventure today. He will wear his red-orange Hawaiian shirt and gray sweats and a ball cap.
It’s boiling outside. His flip-flops slap the concrete and already he can feel sweat brimming along his hairline and around his balls. He twirls his key on his index finger and descends the steps. In the parking lot of the Hollywood Inn, which sits atop a hill littered with convenience stores, trailer parks, and disused cemeteries, Sharpe drinks deep of the world. He tastes adventure and what could be tacos but is probably B.O., and he squeegees sweat from his moustache with his fingers. The ’stache is bone-white like the rest of him. He looks like a ghost, even in that blaring pineapple-print shirt, and he supposes he likes it that way. His life is his alone to witness. He will not write home to Mama and will not tweet pics to Goatboy667. He has learned to validate his own existence and thereby attained nirvana. Today he is going to carv
e an asshole into the back of someone’s head and fuck their brain.
Starting down the sidewalk, Sharpe shuffles through his mental jukebox and puts on Bowie’s “Heroes.”
*****
The wash of Freon through the 7-Eleven’s magic doors is like a high-five from the Holy Ghost. Sharpe stands in the doorway for a moment, the sun still baking his back as he pulls the cap from his damp white head and sighs.
“Life is made of moments,” he tells the slack-faced cashier. Her head bobs in a way that indicates understanding.
“Get that Slurpee machine fixed?” He digs into his back pocket and counts the bills he finds. “The blue one. Blue raspberry. Ooooh-maa.”
She’s not even listening. Her head just bobs like that, like her neck’s made of gelatin. He fixes his pink-eyed gaze on her and clears his throat. “Blue raspberry.”
Her thousand-yard stare passes through him to worlds beyond. He folds the cash and places it back in his pocket.
“I hate regular raspberry,” he says, nails scritch-scritching through white stubble, “but that blue raspberry is something else. Is it raspberry, even? I don’t suppose you’d know, miss?”
She doesn’t register the question. Heather, her nametag says. He wonders if she even knows that. Combat shock, he thinks to himself. Well, he sees his flavor’s fixed anyway. He gets himself a jumbo size. That first long pull on the straw is always the best.
*****
Sharpe’s been around a long time, not entirely by choice. Act of God here and there. He’s worn a few different hats in that stretch. Used to fancy himself a cowboy, but there ain’t outlaws in big black dusters and serpent-skin boots anymore. Outlaws nowadays drive SUVs to Jimmy Buffet concerts and smoke bad weed. He doesn’t have an MBA to take the place of his ol’ ten-gallon hat so he just kills people. There’s a simple honesty in it that never goes out of style.
