Horror Express Volume Two

by Bentley Little

  He again regarded the photo - the one with the same him but in a different universe - and noticed a book on the shelf: `Ionism.' `What the hell does Ionism mean?'

  `It's a world in that universe which means `world dominance' by the superiors. Like many of the `isms' in the twentieth century, this one was the cause of much strife and wars.' The officer took the photo from the table. He stared at it intently. `Seems like you and your cohorts thought that you could improve the world by getting rid of millions of people.'

  `The sixties. You were around then too. Though in a different universe.'

  `Are you saying that there are multiples of me in other universes?'

  `Many, many, everywhere,' he said. `You see, the problem is, we haven't had any proof of such since those places where there is life are too far away - millions of light-years away.'

  `So, as I said, you are in the process of being cleansed. But first you must go through this.'

  Saddam Hussein said something, although it was in Arabic and he could understand nothing he was saying. Then the late dictator waved his hand, and he waved back. `Right on, man.' He was riding in a car - a limousine, to be exact - and had a double behind him. Moments later he saw a sign above the license plate that said ON THE WAY TO HELL.

  Then blinding light, and then another car. This time, dictator Fidel Castro rode in it, a cigar in his mouth, held by his left hand. His right hand was waving in the air, as though conducting. `Brother,' he said in heavy-accented English, `I hope to outlive you in Hell.' Then he saw the back of this car a few moments later: A sign that said ON THE WAY TO HELL.

  Then he saw a handsome man. Somewhat older than him. He had a short afro and seemed to have a permanent grin. Moments passed before he realised that the man he was looking at was none other than O.J. Simpson.

  `Hey, O.J.,' he said slowly. `I've watched you all my life. I like how you run.' He reached out a hand.

  The famous football player looked a little thinner than in his playing days. `Well I'm always glad to hear and meet my fans,' he replied, and he smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth. `So what brings you here?'

  `Well, God says that I've done bad deeds in life and that I have to go through a `cleansing process', as he describes it.' He reached out for O.J.'s hand and shook it. It felt warm and heavy. `How about you? What are you here for?'

  `Well you saw the trial, didn't you?'

  `The one where they acquitted you?'

  O.J. nodded. `Right. Well, it seems the whole world thinks I'm guilty even though I'm not.'

  `And are you?'

  `Of course not,' he said aloud. `People tend to think that I got away because of my money; that I was able to pay the best lawyers, but that's not the case.' A pause, then a frown. Seconds later a smirk. `I got away because all the evidence pointed to my innocence.'

  `And where are you headed to?'

  No answer.

  `O.J.?'

  `Yeah man.'

  `Where to?'

  `Well, God said I'm going straight to Hell, but one that's much colder than even the North Pole. He also promised me gloves, though too tight to fit.'

  And then a field appeared before him. Large, vast, with sunflowers everywhere. Gosh, how beautiful those sunflowers are, he thought. Then it started raining, a hard rain that pinched his skin with every falling drop.

  `Hello. Anyone out there?' he said aloud, expecting to receive no reply.

  And he didn't. He heard some birds singing, though could see none.

  He felt himself sweating. It must be hot here, he thought. Beyond the horizon, a fat sun burned this vast land. Oddly, it was twilight, or seemed like it. He could've been on Mars, for that matter. He'd heard that that's where it gets unbearably hot even in the morning.

  And then suddenly he saw a girl. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, she approached him slowly. She had blood on her forehead and utterly something unintelligible. Her arms were in front of her perpendicular to the ground.

  `Yes?' he said.

  `You . . . you killed me.'

  And then he saw a large-sized photo of himself, dressed in a military uniform, and the words written `Revolution Forever' on the bottom.

  Minutes passed before he realised that he was president of country in a past life or another dimension. So the cop hadn't been lying after all.

  And then he saw others behind her, a whole line. Their bony faces were looking at him and they all seemed to be saying something, though what he could not tell. All he knew was that this reminded him of the The Evil Dead movie. These were all zombies, and they were out to get him for whatever reason.

  And so he did the sensible thing and ran. He didn't expect them to be faster than he was, but somehow, just like in the movies, zombies ended up catching up to its victim even though they were much slower.

  And then another cloud - just like before. And whiteness.

  And . . .

  `Hello, Mike,' said the man standing in front of him. This one was also a cop like the ones before, though he was much bigger. He was dressed in a police uniform. Like on previous occasions, he found himself seated. `Welcome to our little meeting again.'

  He finally got it. He used to be the dictator of a foreign country that was responsible for the deaths of millions of people. He didn't believe in a place called Hell, yet somehow he was slowly being convinced of its existence. Here he was, in a realm that quite that was real and belonged to the life that he knew, responding to his actions.

  And he felt that he would be here for a long time. You see, first there was one victim; then there were two, then three. . .

  So until it reached a million he could not be considered for redemption.

  He took a deep breath. This would be one long stay in Hell.

  J.C. Lee

  THE UNWANTED

  My mother deemed me evil from the first breath I took, and probably even before that. She named me Lilith in the hopes of warning the world of my wickedness. In her opinion, she had done her duty to mankind in that alone. It was a heavy burden to rear a child that bore the name of Satan’s bride, and she had willingly done this so others could be spared. After her efforts at forewarning, anyone foolish enough to have dealings with me got what they deserved, or were as wicked as I was, as far as she was concerned.

  I am the product of sin; my origin is rooted in wrongdoing. Not my mother’s, for she was not evil, as she frequently stated. In a moment of possession, evil had been forced upon her soul and blinded her to His commandments, but through her subsequent good deeds she had been absolved. The punishment for her lapse had been my conception, and the penance  raising me. Though she admitted in failing to purge the Devil from my heart, she considered her debt to God paid in full  for I was yet alive and available for Him to save. I was beyond her abilities and God understood or so she informed me.

  The Reverend Christian Coggeshall was Pastor of a small congregation in east Texas. And while everyone in that little town knew who he was, they had no clue about what he was.

  The good Reverend was married to a good woman, or so my mother reported, blonde-haired and blue-eyed with the sweetest voice this side of Austin. Their union had produced two tow-headed children, a boy, seven, and a girl, four; these were their ages when my mother sat for the Coggeshalls. She was fifteen, and at her parent’s insistence, devout. Besides church on Sunday, she attended all church functions, even the ones she wasn’t old enough for, she volunteered for each and every committee, was member of the choir and held bible club after school two days a week. When Pastor Coggeshall approached her with the opportunity to service him, and in turn, serve God she leapt at the chance.

  My mother did not impart the details of their mutual indiscretion. But she did fornicate with Pastor Coggeshall on the living room floor of the perfect yellow house with the white picket fence he shared with his beautiful wife and their two angelic children, while they were away delivering meals to the homebound.

  I didn’t understand why she added this last detail, but sh
e always did, and after many years of consideration I attribute it to an odd obsession she had with charitable acts of selflessness. Mother deemed them the hand God made visible, reaching out to the world He created through His servants. She kept a scrapbook of clipped articles from magazines and newspapers about everyday heroes, read books about miracles and taped programs that even hinted at altruism. Sitting awed in front of the television like she could swallow the images with her eyes, she’d wait for me to click off the set then, without a word, would retreat to her bedroom and kneel before her framed oil painting of Jesus and pray to God  for what she never told.

  I didn’t know my father, though we did meet briefly when I was both changed and older. We met in his office, not the church itself  that would be impossible, for lots of reasons and they all had to do with me.

  ‘Who are you?’ I had appeared suddenly, and could smell his unease. Closing the book he’d been reading, a bible in fact, he came to his feet.

  ‘Someone you should know. Someone you should have always known.’

  ‘D-Do you have a name?’

  ‘Lilith.’ I pushed the ‘th’ between my teeth and allowed it to hiss to a stop. As mother intended the name gave him pause.

  ‘And why have you come to see me, tonight, L-Lilith?’ His eyes slid to the rectory door, the only portal to his possible escape.

  ‘For payment.’ I permitted a sick smile to touch the corners of my mouth. He reeked of panic.

  ‘And what services have you provided the church with?’

  ‘None.’ Closing my eyes, I inhaled the fear.

  ‘Then I don’t see ho ‘

  ‘I’m here on my mother’s behalf.’ I returned my gaze to the Pastor, who was now standing at the end of his desk. ‘Though I’m sure it’s in spite of her wishes’

  ‘Well, we should always respect our parents. Perhaps, you should go h ‘

  My hand on his throat put a stop to his inching towards the door. ‘You both owed a debt old man,’ I glimpsed a photo of my grown half-brother and sister, smiling in false unison at her wedding; ‘My mother has paid it. You have not.’

  My lengthy canines pierced the pale skin on my father’s neck and the first surge touched my tongue. His blood was not as sweet as I expected from a man who had lived his whole in service to God. Actually, it was quite bitter and overly salted  comparable to a habitual sinner not a selfless humanitarian. I’ve tasted both and know the difference. Disgusted by the tang of sin and hypocrisy, I released him. He was dead before he hit the Persian rug.

  The tale of my change is barely interesting. I ran away from home at seventeen, having had enough of my mother’s attempts at conversion. Enough of the beatings, the tongue-lashings, emotional blackmail and psychological torture. Enough of the religious war she was waging for a soul she had no hope of saving. But most of all I was fed up with the constant God-talk: God forgave her, but not me. God loved her, but not me. God wanted me to listen to Him and be good, but I wasn’t worthy of Him or His kingdom. I was a sinner and God knew it. I abandoned them both when I left her house.

  I was homeless, where doesn’t matter, like most runaways the plan was New York City. I’d make it there and things would be different. My mother said that town was Godless, so I’d fit right in. But I haven’t made it that far north yet, might never; the South seems to suit me. It’s where I was born then reborn, and now, I’m in no hurry to leave.

  ‘So young to be on your own.’ Lofton’s sunken eyes squinted at me over the fire barrel.

  ‘Younger girls than me out here.’ I shrugged at the flames.

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ He had an accent I couldn’t place, the most distinct thing about it was his tendency to roll his ‘Rs’ but he seemed to being trying to hide his foreignness, so I pretended not to notice. I wasn’t even sure Lofton was his real name  first or last. ‘But I sense a difference in you.’

  I was evil, so that was different, but I wasn’t about to share that with him. ‘Nope, just can’t stand my mother.’

  ‘Mother’s are difficult creatures.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call my mother a creature  to her face.’ I smiled at the thought, but quickly dismissed it.

  ‘Ah, but I will never meet her so I am safe.’

  ‘No, you won’t and God willing  I’ll never see her again.’

  ‘You invoke God. Do you really believe in Him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do.’ Refusing to blink, my eyes teared at the heat from the fire. ‘But He doesn’t believe in me.’

  ‘I see.’ He turned his coat collar up and left the alley.

  Lofton Sinclair took me that night. He returned to the alley, and with only the moonlight to guide him, he found my sleeping body. Slipping his hand over my mouth, he whispered what his gift would mean and why he meant to bestow it. He knew of my mother, had read my thoughts when they drifted to her earlier. He told me she was right  that I was evil and it drew him to me. According to Lofton, I needed to embrace not reject it.

  ‘You do not need to be worthy Him. With my gift He will be in awe of you.’

  He gave his me his kiss. His bite. His blood. And I have not regretted it from that night to this.

  The preacher-man had made it a habit to work my alley. I hated him instantly with his unselfish, do-gooder ways. My mother would have taken his picture and pasted it in her scrapbook of all the things she’d never be. He was like a fucking mailman: rain, sleet, snow, day night, hot, cold, there was the fucking preacher-man with his blankets and food, his coffee and his cocoa and juice and encouraging words and helping hands. It enraged me, and I wanted him gone. Or did I?

  Maybe a test of faith would be more appropriate. If his truest desire was to be welcomed into His kingdom and sit at His table, and all the good deeds of this inciting pastor were means to that end, what would he do if I took salvation away? Vilified him before his God. Demonised and brought low. The possibilities were too tasty to ignore.

  Vampires don’t need to feed as much as myth would have you believe, and thankfully so. It would be difficult to stay in one place if a killing a day or even a week was necessary. Of course, the fat vamps will do just that  eat up until the locals get suspicious and then either move on or get caught  and eventually it’s the latter anyway. Who knows what happens after that.

  Really, you can live on one a month and the more guilt-ridden vamps do. One every two weeks is the average and I’m somewhere in between at every three, but I’m trying to watch my weight and just how much God hates me. I have heard of some of my kind existing on six humans a year and supplementing with alternative bloods, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Animal blood is like lite-beer  shitty taste, less filling.

  Cities are better for my kind to settle into  high crime and murder rates makes regular feedings easier to hide, even for the gluttons. Southern cities are best. They tend to be more excepting of supernatural explanations, which is why New Orleans has become the Mecca of north-western Vampirism.

  Nashville’s my town. It’s not burgeoning with competition, there are lots of tourists and it’s plenty superstitious. But when things get sticky or the pastures get overgrazed, I take the 24 down to the 75 and work Atlanta for a while. But Nashville is my home, my womb and in possession of my alley.

  *

  The massacre was easy  these people knew me. When I was alive I was counted in their numbers. Some would say it is wrong to prey upon your own people, to use their trust against them, but I’m not a person anymore. I’m an it  a horrible monster that has no moral boundaries or conscience to be nagged by. And as I said, never more than one every three weeks, and my victims were not always plucked from their ranks. I preferred out-of-towners. Less mess. But in a pinch  it was them or me. Enough to sustain. That’s all they usually were, but on that night they were a message, a lesson taught to the preacher-man.

  Vampires aren’t really pack hunters by nature. We tend to walk and work alone or at least that’s been my experience.
Some would say it’s motivated by greed  that we want it all for ourselves, but for me, I just find it less complicated. A nest means family, family means responsibility, and ultimately  guilt. If I wanted that I would have stayed with my mother. Besides you know that old saying, ‘you can’t choose your family’ well, the same applies to nests. More often than not you’re stuck with some asshole, or four, that normally you wouldn’t stop to spit at, that sought out the group because they couldn’t make it on their own, gumming up the works and scaring off the prey. No, alone is best, but for this  I needed more fangs.

  ‘Repentance.’ I pushed the word through gritted teeth. ‘What is it really worth, preacher-man?’

  ‘Everything. The love of God means everything.’ His answer came to me through tangled thoughts.

  ‘What would you say its value was to them?’ Nothing. Nothing at all. I had never had His love and I did not suffer for it. What was it worth to me?

  ‘Beyond any human sum.’ His answer shook me, but I hid it well.

  ‘Please. I looked into their eyes and,’ his defied me, doubted my power, ‘all I saw was fear. Not a glimpse of belief.’

  ‘Then look into my eyes if you wish to see it. His glory is alive in me.’ And I did. I saw God living there. So much faith. So much love. I wanted it for myself, and more over I wanted to take it away from him.

  I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I was forcing him to the ground. My lips brushed the pulsing vein in his exposed neck. His blood would be sweet. ‘Now, He will forsake you.’

  I watched him for days after his change, and though he refused to feed I knew there was inevitability to it. He was starving, every inch of his body gnawed with the need to eat. I had felt it  we all feel it. A new vamp must feed within the first twenty-four hours of being taken. The hunger they experience is comparable to three months without food  if anyone could live long enough to know that pain. But a vamp does not die from starvation. They live on in crippling agony.