"What baby?" the woman raised her hands, palms out, toward Lonnie. Her voice placating now and a little nervous. "I think you must have me confused with someone else. I'm going to go now."
"Wait. The baby. That guy—"
A tall man stepped between Lonnie and the woman who didn't seem to remember that her baby had just been eaten.
"Dude, hey. Back off," the tall man said. It was the bike messenger, the one who had kicked the baby-eater. He put a hand on Lonnie's shoulder. "You been drinking, dude?" The mother took the opportunity to hurry away.
Lonnie looked around in a slow circle. The stroller wasn't on the street anymore. The crowd was gone. He spotted the baby eater leaning against the wall, staring at him. His face still glistened with a pink sheen of blood and saliva. Fear lit up the man's face, and he looked away.
"Did you see the baby?" Lonnie asked the bike messenger.
The messenger shrugged. "No, dude. I think you need to sit down. Did you lose your kid?"
Lonnie shook his head. "No. I'm all right." He was not. Lonnie walked to a nearby bus shelter and sat. What just happened?
He looked back through the shelter's glass enclosure. The baby eater was gone. Lonnie's heart slammed in his chest. Adrenaline still pumped through his system, making his stomach queasy. People walked by, taking in the spring air. No weeping mother, no police cars.
Jesus Christ, he thought, did I beat the hell out of some guy for no reason? Lonnie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took a deep breath.
He should call Janet. Hey, Honey, I'm hallucinating people swallowing babies. Yeah, right. Sure, he was under a lot of stress. They both were. That's why she had insisted he take some time for himself this afternoon. So what? All new parents are stressed, but they don't all have waking nightmares. Unless something else was wrong. Lonnie leaned back with his eyes closed and imagined a future full of CAT scans and Thorazine.
I'll sit here for a few more minutes, get my shit together, and then call. Janet would say go to the emergency room. Lonnie wondered if they'd let him leave.
Someone sat down beside him "You remember me?" The voice had the slightly high nasal accent of the true Pittsburgh native. Lonnie looked to his left and saw the balding, sweaty face of the baby eater smiling back at him.
"Shit!" Lonnie sprang to his feet, fists clenched. His breath came in painful bursts. He wanted to hit the guy, wanted to run, wanted to know if the man sitting on the bench was even real.
"Aw, dammit," said the man in the tank top. "You remember all right." He rubbed a stubby-fingered hand over his mouth. A mouth that was wide, but nowhere near the obscenely gaping maw Lonnie remembered.
"It's okay," the baby eater said.
"I saw you eat that kid." Lonnie gave the accusation in a stage whisper. Aware of the people walking by.
"No, no. I know that's what it looked like, but—" the man waved a hand in dismissal. "It was more like, um, a magic trick. An illusion. You get me?"
Lonnie didn't reply, too upset to answer.
"I'm Doug Kozlowski." The man held out a large meaty hand. Lonnie did not shake it. Kozlowski shrugged. "Yeah, I get it. Hey, I bet you could use a drink. Why don't you let me buy you one?"
Lonnie only stared at the man.
"Come on, kid. I know how you feel. A minute ago, you thought you were ready for a rubber-roomed Hilton, right? You're not crazy. This is good news."
That got through to Lonnie. He had been thinking right along those lines. Something tight in his chest loosened a little, and his clenched fists opened. "You're saying it was some sort of joke?"
"That's right, something like that. We'll go have a couple of drinks. I'll explain things. Life goes on." Kozlowski pulled his barrel-chested bulk upright and walked down Carson Street.
Lonnie didn't want a drink but he sure as hell needed answers. So, he followed.
Irene's Bar and Grill was an old-fashioned place. Lots of dark wood and only two beers on tap. Kozlowski pointed to a booth with high wooden dividers for privacy and hooks for your hat. Lonnie slid in.
Kozlowski went to the bar and ordered. He came back with a bottle of beer and a tumbler of whiskey filled almost to the top. He set the glass in front of Lonnie." I got you a triple."
Lonnie picked up the glass considering it. "No," he finally said. "You tell me what the hell just happened."
"Okay. Here it is. You know how I said it was like a magic trick, me eating that baby?"
Lonnie nodded.
"It's a little more complicated than that. Uh…You know, you really should have that drink."
Lonnie set the glass down.
"Suit yourself. The thing is…" Kozlowski paused, an embarrassed smile on his lips. "I did eat the kid. You think you saw me choke down that baby because that's exactly what happened. At least you're not crazy."
"You said it was a joke. They were actors, weren't they? I'm probably already on YouTube's sickest home videos, right?"
"You saw me do it. Did it look like a special effect to you?"
Lonnie's head began to throb in a slow painful rhythm. He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe I'm still in the bus enclosure talking to myself, he thought. Hell, maybe I'm strapped down in some mental hospital already.
He lifted the whiskey and took a deep swallow. The amber fluid burned down his throat realistically enough. "But where did the fucking stroller go? Why did no one remember what you did except me?"
"That's where the magic trick comes in. 'Cept not so much the trick part. You see, when I eat a kid, I eat 'em all. I'm not talking about the meaty parts. I eat everything. Like cosmic-shit everything. His first smile, the nine months he spent giving his mama heartburn. I even eat the Friday night his mom and pop put Marvin Gaye on the stereo and got it on. You getting me?"
"No," said Lonnie. "You're crazy."
"What's with you and crazy? Give it a chance why don't you? I ate a baby on a city sidewalk in broad daylight. No one is looking for me. The mom doesn't even remember having a kid. Why? Because she never did. No stroller? She never bought one. I ate that kid right out of the world. No one's going to come after me because no one knows it happened."
"I think you're screwing with me," said Lonnie, sounding as unsure as he felt. "Unless I'm just nuts."
"Fine," said Kozlowski. "Go with the crazy theory if it keeps you from pounding on me again." He looked at Lonnie for a long moment and then gave an embarrassed half shrug. "You know, this is kind of nice."
"What's nice?" asked Lonnie.
"I never get to talk about it with anybody. The whole kid-eating thing. Well, once, but that didn't really count. I got a theory, you know?"
Lonnie took another drink. I should call Janet or just go straight to the hospital. But, he did not want to let go of being sane. Not even if it meant this was real. "You have a theory about what? Why you eat babies?" He tried to speak calmly, but his voice broke.
"Sort of. It's more why God wants me to do it."
"You're blaming God?"
"Sure, people blame God for all kinds of shit. Seriously, though, why the hell else would I eat little kids? All God's creatures got a reason. You think a buzzard just loves the taste of all that dead stuff? No. He eats it because it's his whatchyacallit—his nature. God's own flying garbage can. You see? The buzzard though, he got no brain to speak of. So he never asks, 'what am I doing eating this crap? I'd rather have steak and a nice potato?' Me, I wonder. So, I got this theory. "
"I don't believe in God," said Lonnie. The whiskey was taking effect, softening the edges of his vision.
"After what you just saw, I'd think you'd have a bit more of an open mind."
Lonnie did not have a ready answer for that.
"Anyway, here's my theory—Hitler." Koslowski held his hands out in a see-what-I-mean gesture.
"Hitler?" Lonnie shook his head. "I don’t think I'm following."
Koslowski sighed. "Hitler," he said again. "Okay, you know how Hitler is like the worst guy ever, right? All those sci-fi
writers always have people going back in time to kill him, but just making things worse. With me so far?"
"Yeah," mumbled Lonnie. "Hitler, bad dude."
"So these kids I eat, they must be worse. God gives me a hankering for babies that would be the next Hitlers. And I eat them."
"So, why didn't God have somebody eat the real baby Hitler?" asked Lonnie.
"Fair point. I got to assume, being a lowly functionary, I am not privy to the big plan. Because if there ain't no reason, that means I'm some sort of monster. And a man can't live like that."
"You are a monster," said Lonnie. "I can't explain that other stuff. The baby never existing afterward shit, but you took a laughing little baby—."
"Baby Hitler."
"A baby," Lonnie repeated. "And you ate him. You are a monster. Maybe God's monster if it makes you feel better, but still a piece-of-shit-baby-killing monster."
Koslowski shook his head. "You know, I met this guy once. Like me. I mean, he did what I do."
"Another of God's Monsters?" Lonnie asked.
"Yeah. But, he was a little like you too. He didn't think there was a reason. I saw him eat this kid. A little girl, maybe six-years-old, pigtails and all. Fat little thing. Took for-freaking-ever. I talked to him afterward, like we're talking now. He'd tried to kill himself a few dozen times. Knives, nooses, bullets. He thought he was a monster and couldn't live with it. Even when he realized all that self-inflicted pain wasn’t doing the job, he never stopped trying. It's bad enough to have to eat babies. No way I wanted to be like him. The poor bastard begged me to do it."
"Wait a second," Lonnie said, the whiskey thickening his words a little. "What'd he beg?"
"He told me I was his replacement. That's why I could remember him eating the little girl."
Lonnie's eyes widened. He straightened from his half-drunk slouch with enough violence to almost upend Kozlowski's beer bottle.
"He said I had to eat him. Then he could be done. I'm telling you, the sap was crying with relief at the idea."
"No fucking way am I your replacement," hissed Lonnie. "I got a kid of my own, for God's sake."
"Hey, I concur," said Kozlowski. "You can only take this fate thing so far, right? The problem is, you saw what I did, and you remember me. I'm pretty sure that means you're next in line for the job."
"I'm not eating you," said Lonnie.
Kozlowski nodded. "Damn right. I thought we'd try something different." He lifted the beer bottle as he spoke and slammed it against Lonnie's head.
Lonnie fell out of the booth onto the floor. He touched the side of his head and pulled away a blood-smeared hand.
Kozlowski knelt over Lonnie. His distended mouth looked like the open end of a mop bucket. It gave his voice a deep, hollow tone. "Relax kid, in a little while it'll be like you never existed."
The bartender screamed.
Lonnie scuttled backward as the tooth-lined maw descended toward him.
"Hold still," boomed Kozlowski. He reached down, scrabbling for Lonnie's collar.
Lonnie didn't know if he was crazy, dreaming, or maybe in line to become God's monster, but he knew he did not want to be eaten by Doug Kozlowski. So, Lonnie opened his mouth and lunged.
Something expanded in his skull. Bones snapped and jittered. It hurt like hell for a second and then felt good, like a satisfying crack of the knuckles. Kozlowski's arm was wedged in Lonnie's throat almost to the elbow. The two men looked at each other for a long moment and then Lonnie bit down hard. Flesh tore, and bones snapped until Lonnie's teeth came together with a click and he swallowed.
Kozlowski's hate-filled bellow of pain joined the bartender's screams. "You don't even want the god-damned job, you stupid sonuvabitch!" Blood spouted from his sheared off forearm.
Lonnie pulled himself to his feet. Strength poured into him from some unknown source.
Kozlowski turned, spraying blood in an arc. He tried to run, but Lonnie had him by the tank top straps.
"What I want is for you not to be here anymore," Lonnie said. Then he swallowed Kozlowski's head down to the neck and began to chew.
It took the better part of an hour. Lonnie ate with a compulsive efficiency, never pausing. As if once he had made the decision, he'd gone on cannibalistic autopilot.
The police came. Lonnie heard the sirens, felt the ineffective blows of nightsticks raining down on his back and head. He was sure someone shot him. But it all seemed distant somehow, and he never stopped eating.
Finally, he finished. Lonnie took a deep breath and spat blood on the barroom floor. He stood and gazed down at himself, surprised he didn't look like a python that just ate a cow. A man stumbled into him slipping on the pool of blood that covered the floor. It was a cop. He didn't even look at Lonnie. Instead, he motioned to the woman tending bar. "You got to clean up this spill. Someone's going to kill themselves."
The bartender looked from her book to the floor and sighed. "I'll get a mop."
As Lonnie watched, the blood grew pale—just spilled beer now. He stood at the bar catching his breath. There was no blood on his clothes, no gash in the side of his head where Kozlowski's beer bottle had shattered. The bartender smiled at him and asked if he wanted a drink. Lonnie ordered a shot of whiskey, a single this time. He drank it slow and tried to think.
Maybe if Lonnie had really been crazy, he could have pretended it never happened. No Kozlowski, no baby from before. He'd just had some sort of incident, a psychotic break. But Lonnie knew with cold certainty he was not crazy. He was God's monster.
He paid for the drink and walked out onto Carson Street. The sun sat lower in the sky, but it was still a beautiful day. An older woman, Grandma no doubt, moved toward Lonnie on the bustling sidewalk pushing a double stroller. Twins burbled away happily in the seats. Lonnie closed his eyes. Please no, please no, please no. When he opened them again, the woman had passed him and was halfway down the block. I didn't try to eat them, he thought. But what if they were just good kids, future Ghandis? No, he thought, I can beat this thing. I'll resist it. Or go somewhere with hardly any people. An island maybe. It'd be a hard sell to Janet, but they would make it work.
Lonnie's phone began to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out. Janet's name flashed on the screen along with a picture of a boy in blue footie pajamas. Lonnie looked at his six-month-old son, and a spasm went through his body. He had always been filled with love and pride when he saw Ryan, but now there was another feeling, stronger than both. Hunger.
Lonnie put the phone back in his pocket without answering. He looked down Tenth Street at the line of skyscrapers rising from the golden triangle. He thought of the man Kozlowski had replaced—the one who could not accept being a monster. That man had tried to stop himself. "Knives, guns, nooses," Kozlowski had said. Maybe the guy just hadn't tried hard enough. Lonnie didn't remember Kozlowski mentioning tall buildings in the litany of the man's attempts. He began to walk. The PPG Tower looked to be about forty stories high. It would do for a start.
<<====>>
Author’s Story Note
What’s the worst thing you've ever done? (Wait, don’t say it out loud.)
I asked myself that question when I sat down to write “All God’s Creatures Got Reasons”. I realized pretty quickly I am a lightweight as monstrous acts go, so I had to change the question. “What’s the worst thing I can imagine doing, and what if I found I couldn’t stop?"
I thought of two ways it could go. Resistance, like Lon Chaney—lock myself up whenever the moon grows full and the fangs start to show, maybe even eat a silver bullet to settle things once and for all. Or Justification. Blame society. Blame God. Perhaps perform enough mental gymnastics to believe I'm actually doing the right thing.
These two paths came to life as the baby eater, Doug Kozlowski, and his reluctant heir apparent, Lonnie Phelps. I want to identify 100% with Lonnie. To believe that if I'm faced with becoming "God’s Monster", I’ll start looking for a tall building and a quick end. But then I remember a
ll of the small transgressions I've committed over the years. How many times have I justified bad choices? The "tough love", the "I’m only human", the "it was for their own good"…?
What kind of a monster am I, then? Am I a Doug or a Lonnie? I'll let you know when I figure it out.
—Frank Oreto
THE UGLY
J. R. Park
From The Black Room Manuscripts Volume Three
Editors: JR Park & Daniel Marc Chant
Sinister Horror Company
The image was silent. Despite the television being muted, cries of pain still found a way to set Hayley’s teeth on edge. The contortion of the cat’s face, the madness of fear in its eyes; both left no doubt as to the terror that cut through its core. Hayley’s empathy caused her stomach to swirl, churning her lunch into an unwelcome discomfort as she held her head in her hands. Forcing herself to look on, she despaired at the scenes that played out before her.
The poor animal struggled to escape from its tormentors, but was held firm by a young girl who pinned the feline against a wooden fence. Fighting against the resistance of the creature, the girl held out one of the cat’s paws and splayed its toes wide, giving her brother a bigger target as he lined up a crooked nail against the creature’s soft, delicate pad.
The hammer struck its target, driving the nail into the animal’s skin and through its paw, burying the point deep into the wooden panel behind. Blood poured down the fence as the cat arched its back in agony and curled its tail, convulsing in pain. It tried to fight back, clawing and hissing at its attackers, but could do nothing to prevent the girl from holding out another paw and once again splaying the soft, delicate toes.
The boy took a second nail and placed it over the squirming animal’s limb, jabbing it into the leathery pad like a golfer setting up their tee. Bringing his hammer back, and steadying himself, he swung it forward, connecting with the nail and forcing it through the creature’s flesh. His hammer caught the paw, crushing the bones inside and splitting its skin. An eruption of blood splattered the two children, and although the CCTV camera had filmed them from behind, the side profile of their lifting cheeks and shaking shoulders were a clear signal of the grins and mirth that dominated their faces.
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 4 Page 22
