+The Horror Library+

~Story of the Day —MOURNING WITH THE BONES OF THE DEAD by Gerard Houarner

 

—MOURNING WITH THE BONES OF THE DEAD
by Gerard Houarner

     Albins looked small in his clothes, as if he’d shrunk in the time between
diagnosis and his arrival at the hospice. Flesh had melted from his cheeks, revealing
the bone beneath and giving him a stronger resemblance to his father, Bernhard, who
paid the taxi as the family got out of the car. The boy looked wrong, too much like a
miniature version of his grandfather, who still lived in the old country and supported
himself with his little garden and as a guide for foreign tourists and movie location
scouts. When he’d been healthy, Albins had looked more like his mother, Gizela, with
a cherubic face and thick limbs the bullies at school had learned to respect. Albins
looked wrong because he was closer to death than Bernhard’s father had ever been.
     “Come on, Daddy,” Albins said, holding out a hand for his father to grab. Gizela
already had the other one. “I don’t want to be late for my appointment.”
     His son’s cheerful voice, strong and loud against the car engine’s purr, skewered
Bernhard. He took a breath, snorted at the engine fumes, straightened his sagging
shoulders, paid the driver and joined the rest of his family on the steps to the old
townhouse on the block of desolate urban wilderness. Gizela led them quickly
into the building, as she was already fading under the harsh summer sun. The loss
of children always hit mothers harder, Bernhard thought as he shut the front door
behind them. He could spend hours in the heat if he had to, though he was relieved
the rumble of buses and trucks, the honking of horns and gunning of engines was
behind him. Familiar scents greeted him in the tiny vestibule. His ears pricked to the
faint sound of crunching. Candles burned along the banister of a dusty set of stairs
ahead of them.
     In the gloom, his son’s skin still glowed unnaturally from his exposure to
daylight; the boy could have stayed outdoors forever.
     “Are both of you going to stay with me?” Albins asked as two attendants
emerged from opposing open doorways in the hallway that led from the vestibule.
They smelled like freshly turned earth.
     “Yes, love,” Gizela said, cupping her baby’s head as the attendants stopped
before them. Their teeth chattered, their blind eyes gazed past mother, father, son,
through the steel door that had opened for the three after each had whispered the
name they found in their mother’s womb.
     Albins giggled at them, but he wouldn’t let go of his parents’ hands.
     “You have to go with them,” Bernhard said, pulling his arm up. “They’ll take care
of you. We’ll see you in a little while.”
     “No!” Albins cried out, and his voice echoed up the stairwell, through doorways,
in rooms with bricked-up windows. Dust rained down on them from the cracked
ceiling. “You just want to leave me here and get away and never come back.”
     “What do you want?” Gizela asked, her voice quavering as she ran her fingers
through his thin black hair
     “Don’t leave,” Albins answered, with determination.
     “We won’t,” said Bernhard. “There’s a place for us to wait?” he asked the
attendants.
     “Upstairs,” a woman’s voice croaked in the stillness. Beyond the left hand
doorway, a flame came to life in a pool of oil contained in the hollow of an upturned
skull on the floor. An old woman in rags leaned into the flickering light, pointed
upstairs, grinned toothlessly. “That’s where we all end up.” She cackled, showing
gaps in her rows of teeth.
     She reminded Bernhard of his mother, in the madness of her later years.
     Albins moaned as if his illness was suddenly too much for him. But the healers
had said there’d be no pain. At least, no physical discomfort. Bernhard recognized
the sign, and understood. The change was upon the boy. He was reacting to the old
woman, to the attendants. He was frightened.
     “We’ll be close by,” Bernhard said, going down on one knee to talk directly to
his son. “You can come to us, when you’re ready. If you want to.”
     “You won’t leave, like you did before?”
     Bernhard opened his mouth to say something, closed it, feeling Gizela move,
sensing her warning. Don’t argue with the boy. Don’t explain. Don’t make excuses.
     “No.”
     “You’ll stay with Mom?”
     “Yes.”
     “And you’ll both be there if I need you?”
     “Yes.”
     Reluctantly, Albins released his grip on Bernhard’s hand, and his mother’s. He
went between the attendants, but they did not offer their bony, claw-like appendages
and the boy did not take hold of them. When they turned and walked down the hall to
the back of the building, Albins followed, a step behind. He never looked back.
     “He’s so brave,” Gizela said.
     And I’m not? he almost answered. But that was an old argument, from another
time and place. He’d left that all behind, proved to himself and her and anyone and
anything that cared that he was as strong and brave as any. He had the skulls to
prove it, and the gratitude of those who’d needed the blood and meat and bones he’d
provided. Of course, Gizela would say something like, too bad you couldn’t do all of
that for us, when it mattered.
     Those were old arguments. Dead ones. He was back for Albins. They were here
for Albins. Blood called its children out of the wilderness. And death.
     “Yes,” he said, at last. “He’s a brave one.”
     They went up creaking stairs to the first floor, flickering candles giving way to
strings of naked bulbs hung across the ceiling. 

 

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~Story of the Day —WHAT WAS ONCE MAN by Michele Lee

 

—WHAT WAS ONCE MAN
by Michele Lee

     It’s a moonless night, and three of us sit in the dark basement of an abandoned
house. Meghan. Rick. And me. We found each other by chance, hiding in a boarded up
grocery store not too far away. We stayed together after that, for what little protection
an extra set of eyes on the lookout offered. The stairs were the first thing we destroyed
when we found this safe spot. Some structure in the house above had collapsed when
we did that, and whatever it was made the basement hatch impossible to move.
     There are tiny windows set into the stained concrete walls that let in the light
during the day. The street lamp outside helped us see at night until something out there
broke it. None of us complained, because in a way it’s better if you don’t have to always
see how trapped you are.
     It’s starting to stink down here. It’s been three days, and with no bathroom.
     Despite the stench, I’m hungry.

                                                         * * *
     Meghan
     My dad started touching me when I was eleven. I’m not looking for pity. You said
you wanted the brutal truth, so that’s where it started; when my dad first touched me.
     It went on for years. They train you, you know. To put up with it. They call it
‘grooming’. Other predators can tell when you’ve been groomed. Around thirteen my
uncle started giving me the same looks. On my fourteenth birthday my brother took a
long grope while my mom wasn’t looking, so I ran away.
     I didn’t think they’d care. But they did and it only took a few days for them to find
me. It was in a public place, but that didn’t thwart my father’s temper.
     A friendly, round woman in scrubs with a hospital ID tag that read ‘Laura’ was
buying me a meal at a burger joint, and stayed with me while I ate. I was so hungry
I didn’t care. I figured she’d want to talk. Maybe she knew somewhere I could go,
someplace where they’d understand why I’d left, and give me a way to get off the
street.
     Laura never got a chance. My mother came in, her keys dangling from one of
her fingers. I’d always loved playing with the key chains she collected. Funny that I
recognized her keys first. Our eyes met across the room and I begged her, silently, to let
me go. Pretend you didn’t see me.
     She ordered a soda, then turned her back on me, going to the machine to fill her
cup. I thought I’d made it. I thought, stupid me, that she’d helped me. Less than two
minutes later my father walked in the door, eyes fiercely scanning the dining room. He
saw my mother, who pointed right at me. Laura was awfully startled when I burst into
tears.
     “Are you all right?” she asked. She reached out to me. I pulled away.
     “No—”
     And he was on us. His hand circled my arm, fingers tearing into my flesh. He
jerked me out of my chair. I couldn’t fight back or even land on my feet. He flung me to
the floor, my drink and what was left of my burger and condiment-smeared wrapper
going down on top of me. I didn’t get right back up. Hopelessness welled up in me and I
couldn’t get my body to do anything but go limp, give up. I wanted to fight, but I’d been
groomed.
     “Don’t you dare lay your hands on her!”
     Laura’s voice was pure steel. I’ll always remember, because I’d never seen anyone
talk to my father like that. But Laura stood up, vastly outsized, not caring, her eyes
blazing. She must have never experienced the intimidating influence of a fist or garden
hose. She couldn’t know and still stand there as she did.
     “Butt out, you fat bitch. This is between my daughter and me. It’s none of your
business.”
     “Someone call the cops,” Laura yelled. Her gaze darted to the teens working
behind the counter, to the older couple eating two tables over. My father moved toward
her like a rolling storm. Fury masked his face. I opened my mouth to scream.
     “I am taking my daughter out of here.”
     I forced myself up, to my knees. “I don’t want to go with you.”
     It should have been a scream. It should have had the force, Laura’s open defiance.
Instead it spilled out from my lips, weak and palsied. Laura bent over to me, her hand
out.
     My father stepped forward and kicked me hard. I wasn’t looking his way; I was
reaching out to Laura. I rolled backward until I hit the metal base of the table. Something
gave. For a moment I just thought it was my resolve, crushed under the sheer violence of
my father’s heart. But it was my spine, right below where it met my skull.
     Everything went silent. I was aware of something, I cannot remember what, but I
was there, with thoughts and feelings beyond the darkness.
     Then I woke up in the basement of my home. I was lying on my side, staring into
the worried face of my father while someone else’s hands moved up and down my bare
back, checking my spine.
     “Oh, thank God. You’re okay.”
     “She’ll be fine,” a rich female voice said behind me. It sounded like hot, sugary
coffee, rolling around me and through me, as if I’d swallowed it. “She’ll be as good as
new.”
     “Good.” He turned to me, concern in his face and voice. “Meghan, I need your help.
There’s a cop, and you’re going to tell him what really happened in the restaurant. How
you slipped and fell. You’re going to show him how you’re all right now.”
     I found myself nodding. It confused me. I remembered wanting to defy him. I
remember the crunch of my neck, the terrifying lack of pain, the darkness.

 

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~Story of the Day —THE FISHING OF DAHLIA by Ennis Drake

 

—THE FISHING OF DAHLIA
by Ennis Drake

     “There is no such thing as an insignificant life, only the insignificance of mind that refuses to
grasp the implications.”
     — Laurence Overmire

     “My name is Job,” he said, speaking the words as if they belonged to an arcane
language from some lost, dark epoch.
     He was disconnected and in shock, but driven still by a vestigial inner valor he
believed himself to possess. His mind was broken; his memory an ill-fitting puzzle
composed, or so it seemed to Job, of second-hand albums filled with a stranger’s old
photographs.
     “My name is Job,” he said again—his single anchor of certainty—and throttled
the boat.
     The sun was cooling molten copper in the west. Cypress and heart pine stood
along the north bank of the river like grim sentinels to an alien world. The only sound
was the roar of the 225-horse Mercury, the sleek boat skipping across the water as it
hurtled toward the river bank.
     “My name is Job and it. . .it took her,” he said.
     Lightning flared in his mind and time spun out. He never felt the impact.
     When Job awoke, he was sprawled on the prow of the boat, his lip split and
bleeding. Below him, water slunk and gurgled, slow-seeping its way through the
shattered hull. He ran his tongue across his teeth, feeling the cracked canine and
incisor; touched his lip with a trembling hand. Winced. But were the wounds from the
impact? Job wondered. He didn’t think so.
     “She. . .” he began, but trailed off, standing shakily. The boat rocked where
he had grounded it and he lurched on the deck. “There was,” he continued, licking
blood from his swollen lip as he tried to order the few fragments of memory he still
possessed, “lightning in the woods. Right here,” he said, pointing at the river bank
that rose before him, images tumbling out of the electric-charged blackness of his
amnesia. . .
     The river house. Stripped of most of its furniture. Boxes stacked everywhere. A man was
pounding on the door. His son, Michael. . .his oldest. Michael was shouting as the door opened and, too quick to anticipate, he punched Job in the mouth, splitting his lip and cracking two of his teeth.
     The river house dissolved into the river itself. An osprey lunged into the sky from the water’s
edge, abandoning its nest atop an ancient cypress. The sun was copper, but not yet molten. Somethingthrashed and thumped against the deck of the boat. There was a flash of light, like lightning in the tree line. . .a tangle of blonde hair. . .a scream, and. . .there was blankness. . .and he was throttling into the river bank.
     Job saw again the twist of blonde hair and bright pain like the blade of electric
fire on an arc welder dug a furrow across the front of his brain, as if invoked by some
outside Power to purge the memory from him.
     “No! You’re not going to take that from me!” he screamed in defiance, the
lightning-pain threatening to sear his mind to smooth scar tissue, to rob him of
memory and self. He hooked his hands through his thinning hair, pounded his
temples, but for a terrifying, interminable span of seconds, he lost everything. He was,
again, an empty vessel; dispossessed of who, where, why, and how. His muscles seized
and there was familiarity in that. He convulsed and there was familiarity in that, too.
He heard, again and again, like a distant echo, thrashing, thumping, and a woman’s
scream.
     “Please, she’s out there,” he said, voice rasping like decaying machinery. “She’s
out there, Goddamnit! ALI!”
     He fought his own short-circuiting mind and. . .

                                                         * * *

     Job remembered the bass. He remembered it and held the image in his mind’seye
like a talisman. The way it had thrashed and thumped against the hollow fiberglass
deck, blood running from its mouth and gills, the monofilament line disappearing into
its throat.
     He’d gut-hooked it.
     By then, the sun had ridden out the last of its track, an unblemished twilight left
in its wake as it fell into the west to die its lazy, phoenix’s death. The river had faded
from chocolate to an ashen copper that reminded Job of the pennies he used to bury
in coffee cans when he was a boy. He was fumbling with the bass, thinking of those
pennies, when an osprey, frightened from its nest, lunged skyward from the water’s
edge. She had said something, then. . .
     What did she say? Was it important?
     . . .and that’s when he’d seen it: The strange, stroboscopic light, pulsing like a
living sapphire behind the veil of heart pine and palm scrub that piled along the north
bank of the river. That’s when it had taken. . .when she had. . .
     Quicksilver pain slid along the curve of his skull.
     “Just remember the bass,” Job said, grinding his teeth together painfully to keep
hold of himself.
     When the pain receded, he moved further along the prow, watching. Sweat
rolled down his sun-baked temples, crowded his high, lined brow. He was waiting for
the lightning. The pulse. Whatever it was. He knew it would come—he remembered
the hunger in that light.
     And, moments later, the sapphirine light raged—as if Job had summoned it—
throwing the trees into jeweled relief.

 

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~Story of the Day —FLICKER by Lee Thomas

 

—FLICKER
by Lee Thomas

     All that Kathy knew of love came from images flickering on an old television
screen. What came from this screen was fiction, and Kathy had discovered the
difference between fiction and reality long ago. Fiction was a house in suburbia,
cleaned by a beautiful mother who baked cookies, wore pearls and prepared delicious
meals. Fiction was a father who worked a steady job in the city, declared his
daughter’s beauty to the world and fussed over the men who might date her. Fiction
didn’t show a little girl, bruised and crying, hiding in a filthy basement terrified of
the fuckers she called Mom and Dad. But reality did. Reality offered a mother who
worked out her boredom with vodka and strange men and a father who expressed
frustration with his fists and his cock. Reality offered Santa Monica Boulevard on
Christmas Day, waiting for one of Keith’s friends to pick Kathy up so she’d have her
fix and a warm place to sleep. The company she kept was irrelevant. In this, reality’s
blindness was equal to love’s.
     And what did it matter? This wasn’t a career, just a means to an end. She had
ambitions. Early in the mornings as Keith snored next to her, Kathy laid awake
imagining herself on the screen with Mark Wahlberg or Tom Cruise. The dream had
followed her from childhood. Like Angelina Jolie or Sandra Bullock, Kathy wanted to
be a star and see posters bearing her likeness hung on walls by adoring fans and see
her name on movie theater signs. Her parents had laughed at her aspiration. They had
no time for her “craziness.” So, she’d gone into her basement and mimicked whatever
movie she’d seen that afternoon, losing herself in a fiction that effectively filled a
vacant childhood—at least for small periods of time. In her basement she became
someone admired and loved, became someone strong and heroic, became anyone but
Kathy Windman. She’d even played Frankie in her junior high school’s production
of The Member of the Wedding. Of course, her parents had been too busy to attend any of
the shows, but her teachers and even some of the other parents had congratulated her
beautiful performance. Such an exciting feeling it had been for her, being recognized
as an actress.
     Sadly, she’d never done another play. Her boyfriend in junior high, Larry, had
said it was all so stupid. She’d temporarily abandoned her dramatic pursuits at his
request, exchanged them for pharmaceutical dreams. The void she’d once filled with
acting was soon plugged by blow, blunts, and a six-pack of Bud.
     At fifteen, after Larry dumped her, Kathy hitchhiked from Seattle to the city
where dreams were everything. One night while watching the dollar movies in a
run down theater on Hollywood Boulevard, she’d met Keith. He’d given her a place
to stay, a purpose and a new relationship with new dreams. These dreams offered
needles and a cloudy world where pain was not allowed.
     Almost a year had passed since they’d met. And now she waited on a corner for
Keith’s friend. She couldn’t remember his name but he was supposed to pick her up.
     She was going to make a movie.
     The news had disturbed her at first. Although she wanted nothing more than
to see her image on a screen, she didn’t want to make porn flicks. She knew what
happened to actresses who took the easy way out, who jumped at the money and then
got the reputation, an inescapable reputation, as a whore. She didn’t want that. She
wanted to be a star, with all of the praise and respect that accompanied the title.
     But Keith wouldn’t hurt her. He loved her. He always told her so. He just had a
friend who liked to make home movies. The guy was a voyeur. The movie wouldn’t be
seen by anybody, especially anyone from Hollywood. It was simply a game that this
guy played, and besides Kathy wanted to see herself on the screen, even if the screen
were nothing more than that of a high-def flat panel Sony.
     As she grew concerned that her ride might not show, a gray Lexus pulled to
the curb. Behind the wheel, a well-dressed man with silver hair and a fatherly smile
leaned across to look her over. “Are you Kathy?” he asked. His teeth were very white
and his skin very tanned. Looking in from the tall curb she could see that he wore
white pants, which were pressed into sharp creases, and a crisp cobalt blue dress
shirt. The sleeves were rolled up along thick forearms.
     She nodded, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she stepped off of the curb.
The man pushed open the door. She got in the car and as the door closed, the lock
engaged.
     “You’re Keith’s friend?” she asked.
     “My name,” the man said jovially, “is Desmond Silver. And yes Keith and I have
something of a history.”
     Kathy nodded and stared out the windshield of the sedan as the familiar
buildings of her neighborhood pulled behind her. The inside of the car was warm and
comfortable after the chill afternoon.
     “Merry Christmas,” she said uneasily.
     “And Merry Christmas to you,” he replied.
     Light cologne, trapped in the car with them, tickled her nose. It smelled like
almonds and reminded her of the movie theater back home. The Marquis, a theater
down the street from where she’d lived with her parents, sold really good chocolate
covered almonds and whenever she hadn’t spent her lunch money on cigarettes or
make-up, she’d bought a box of the candy from the concession stand. They’d been
especially good with a Dr. Pepper.
     Wrapping a thin coil of blond hair around her finger, she studied the driver from
the corner of her eye. He didn’t talk much. That made her uncomfortable, but nothing
else about the man seemed threatening. He had a pleasant smile on his round face
and really pretty eyes. They were so blue. He didn’t look anything like Keith’s other
friends. Some of them were old, but they looked different. They looked like lizards,
and when they smiled they looked like hungry lizards.

 

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+Five Minute Movie Review —Dead Hooker in a Trunk

 

What the HELL is going on up in Vancouver? Whatever it is, if the Soska Sisters are involved—it’s gonna be bloody. And bloody well worth watching too!

 

 

Dead Hooker in a Trunk is the debut film written, directed, and produced by identical twin filmmakers Jen and Sylvia Soska and is a feel-good(?) romp about what it’s like to…well, find a dead hooker in the trunk of your car.

Hand’s down, this is one of the strangest, snaggletoothed oddities to make it into my indie horror collection. It's a damn funny little micro-budget film that somehow manages to bring something new to the table. And…that’s saying a lot for a reviewer who has pretty much seen it all.

This film has serious cult potential, and it’s a pretty weird and fun little flick to watch too! I won’t even insult this film or the filmmakers by saying it was an ‘ambitious first outing’ or any other such qualifying phrases. These sisters know what they’re doing and even with a budget ten times larger…I think they would have probably made the same movie. The comedic beats hit the mark and the action and violence is way over the top. The Soska sisters clearly have an eye for cinema and a discount hook-up for buckets upon buckets of fake blood.

Dead Hooker in a Trunk kicks much ass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~Story of the Day —SLEEPLESS EYES by Tim Waggoner

—SLEEPLESS EYES
by Tim Waggoner

     It’s 1:38 a.m. on a Thursday night, and you’re sitting at a small round table
tucked into a dim corner of an all-night coffee shop. A steaming mug of hot liquid
sits before you, and you know it’ll be at least another fifteen minutes before it cools
enough for you to drink. To pass the time you glance around at your fellow latenight
caffeine addicts. One of the main reasons you came—besides suffering from
insomnia—is that this place, especially at this time of night, is usually a prime spot
for people-watching.
     The barista at the counter, a raven-haired woman in her early twenties, asks a
customer, “Would you like aqueous fluid drizzled on top of your whipped pus?”
     The customer nods the middle of his three scaled heads, and the barista leans
over his drink and squeezes her right eyeball as if it were a large ocular pimple. Clear
fluid spurts out of a fissure in the organ and splatters onto the yellow-white mass
floating atop the customer’s drink.
     You turn to look at the fireplace in the corner opposite from where you’re sitting.
One of the employees has recently added fresh fuel to the fire, and the severed arms
and legs—the small, delicate limbs of children—sizzle and pop as the fat beneath the
blackening skin cooks. Sitting in a cushy chair next to the fire, an obscenely fat man—
naked, completely bereft of body hair—methodically inserts long sharp needles into
his testicles, one after the other, as if his balls are fleshy pin cushions. As he works, he
chats with a woman whose entire body, including her face, is covered by tight black
leather. Only her mouth is visible through an unzipped slit, and you can see she has no
teeth in her swollen, bleeding gums.
     Over by the window, a pair of exotically beautiful conjoined twins—Asian, high
cheek bones, straight black hair down to the middle of their backs, jade-green minidresses
sans panties—are masturbating each other with dildos fashioned from metal
rods wrapped in steel wool. As the women moan in ecstasy, blood runs down their
well-toned legs and pools on the tiled floor beneath their table. An old woman that
reminds you a lot of your grandmother, except for the pulsating lesions covering her
skin, kneels next to the twins, her head lowered to the floor as she furiously laps up
the twins’ blood-cum with a tongue encrusted in fat, happy ticks.
     Your attention is drawn by screams coming from behind the door to the men’s
restroom. The screams stop, and a few seconds later a man walks out. He’s probably
in his thirties, wearing a white turtleneck and jeans, and he looks okay, if you don’t
count his ashen skin and uncomprehending expression of stark terror. He manages to
take three steps before bloodstains begin to show through his turtleneck. Pieces of his
body begin to fall off and hit the floor with meaty-wet plops. Just a few at first—an
ear, a nose, a lip—but then more and more, until there’s a veritable rain of flesh,
blood, and bone, and the core of the man’s body collapses into a heap. A cheer goes up
from the crowd and everyone—the barista, the three-headed man, Pincushion-Balls,
Leather-Girl, the Steel-Wool Twins, Grandma Tick-Tongue, and all the others in the
coffee shop—race toward the grisly mound and fall upon it, grabbing slick handfuls
of viscera and jamming them into their mouths.
     “Now that’s good eatin’!” Grandma Tick-Tongue exclaims around a mouthful of
kidney. Her fellow gourmands grunt their agreement.
     But you haven’t joined in the feast. Instead you slither over to the counter and
wrap one of your smaller facial tentacles around a to-go cup. You grab a plastic lid
with another tentacle then return to your table, leaving a glistening trail of slime in
your wake. You pour your still-hot spinal fluid into the cardboard cup, fasten the lid
on, and then put the empty mug on the counter for the barista to collect later. You
then lift your coat off the back of your chair—a coat made from the stomach linings
of a dozen syphilitic nuns—and head for the exit while the bloody revelers continue
gorging themselves.
     As you stride out into the night, disappointed, you think to yourself that you
need to find a new late-night hangout. This scene is getting old.

 

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~Story of the Day —GOD'S WORK by Matthew Lee Bain

 

—GOD’S WORK
by Matthew Lee Bain

     The roadkill was staring at her. The eyeballs bulged from its squashed face.
It smiled with a wide mouth full of sharp teeth, tongue hanging, exhaling a greasy
stench.
     The hitcher swallowed, gripped her pack a little tighter, and edged farther
down the roadstead. The blacktop smoldered like a grill, filling the air with dizzy
waves of heat. She struggled for a full breath, unpent breasts panting beneath a thin,
yellow shirt. Aside from the strip of highway, she could make out nothing but sand
and scrub brush. Somewhere, far off, behind the waves of heat, there might have been
hills or mountains, maybe a city, but. . .
     The hitcher stripped her pack from her shoulder and, crouching, began to dig
through it. She withdrew a brown thermos, unscrewed the lid, and brought the lip to
hers. Not much more than a kiss of liquid. Her tongue was quick to savor the drops
from between the dried cracks of skin. Wiping her head, she returned the thermos
to her pack and stood. She took a long look down the highway—one way, then the
other—which blurred on, out of sight.
     “Off the edge of the world—fuck.” Her eyes slowly slid around the empty,
empty landscape. Slinging the pack over her shoulder, she continued west, away from
the roadkill. After a few steps, she heard the growl, far-off, but deep. She squinted
over her left shoulder. The growl was growing into a roar. Holding her palm up to
shade her face, she widened her eyes. A bright shining spot, like a small silver sun, was
coming down the highway in her direction.
     “God,” she prayed. The small silver sun formed into a tall pickup truck. The
hitcher jumped and waved her arms, screaming as loud as her dry throat would allow.
The roar grew until the truck slowed to a stop in front of her. She heaved a sigh, on
the edge of tears. The driver’s door cracked open, and a set of heavy boots hit the
ground. She looked up—took a few steps forward—but could not see around the cab.
A gloved hand reached over the truck-bed and removed a stain-painted shovel. Her
heart jumped. A tool that size might as well be a weapon. She backed up a few paces,
feeling the instinct to run. But run where? She’d be as good as dead. A moment later,
there was a long grating sound, as the shovel was scraped over the blacktop. The
pancaked mammal arced into the air, landing in the truck-bed; the shovel followed
after with a dead clatter.
     “Hello—”, she said, but the driver side door slammed shut. “No, wait!” She ran,
jumping onto the side of the truck.
     The putrid waves of stench emanating from the truck-bed overtook her. “O,
Ghogd,” she gagged, losing her purchase. She fell, ass-first, into the gravel. Struggling
to her feet, she screamed, “Wait!”
     The passenger door cracked open like an icebox, and a face, five-days unshaven,
peered out.
     “Hop up,” he said with a droll smile.
     “Oh, thank God you came along,” she uttered, hopping in and slamming the
door.
     “You’re welcome,” he answered.
     The silver truck roared down the highway, westward bound.

* * *

     “Where were you headed?” he said, looking her up and down from the corner of
his right eye.
     “What’s that?” She squinted.
     “Where were you headed ‘fore I stopped?” he said over the whirr of the truck.
     “Oh,” she laughed, “just out of Bum-Fuck Egypt or wherever you call this.”
     “Bum what?”
     “Bum-Fuck Egypt.”
     “Bum-Fuck E-Gypt?” His face split open with laughter.
     “Well—I haven’t seen a pyramid, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” She smiled.
     He puckered his lips and squinted. With a snort, he reached across her to the
glove compartment, his grubby fingers popping the door to rifle inside. Withdrawing
a half-crushed cigarette pack, he held it up to show a camel-headed mascot in front
of a pyramid.
     “Found one,” he sputtered with laughter. The hitcher smiled, shifting in her
seat. Taking the brown, tree-shaped air freshener down from the rear-view, the driver
replaced it with the camel and pyramid. She stared at the air freshener with a crooked
smile. Wheezing, the man composed himself.
     His mouth sidled over to the right side of his face, where it cracked open.
     “Hey,” he said, his voice deep and serious.
     “Huh?”
     “Hey,” he whispered, poking her arm with his dirty index finger.
     “What?”
     “Know what?” he continued, leaning in, tilting his head like he had a secret.
     “What?”
     “My mummy’s buried here.” His mouth became a seizuring mess, spewing
laughter.
     The hitcher smiled and bit down on her lower lip, tucking her chin up. The
driver faced forward, still sniggering—”My mummy. . .” She noticed him looking at her
breasts from the side of his face. She looked down, herself, to see her nipples pointing
down the road—the cab was pleasantly chilled.

 

(We hope you enjoyed this 2-Page sample! To read more, grab a copy of of +Horror Library+ Vol 4 from the Cutting Block Press webite or Amazon -- BUY and READ)

 

R.J. Cavender talks +Horror Library+ on the first Pod of Horror of the New Year!

 

Hey Kids...listen to ME on the New POD OF HORROR!

 

POD OF HORROR -- R.J. Cavender and a WHOLE lot more stuff!

 

Pod of Horror
With Mark Justice, Nanci Kalanta and Jason Keene

Pod of Horror is back with over two hours of ghastly goodness. On episode #63, we talk books with Necon’s Bob Booth and Matt Bechtel, author/actor Michael Boatman, Pod of Horror co-founder David T. Wilbanks, and Cutting Block Press’s R. J. Cavender. Nanci has the news, Jason L. Keene critiques the movies and we introduce our new book review segment, Scary Words. We’re also giving away a bunch of great books in The Tomb of Trivia. Get it at iTunes or download it below. Pod of Horror is hosted and produced by Mark Justice.

Pod of Horror is hosted and produced by Mark Justice.

 

Official +Act of God Survivor+ Series

Did you know our books can not only withstand a flooded warehouse, but also a F5 tornado? No joking, and no joking matter—

Thanks to Lincoln Crisler for this crazy flashback, and to author Mark Deloy for the dramatic pictures of the aftermath from the tornado that hit his in-laws house. Thankfully, they both survived—but their home did not.

 

 

 

~Story of the Day —GUARDIANS by Tom Brennan

 

—GUARDIANS
by Tom Brennan

     Karl padded past his son’s room, boots in hand, trying not to wake him. A
sleep-crumpled face appeared around the edge of the door. “Dad? Where’re you
going? It’s still dark.”
     “I’m off hunting, Mikey. Back to sleep now.”
     A wide yawn, then, “You going after deefs?”
     Karl smoothed his son’s warm hair. “You go back to bed. Don’t you worry
about a thing.”
     Downstairs, Karl found Donna pouring coffee into a flask. He slipped his arm
around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “You smell good.”
     Donna didn’t turn around. “There’s toast and eggs still warm in the top oven.
Bacon’s almost done.”
     Karl hesitated, went to speak and then let go of Donna and sat at the table.
A faint pearl glow lightened the sky beyond the windows. Inside the kitchen, a
single overhead tube flickered. As Karl ate he watched Donna pack sandwiches into
his rucksack along with the flask. When she leaned against the sink with a cup of
coffee, Karl said, “You know I’ve got no choice.”
     “I know.”
     “We’ve been lucky so far: we’ve had no deefs this far north.”
Donna sipped coffee and pulled together the edges of her chenille robe. “God, I
hate that word.”
     “Why? Everybody calls them that.”
     “Exactly.”
     Karl shook his head and pushed away his plate. From outside came the crunch
of tires on gravel and a harsh blast on the horn. Karl winced.
     “The neighbors will love that,” Donna said.
     Karl grabbed his camo rucksack and reached into the tall cupboard beside the
stove. He slid his grandfather’s old Winchester shotgun into a carrier and opened
a box of shells. He paused at the back door. “I shouldn’t be too late. Four or five. I
won’t let Frank get me drunk.”
     “Karl, look. . .” Donna set her cup down and crossed the kitchen. She stared
into his eyes. “Be careful. Okay?”
     “Okay.”
     Another blast on the horn dragged Karl outside. He saw Frank’s bearded face
leaning out of the pick-up’s window. “Jesus, Frank. Wake the neighbors, why don’t
you.”
     Frank grinned, waved at Donna standing on the porch and then positioned his
hand over the horn.
     “Don’t even. . .” Karl threw his rucksack and gun carrier onto the extended
cab’s ripped back seat and climbed in beside Frank. He sniffed, caught the pick-up’s
familiar smells of bait, beer, sweat and motor oil. Cans and discarded shells rattled
across the floor as Frank turned out of Karl’s yard and drove past sleeping clapboard
houses, heading north for Route 109. The sky had turned milky, the clouds hanging
low to the horizon.
     “You heard?” Frank said.
     “Heard what?”
     “Couple guys found a nest over by Eastham. Hundreds of deefs. Shot what they
could and then vaped the shit out of it. The Guard’s over there now.”
     To Karl, Frank’s ‘hundreds’ probably meant a handful of bioanalog defectives;
Frank liked exaggeration. “So what?”
     Frank aimed the pick-up along the highway and rested his thick arms on the
wheel. “So what? So there’s bound to be plenty more coming our way. Yes sir, we’re
gonna get some action today.”
     Karl stared at the road. He’d hunted birds with Frank, deer and even moose;
he’d never gone after defectives. But the posted Federal notices gave him no option:
all licensed hunters had a legal obligation, a duty, and they received two hundred
bucks for each proven deef kill.
     The money didn’t matter to Karl—he would have volunteered anyway, just
as he had for the local Fire Brigade for eight years running. The Community had to
come first.
     Frank turned off 109 and followed the narrow side road until it became a
rutted track. He pulled into a dirt lot and stopped next to a Parks Service notice
board. Another pick-up, bulbous with chrome, stood a few yards away. “Shit. I
thought we’d be the first.”
     “It’s not a competition.” Karl climbed down and reached for his bags.
“Everyone’s supposed to cooperate on this. Remember?”
     Frank spat into the undergrowth. “Cooperate my ass. I got alimony payments
to make.”
     Karl pulled on his hunters’ fatigues, camo and fluorescent orange. He took a
deep breath and held it; he liked this moment of calm before the hunt. The odors of
grass and wet leaves. Birds scurrying through the branches. Peace.
     “I picked these up from the Sheriff’s station,” Frank said, hauling out a yellow
box from the pick-up. Inside, orange plastic sacks with the black horned biohazard
symbols just visible. Frank gave a handful of sacks to Karl, then produced a black
and yellow plastic cylinder with a trigger and nozzle. “Sheriff said we have to vape
the area once we bag’em.”
     Karl stared at the spray. “Doesn’t look like much.”
     Frank shook the cylinder. “Whatever’s in it is keyed to the deefs, according to
the Fed in the Sheriff’s office. She said this goo munches on deefs and only the deefs.
Harmless for me and you. And animals.”

 

(We hope you enjoyed this 2-Page sample! To read more, grab a copy of of +Horror Library+ Vol 4 from the Cutting Block Press webite or Amazon -- BUY and READ)