Tag Archives: fiction

The Serial Killer

By mouth{JT}

Kayem watched as the snow blew down hard outside, making vision near impossible. He waited patiently, silent and unmoving in the bitter cold, knowing sooner or later, they would come into the empty building, trying to get out of the bitter wind and find some shelter for the night. No one had been in there in some time, and the air smelled rank and unused, shut up, with long, lingering memories of his previous kills in every shadow, giving off a slow, dank vibe of death. He often brought his victims here, and the floor showed remnants of past deaths, with small, rusty-colored blood stains that were now too numerous to count. They would still come, however; just pleased to be out of the blinding cold with the easy access of entry making it a good haven for winter’s refugees – and so he settled in, making himself comfortable.

No one officially lived here now, of course. Living here wasn’t something you advertised – not unless you wanted an early death, but Kayem knew if he waited long enough, they would indeed come. Too desperate not to. He hunkered down, barely even feeling the cold. Long years of traveling, doing this, had hardened him to the elements, and he killed without remorse, not letting sentiment or memory get in the way. He was one of those that killed for nothing more than pleasure, satisfying an intense inner desire and a tiny bit of curiosity to see how long his victims would last.

Kayem was a loner – well, killers usually are, but he had no attachments to anyone, moving around without a care or thought, pleasing only himself and travelling on when the mood took him, with no backward glances – ever. He spent most of his days resting up, preferring the shadows of the night to take his victims unaware, and tonight, he was especially alert. It was freezing cold, and they would come. As he waited, he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, reviewing the feeling in his mind, still fresh, of that first kill long ago. How sweet it had tasted, taking him by surprize with the way it intoxicated his senses. Right from the first one, he was hooked, needing that rush to sweep through his body time and time again, never getting enough of it. The only thing that made him feel alive.

He actually salivated at the thought of killing. It had been a long time, and sure enough, there it was – that slight tentative noise that told him they were here. Possibly a family, from the sounds of it, now getting stronger as they tumbled in from the cold, bitter night, no doubt tired and confused. Slipping from the shadows he moved in silently for the first kill.

Early the next morning, the pale sunlight shone down on a sleeping Kayem, satiated into slumber, his sleek black body surrounded by at least twenty corpses.

Best damn mouser of a cat the farmer had ever had.

Food Drive

By Stabz

The line for the food bank is longer today. It’s a quarter to six and the windows aren’t even open yet, but there are already a good forty, fifty people ahead of us, and I can’t begin to guess how many behind. I heard the trucks last night, dropping off another load of needy fuckers. They don’t even turn off their engines anymore – it’s just pull up, idle while the gates roll back, and peel out as fast as possible once the last feet hit the ground.

You’d think they’re afraid of us.

Beside me, Janie whimpers, hugging her chest. I know she’s hoping we’ll get a donor meal today. It’s been a while since we’ve had one. They’ve never been easy to come by, but these days, it’s just as likely the bank’ll run out before we even get to the window as that they won’t have any at all.

The fence rattles and a spray of snow hits my sleeve. When I turn to look, there are a pair of boys parked on the other side, their bikes teetering dangerously as they scoop up another handful of the white stuff. Ten? Twelve? It’s hard to tell. They’re bundled up. One cocks an arm, ready to let his arsenal fly, while the other leers and jeers.

“Get a job, ya zom-bums!”

Janie grits her teeth. I start to tell her it’s not worth it, but then I realize that’s not worth it, either. They’re old enough to know better, but still young enough to blindly repeat what they’ve heard their parents say. Lazy, draining our resources, a plague on society; a plague, a plague, a plague. But what do they expect?

Zombies aren’t allowed to work.

I don’t know who first started calling us that, but I guess it makes sense. What do zombies do? Shamble around mindlessly looking for brains. And what do we do?

Well, it depends on when you got infected, and where you are in the course of the disease.

The idea of a zombie virus has been around forever, but not quite like this. For one, we’re not dead – and when we do die? We stay dead. We’re still infectious, though, which is why no one gets buried anymore – no one can prove without a shadow of a doubt that they’re clean, even if they’re not showing symptoms, so it’s straight to the crematorium. No autopsies, no embalming, no funerals. If you’re still on the outside, you might get a memorial service with a portrait and some pretty flowers, though probably not an urn. But in here? No one remembers you. No one wants to remember you, because no one knows what to do.

It’s a prion disorder. The same as mad cow or chronic wasting disease. All it takes is for one protein in your brain to fold the wrong way – the rest copy it like rich girls with new purses, and that’s it. Your grey matter turns to sponge and your sponge turns to mush. But there’s a period in there where some deep animal instinct takes over, screaming brains brains brains, gotta have some brains. As best anyone can figure, it’s like a cat eating grass or a horse licking salt – your body knows it needs something even if your conscious mind doesn’t. In this case, it’s healthy prions, and they’re not even a cure – all they do is stave off the inevitable end that much longer. But when a twitching, staggering lunatic grabs you by the neck and starts trying to pop off your head so they can scoop out your skull like a Saturday morning cereal bowl, well – What are most people going to think?

You don’t have to be bitten to contract it, either. All you need is to come into contact with someone who’s shedding those misfolded prions. That’s the reason for the camps – to keep the sickies separated from the rest of the populace. But it only does so much good. You don’t start showing symptoms right away, and by the time you realize you’ve got a craving for cranium, it’s too late.

There’s a groan from the head of the line, and Janie sobs into her mittens. No donor meals today – it’ll be the canned stuff, sheep or pork or even beef. You wouldn’t find beef brains on anyone else’s plate now, for fear of mad cow, but for us? It doesn’t matter. We’re already there.

It’s not as good, though – and I’m not talking about the taste; I’m talking sheer nutrition. That’s what makes donor meals so important. A human brain needs human prions. It’s no different than any other organ that has to be replaced – sure, you can rig a pig heart or a dialysis machine to get you by for a while, but in the end, you need a transplant from your own kind. The longer you have to go without, the faster you go downhill. So there’s a new box you can tick off when you go to renew your driver’s license – Donate Heart? Lungs? Kidneys? Brain? It’s been harder for people to come to terms with, though, because the brain is so strongly associated with all the things that make you you. It’s one thing to know you’re giving away a lump of cells that’s going to save a life. It’s another to imagine someone shoving your very being into their mouth, knowing that in the long run, it won’t even do any good.

I know, because I didn’t check that box.

It wouldn’t make a difference now if I had.

Janie needs it more than I do, because she’s had the disease longer than I have. It gets a little more obvious every day – a little hollower in the cheeks, a little more white around the eyes; the twitch in your hands that turns them into claws, and the wobble that means you’re finally breaking down. And then it’s just the madness – the blind rage that has you lashing out at everything within reach and some things that aren’t, tearing into whatever your hands hit first, feasting on anything with the slightest scent of blood and meat. After that, they drag you to the heart of the camps, where you and everyone else in the final stages can rip each other apart. They can’t put you down, see, because zombie or not, you’re not an animal. You’re still human, in the most base and pathetic way. So they’ll let you die in your own way, your own time, because somehow that’s more dignified.

Fuck that. Give me a bullet right between the eyes, the way all those good old horror flicks taught you.

We reach the window, where they’re handing out already opened cans for the victims who can’t manage a pop-top anymore, and Janie’s shaking so badly she can barely take hold. What’s in the cans is pale, gelatinous, floating in a grey-tinged soup, and I know that Janie’s going to gag on it, because she does every day. It’s worse when she brings it all the way back up and has to choke it down again because there’s not enough for second servings, though. It’s not even that it’s brains – it’s that it’s an animal’s brain, and she was a goddamn vegan before all this started. She actually does better with the donor meals, because she knows whoever gave it, gave it willingly.

Me, I grew up southern and poor. Momma fed us feet and gizzards and tongue and tripe, and when we had a pig for butchering at the family reunion, someone would whip up liver’n’lights, and to the old folks, that was a feast fit for a king. I guess I ought to be grateful, because the dis- has come right off and now I’ve just got an advantage.

I gotta tell you, though, I envy the vampires down at the blood bank something fierce. Those anemic bastards get a donor meal every damn day.

Karaoke Night

By mouth{JT}

The bump of the car against his hip was enough to send him sprawling into the gutter, and as he looked up, all he could see was the cool red of the tail lights as it sped off into the distance. Didn’t even bother to stop. He sat up, pulling a half empty bottle of vodka from a pocket and taking a deep swig before muttering in a surly snarl, “Fucker.”

It had started to rain – that light mist that settles on everything, making you wet before you know it. He fished around in his pocket, dirty fingers closed around the lone five-dollar note there. It would be enough toe buy himself a drink at the bar across the road, he thought, and if he nursed it all night, he could stay out of the rain for a time. Carefully stowing away the bottle, he crossed the road and looked up at the sign over the door. There in big, bold, garish letters read the words:

KARAOKE NITE TONITE
Come as your favorite star, or come just as you are! All welcome!

He grimaced, imagining it – but, hang on! He listened. It was loud in the place – loud with lots of laughter and shouting. This was going to work to his advantage. They’d be too busy to notice he didn’t buy any drinks. He’d be set for the night, and so with a smile, he slid through the door.

The music hit him as soon as he walked in, loud and wailing. A very drunk Jim Morrison was singing, only half into the microphone and slurring the words, a bad rendition of “Roadhouse Blues”, while pushing away a rather tired looking hooker every time she tried to get a grope in. Ordering a beer at the bar, he smiled as the bartender barely gave him a second glance before thrusting the beer to him and hurrying off. Flashing a small grin of triumph to himself, he noticed the bartender hadn’t taken the five bucks, and so he palmed it with practised ease as he found a seat. It was in a back booth where, although he could see the comings and goings easily, not much could be seen of him. Good, he thought as he fingered the bottle in his pocket again. Good. He made himself comfortable with the beer and settled back to watch.

Up on the makeshift stage, Jim was still singing. This time, a small group of girls were dancing in front of him in a tired way. They looked barely out of school, but he shrugged as he took another swallow of vodka. Kids grew up so fast nowadays. Fifteen or twenty-five, you couldn’t tell the difference.

A Marilyn lookalike drifted past him in a heady swirl of perfume, her arm over a painfully thin young man with vacant drug filled eyes. She kept whispering in his ear – “Boo boop be do”.

It was all so surreal, he thought as he took yet another swig, unable to keep his eyes from a fat Elvis – obviously the Vegas years – arguing with the bartender. There was even a Jimi Hendrix lookalike yelling to Jim that it was his turn now. Jim shrugged, dropping the microphone, flipping the bird, and lurching off stage, where he collapsed into a booth in a headlong sprawl. The wrong song came out of the speakers, causing Jimi to scream at the bartender as T-Rex’s “Get It On” blared out, and he suppressed a laugh, imagining Jimi in a feather boa like Marc Bolan had worn. The bartender, still arguing with Elvis, waved a hand in Jimi’s direction before flipping the switch on a tired stereo that had seen better days, and peace won as “Hey, Joe” came wafting out.

A couple of young guys in tired, torn, matted sweaters came in, and he peered closer, but – nah, they had just come as themselves, he decided as they took a seat joining the hookers. He watched, fascinated, as a faded gold sandal was slipped from a fishnet-encased foot and walked up one guy’s legs. Lucky guy was going to score tonight, he thought. Mind you, by the looks of her, even he could have afforded her with that five bucks of his. She seemed desparate.

The door banged open again, with a, “Fuck you all!” screamed out before it had even shut, and he grinned. Now Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen lurched through the crowd of school girls, pushing them out of the way despite the girls’ protests. Yeah, he knew those two. Heroes of his youth, were Sid and Nancy. This should be good. He would have to come here more often if it was.

The night wore on, with more and more people coming through the door. Some, like Sid, he recognized straight away. Some he didn’t, leaving him unsure who they had come as. Opera singer, one chick was, and she was immediately booed off the sagging stage. Well, what did she expect, in a place like this? Hardly Paris, was it? But she took it good-naturedly and left without a fuss. And still more streamed in, a real cross-mix of life to watch.

Karaoke certainly brought them all out, he thought. Must be great for business. He wondered if it was a weekly thing, then sighed, watching fur coats rub shoulders with ripped jeans while gold lamé mingled with peace T-shirts and dirty sneakers. Sure does take all sorts.

The night passed in a blur of mixed drinks – vodka washed down with beer, and a swipe of several glasses of wine as he made his way to the toilets and back again. It didn’t matter to him what he drank, so long as there was plenty of it, and he neatly took a cocktail from the edge of the table closest to him. The warm glow of alcohol had dulled the edges of his life, as it always did, and he let himself drift along, caught up some music from the Fifties. Not bad, he thought drunkenly.

Around four or five, maybe even six – he didn’t know for sure – it started to thin out. People were either leaving or falling asleep at the tables, and the bartender wearily wandered the floor, avoiding pools of dried vomit and piss as he collected glasses. As the man passed over his glass, he gave a grin and a, “Tough night, huh?”

The bartender cracked a weary smile.

“Nah, not really. It always gets like this when there’s a bad accident. Some drunk got himself run over down the street. Died. But it brings all these fucking ghosts out. Half of them -” He jerked his thumb at the sleeping Elvis. “- refuse to believe they’re fucking dead yet, either.”

Evidence

By mouth{JT}

The bloodstains on what were once crisp, white, linen bed sheets stood out with more vulgarity in the cold light of day. He sat on the edge of the bed, observing them for the longest time, reflecting in his mind what had happened the night before. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? he had thought – not for the first time – as his eyes drifted to first one stain, then another and another. Already they had turned a rusty brown, never to be completely removed from the expensive bed linen.

His thoughts turned to his wife, Cora, and how she was going to react when she saw them. Cora had always put up with his peculiarities, as she called them, with a pained, resigned sigh. They had married late in life, with each accepting the other’s past, and all the little things that went with forty plus years of life. They rubbed together quite well, in fact, and with no children around, had kept up a very nice lifestyle. Comfortable, middle class suburbia, no fuss and no drama, each taking the other as they were – and in Cora’s case, with a small sigh when she saw he had invaded her space yet again. Cora liked everything neat and tidy; clean, ordered, and, well – starchy white. The mere sight of what he had done would send those lips of hers into a tight line. She would sigh and remove the offending sheets before he could even offer an explanation, really.

How he had felt he was going mad, to the point he couldn’t think straight, and just lashed out. The dead body that he had let his eyes drift onto lay starkly amongst the bloodstains. He hadn’t realized just how many there were – not until now, in the hard reality of morning. Cora was due home soon from her stint on the nightshift, her feet aching and wanting nothing more than a cup of tea and sleep. Ugh. He pulled a face. There was no way she could sleep in this mess. She wouldn’t anyway, and she would know if he changed the sheets. She was so proud of them, being of the finest Egyptian cotton and coming home for all the world to see, in a bag proudly displaying the logo of one of the finest (not to mention, most expensive) stores in town. No, Sir-ee, Cora was not going to like this at all.

It was all her fault, he thought, as his eyes drifted back to the body on the bed. If only she had shut up, had stopped with the incessant whining, never giving him a moment of peace. All he wanted was for her to leave him alone and let him sleep, but oh, no. she couldn’t – wouldn’t – shut up. So he had lashed out – well, isn’t that what any sane man would be driven to? And, as he surveyed the marks on his own arms, she had given as good as she got. Well, almost. He grimaced in a small smile of triumph. At least he was still alive. And once he had started, he couldn’t stop; hearing in his mind, even long after she was dead, that noise. On and on and on. But she had fought bravely back, evading the first few grabs at her with a dexterity that he admired, even as it fuelled him on, taunting him as he redoubled his efforts to kill her. Eventually he had, but not before she had left him with a few souvenirs of her own – not to mention the possibility of a nasty disease as well. His well-ordered mind made a mental note to make an appointment with the doctor later. Right here, right now, though, he was the victor. Survival of the fittest, baby, he thought with another grimace.

The sound of a key in the lock and the screened back door opening with a squeak that he had never quite been able to get rid of told him Cora was home, and he took a deep breath as he followed her footsteps coming closer down the hall to the bedroom. As she stood in the doorway, he looked up sheepishly. He caught the disapproving glance as her eyes went to the messy, unmade bed, and he felt her inward shudder as she took in the scene.

Then came the sigh, followed by, “Really, Colin. You need to stop mucking about and get that hole in the screen door fixed. You know how bad the mosquitoes get at this time of year. Look at the mess its made of my nice, new sheets!”

The Need

Fiction by mouth{JT}

The apartment walls seemed to be closing in on her again, and she clenched her fists tightly, willing herself to pay closer attention to the TV. Hopefully, that would drown out the craving a little, she thought as once again her gaze slid along the table to the telephone, wishing she could call him. But no, she couldn’t – not yet. It hadn’t been very long since she had last called him, trying to keep her voice calm as she sensed his irritation at being called yet again! That time, he had specifically told her not to call until the morning, and she had murmured her apologies for disturbing him before hanging up. Watching TV to take her mind off when she could go see him. God, how she wanted him to say yes. But no, not yet. Perhaps he was teaching her some kind of lesson. She wasn’t sure.

Turning her attention back to the television, she was soon allowing her mind to wander again, lost in the thought of tomorrow. Maybe he would tell her tomorrow she could go. Her lips turned a darker shade of red and a high spot of excited color dotted both cheeks as her mind recalled every small detail of past occasions. That smell! Oh, dear Lord, that smell. There was nothing on earth quite like it, and as her thoughts drifted deeper, further, losing herself so vividly in the daydream, a small pink tongue came out to wantonly carress her bottom lip.

That smell – a heady mixture of damp and earthy, and yet somehow, still its own fragrance. It was such an intoxicating aroma. How warm her mouth felt against the cool skin as one enveloped the other in a greedy embrace. The taste at times was subtle, teasing her senses as she would try to slow down, savouring the first teasing parting of her lips on the skin – tickling the covered flesh with her tongue in feathery light touches, her own saliva making a wet trail wherever she touched with her mouth. Every sense in her body was on high alert with the anticipation of what was to come as she continued the tease of her lips, trying to hold herself back and knowing that slight moaning noise was coming from her. She just couldn’t help it. She really couldn’t.

And the taste! She could never get enough of that first taste, when she allowed her tongue to touch at that tiny hole, with the smallest amount of moisture there giving her hints and promises of things to come. That feeling that would gather in the pit of her stomach knowing she was close, so close. Even now, lost in the daydream, she could visualize everything so clearly. It had been so long since the last time – too long. A shudder rippled over her slender frame as she dwelled on tomorrow and how it would be. How it always was. Want, need, desire took over all of her senses and made her feel breathless, begging almost incoherently as she stuttered out what she wanted. Being made, in a teasing banter, to repeat herself more clearly as he pretended not to understand.

A glance at the clock told her he wouldn’t answer the phone now, anyway. He had a strict rule about answering the phone, and even though it was only a few minutes past the hour, it was – well, still past. She might as well go to bed. Sighing, that was exactly what she did.

The next day, right on the dot of nine o’clock, her hand shook as she dialled the number. She knew it by heart, and precisely on the third ring, he answered .There was a weary tone in his voice as he spoke.

“No, I’m sorry. The first cherries of the season haven’t arrived in store yet, but I’ll call the second they do.”

The Intruder

Fiction by mouth{JT}

Wearily, she let the key in the lock, thankful to be home. It had been a long, hard shift at the hospital, and all she wanted to do on this cold, windy night was to have a long hot shower, something to eat, and bed, ready for the next day’s shift. The TV was going, a trifle too loud, but she blocked out the noise and called out, “Hi, I’m home,” and got a grunt and a wave in reply. No change there, then. A quick glance into the fridge showed her some still edible leftovers, and as she waited for the microwave to ding, she glanced out of the window into the street below.

It was a rough neighborhood, there was no denying that, and the amount of boarded up shops and unkempt look the back alleys gave showed that times were hard. She shrugged. It was one of the reasons rents were so cheap around here. The wind blew trash up the street, and she watched it swirling away, catching at a hooker’s legs as she waited for a customer. It was cold, though, and hardly anyone was around this time of night. Eventually, the hooker lit a cigarette and after a quick look up and down the street, moved off in search of better pickings.

The ding of the microwave told her dinner was ready. She ate it standing up, drifting back to the window, her eyes darting glances to every doorway, then the alley and back again. It was late, and most of the shades were drawn, or the window was dark. A perfect night for peeping toms – or worse – she thought, and shuddered.

Wasn’t it nights like this that the BTK guy went out, breaking into apartments and houses to do the terrible things he did, relying on the fact no one was around to hear? She wasn’t sure, but thought so – and just a couple of months ago, two streets away, the police had caught a peeping tom, right in the act if you please, masturbating in front of some young girl’s bedroom as she got ready for bed. Not to mention Ted Bundy, the charming serial killer who broke into nurses’ rooms and murdered them. Yes, it was a perfect night for something bad to happen. Feeling sick, she turned away from the window, the meal in her stomach disgreeing with the clinical germ smell she fancied clung to her clothes after a shift at work.

The clock pinged over to exactly midnight as she moved into the lounge, muttering, “Turn that thing down. I’m off for a shower, then bed. I’ve had enough for one day.” A double shift at work had made her tired and cranky, and she was in no mood to be woken by screaming from the TV. Her nerves were shot enough as it was.

Her roommate turned her head and grinned, pointing to the TV. “A shower, huh? Better watch out!” The shower scene from the movie “Psycho” was showing, hence the screaming. She mustered a very flat, “Ha, ha, very funny,” and left the room, going into the small bathroom and turning the shower on full.

As she waited for it to heat up, she gathered her night things, turned the electric blanket on, and went back, haphazardly stripping off her dirty uniform. Soon, her underthings followed and she stepped into the scalding hot shower, trying hard to block out the unpleasant noises coming from the TV. God, but the water felt good as it streamed down her back, pushing the aches and pains of the day away, her hands flat against the wall, safely ensconced by the shower curtain. Soaping up her wet hair, she looked up, and suddenly froze.

She wasn’t alone.

Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen something – just a very slight movement, but her sixth sense told her she had company. Her stomach churned. God, what to do now? Had she left the window open? She couldn’t be sure. Why hadn’t she checked? Should she call out? No, that damn TV would drown out her calls for help. The water poured down her body unheeded as she tried to think what to do, what to do, but her mind was blank.

There! The shadow wavered. She knew now she wasn’t alone, was certain of it. Perhaps it was just a draught, her logic kicked in, but that feeling would not go away, no matter how hard she tried. What the hell was going to happen now? A wave of complete terror washed over her as she waited, knowing it was coming. The half digested meal in her stomach was threatening to come up, and all thoughts of tiredness were now gone. She had to protect herself. But how? With what? There was nothing to help her but rows of beauty products adorning the shelf. God forbid, was she going to be found naked and dead in the shower by morning, the water running cold over her nude body? Janet Leigh’s screams coming from the TV weren’t helping any, and her nerves shifted into high gear.

Again, a slight shift in the shower cutain indicated the presence of another, and keeping her eyes firmly on the spot, she reached out, groping blindly for a towel, feeling the security of the warm material as she glided it around herself.

As the cutain shifted again, she couldn’t stand it any more. If she was going to be attacked, she would at least try and make a run for it first. Gathering up her courage, her hand crept towards the curtain before taking a deep breath and sweeping it back, at the same time screaming, “AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!” and diving for the door. Her room mate looked up in surprise as she burst dripping wet into the lounge, barely covered by the towel.

“I thought you said you got rid of that fucking spider yesterday!”