Communion

One hundred years is a long life; but not so long as some. Today I turn one hundred years old and I feel I must unburden myself of the terrible secret I’ve been keeping since I was a teenager. Perhaps with this letter I can stop the horror that has been going on for thousands of years.

Twelve months ago, at the age of ninety-nine I was relieved of my duties and brought here to this hospital to live out my remaining time. My body quickly began to fail, but I have spent every moment possible of this last year learning the skills that would allow me to tell my tale. I learned to read and write. Now, finally, I can give my confession.

I was born without vocal chords and am therefore mute. Growing up, many people equated this inability to speak with stupidity as if one who can not talk must be dumb. I personally feel I’m quite the opposite, but truly, what does any man really know? Perhaps the only thing one can know for sure is that he knows nothing. Was that Socrates? Or Plato… I can’t recall all those Greeks. And what does it matter in the end?

As you may know I’m Roman and though Rome joined the unified State of Italy forty years before my birth there were still many around who considered themselves Romans before Italians while I was growing up. My father was one of these and he instilled in me a great pride of my heritage and my native town and its ties with my religion: Catholicism.

My family was one of zookeepers for many generations. After the first great war there were many who enjoyed peaceful days in the sun, gazing at the likes of caged majestic lions and playful monkeys. I took care of these sorts of animals and many others. I suppose it was this skill as much as the fact of my inability to utter a sound that made me desirable to the Vatican.

It was shortly after Vatican City forged its autonomy in 1929 that my father was approached about my services. He was, of course, quite honored by the fact that his only son was chosen to carry out secret duties inside the consecrated walls and basically sold my life to the Holy See for but a few Lira.

Under the catacombs of Saint Peters’ Cathedral I was to spend the vast majority of the next eighty-three years of my life tending to the most holy, or should I say most unholy of secrets.

I can still vividly recall the first day I was led underground. There was a string hung sparsely with tiny uncovered light bulbs; each one illuminating an area just wide enough that one must pass through meters of pitch black before arriving at the next glowing spot. I walked the labyrinthine corridors amidst the smell of dirt and sulphur, passing niches filled with the bones of those long dead and my heart raced with fear and excitement. Few were allowed entrance to these passages. Fewer still survived to tell of it.
I was given my own quarters down there. Modest by some standards, I considered them luxurious compared to my home in Ciampino where my family had lived for over four hundred years before all that land was taken away by the military. But, these are things I’ve only heard through gossip during my years of service. I have not left the walls of the Vatican since I arrived some eighty-three years ago.

I was given a day to orient myself to my new surroundings and the following morning I was introduced to my charge. Again, I was led through the maze dug out by ancient personages. This time however, I was blindfolded. Four times a day I was brought in this manner back and forth from my room to the cells of the one I was to tend to.

He was huge and at first I thought he was a leper and crossed myself repeated praying to God that this was not truly my fate. The wounds all across his body I later discovered were man made and not the ravishments of any known disease. He was chained to the floor and ceiling, but spent the majority of his time lying upon a kingly bed. He had fouled the bed and himself and would thousands of times over in the eighty plus years I would care for him.

That was my job.

When I saw him on the second day he was much smaller. The wounds were far larger and covered most of his body as if someone had cut the majority of his flesh out from under his skin.

What were they doing and why? Who was this man? A demon? An enemy of Christ?

I cleaned and bathed him as was my obligation. Dressed his wounds. Tidied his room and changed his linen. I was also directed to catch any excess blood that oozed from him in bowls and jars that were always kept nearby. I made sure never to let it touch my skin believing it must be cursed if they were so intent on removing it. There was also a time when one of my chores was the try to get him to eat. They wanted him to eat more and more. They wanted him as fat as possible so they might continue to take of his flesh and blood. Later, when the technology arrived they force fed him with tubes. Each time, within a day or two he would heal and then plump up like a sow prepared for slaughter. This daily transformation never ceased to amaze me.

How he continued to live through these tortures was beyond me, but live he did.

I always had a hard time understanding why he was restrained. As big as he was he could never in a million years squeeze through the door of his chamber, nor could he waddle along the corridors of the catacombs even if they were lined with melted butter except in the day or so after his surgeries and then he was far too weak. Only a miracle could free him, but it seemed miracles were the norm for this one.

A few of his escapes were spoken of by various people in my presence over the years. Of course one of the worst drawbacks of being mute combined with the inability to write is being unable to easily ask questions. I had become adept at making myself understood through gestures, but questions about this prisoner were difficult. I discovered much by simply listening to the gossip of those few I met during my days.

There were two girls who brought meals down from the surface; one each for days and nights. The meals for the prisoner seemed to never stop coming. I never once heard the daytime woman speak and came to believe that she was as mute as I. The night shift girl was slow in the head, but she did often chatter with the guard who stood outside the caged mans cell. I imagine that after she delivered her bounty and stood outside the closed door pattering on a bit with the guard they probably never guessed that I could hear them clear as crystal while spoon-feeding the captive, or tidying his room, or bathing him.

As the years went by the people changed. The day shift woman became a hunchbacked boy who eventually grew into middle and old age. The guard was always a young strong Italian lad who wore the raiment of the Swiss Guard with an insignia I did not recognize. Instead of gold or silver stars on a blue background, he wore a single black star on the traditional blue. I saw at least thirty guards in my time. Then there was the gentleman who blindfolded me and led me through the tunnels. Finally, there were those who dealt with the prisoner. I rarely saw them, but knew they visited him often.

The prisoner never spoke to me though sometimes I heard him mumbling to himself in a language that I did not recognize. It was certainly not Italian. The noises he made most often were tortuous moans whilst I tended his wounds or when I touched him in any way.

His eyes were a deep grey and he always gazed at me with the most curious of expressions; sad, resentful, fearful, compassionate, angry, wise, and somehow forgiving all at once. I often thought of what a horrible existence this poor soul had and wondered why the Pope allowed this monstrousness to go on. Did the Pope even know? And what exactly was going on?

Often times I arrived for my duties as the doctors were leaving. Men in white smocks rolling cart after cart filled with deep pans of what could only be the prisoners flesh and buckets of his blood. It wasn’t until I had been working there for nearly fifty years that I found out where all the extractions went.

The guide who brought me back and forth from my chamber and covered my eyes with clothe usually made sure I could not see at all. But, in the thousands of times I was escorted back and forth there were hundreds of occasions when my blindfold allowed me a glimpse of my surroundings. It wasn’t like I could mention this to anyone…

Once, when my blindfold was too loose to be any real impediment to sight, the doctors asked my guide for some assistance. I was taken along with them into what I guessed must be some kind of factory. It was at this location that the gallons and gallons of the prisoners blood was diluted with wine and bottled. There were cases upon cases of the stuff all loaded into boxes labeled to be sent off to thousands of exotic locations.

I saw the huge hunks of flesh sliced down to tiny pieces and fed into ovens. Finally I glimpsed the result of what these Catholics were achieving as they packaged and loaded it into similar shipping boxes. It was all I could do not to fall to my knees and weep.

I understood everything at that moment and heaven help me but I did nothing to stop it. Though I did my duties with the utmost reverence and care it doesn’t change the fact that I DID continue doing my small part in their ungodly design for the next thirty years or more.

But, I prayed every night that the prisoner would be released from bondage and wondered how this could possibly be his fate. Was god really that cruel? How could the church do such a thing, especially to this most revered of people?

And now as I write this letter and devise a way to get it to the public without those from the Vatican finding out in the hopes that exposing them will end this abomination, the priest has arrived to sit with me as is the practice here. Since learning to read and write I am expected to give weekly confessions. This I do, but I omit anything about what I know of the secrets of the Vatican.

Father Gimello asks if I’d like to take communion and I become so violently repulsed that he leaves to hail a nurse. When he exits I hide my note under my pillow and wait for their return that I may refuse the Father his offer. Though to my undying shame I used to do it before I knew the truth, never again will I eat Christs’ flesh, nor drink his blood!

Wood, Witch, Whale

It was 57 years ago that my misery really began; the day I lost the love of my life while she was bringing our first and only son into the world. A spark in my soul flickered out that day, never to reignite. However, a fresh flame did come to life that cold November day. My boy, Petruchio, a name Oletta chose from her favorite Shakespearean play, became the new light of my life. Whereas the torch that burned for my bride had been reckless and daring, passionate and confident, the one which lit thoughts of my child was cautious and wary, protective and stable. Both flames, however, consumed my every thought while I had them.

Fifty years ago, again on a frosted November day; I still so vividly recall the schoolmaster and Signore Vargo from down the street laying my child out on the sofa. His tiny seven year old body mangled from the heavy wheels of the milk wagon which had accidentally run him down. A blue ball, it was said, was the culprit. Petruchio had raced into the street to retrieve it. Afterward, no such toy had been found. Lately I’ve come to the conclusion that it was her, even all those years ago, preparing for the events that have recently unfolded.

My life passed in a fog since that second and most cruel loss. For a great while I neither ate nor slept. Friends and family feared for my life, but I paid them such little mind that they eventually became friends and family in name only. I saw no one and no one saw me for a long time. Then, one day my appetites for life and the rituals of the living returned, if one could really call it that. I ate again. I slept again. I went back to work. But, there was no spirit involved and the world was a shadow that moved on around me.

I had been a doll maker in my youth, a profession that was in demand a lifetime before such toys were brought into the world pressed from a plastic mold. My work had been one of the reasons Oletta had married me. We both adored and desired children and would spend hours in the workshop together, she designing forms as if creating children made of our love and I making those plans alive in wood, cloth, and porcelain.

After Petruchio the last thing I wanted to see was a little boy or little girl, even one not made of flesh and bone; especially not one made of wood by my own hand. However, when the life, such as it was, retuned to me, so too did my craft. I reopened my shop which was also the house I lived in and earned the most meager of living until old age gnarled my body and poverty wore its way down into my guts.

That was when it happened. I still can’t recall if it was she who brought me to the block of wood or the lumber which called her back into my life, but what does it really matter? For there she was with that blue hair of hers that glowed with a magical tinge. There too was the wood that spoke to me. Did it speak out loud or in my head? Or was it the evil blue haired witch’s voice all along? Whoever or indeed whatever talked me into working that wood, the deed was done with remarkable speed. Never have I constructed a body so quickly. Never have I crafted a face so decidedly human in appearance. The clothes were styled in the exact fashion that young boys wore fifty some odd years ago down to the cap and mittens. Some might say the doll bore a striking resemblance to a cross between me and my deceased wife. At the beginning I saw it as such too.

And the lady with the turquoise hair turned her gaze upon me, the beauty of her features disguising the horror encased within, “Speak, old man”, she demanded. “Say the words and this piece of timber can be as your long lost son.”

“As” my long lost son, but not him. Twas the “as” that my ears didn’t pick up. Perhaps they didn't want to hear it. Still bound in the spell of creation with the grief of my dear lost ones suddenly returned to pump like a fount of seawater from the blowhole of a whale, I spoke words of an insectile ancient tongue that I had no idea I had ever heard or knew. They could have only been fed to me by the witch though she neither moved her lips nor breathed as the dialogue erupted off my tongue in a spasmodic gush that left me exhausted on the ground, one of my lungs collapsed. As I crawled painfully to a phone to dial emergency assistance my back was turned on the woman who lifted the puppet from my workbench, cradled it in her arms much as I used to cradle Petruchio, and carried it out the back door without a sound.

I was only a short while in the hospital, even less then need be as I was destitute and without any form of insurance. Still, when I arrived back home I felt healthy enough. There was no sign of the doll. In fact, even every last scrap and shaving from the block I’d used to make it was vanished without a trace. No matter, I thought, it almost seemed as if the whole affair had been but a dream. Yet, there was a peculiar mound of earth on the ground behind my shop; freshly churned dirt which gave off the foulest stench.

Days passed until the full moon hung huge on the horizon one sweltering summer night when I happened to glance out the kitchen window in the rear of the house and spotted her. She stood behind the mound staring back at me. Though afraid, I went out back to face her.

“Your son is under there”, she nodded at the earth which still looked freshly dug after a few weeks and stank with a wicked rot that had grown worse every day.

“Not my son”, I muttered, terrified to meet her gaze.

“Oh yes”, she countered, “And if you wish it so what is under there shall be alive.”

And gods help me, but the thought of Petruchio alive again and in my arms almost drove me mad with yearning. I made a wish; Just as a shooting star streaked across the coal black sky.

The ground began to rumble and the stinking dirt peaked as a volcano might just before eruption; only instead of molten lava pushing its way to the surface a small gloved hand emerged from the earth. Slender wooden limbs followed and soon the doll I had carved was standing in front of me, clumps of soil specking it clothes and skin.
In the darkness it was hard to see the dowels, hinges, and other parts that distinguished it from a real boy. In the murk I whispered, “Petruchio?” with fearful hope.

It made no motion of recognition until the witch spoke another name to it; a strange bastardization of my son’s name that I’d never heard before. Immediately its head whipped toward her and it bounded off in the witches direction. It was easy to see in its movements that the thing was indeed a puppet cut from a tree.

When it reached the blue haired woman she enfolded it in her arms just as I used to do with Petruchio all those years ago when he would enter the house after school and come down to my workshop in the basement to say hello. She bent down, looked him dead in his painted eyes, and spoke, “To become flesh and blood you must prove yourself brave and true. You must be able to know right from wrong.”

But what was right from wrong to a creature like that? I would soon discover as the beautiful, awful woman further described the lifestyle the animated doll must live to accomplish its goal. I was forced to turn away in revulsion, but not before she explained that it was friend to the bugs and beasts of the foul earth which had given it its half life. To demonstrate, she reached out toward the insects that squirmed along its body and a bluish glow engulfed them. I watched as one amongst their number, a cricket I do believe it was, grew larger upon the puppets breast. In a hideous inhuman voice I heard that bug call the wooden boy master and pledge its undying devotion. But, by then I had slammed the door behind me as I ran back to the safety of my house as quickly as my aged legs could carry me. I was prepared to run straight through the house and out the front door, away from the horror behind me, but I tripped and fell sprawling, knocking my skull on the foot of the sofa and putting myself unconscious for many an hour.

It stood over me when I awoke; smiling. Then I noticed the blood. At first I was certain I had cut something during my fall and the stain was my own. It didn’t take too long of an inspection to put that notion to rest. I dared not touch the creature, yet if it had indeed become flesh and blood as the witch declared it could and the thing was hurt and bleeding I felt it my duty to help. I lifted it from its feet and turned it over and over in my hands. It gave me no resistance. I immediately felt that it was still made of lumber; and lumber did not bleed. There was the slightest tinge of red around its lips and I guessed that perhaps the paint had smeared from its time underground. Whatever it was it couldn’t have been what caused the mess before me.

I put the doll down and followed the bloody trail which led into the kitchen.

There in the middle of the floor lay the remains of a child; a real child. I was unable to tell the gender for it had been mauled pretty fiercely. The head had been opened and much of what it had contained was missing.

I looked down at the puppet that had followed me into the kitchen.

“What have you done”, I asked it.

“I was hungry”, it responded innocently.

“Who is that?” I had to know that I might tell the authorities.

“She’s a girl, father. I met her at school today.”

I was horrified, aghast. The creature had gone to school? The monster had brought a little girl to my house and murdered her? The foul thing had eaten the poor child? It… It… It had called me father!

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew who could help. I went to see Stromboli.

The fat gypsy was a friend from old. And his people had relations with the seedier sides of magic, which I was now positive was what I was up against. If anyone knew a way to deal with this, he would.

I visited him at the circus he ran. The fact that he was even in town was my one piece of luck. My story came out in a gush while Stromboli sat quietly, his fat hands folded atop his ample belly, leaning back precariously in an office chair, face veiled in the darkness of the room.

Stromboli had great sympathy for my plight, but there was a strange gleam in the Romani’s eye that I should have understood. He sketched out a plan that would rid me of my malady. It turned out to be simple and effective. Stromboli sent me home armed with his two pets and a silver whistle. He rubbed a spicy scented unction into the coats of his dog and cat as he spelled out what I must do. The lotion, he insisted, would draw the evil doll to it like a fly to honey. These animals were trained to obey the whistle. Once the puppet got a whiff I was to give the whistle a sharp blow for a few seconds. This would send the animals straight back to the circus and Stromboli with my little problem in tow.

The plan worked to perfection despite the fact that Gideon the cat wanted nothing to do with my small wooden boy. The dog, who looked rather fox-like and had been dubbed with the queer appellation of John Worthington Foulfellow had no such qualms as he licked the puppets knobby knees the moment he saw them and wagged his tail happily all the while. I didn’t wait long after introductions were made before sounding the whistle. The pets promptly turned tail and Petruchio’s foul shade trailed them down the road and out of sight.

I was free at last and went about cleaning up the remains of the dead girl in my kitchen debating on a plan of action for that mess. I was surprised, true, but hardly shocked to find a second mutilated and half eaten corpse near the first one; this one underneath the table where I ate my own meals. With a shudder I chose to call the police.

It was many days before they finally left my house and the repeated questions dried up somewhat. Even now I think they still believe me guilty of those heinous acts. However, since they could prove nothing, I was never charged and for a short while my soul was relieved; until I awoke one morning to see those unblinking painted puppet eyes staring down at me. They were accompanied by another dead child in my kitchen.

“What have you done?” I questioned angrily.

“Why, nothing father”, it replied. Was it a trick of the light or had the beasts nose extended out slightly toward me. I shuddered and nearly broke down then and there. Instead, I paid Stromboli a second visit.

The Gypsy was in a bad way. He wouldn’t even see me at first and when he did the tale he told was almost as unbelievable as the one I was living through. His face was a map with continents of bruises and long rivers of cuts. One arm was in a sling and there were heavy bandages about his chest.

“The witch! That blue haired fairy!” he raved. “She did this to me. She and that terrible bug of his!”

I remembered the cricket and the impure oath it had taken.

He was supposed to have destroyed the monster, but instead Stromboli had sensed a rare opportunity to turn a profit. So, he captured the doll in a cage and attempted to force it to do his bidding. He was successful for a short while; A very short while. Until the cricket managed to track down the witch and bring her back.


Stromboli neither could nor would help me any longer. He did, however, give me a contact who he was certain could eliminate the murderous fiend and its cohorts.

That very day I travelled to the inaptly named Pleasure Island which I reached after a short row in my decrepit old skiff to speak to the Englishman known only as “The Coachman”. Our conversation was much like the one I’d originally had with Stromboli; me relating my accounts and he assuring me that he could assuage the situation.

There were no pets sent home with me, but a small boy named Lampwick who was dispatched to remove the puppet from my home. He used the same ploy by rubbing the spicy scented lotion on his hands. The smell caused the marionette to follow the real little boy straight out the front door.

This time I cleaned the remains of the newest victim and buried them myself in the back yard, cursing the entire time. I cursed myself for the deception I was perpetrating as well as the monster and his awful entourage for coming into my life.

It was four days later when the letter arrived. It read:

Signore,

The truth I had feared from your story has been realized.
You and the blue haired witch whom you spoke have together
created ZOMBIUS. This is the most unholiest of creatures
that, as you’ve seen, feeds off of human flesh; especially
brains. Fortunately, the creature is not fully formed yet
and there is still a chance to stop it. Since Lampwick
delivered it into my hands I’ve been attempting to destroy
it with no success thus far and I fear my activities will
remain fruitless. The beast is fighting me at every turn
and it is only a matter of time before his insect familiar,
which has escaped me, returns with the witch and frees the
Zombius. Therefore, you must help me. As quickly as humanly
possible you must dig up the shavings; the extra wood from
the block of which you originally fashioned the monster.
These will be in the fetid mound of earth which it was buried
and arose from. Retrieve every last bit and store them in a
glass jar. It must be GLASS. This is IMPORTANT. Take the
jar to the old man GUILLIANO on Perrilious Island. This is
the small strip of land about 20 leagues beyond my own
Pleasure Island. Give Guilliano the jar of shavings and
this note. He will know what to do. Only then will we be
rid of this darkest cloud that now hangs over us all. For if
the puppet completes its transformation it is not only you
and I who are doomed, but the entire world!

GOD BE WITH YOU,
The Coachman

What could I do if not exactly what was instructed of me by this letter? With shovel in hand I went out back to dig. The ground smelled even worse then I remembered, though strangely enough the scent vanished completely a scant few feet from the spot. I had no sooner begun when I was interrupted by the police come to question me about the latest child to disappear. They searched my house and were so intrigued by the foul scented plot of upturned soil in my yard that they did most of my work for me; shoveling out the dirt they were certain would lead to the evidence that would imprison me for the rest of my life. Despite the stench that supposedly confirmed their suspicions, they found nothing and so long did they spend on the area they were too tired and frustrated to look under the rosebushes a few yards away that actually held the body of the dead child.

After they departed I sifted the soil the officers had left piled in my garden in search of the clippings. I worked all through the night with an oil lamp lighting my way and when I was certain I’d gotten every last bit I sifted the entire heap again just to make sure. Finally, I had a mason jar almost half full of trimmings. I transported them carefully to my rowboat and by dawn had rowed halfway to Pleasure Island and hopefully the end of this madness.

The Coachman’s Isle was in sight when the sea became rough. As I rowed around the West edge of the land I thought I heard a strange choked braying that had I been canine would have certainly raised hackles on my neck. My eyes shifted to the mason jar to make sure it was safe. Then, I lowered my head and stroked harder. The swells made for difficult rowing and I found my little skiff being pushed closer and closer to the rocky side of the island where it would surely be destroyed. With the last of my strength I surged away and out into open seas again.

Then a queer sensation struck my belly; like when you are pushed high in a swing. It felt as if only the water below my boat was rising while the rest of it stayed low. And indeed, when I stopped rowing and looked about, that was exactly what had occurred. Suddenly, something enormous and grey rose upward from the sea in a circle around my vessel and closed over the top of me like a huge dome.

All was dark as I lost the sun and the world with it. My craft was tossed about rudely upon a series of rapids. I lay on the floor of my boat clinging to the jar of shavings.

At last I felt the ship come to rest upon some sort of land. It took many an hour for my eyes to adjust and when they did my sight was still limited. I was on a tiny island in a vast cave. It was swelteringly warm and I could not tell from which direction I had arrived due to the stillness of the water.

I did not know what to do. I had not expected my voyage to last very long and so I had brought no provisions whatsoever. No food. No water. No tools to neither make light nor catch fish. I had no illusions of my ability to row back through those rapids and could only hope that going forward (if I could even figure out which direction forward was) might lead me to safety.

There was really only one thing an old man like me could do in such a desperate situation; I prayed. And when that grew tiring, I cried. Eventually, the tears led to the utter oblivion of sleep.

I’m not sure how long I’d been passed out, but I awoke to a bright light near my face. A fire! I backed away quickly to the other side of the boat and glanced about.

There stood the monster holding a lantern. It had been touching my body. I shivered.

“Father”, it said, “What are you doing in the belly of a whale?”

Is that where I am, I wondered. That’s when I noticed that the doll had the long hairy ears and tail of a donkey. “What happened to you?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“That man”, said my creation, “That mean man. He did this to me and much worse. But, I took care of him and escaped. The blue fairy told me about what had happened to you and so I’ve come to your rescue.”

Such a weird thing happened then. The puppet’s nose appeared to lengthen somewhat. Was it a trick of the light? I could not tell, but I was reminded of having seen this occur before in my kitchen when it had lied to me about the third murder.

“Let me help you father”, it continued. “I have a plan. I’ll use the lantern to burn your boat. The smoke and fire will cause the whale to expel us through his blowhole right above us.” He raised the light and I could just make out the hole in the ceiling easily at least fifty feet away.

There was a flaw I saw in this plan immediately and I spelled it out. “Without a boat I’ll surely drown.”

“No, father. I am made of wood. You may float home upon me.”

Could it be? The doll would truly save my life? Did it have some good in it after all? It did look so much like my boy that I truly wanted to trust him. I almost couldn’t believe my luck.

“Just give me the jar with the shavings that I may rebury them and I’ll bring you to safety.”

The little button nose that was an exact duplicate of Petruchio’s pushed out even further. It now no longer appeared in the least bit similar. It broke the illusion that it was my Petruchio come to save me and reinforced the idea that I could tell when the creature lied to me. And if it was lying to me now…

A second light appeared in the whale’s belly. It was soft and eerily blue and accompanied by a low raspy chirping that was nearly a growl. The cricket and the witch had arrived.

She stared deep into my eyes and I realized I was more terrified then I’d ever been in my life.

“You have done well, child”, she cooed. With a snap of her fingers the donkey ears and tail became human in appearance and wooden once more. “And now the time has finally come.”

With those words the cricket made a mighty leap up, up, up into the gloomy heights of the whale’s stomach. We all watched it rise in silence, our heads tilted up as one. I almost lost hold of my mason jar. The doll did drop the lantern to the floor of the boat with a thud. The cricket’s descent arced straight toward the beasts upturned face and right in its mouth. I listened queasily to the crunches and swallows that ensued.

“No more bargaining”, sneered the witch, “Hand me that jar and I’ll make sure your death is quick. Refuse and I’ll give your flesh to your little child here, which will ensure you a long and torturous undead life as a zombius slave.”

Then I watched in amazement as the little wooden puppet changed before my eyes to what appeared as flesh and bone. He was now the spitting image of my long lost child.

“Oh Petruchio”, I whispered sadly, not even fully understanding the horror that would be unleashed on the world under the guise of my innocent boy.

But the monster screamed at me from the other end of the boat in a voice that was nothing like my son's, “My name is Pinocchio. Pinocchio! PINOCCHIO!!! And I will eat your brains!”

I’m not sure if it was the threat or hearing that bastardized pronunciation of my real son’s name, but my reaction was instant and angry. I grabbed the oil lamp and flung it hard on the side of my rowboat between he and I while leaping out of the craft and away from the others. I landed hard on my hip and heard a cruel snap as the skiff burst into flames.

Both the boy, for it was clearly no longer a doll, and the woman howled, though whether in pain or fury or both I could not distinguish. I rolled painfully onto my back and watched the fire engulf not only the boat, but cause a wall of flame to separate myself from my enemies.

I was inching on my elbows back toward the murky waters when I felt a rumble and glanced over my shoulder to see a giant swell coming at me from the bowels of the whale.

My first thought was a curse that the water would put out the fire that protected me, but it was immediately replaced by fear for my life and the sensations of being lifted straight upward at fabulous speed. I was certain I’d be crushed upon whatever ceiling of bone and flesh awaited me up there; however this was not to be. Suddenly a bright light burst before my eyes, blinding me. Then I was falling, falling, falling only to splash painfully into the sea.

I forced myself to the surface, arms flailing, legs kicking despite the sheer agony of my broken hip. Of the witch and the zombius, I had no inkling. I was alone in calm water with no idea if I might be able to find land. Miraculously, the mason jar of wood clippings was clutched to my chest.

My strength is failing, but onward I swim. I can see land ahead, though I’m not sure if it’s island or mainland or if I’ll drown before reaching it. Still, I fight on for I know that getting my cargo to Guilliano that he may destroy it must be done and that only I, Geppetto the doll-maker can assure that the world might avoid the horrible plague that is Pinocchio.

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Dead End Job

It all began when Bob got the position at Bryce-Stanley in the accounting department. It was a temp to hire job which meant that he’d be temporary for at least six months and then the company had the option to hire him permanently, keep him as a temp indefinitely, or get rid of him. At first Bob hoped he’d get hired on as the money and benefits were too good to pass up. However, Bob became increasingly uncomfortable as the days wore on. His boss, Mr. McCluster worked in another wing of the building and seemed to be the busiest man on the planet. In his first two weeks he’d seen the man three times for a total of ninety-six minutes. That wouldn’t be so bad if McCluster wasn’t the person in charge of his training. Unfortunately, he was, and thus, Bob never really learned to do the job he was hired for. So, he was left in the care of Mrs. Orphanim who had no use for him whatsoever. She pawned him off on her underling, Meg Wharbuckle, explaining that Bob should help out wherever she chose.

Bob was naturally a nervous sort. He only wanted to fit in, do his job, and go home. His previous place of employment at Dynogram had him doing billing for various accounts. Every day there would be a stack of files that needed his ministering and when he was finished with those there was always another stack waiting. He completed everything that was due by months end and then the whole cycle began again on the first of the following month. He always knew what was expected of him and had a wonderful routine that allowed for moments of free time whenever he deemed them necessary.

Unfortunately, he was let go due to cutbacks when the economy took it’s most distinct downturn in mid 2008. By the time he got the job at Bryce-Stanley, Bob was desperate for a paycheck and would take much discomfort to retain its steadiness.

That first week wasn’t too bad though as Meg Wharbuckle kept him fairly busy with some menial, but time consuming tasks. There was down time alright, but like most temps Bob had learned to look like he was working at every moment and this act did indeed take time to perform which made the days go by. During the second week even Meg Wharbuckle was too occupied to be bothered with creating tasks for Bob and his downtime expanded to most of the work day.

On Monday of the fourth week he knocked on Mrs. Orphanim’s door and spelled out his plight to her. She was sympathetic and informed him that she would speak with Mr. McCluster that very morning to create a resolution that would have him doing what he was hired to do that very day. By Wednesday Bob found himself still seated alone at his desk doing nothing but fighting the urge to surf the web. He allowed himself to succumb. Why not? He hated sitting around doing nothing and always being worried that someone would notice and be upset with him or get him in trouble. He decided he could catch up on some reading. As long as he kept the computers screen to text only with no pictures it would appear as if he were reading business files to the casual glancers.

But, what to read?

Bob had always been interested in physics; the study of matter and its motion through spacetime, but he’d never done anything toward advancing his knowledge on the subject. That weekend he’d watched a documentary on Quantum Mechanics and some of its theorists such as Heisenberg, Einstein, and of course, Max Planck, the founder of the quantum theory, which was why it was in his head that day. He made his choice and began tentatively with a Wikipedia look-up of physics. There was even a subreference that gave a more accessible less technical introduction to the subject. He read the article slowly certain that he would be stumped quickly and left frustrated. This was not the case as he discovered that he already knew and understood much of what was written on the page. He started scanning the linked articles that explained particular phrases in greater detail. By the end of the following week Bob had exhausted much of the Wikipedia resource. He had a solid base knowledge, but he’d pointedly stayed away from the actual mathematics involved. Just the thought of equations made his head spin, but after another week of browsing documents from various web sites and doing a little text chatting with some physics geeks on line Bob knew that if he wanted to delve any deeper he’d have to begin comprehending and using formulas.

If his original explorations in theory could be considered tentative, then his foray into mathematics was downright timid. There were so many x’s and y’s and z’s it was like the alphabet had gone rogue on him and was starting a language of its own, which in a way it was. Bob spent hours filling Word documents and Excel spreadsheets with algebraic functions, calculus, and advanced trigonometric equations.

He didn’t always understand all the numbers he drew up, but his base in accounting along with the many hours of studying he put in while bored at work allowed him to figure out much more then he ever dreamed he'd be able to.

At the four month mark of his tenure with Bryce-Stanley he received an email from Mrs. Orphanim stating that the company was very pleased with his performance thus far and wanted to make him a permanent hire. Would he accept a job at terms that completely blew him away? If he agreed, Bob would be making more money then he’d ever made in his life by far, and the salary he’d been taking home at Dynogram was nothing to sneeze at. It was a no-brainer and without ever speaking a single word to any of his superiors Bob found waiting at his desk the following morning his key to the executive washroom as well as various insurance forms, disclosures, and other paperwork to fill out.

He was thrilled with the hour or so of reading and signing before it was back to the grind of quantum physics.

Bob had transformed his tiny cubicle into a miniature classroom slash laboratory. He’d begun some small experiments the previous week and was considering striking out a little further. He’d done some tinkering on a prototype for a laser that would do nothing more then bend and hone a beam of light. With the primitive instruments he had at his disposal and what he was certain must be his own flawed formulas, Bob didn’t hold out much hope that his laser would cut through the apple he was using as his test object, but that was ok. In fact, he figured none of his experiments would ever meet with success. But, the great thing about physics as far as Bob was concerned was that when one encountered a setback it was normally due to an error in the math. With enough time and a fine enough comb those troubles could be weeded out. Since it was the weeding process that Bob enjoyed anyway, it was a win-win situation.

And so it was with a whimsical sense that Bob flipped the switch on the little lamp he brought with him to work that day. The beam of light it created was directed by specifically placed mirrors and forced through different mediums such as water and mercury Bob had gotten from a broken thermometer. There was a lot more to it then that, but everything was mocked up since he didn’t have access to tools and chemicals that a real scientist had. He always sighed when on the subject. What he wouldn’t give to have a particle accelerator in his cubicle.

After only a few seconds he switched off the light and gazed at his apple. It didn’t look any different. There certainly was no hole cut through its center as he might have hoped. Wait; there was a small black mark in the exact middle of the spot where the beam had struck. Bob rubbed it with his thumb. It didn’t rub off. He honestly couldn’t recall if it had been there previous to his experiment and it was SO tiny. Bob thought for a moment and then turned the fruit over to check out the other side. Yes, there was an identical spot. He needed a magnifying glass and pronto! Yet, there was none to be had at Bryce-Stanley. So Bob left work early without asking permission and picked one up on his way home. It was so diminutive that he couldn’t even be sure with the magnifying glass so he cut a small piece of the skin off and put it under a microscope. What he found was that it was indeed a hole!

Bob couldn’t believe it. He was ecstatic for the rest of the day and had trouble sleeping that night since his mind raced with thoughts of more intricate experiments he would attempt. He was now a bona fide quantum mechanic!

The next day he overslept almost an entire hour sleeping right through his alarm. He showed up late for work for the first time since he’d begun the job. He sat down in his office chair and glanced around nervously. Apparently, no one had noticed his tardiness. After a few more moments of apprehension he settled into his daily routine.

He kept his work journal at the office and he spent his early morning hours writing about his success of the previous day. He made notations on even the most trivial of details and took pictures with his digital camera which he then plugged into his computer and uploaded. The plan was to print them out with the color printer in the copy room and staple then into his notebook to illustrate his jottings. But, first he toyed with the shots, cropping and lightening or darkening where necessary.

It was on the photo of the mirror he’d placed on the wall behind the apple that he noticed the black spot. At first he thought it was an anomaly of the light in the room or perhaps the reflection of something in the mirror itself. It never even occurred to him to check the actual mirror which still hung in the spot he’d placed it to reflect back his laser beam so that if it did work, it wouldn’t cut a hole through the wall of his cubicle. It was tilted toward yet another mirror so the beam would be trapped between the two until it was shut off, however the picture of the final mirror showed no spot.

That was when Bob switched his gaze to the actual piece of glass. There was indeed a black spot on it that was not a reflection of anything at all. It was a hole. It was significantly larger then the one in the apple and measured perhaps a full millimeter in diameter. Bob’s face went white. He stood slowly and exited his cubicle to assess the damage. He expected to see a hole on the outer wall as well as one in the wall across the hallway. But, there was none. Relieved, he returned to the mirror and took it off the wall. This area was also unscathed. Excellent! He turned the reflective glass over. The back was undamaged as well. Now that was strange. He placed the piece on his desk and gave it a closer inspection.

There was a strange tugging sensation coming from the black fissure. It was strong. Bob felt it pulling at his finger, sucking it toward the mirror. He grabbed a pen and pushed the tip into the opening. The suction jerked it inside. Bob held the mirror upside down and released his grip on the pen. The suction held it firmly against the mirror. He pulled the pieces apart. The tip of the pen had vanished inside the crack in the mirror. Bob looked inside the hole as best he could, but it was darkest night in there.

He returned the mirror to the desk and backed away. The thought coursing through his head was too insane to remain in there. Had he created a miniature black hole?
He immediately darted to the computer and read up on everything he could find about black holes. He became so involved in his research that he totally forgot about the one that might be on his desk until an annoying noise broke him from his studying reverie. It sounded like a really loud air conditioner. It turned out to be the hole in the mirror. It had more then doubled in size and the noise was the sound of the suction it was creating.

Bob took the tipless pen and fed it directly into the crack. It fit now and Bob watched as inch after inch of its length disappeared into the mirror until his fingers were close enough he feared the suction might draw them in too. He released his grip on the pen and poof! It was gone.

Suddenly scared, Bob turned the mirror over on the desk and left the office. He went home and took a long hot shower so he could clear his mind and think.

The decision he came to was that he didn’t want to go back to work…

He didn’t have to worry about finding a new job for long. It only took three days before the news reports began airing on TV about the huge black hole that had been discovered in the accounting department of Bryce-Stanley that was sucking everything into it with such force that the safety zone had already expanded to two an a half miles away from its center. Worse, it was growing at an alarming rate. Scientists had already deduced that at its current pace the black hole would swallow the entire Earth in less then a month.

The world wide panic had begun that day, but Bob had already numbed himself to this news. His apartment was close enough to Bryce Stanley that it had already been evacuated. Bob had stayed behind. He expected to discover what was on the other side of a black hole in just a little while. The problem was, that if his math correct, and it had been thus far, he already knew what to expect.

Bob always loved hot fudge sundaes. He had determined that he wanted to have one as his last meal. Luckily he had all the ingredients in the fridge. He especially loved when it melted and he spooned liquidy goodness up. By then he had to hurry since the black hole was sucking it down even faster then he was.

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Another Zombie Story

Vickers hated to salute. It was the whole ‘refusing to submit to authority’ thing. He was always one to march to his own drum beat. Thus, a career in the military would seem a strange choice. However, it was unavoidable since it fit his skill set to a tee and he understood this. So, he entered the corps with a plan. After the hell that was basic training on Paris Island he signed up for the most remote, blackest ops possible. It wasn’t so much because he wanted to be a dirty, amoral secret agent as much as he knew this would allow him to, one, work mostly alone and two, deal with as few bureaucratic superiors as he could. Therefore saluting as well as kowtowing would be rare occurrences.

Of course these days he was trapped in country, hell, in city; with very little room to roam and it seemed the only people left around were the higher up mucky-mucks who had been able to avoid the epidemic by locking themselves away behind tremendous amounts of security. This didn’t stop Vickers flare for being rebellious. When he discovered intelligence relating to the mission he was on currently, there was nothing that could be done to stop him from going. General Grabow had informed him he’d be locked up tight if he even thought of leaving the compound. Vickers had told the old man where he could stick it before storming off without a goodbye salute.

Soon after that he stole his way out of the compound like a phantom walking through solid walls. He wondered how they really expected to control him after the training he'd acquired in his years of service. There were very few people alive before the epidemic who could keep up with Vickers. Now, there may not be any.

Vickers weapon of choice was a Penters 328i. Aficionados referred to them as peashooters. They were super impossible to come by. Vickers had two. He had learned to be ambidextrous and use them both at the same time. The units themselves were very small and strapped to the palm of your hand. This way they allowed a person to still use his fingers to perform any manner of activity. The barrel curled over between the thumb and pointer which made them deadly accurate; at least up to fifty feet. After that they got a bit dicey. The trigger was on the inside of the device against the palm and the way to fire was to make a fist and squeeze sharply. The weapon was semi-automatic which allowed for rapid firing. Accidental discharge was certainly possible, but as an expert in its use, Vickers had never done so. Of course, proper use of the safety helped a lot.

Bullets for the Penters were tiny. However, if you could get explosive rounds or dumdums, which was his personal choice, the damage done was extensive nonetheless. On the positive side, the tiny ammunition made for smaller clips which could be easily carried en masse without weighing a soldier down. Each clip had twelve rounds. Vickers had custom made bandoliers that held these clips instead of shotgun shells. There were twenty-five pouches per belt. Including the clips in the weapons themselves Vickers had six hundred and twenty-four single shots on him when at full capacity.

But, when would an agent ever need to make six hundred and twenty-four accurate rapid fire shots at close range in a single encounter? When one was facing a zombie swarm, naturally.

Ever since the infestation the previous year one of the most prized of commodities was ammunition. Luckily, the US government, or what was left of it, had it in spades and still possessed the ability to produce more to satisfy any necessity. Vickers shuttered to imagine if he were a Russian agent somewhere out there in the frozen waste lands of Moscow or St. Petersburg knowing that when he inevitably expended that last bullet there would be no more forthcoming. Yet, there were always more undead…

Vickers leapt into the tiny tunnel which held the capsule. It was practically a small river. He hadn’t expected that. Somewhere along the length of the shaft a water main must have ruptured. That was the only thing that he could think of to account for this sort of flooding. It wouldn’t effect travel any, but it did wash off the aquanet that covered his clothing. That meant he was more vulnerable to zombie attack. It was a good thing he’d kept his precious cargo hidden in the corridor that had brought him here.

It was unknown how the undead developed and retained their exquisite sense of smell. But one thing was certain; they sure had it and could use it to sniff out the living with uncanny ease. For some reason one particular alcohol based hairspray was capable of covering a human’s scent from those walking corpses. Aquanet was a godsend! But, it wasn’t completely infallible. Well, from the vast research Vickers had done he knew he only had an hour, maybe a bit more to complete his mission anyway. This would be all over shortly whether the zombies ferreted him out here in the tunnel or not. Still, it would be easier if he could avoid them for a little while longer.

Opening the capsule was far more difficult then he’d expected and at least ten minutes were wasted before he discovered how to pop the hatch. Once inside he quickly used the computer override to break into the system and readjust the coordinates. This would take the pod directly back to headquarters. Good. He reached into his waterproof pack and pulled out his walkie talkie. That’s when he heard it. It could have been anything. Heck, there could be rats in this place scurrying about and knocking things over. Vickers, though, was the type of man who never worked in ‘could be’s’. He would be certain before exposing his cargo to any sort of danger. The high beam flashlight came out next. He ducked down to the lip of the tunnel so that only his eyes emerged above it and with the electric torch, scanned in the direction of the noise he’d heard. It was mostly unnecessary since the clamor of shuffling feet and crashes of objects being clumsily knocked to the ground filled the place seconds later. He’d been discovered and by the sound of it, there was the possibility he’d need to use all of his six hundred and twenty-four bullets.

The shuttle was in a place particularly devoid of living humans so the undead in the area were exceptionally starved. That’s why it seemed the passageway was suddenly crawling with rotted flesh. At least a few of them were hoping to get lucky with a fresh meal.

Vickers extended his arms into firing position and waited. It was best to let the entire hoard creep in close before blasting them, but he didn’t necessarily have that kind of time before the pod needed to be out of this hell hole, cargo safely tucked inside. The damned things were so slow it could take them forever to find him in hiding, mostly submerged in the transportation shaft.

He carefully placed his wrists on the lip of the tunnel so as not to trigger his weapons and climbed out of the water. If the zombies noticed the movement they didn’t show it. However, the scent of live meat didn’t go undetected for more then a second or two. As if the few hundred zombies who now crowded the building were all attached to the same string tied through their noses, hundreds of heads turned up in unison and the room filled with the sound of sniffing.

Vickers didn’t wait for the heads to snap in his direction before he began firing. Headless bodies hit the ground at an alarming rate and it wasn’t long before undead were literally climbing over piles of truly dead to get at him.

The noise from his gun was deafening. The stench around him was stifling, but he didn’t allow either of those things or anything else to affect his coldly precise and methodical execution of the horrible torrent of beasts that continually flooded toward him.

Every so often the shots would abate for the briefest time it took for his fingers to slide a clip from one of the compartments along a bandolier on his chest and jam it into the slot on a gun, the used one having barely fallen to clatter on the cement ground and bounce away. At one point while reloading he was aware enough that he noticed there was no clink and rattle from the discarded clip. He glanced down just in time to see that it had landed on the back of a zombie that had crawled up behind him and was just about to take a bite out of his achilles tendon. With other undead directly before his face he never stopped firing at them while whipping his leg from the clutches of danger and jackknifing his heel into the skull of his enemy with a sickening crunch that splattered brains and gore all over his shoe and pant leg.

Vickers was so intent on his actions he was startled when he realized that he’d used the last clips on the front of his bandoliers. He ceased firing and glanced around. The zombies were still coming at him, but the throng had abated quite a bit. The closest ones were thirty feet away with a mountain of rotted, dead flesh between them. He backed up toward the closest wall while he unstrapped the bandoliers, turned them over, and reattached them. That accomplished, he resumed his assault. Shortly thereafter all motion in the room stopped beside his own.
He would have to move fast. He could tell that he had only a scant few minutes remaining and that was cutting it too close. He reached for his radio again. If more zombies came he’d simply have to destroy them while finishing up him mission. When the walkie talkie came out Vickers spoke a few soft words into it.

About a minute later Jennifer emerged from the same hidden passageway that Vickers had come through. She was momentarily shocked by all the gore and mess surrounding her dad but she recovered quickly and ran into his arms. The smell of the aquanet nearly choked him, but he didn’t care at all. He lifted his ten year old daughter up into the air and placed her in a seated position in the capsule.

“Are you ready, honey?” he asked while buckling the straps that would secure her during the two hour ride that would transport her to safety.

She nodded solemnly and then asked, “Are you sure you’re going to be able to find mom too?”

“Of course I will. Now give me a kiss.”

She did and a hug as well that he was forced to pull himself out of after too much time had passed. There was only one button to press to get the pod on its way. Vickers told her to punch it the moment he closed the hatch. She didn’t want to leave him. He didn’t want that either. He slammed the door shut and a second later the shuttle cruised off through the water slowly gaining speed that would eventually reach hundreds of miles per hour.

He had set up things for her for when she got to headquarters. Favors had been called in. Trustworthy people were in place. Jennifer would be well taken care of. She would never have to submit to authority or anyone at all if she didn’t want to, in her life. Vickers had made quite sure of that.

As for her mother, Vickers’ wife Lorraine, she’d given her life to keep their daughter unharmed until he could find her. She’d done her job just as he’d done his. God knew he wished he could have located them in time and gotten them both back to the safety of the compound. It brought a tear to his eye to think of her and even worse to imagine her last moments.

Still, he’d not lied to his child; he would find her. The scratch on his leg caused by the bite from a few days ago had been incredibly slow to take affect. Slow, but inevitable. He could feel his body changing under his skin even now. Any second he expected to lapse into coma. Shortly thereafter he would reawaken as a zombie. Of course he’d never let it go that far. He would find his wife first by using one of the two hundred or so rounds left in his Penters 328i.

Vickers had never been much for procrastinating. He lifted his right hand to his head. It was almost like a salute.

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Short Story - Abandoned Boat

Frank pulled off onto the side of the road. Luckily, he'd seen it in the distance with enough time to swerve around. Can you believe that someone left a trailered boat in the freaking middle of the highway? He got out of his car to take a look at the monstrosity.

At this time of morning the road was distinctly empty. Frank hadn't seen a single car either coming or going on his way to work. Traffic wouldn't begin for at least another hour, maybe longer. He hated working at such an ungodly time, but it was only on Thursdays and Fridays and the money was simply too good to pass up.

The small speedboat appeared to have motored through the seas of hell enroute to its spot on the freeway. It was so beaten up and ragged Frank figured it was a good thing it was on land for it would certainly sink to the depths the moment it was placed in the water. Still, it was an intriguing fixer-upper prospect. Frank loved boats. He'd never been fortunate enough to own one himself, but it was always a dream. Of course when he had saved up enough cash for a purchase he had his eye on a thirty foot Mastercraft CSX or a thirty-five foot Sea Ray. Now those were beauties. But this one here, he couldn't even tell what make or model it was for all the scratching along the rear. It would make an admirable dingy if he sunk a grand or two into it.

He ran a hand along the hull on the right side. It was smoother then he'd have imagined. If the shell held its integrity, then maybe a single thousand might get this puppy up and running again. Frank gazed about shiftily, an evil thought playing through his mind. The highway was still deserted. What would it take to back his truck up to the trailer hitch and attach the wreck? The tires on the trailer looked fine. He was fairly close to his home. It would take but a minute to drive the boat home, disconnect it, and leave it in his driveway until he returned home in the afternoon. Hell, if he lined up the post and got it hooked up on the first try he'd probably barely be half an hour late to work. And who would know anyway? Frank worked alone until the maintenance crew showed up at seven. It was the honor system and Frank had been completely honorable twice a week for the past three years despite the fact that he hated working that shift.

He rushed back to his truck, pulled it off the shoulder, and backed up to the trailer. It was a much easier procedure with another set of eyes for guidance. Frank slid out from the cab and checked to see how close or far he was from being aligned. Bingo! He was right there. Good thing the boat was so small. With a tug or two on the hitch he’d have it right over the knob on his bumper. Aha. Now to lower it down and connect it. Hmmm, the crank was jammed. He pounded it twice with his balled up fist and only came away with pain in his hand. Ow! He was certain that a whack or two was all it needed, but there was neither hammer, wrench, nor any other tool that he could come up with after a thorough search of his vehicle to turn the trick. Frank glanced about dejectedly. He was wasting time.

Perhaps there was something on the boat that he could use. He sidled around to the back of the vessel. There may have once been a step attached to the rear for easy access, but it was long gone by the time Frank got there. Instead, he climbed up onto the wheel well of the trailer and hoisted himself over the side. It was rather dingy inside. He tried not to touch anything for fear it might stick to him. A cursory glance about was useless. Whoever left this piece of junk here obviously stripped it of anything of value before going on his way. There was a small cutty, however. It couldn’t hurt to poke his head inside for a look see. It was closed off by two teak cupboard-like doors which folded outward. He pulled them apart like a cowboy entering a saloon and slid down inside.

That’s when he felt it; a weird sense of vertigo combined with an electric shock that passed through the core of his body, causing his muscles to go slack for an infinitesimal amount of time. It lasted just long enough for him to fall face first to the floor of the cabin.

There was some kind of viscous slimy gunk there which now lined the right side of his face and covered his clothes. What the hell just happened?

“You’d better get up and wipe that stuff off quickly”, said a disembodied voice behind him.

Frank rolled onto his back and sat up. The cutty was much larger then it appeared from outside. There were at least six other people he could make out in the gloom of the room which went further then he could see in the dim phosphorescent light. He gazed at the apparitions before him. They looked like ship wreck survivors with their tattered clothing and emaciated bodies. In fact the illusion was somewhat more complete due to the rocking he realized was going on. It set a squirmy discomfort in the pit of his stomach.

“What the hell is going on”, Frank asked strangely, not sure if he should be angry or frightened.

“Death”, replied a raspy female voice.

A few of the others helped Frank to his feet and cajoled him into removing his shirt and using it to clean the gunk from his face and hair. It was a slow working acidic enzyme said a man who introduced himself as Joel Pongrosse. If given enough time it would eat its way through his clothes, skin, muscle, bones. For further evidence Joel pointed toward the person Frank thought was the sixth member of their group. He or she was seated on the floor, back against the wall watching. Upon further inspection, the reason one couldn’t determine the person’s gender was because most of its face and hair was burned off as well as the legs up to the knee and arms to mid-forearm. The body sat in a small pool of its own blood that never got any larger since the slime on the ground ate it up as quickly as it oozed from the corpse.

That was all the impetus Frank needed to neither sit down nor touch the walls.

“So, how did it get you?” asked the owner of the raspy voice; an older woman who carried an oversized flowered print purse on her shoulder as if she were a prisoner at Sing Sing guarding her meal in a mess hall full of bullies.

“What do you mean?”

Salazar, the young Puerto Rican cut in, “It was a Trans-Am for me. Ron’s was a tool shed”, he jerked a finger at the decaying body and added with a chuckle, “Sheila was trapped in a port-o-potty.”

What was he talking about? It was not clicking at all for Frank. What were these people trying to say? He didn’t know anything about a Trans-Am, a tool shed, or a port-o-potty or anything else. All he trying to do was drive to work when he came across that damned boat in the middle of the road.

“A speed boat”, he whispered flatly.

The older woman’s name, fittingly enough, turned out to be Mallory which Frank happened to know derived from a French word meaning unlucky. She’d been down here the longest of those still amongst the living. Seems that purse she clutched so fiercely was filled with all sorts of goodies that have helped keep her alive. Even so, she was by far the most disheveled and scarred member of the group. Mallory was visiting her oldest daughter in Tampa when she’d decided to go for a late night walk in the beautiful October weather. She stopped by a neighbor’s garden trellis to sniff at the lovely begonias when she noticed what appeared to be a shiny gold bracelet glinting in the moonlight deep within the foliage. Mallory reached in, just so she could return it to whoever lived in the house of course, when she experienced the electric vertigo that had caused all of them to fall senseless into this pit of despair. The best that she could tell, she’d been down there nearly six weeks and had outlived everyone who was there when she’d arrived and another three who came after. One of those who’d come after was poor Sheila who had cracked from hopelessness in only a few days when Salazar had discovered her in the position she was in now, scooping the gunk off the ground and shoveling it into her mouth with glazed eyes. They imagined that she probably figured it would be a quick and painless death. Let’s just say that she was FAR from accurate on that account.

It didn’t take long for Frank to hear everyone’s story as well as their theories on where exactly they were. They basically were divided into two factions. The first was what Frank considered the religious right who believed that they were all here due to some punishment from god for their past transgressions. The second, Frank had dubbed the horror show freaks who had decided that they were in the slowly digesting belly of some huge monster. Frank didn’t think he’d done anything so bad in his life that this should be his fate and he’d also been influenced by enough B grade horror flicks growing up the monster idea almost sounded plausible. But, it was difficult to accept that one too. Either way, their prospects looked pretty grim.

After the new meat had gotten acclimated, the others pretty much left Frank to his own devices so be began poking around. Despite the decomposing body nearby as well as others far more gone the place had an antiseptic scent to it reminiscent of a hospital. He paced the entire circumference of the room which turned out to be somewhat circular and large enough that it took him a few minutes to make the trek. In random places stalagtites of acidic muck hung from the ceiling, some so large and thick they reached the ground. There were corpses in various stages of decomposition all over.

Next, Frank used a credit card to scrape the acidic slime from a small spot on the floor to see what would happen. Not much. The gooey substance returned almost immediately as if the ground itself produced it. How the hell does a person sleep in here without subjecting himself to imminent death? There has to be a way, thought Frank, as these others must have had some rest in the time they’d been here.

It wasn’t long after his efforts with the credit card, which he discarded rather then replace in his wallet (hell it was just a gas card, he could get another if he got out of this mess), that Mallory sidled up to him. He noticed she wore men’s shoes that were several sizes too large. It didn’t take too long before she explained to him how she’d been able to survive so long.

One of the wonderful objects that she kept in her purse was a semiautomatic weapon that she’d already used on several unsuspecting people. Once dead she used the bodies for various things such as protection from the acid as well as for food. The last body of her previous murder spree was no longer useful and it was time to start afresh. Her only problem was that she was out of bullets. The solution was simple, Mallory explained. The others didn’t know she had a gun at all and thus didn't know she was out of bullets. She also had a wicked bowie knife. The plan was that she would hold them at bay with the gun as he quickly slit their throats. It shouldn’t be difficult, she admitted, as she’d waited days at her own personal peril so they would be weaker and easier to bump off. Frank, who had eaten a hearty breakfast barely an hour and a half ago, should have no problem and then the two of them would have enough supplies to last until more people were collected by the nefarious monster or they found their way out.

It didn’t take Frank long to decide what he was going do. My god, he thought hefting the bowie knife in his hand and enjoying the weight of it, I am in hell.


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The Cemetery - Part 3

Genie was incredulous on the phone later that night.

“You practically threw yourself at him. He just wants to get in your panties.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that at all.” Kristen was snuggling down to sleep, but she had to tell Genie all about her chance encounter with Joe. “He was sweet and so cute.”

“The cute ones always have girls falling all over them. The way you described it, it seemed like that was what he was expecting from you.”

“Well, you can see why he might have and it was kinda awkward the way I asked him to coffee.”

That was when the call waiting clicked in. Kristen peered at the caller ID box on the night stand beside the phone. She didn’t recognize the number and felt creeping annoyance at being bothered so late by a stranger.

But it was Joe. It took her a moment to register who he was, but when she did she was veritably choking down her excitement. When she told him she had to get rid of a friend on the other line he apologized and offered to call back at a more opportune time, but Kristen refused to let him go.

After some awkwardness, an elongated second batch of hello’s, and Joe explaining that he had only called to chat the two settled into easy conversation very different to their earlier meeting. It was as if he had reached some sort of conclusion about her. Whatever it was, Kristen liked it.

Despite his tight lips that afternoon it was clear Joe liked to talk. And talk he did on a score of subjects, all the while deftly keeping Kristen involved by asking her opinions on everything and gently prodding her to choose topics to discuss.

She learned quite a lot about who Joe was and all of it was marvelous. Kristen wasn’t exactly sure where it happened, but after a while she found she was doing most of the talking as he displayed excellent listening abilities.

Laughter was abundant when stories of friends and family were told and there were a few intense moments as politics and religion came into the exchange, but things never got strained nor were there any uncomfortable pauses. It was as if two friends who had known each other for a lifetime were catching up after an absence.

The next thing they knew it was pushing two in the morning and both noticed this fact at the same exact moment.

“Whoa, did you see the time?” said Joe at the precise moment Kristen said, “Jeez, it’s two o’clock!”

They decided to call it quits for the night, promising to talk more soon. Kristen hung up and lay back down on the pillow that might as well have been a cloud supporting her head. She smiled broadly and regardless of the time and her physical exhaustion had a difficult time getting back to sleep thinking only of speaking with Joe again.

And speak again they would. Joe called right about the same time every night for the next seven days straight. Kristen found herself waiting for his calls each evening; salivating like Pavlov’s dogs. If by chance the voice on the other end of the receiver turned out to be her mother, Genie, or Phil, her gay friend from across the street her disappointment would be palpable. She would rush to clear the line so it would be free for Joe. And if she was bothered by call-waiting during her chats with him, she would comment that, ‘if it was really important whoever it was would call back tomorrow’ and would usually ad, ‘people know not to phone me this late anyway” as they waited for whomever it was to hang up.

Despite all these hours of conversation, Kristen was still never able to get around to asking him about the time he spent in the cemetery, nor confess she had watched him there. What they mostly spoke about was what happened to each of them during their respective day. Joe, it turned out was an unemployed actor; very very common in Los Angeles. Though ‘between jobs’ as he put it, he wasn’t as poorly off as some of Kristen’s other friends and acquaintances who were in the same profession. Invariably they would chat for a while on what had been eaten for lunch and dinner, or even breakfast if it were a particularly fine one. Both of them enjoyed cooking and more especially eating and a score of times each offered to prepare a favored dish for the other.

Tonight’s conversation began a bit differently, though. Joe was a little strained and stumbling. It didn’t take long for Kristen to find out why.

“I’ll bet you’ve already made plans to see “The Longing Heart” with that friend of yours, Jennie?”

“Genie”, she corrected, “Yeah, we’re set for opening night this Friday. Hey would you like to come with us? I’ve told Genie all about you and she’s dying to meet you.”

“Well, I…”

Kristen could imagine that last thing Joe might want was to see a chick flick with two crazy girls who would be sobbing all the way through it.

“Actually, I kinda scored tickets to the premiere on Wednesday and thought maybe you’d like to go. “ He was clearly disappointed, “But if you already have plans…”

“The premiere! Wednesday? You mean like tomorrow?” Kristen had been praying for Joe to get around to asking her out for the better part of the week they’d been chatting. She’d dropped a few subtle hints with no success. But could she really stand up her best friend who’s been dying to see this movie since she found out it had been made months ago. “Hell, yeah, I’ll go to the premiere with you!”

The rest of the nights chitchat was more typical. They laughed until two in the morning again the conversation ranging all over, but always returning to discuss their ‘date’ set for Wednesday night.

Kristen considered all sorts of inventive lies to tell Genie, but decided to just not mention anything and go on Friday to see the movie as though for the first time. However, when her friend phoned the next afternoon she confessed in a gush before Genie even had a chance to say hello.

“Are ya mad?” Kristen sat on her bed beside a dozen different outfits she had been deciding between, twirling the phone cord around her finger nervously.

“No, not really. I know how much you like the guy. Hell, you haven’t shut up about him since you met him a week ago.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be”, said Genie, “It’s good to hear you so happy again. I hope things work out.”

“Thanks.” She’d thought it before and knew it was true; Genie was such a good friend.

“But there is one thing,” Uh-oh, that was a catch phase Genie used which always led to sorrow for Kristen. Genie was good at getting favors from people in circumstances just like this. There had been times when Kristen had been forced into some pretty crappy double dates, an all night drive to Vegas, and a few essays she’d written on the fly during their college days because of these situations, but today she felt that no matter what was asked of her it would be worth it. “I do want to go again with you on Friday whether you like the movie or not…”

“Absolutely, definitely…” Kristen kicked out quickly hoping this was all there was.

“And… You can’t ruin it for me at all.”

“I promise.” Kristen was cheerful again and put her attention back on your clothes.

“That’s not the ‘One Thing’”, continued Genie, “It’s that I’ll be cool with you seeing the movie before me as long as you promise to tell Joe about seeing him in the cemetery before we see the movie on Friday.”

Whoa. Harsh. But, it only took a moment to realize that Genie was again only being a good friend and truth be told Kristen really had wanted to tell him already anyway.

“Deal.”

“Good. Then enjoy the show and if ya get lucky tonight, you have to tell me every last detail!”

Kristen stayed off her legs the entire day so they would be strong enough to carry her the entire evening without crutches. She dressed simply, but elegantly beginning her routine well earlier then she normally would so Joe wouldn’t have to wait on her. A dab of perfume. Classic black dress. Pearl earrings. She was ready for a Hollywood escapade.

Joe arrived promptly at seven with a bouquet of multicolored daisies and seemingly couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He made repeated complements almost to the point of making Kristen blush with happiness. She returned them as Joe looked spectacular in his evening clothes.

He opened all the apartment doors for her as well as the car door, bowling her over with chivalry as they left to see the show. Once seated and off, Kristen couldn’t control herself.

“Is this act just for the first date or are you always this sweet?” she asked with a wink.

“I guess you’ll just have to spend some time with me and find out.”

They arrived at the theatre and Joe surprised her by leading her to a back door. He knocked discreetly and waited, flicking Kristen a nervous grin. Momentarily, the door opened and a uniformed usher who couldn’t have been older then nineteen opened it and motioned the couple inside.

“Right this way.” The usher smirked and led them through a back alley that ran the length of all the theatre houses. He opened a door and suddenly they were standing beside the screen before row upon row of stadium seating.

“Thank you sir”, Joe quickly handed the usher a bill of a denomination Kristen wasn’t able to catch. The door closed and Kristen and Joe were alone in the huge room.

“I thought you said you had tickets to this.” She said wryly.

“I do.” Joe shrugged.

“Then why are we sneaking in like we’re performing a bank heist?”

He looked bashful, “Cause, it’s more exciting this way?” he grabbed her hand and they made off down the aisle. “Come on. The doors are gonna open any second.”

And indeed no sooner had they reached their seats then the guests poured inside. It was a very large theatre, perhaps the biggest Kristen had ever been to, but in no time every seat was taken. Joe had brought her to a back corner and sat her against the wall. He sat next to her, turned his back to the crowd and flashed that shudder-inducing smile.

“Well?”

Well? Kristen had to admit this was pretty cool. Though she wasn’t into the whole Hollywood glitz thing she had already noticed a few celebrities over Joes’ shoulder and it was all she could do not to point them out to him in amazement and keep her jaw attached to the rest of her skull.

“This is really awesome, thank you.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It came as a surprise to both of them, but Joe looked as he might burst from bliss. His grin became wider still and his dimples practically engulfed his cheeks.

“But I need to confess something to you.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Joe was now glancing about himself, checking out who was in attendance in the audience.

“You remember when I met you at the Laundromat?” Kristen stumbled about, just wanting to tell him, find out about the dead girl in the cemetery, and forget the subject. She really liked Joe and had concluded that his past didn’t mean as much to her as she had thought.

“Of course, what about it?”

“Well, that wasn’t the first time I’d seen you…”

Joe’s face fell completely slack. It turned from the crowd back toward her and she realized that maybe she had made a huge mistake by divulging this info.

“Oh yeah?” was all he could manage. Finally he composed himself and that same distrustful smirk he had worn at the Laundromat returned for the first time since then.

“I’ve wanted to tell you so many times while we spoke on the phone, but it just never seemed like the time was right.” Kristen pressed on. She wasn’t sure why he was so upset and figured it would only get far worse when she told him the circumstances of how she had previously seen him. She couldn’t stop now, so she related the whole story as best she could; covering the cast on her leg, the painkillers, watching him each day out her window, and how it made her feel; how she’d yearned to run down and be with him. Finally she told him of her shocked excitement at meeting him abroad and her sincere desire to hear his story.

For his part Joe listened with amazement as slowly the mistrust left him to be replaced with childlike wonder and even amusement. By the end his smile was sincere again and the sparkle in his eye genuine.

“That’s how you’d seen me before?” He was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yes,” Kristen lowered her gaze in shame and pushed on through pauses and difficulty, “I’m really sorry I waited this long to tell you, but… I still would like to know about who she was… If it’s not too private…”

Joe took her chin in his hand and raised her eyes to his. She detected no anger whatsoever. In fact, there was something quite the opposite that she wasn’t able to distinguish clearly. He peered into her eyes for a long moment as the crowd about them, which had been quite loud, quieted and the lights dimmed.

“I’ll tell you all about it after the show.”

He released her chin and snuggled down into his seat. Kristen did the same while casting furtive glances sideways toward him. If she thought the film was going to be bad before she couldn’t imagine even paying attention to it now as all her thoughts were on Joe and what he might be thinking about her.

A spot light hit the floor before the screen and the director of the picture they were about to see stood in it receiving applause from the crowd. He gave a short speech of introduction and then took his seat. The spot light died and the curtains before the screen parted. The distinct hum of a projector began and the movie started. There were no previews, not before a premiere.

As the cast went by without Kristen even noticing, she felt Joes hand creeping down her forearm. It reached her hand and held it tenderly. Her heart leapt and she peeked over finding his attention fully on the screen. She relaxed and shifted hers to it also.

That was when, to her complete astonishment she noticed that it was Joe up there on the screen in the film. It didn’t take but a moment to find out that he was playing none other then Kyle’s part in the story. Her gaze whipped from the image to the real Joe beside her. He was staring at her playfully. Then he turned back, squeezed her hand, and said, “Enjoy the show.”

And she did.

It captured all the emotion and intensity of the book in a way Kristen never thought possible. Scenes she had read numerous times and had created in her head played out almost exactly as she had imagined. The actors were perfectly cast, the story wasn’t changed a smidgen, and the scenery was gorgeous. She and Joe laughed at jokes she’d read a hundred times with freshness and misted at all the poignant parts with her head on his shoulder as if she didn’t see them coming. Finally, when Emily died she was glad she’d had the forethought to bring tissues as Kyle’s grave scene played out.

It was only then that she made the connection. The scene was cut between a few different angles and one of them was a high crane shot from in front of Kyle as he faced Emily’s stone. It wasn’t exactly the same position as Kristen was in when she would watch Joe in the cemetery behind her apartment, but it was fairly close.

HE HAD BEEN REHEARSING.

Kyle moved about, read from a poetry book, fell to his knees, and cried just as Joe had all those times this past summer. Kristen was enrapt with the performance. When it ended she felt physically and emotionally exhausted and yet thoroughly exhilarated.

Joe quickly snuck them out before the throng of paparazzi could attack them and they ended up at a diner with burgers and shakes laid out before them.

“You were awesome and that movie was perfect in every way”, Kristen gushed

“You’re sweet”, Joe slurped his chocolate shake as he dabbed a fry in some ketchup. “I hate watching myself on screen. I only see things I wished I’d have done differently.”

“I’m glad you didn’t do anything different. Everything was perfect.”

“I can’t believe you were watching me practice this summer. It’s like…”

“Fate?” Kristen smiled. She liked Joe a lot and had begun wondering if he was feeling the same way.

“Maybe. You’ve no idea what’s it’s been like the last few months with all these people hanging all over me because of this film. When I first met you I figured you were some crazy groupie.”

She chuckled, fully understanding how he would perceive her actions that way.

“But to meet someone that I’ve come to like so much who seemed to be interested in me for me and not because of the Hollywood thing… The whole wondering about my rehearsals excluded… It’s made me pretty happy.”

She couldn’t help but catch onto the words that meant the most to her and repeat them back, “Someone you’ve come to like so much?”

“Well, yeah”, he said bashfully and then added, “And also you’re so god damned hot.”

She shook her head in mock disapproval, “You are just adorable.”

They gazed at each other a moment and then as one leaned in and kissed passionately for the first of what would be many many times in their long joyful lives together.


THE END

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