Flash Fiction
Quick stories for a quick thrill.
7. Buzzed
"This place is great."
He followed his friend down the stairs, placing a palm on one of the concrete walls on either side of them. He let his hand slide across the wall as they headed for the basement of the club. Even as they approached, they heard the heavy, thumping music, matching his heart beat for beat. They finally reached the bottom of the stairs and stumbled through the tattered red curtains, the only thing separating them from the hipster nightmare and the cold once quiet staircase. His friend waved to the bartender, who nodded then motioned to an area of the club that was roped off. His friend nodded back and led the way.
"Come on!" his friend shouted, though he barely heard him and blindly followed. The promise of what waited behind that curtain was all he cared about. He'd known his friend for twenty years, now, and they always had a good time together. They'd done coke, heroine, ecstasy and a million other things that flooded his body and filtered his memory. As his friend liked to say, "I don't remember those days...must've been a great time."
They stepped beyond the ropes and were greeted by a mountainous man.
"It's cool, Terriss. Let 'em in." The mountain slid aside and the pair strolled in, taking seats on the ragged old couch.
"Good to see ya."
"You too. Thought I'd bring my friend, here -"
"Hey."
"Hey."
"- he and I are big partiers."
"Then you'll love this shit. New way to get hammered. No one knows about it yet except for the high ups, of course."
"Of course."
His eyes flicked off to the right where two young men sat in old chairs, slumped over like the life had been sucked from them. Each had small patches of hair shaved from their heads, with holes drilled through their skulls about a quarter inch around. A small utensil he couldn't identify protruded from the holes.
"What is this stuff?"
"The hardest buzz you'll ever get, bro."
The pair sat silent, his friend smirking wide, him, contemplating. But all thought melted away when he felt a razor against his head, slicing hair away. That section was then numbed, though he didn't see how. All he saw was the man performing the trick reaching for a small bottle of an unnamed alcohol and a utensil sitting on the table that were like those in the other men.
He felt a coolness wash completely over him, tingling rushing through every nerve. He barely noticed his friend being dragged down another set of stairs nearby before exhaling heavily. The room grew darker and all feeling left him as the club became coldly silent.
He followed his friend down the stairs, placing a palm on one of the concrete walls on either side of them. He let his hand slide across the wall as they headed for the basement of the club. Even as they approached, they heard the heavy, thumping music, matching his heart beat for beat. They finally reached the bottom of the stairs and stumbled through the tattered red curtains, the only thing separating them from the hipster nightmare and the cold once quiet staircase. His friend waved to the bartender, who nodded then motioned to an area of the club that was roped off. His friend nodded back and led the way.
"Come on!" his friend shouted, though he barely heard him and blindly followed. The promise of what waited behind that curtain was all he cared about. He'd known his friend for twenty years, now, and they always had a good time together. They'd done coke, heroine, ecstasy and a million other things that flooded his body and filtered his memory. As his friend liked to say, "I don't remember those days...must've been a great time."
They stepped beyond the ropes and were greeted by a mountainous man.
"It's cool, Terriss. Let 'em in." The mountain slid aside and the pair strolled in, taking seats on the ragged old couch.
"Good to see ya."
"You too. Thought I'd bring my friend, here -"
"Hey."
"Hey."
"- he and I are big partiers."
"Then you'll love this shit. New way to get hammered. No one knows about it yet except for the high ups, of course."
"Of course."
His eyes flicked off to the right where two young men sat in old chairs, slumped over like the life had been sucked from them. Each had small patches of hair shaved from their heads, with holes drilled through their skulls about a quarter inch around. A small utensil he couldn't identify protruded from the holes.
"What is this stuff?"
"The hardest buzz you'll ever get, bro."
The pair sat silent, his friend smirking wide, him, contemplating. But all thought melted away when he felt a razor against his head, slicing hair away. That section was then numbed, though he didn't see how. All he saw was the man performing the trick reaching for a small bottle of an unnamed alcohol and a utensil sitting on the table that were like those in the other men.
He felt a coolness wash completely over him, tingling rushing through every nerve. He barely noticed his friend being dragged down another set of stairs nearby before exhaling heavily. The room grew darker and all feeling left him as the club became coldly silent.
6. Abandoned
(inspired by Seth Peterson's Wallpaper of the Day for 3/22)
Light poured down from a window at the top of the stairs.
It was a cold sunlight. Chills to match the gray sky that threatened to fall electrified her spine and made the hair on her arms stand on end. A distant call made her stop outside the lighthouse on her way into town. She’d heard that there was an old pair of emergency boxes located within the lighthouse and somewhere on the cliff and, occasionally, shipwrecked sailors or wayward tourists would set off the sirens to summon any nearby help.
The siren was subtle, but she’d heard it and felt obligated to stop and search the area. When she didn’t discover anyone outside, she made her way into the old lighthouse. Now, standing on the stairs, she wished she’d stayed in her car, but something compelled her to continue. She felt a cool breeze sweep past her and glanced back at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall she’d come from. She turned back to look at the window at the top of the stairs – it was closed.
Where did that breeze come from?
She bit her lip and ran her hand along the wall as she climbed the stairs. A whisper met her ears and she froze in her tracks, shivering. A creaking could be heard around the corner at the top of the stairs. It was then that she could read the word scrawled above the window: “Shame.”
“Oh god,” she muttered to herself. She reached the landing and peered out the window to see icy waves crashing against the black rocks below. The creaking grew stronger and she turned to the right where she saw a woman hanging from a noose. The corpse’s dress was in tatters, her eyes half-open and lifeless, her mouth slack. The girl approached the corpse slowly, raising a hand to cover her mouth.
The corpse reached for the girl and she jumped back, gasping.
“Help…me…” the woman struggled to speak against the rope tight around her neck. The girl closed her eyes and turned away for a second, then looked back to the hanging woman. The body was now gone, the noose swinging empty from the ceiling. What?!
Hands broke through the glass window at the top of the stairs and, bloodied and blackened, grabbed the girl around the neck. She screamed, clawing at the walls as her body was pulled back through the opening and sent flying towards the rocks.
High in the lighthouse tower, the light flickered on and began to spin. A woman stood in the window, watching over the ocean, the subtle sound of a siren wailing behind her.
Light poured down from a window at the top of the stairs.
It was a cold sunlight. Chills to match the gray sky that threatened to fall electrified her spine and made the hair on her arms stand on end. A distant call made her stop outside the lighthouse on her way into town. She’d heard that there was an old pair of emergency boxes located within the lighthouse and somewhere on the cliff and, occasionally, shipwrecked sailors or wayward tourists would set off the sirens to summon any nearby help.
The siren was subtle, but she’d heard it and felt obligated to stop and search the area. When she didn’t discover anyone outside, she made her way into the old lighthouse. Now, standing on the stairs, she wished she’d stayed in her car, but something compelled her to continue. She felt a cool breeze sweep past her and glanced back at the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall she’d come from. She turned back to look at the window at the top of the stairs – it was closed.
Where did that breeze come from?
She bit her lip and ran her hand along the wall as she climbed the stairs. A whisper met her ears and she froze in her tracks, shivering. A creaking could be heard around the corner at the top of the stairs. It was then that she could read the word scrawled above the window: “Shame.”
“Oh god,” she muttered to herself. She reached the landing and peered out the window to see icy waves crashing against the black rocks below. The creaking grew stronger and she turned to the right where she saw a woman hanging from a noose. The corpse’s dress was in tatters, her eyes half-open and lifeless, her mouth slack. The girl approached the corpse slowly, raising a hand to cover her mouth.
The corpse reached for the girl and she jumped back, gasping.
“Help…me…” the woman struggled to speak against the rope tight around her neck. The girl closed her eyes and turned away for a second, then looked back to the hanging woman. The body was now gone, the noose swinging empty from the ceiling. What?!
Hands broke through the glass window at the top of the stairs and, bloodied and blackened, grabbed the girl around the neck. She screamed, clawing at the walls as her body was pulled back through the opening and sent flying towards the rocks.
High in the lighthouse tower, the light flickered on and began to spin. A woman stood in the window, watching over the ocean, the subtle sound of a siren wailing behind her.
5. Alone
It had been a long day.
“The longest…” she whispered to herself, shutting her bedroom door. She turned on the only lamp she had in her room and sat down on her bed, sighing. Placing her laptop on her knees, she checked Twitter. No new mentions in over an hour…
She’d been waiting to talk to him all day, but lately…he’d been depressed. Every day was different, and today was a bad one. She hated knowing he was so upset, but he was the type to keep to himself when he felt his worst, and she had no choice but to leave him alone. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought, but she swallowed hard and wiped them away.
“There’s nothing you can do, just…watch some videos or something,” she told herself. She glanced out the window into the darkness, the streetlights barely illuminating the road in front of her house. She watched a car pass by, then focused back on her computer and pulled up YouTube, selecting one of her subscriptions and starting a playlist.
====
She let her eyes fall to the clock and realized she’d been watching for an hour.
“Wow…haven’t checked Twitter in a while…” Clicking over to the correct tab, she sighed again, “…and I didn’t miss a thing.”
Having no time with him wouldn’t be so bad if she had other people to distract her, but her connection to the outside world had fallen entirely silent.
“Where is everyone?” she wondered begrudgingly. Part of her wished there was someone to talk to, but part of her dreaded the thought of a pointless conversation that dragged on and went nowhere. She checked her email twice more, then Twitter again. Nothing.
“…kind of strange that it’s this quiet…not even a retweet or anything…”
She looked over to the trending topics and noticed the top one was “#HELP.” She furrowed her brow and clicked on it, then began to read the tweets aloud:
“Barricaded the doors. Don’t think it’ll last. Power’s out. Got 3G, but it’s shoddy...please, if you’re nearby #HELP.”
“Got called into the hospital an hour ago. They caught one. Examining one of these things now. Will tweet info when I can. #HELP”
“CNN has no idea where they came from. Prez instituted Marshall Law. Fuck. #HELP”
She looked back up at her room; the clock read 12:22 AM, FEB 1. The light on her cable box glowed brightly. Her heater hummed in the corner. Everything seems okay…
Pulling the shade over her window back up, she eyed the street. Figures moved down the sidewalk towards one of her neighbors’ homes. The streetlamp flickered above them, and she noticed that they more shambled than walked…
“What is going on?” She grabbed her remote and turned on the TV, changing the channel to the local news network.
“…fires downtown. Sightings have been reported in most populated areas, and all 24/7 stores have closed and barricaded their doors. President Roivas has put Marshall Law into effect. The President will be issuing a statement shortly, but power companies are reporting outages all over the area and are unsure when –”
The TV popped and her room fell into darkness.
====
The foyer was the darkest spot in the house.
No windows allowed even moonlight to fill the space. It was walls and doors and curtains. She approached the locked door that separated her from the breezeway and turned the deadbolt. It clicked heavily and she pulled the door open. As silently as she could, she crept towards the glass door at the end of the breezeway that led to the porch. She crouched low to the ground and peered outside.
They were coming up the driveway – slow, lumbering groups of people in what looked like jumpsuits – and they seemed to be…growling?
She quickly moved back to the front door and shut it behind her, locking it tight. She heard the bang of one of them hitting the glass door and scrambling with the handle. Looking around, she spotted the bins of Christmas decorations she’d forgotten to put in the basement and fervently pushed them up against the door. Heavy enough to buy some time…
She ran to the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest knives she could find, then upstairs to the cabinet in the hall, where she kept her father’s old Luger. She’d only fired it once, but she grabbed it and brought it to her room. She picked up the flashlight and hammer from her toolkit and a bag from her closet, packed everything, along with some snacks she kept in her desk and a blanket from her bed, then stepped back into the hall. The basement.
====
The foyer housed the only entrance to the basement, and she was hesitant to go to it.
But with the…whatever they are…just outside, she had no choice. She stopped at the basement door and carefully pulled it open, hoping it wouldn’t creak too much. She slid on a pair of sneakers and crept down the stairs, shivering in the chilly basement air. She plugged her nose against the musty stench of mold that permeated from the old workshop and made her way towards the back of the house, where there was a door and set of stairs.
She hadn’t used the door since moving in – it had been locked with a wooden bar and a padlock, and she never had any use for it in the first place – but she figured she could at least get out of the house and get somewhere safe if she could get through the door and off the property. She walked to the door, stepping around old boxes and piles of wood for the woodstove in the living room, and began maneuvering the wooden bar from the door.
She grabbed the key for the padlock from the nearby shelf and unlocked it, sliding the lock across the shelf. She opened the door and proceeded forward, pausing to look towards the breezeway. Suddenly, she was dragged to the ground, and out of instinct, she screamed.
Teeth bit into her neck and tore away the skin, sending blood gushing into puddles on the ground. Her body slid down a few stairs as her attacker gnawed at her neck, and another began to tear into the skin on her arms. Her phone buzzed on the concrete steps, and his picture appeared on the screen. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. The screen went dark.
A gargling noise escaped her.
“The longest…” she whispered to herself, shutting her bedroom door. She turned on the only lamp she had in her room and sat down on her bed, sighing. Placing her laptop on her knees, she checked Twitter. No new mentions in over an hour…
She’d been waiting to talk to him all day, but lately…he’d been depressed. Every day was different, and today was a bad one. She hated knowing he was so upset, but he was the type to keep to himself when he felt his worst, and she had no choice but to leave him alone. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought, but she swallowed hard and wiped them away.
“There’s nothing you can do, just…watch some videos or something,” she told herself. She glanced out the window into the darkness, the streetlights barely illuminating the road in front of her house. She watched a car pass by, then focused back on her computer and pulled up YouTube, selecting one of her subscriptions and starting a playlist.
====
She let her eyes fall to the clock and realized she’d been watching for an hour.
“Wow…haven’t checked Twitter in a while…” Clicking over to the correct tab, she sighed again, “…and I didn’t miss a thing.”
Having no time with him wouldn’t be so bad if she had other people to distract her, but her connection to the outside world had fallen entirely silent.
“Where is everyone?” she wondered begrudgingly. Part of her wished there was someone to talk to, but part of her dreaded the thought of a pointless conversation that dragged on and went nowhere. She checked her email twice more, then Twitter again. Nothing.
“…kind of strange that it’s this quiet…not even a retweet or anything…”
She looked over to the trending topics and noticed the top one was “#HELP.” She furrowed her brow and clicked on it, then began to read the tweets aloud:
“Barricaded the doors. Don’t think it’ll last. Power’s out. Got 3G, but it’s shoddy...please, if you’re nearby #HELP.”
“Got called into the hospital an hour ago. They caught one. Examining one of these things now. Will tweet info when I can. #HELP”
“CNN has no idea where they came from. Prez instituted Marshall Law. Fuck. #HELP”
She looked back up at her room; the clock read 12:22 AM, FEB 1. The light on her cable box glowed brightly. Her heater hummed in the corner. Everything seems okay…
Pulling the shade over her window back up, she eyed the street. Figures moved down the sidewalk towards one of her neighbors’ homes. The streetlamp flickered above them, and she noticed that they more shambled than walked…
“What is going on?” She grabbed her remote and turned on the TV, changing the channel to the local news network.
“…fires downtown. Sightings have been reported in most populated areas, and all 24/7 stores have closed and barricaded their doors. President Roivas has put Marshall Law into effect. The President will be issuing a statement shortly, but power companies are reporting outages all over the area and are unsure when –”
The TV popped and her room fell into darkness.
====
The foyer was the darkest spot in the house.
No windows allowed even moonlight to fill the space. It was walls and doors and curtains. She approached the locked door that separated her from the breezeway and turned the deadbolt. It clicked heavily and she pulled the door open. As silently as she could, she crept towards the glass door at the end of the breezeway that led to the porch. She crouched low to the ground and peered outside.
They were coming up the driveway – slow, lumbering groups of people in what looked like jumpsuits – and they seemed to be…growling?
She quickly moved back to the front door and shut it behind her, locking it tight. She heard the bang of one of them hitting the glass door and scrambling with the handle. Looking around, she spotted the bins of Christmas decorations she’d forgotten to put in the basement and fervently pushed them up against the door. Heavy enough to buy some time…
She ran to the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest knives she could find, then upstairs to the cabinet in the hall, where she kept her father’s old Luger. She’d only fired it once, but she grabbed it and brought it to her room. She picked up the flashlight and hammer from her toolkit and a bag from her closet, packed everything, along with some snacks she kept in her desk and a blanket from her bed, then stepped back into the hall. The basement.
====
The foyer housed the only entrance to the basement, and she was hesitant to go to it.
But with the…whatever they are…just outside, she had no choice. She stopped at the basement door and carefully pulled it open, hoping it wouldn’t creak too much. She slid on a pair of sneakers and crept down the stairs, shivering in the chilly basement air. She plugged her nose against the musty stench of mold that permeated from the old workshop and made her way towards the back of the house, where there was a door and set of stairs.
She hadn’t used the door since moving in – it had been locked with a wooden bar and a padlock, and she never had any use for it in the first place – but she figured she could at least get out of the house and get somewhere safe if she could get through the door and off the property. She walked to the door, stepping around old boxes and piles of wood for the woodstove in the living room, and began maneuvering the wooden bar from the door.
She grabbed the key for the padlock from the nearby shelf and unlocked it, sliding the lock across the shelf. She opened the door and proceeded forward, pausing to look towards the breezeway. Suddenly, she was dragged to the ground, and out of instinct, she screamed.
Teeth bit into her neck and tore away the skin, sending blood gushing into puddles on the ground. Her body slid down a few stairs as her attacker gnawed at her neck, and another began to tear into the skin on her arms. Her phone buzzed on the concrete steps, and his picture appeared on the screen. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. The screen went dark.
A gargling noise escaped her.
4. Friday Night
“A Ouija board? Are you kidding me?”
Greg Morris and Rob Quinn placed the board on their small wooden coffee table. They had cleared the floor of their cramped apartment so they could all sit around the board. Zac Zimmer shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Come on, Zac, it might be fun,” Rob said.
“Scared?” Greg asked. Zac glared at him and rolled his eyes. He looked over to the countertop, where he saw a few bottles lined up next to three glasses.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” he grumbled, grabbing a bottle. He downed half of it before grabbing a cheap pillow from their pre-owned futon and throwing it on the floor. He sat down and sighed, leaning back against the futon. “Three twenty-something dudes sitting around a Ouija board on a Friday night. We’re the coolest assholes in this entire city, guys.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rob said. Greg chuckled and grabbed himself a beer. Rob turned off all the lights and rejoined his friends at the coffee table. “Ready?”
The three of them placed their fingertips lightly on the pointer. After a brief moment of silence, Zac spoke up, “Now what?”
“Um…ask a question, I guess?” Greg said. Zac nodded his head in Rob’s direction.
“Go ahead, ring master.” Rob smirked and sneered at Zac.
“Um…are there any spirits here with us?” Zac slowly nudged the pointer towards the black “YES” emblazoned on the board, and his friends glared at him.
“Zac, quit pushing the pointer.”
“I’m not!” Laughing, Zac took his hands off of the device and picked his bottle back up, downing another few gulps. Suddenly, the pointer slid across the board, then back to “YES.” Zac raised an eyebrow as Rob and Greg pulled their hands away.
“What the fuck, guys?” Zac grumbled.
“We didn’t –”
“It wasn’t us!” Zac rolled his eyes and leaned over the board.
“All right, spirit. What’s up? How’s the afterlife treatin’ ya? I bet Gacy throws one Hell of a party.” Greg smacked Zac’s arm, sending Zac into hysterics, “Oh, come on. This is ridiculous, you guys. You can’t seriously believe there’s a fucking ghost here.”
The pointer zipped across the board to the letter, “K” as Greg and Zac bickered. Rob grabbed a pen and scrap piece of paper. The pointer went to “I,” then “L,” then away and back to “L.” He wrote down each letter, then dropped the paper on the board, his eyes wide.
“Guys…guys, look,” he muttered. Greg was just as stunned as him, wincing at the word, but Zac laughed harder.
“Oh my god. Kill? Really? Are we in a fucking horror movie? You guys are idiots.” Zac tossed his bottle into the sink, and it shattered, catching glass in the garbage disposal. He turned to leave when the pillow he’d been sitting on was yanked from under his feet. His chin slammed against the back of the futon, sending his top row of teeth through his bottom lip. He screamed as blood streaked down his neck and he crumpled to the floor in pain.
Suddenly, all around the room, glasses exploded. Alcohol spilled over the floor as the bottles burst. Rob and Greg shielded themselves while Zac whimpered in the fetal position. They looked up in time to see Zac rise into the air by an invisible force that was dragging Zac’s hands towards the ceiling. A line appeared across Zac’s neck, and blood seeped from the cut. His body fell to the floor and Greg scrambled to back away, screaming. His head quickly spun to the left and his neck snapped, leaving him lifeless and limp.
Tears flooded Rob’s vision as he clambered for the fire escape, but the window to the balcony shattered, sending a stray piece of glass into his chest. Slivers sliced his skin all over, and he fell back, landing next to the board. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and he struggled to call out, but could only manage a whisper, “Help…”
The pointer on the board slid away from “L,” then crept up to stop on “NO.”
Greg Morris and Rob Quinn placed the board on their small wooden coffee table. They had cleared the floor of their cramped apartment so they could all sit around the board. Zac Zimmer shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Come on, Zac, it might be fun,” Rob said.
“Scared?” Greg asked. Zac glared at him and rolled his eyes. He looked over to the countertop, where he saw a few bottles lined up next to three glasses.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” he grumbled, grabbing a bottle. He downed half of it before grabbing a cheap pillow from their pre-owned futon and throwing it on the floor. He sat down and sighed, leaning back against the futon. “Three twenty-something dudes sitting around a Ouija board on a Friday night. We’re the coolest assholes in this entire city, guys.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rob said. Greg chuckled and grabbed himself a beer. Rob turned off all the lights and rejoined his friends at the coffee table. “Ready?”
The three of them placed their fingertips lightly on the pointer. After a brief moment of silence, Zac spoke up, “Now what?”
“Um…ask a question, I guess?” Greg said. Zac nodded his head in Rob’s direction.
“Go ahead, ring master.” Rob smirked and sneered at Zac.
“Um…are there any spirits here with us?” Zac slowly nudged the pointer towards the black “YES” emblazoned on the board, and his friends glared at him.
“Zac, quit pushing the pointer.”
“I’m not!” Laughing, Zac took his hands off of the device and picked his bottle back up, downing another few gulps. Suddenly, the pointer slid across the board, then back to “YES.” Zac raised an eyebrow as Rob and Greg pulled their hands away.
“What the fuck, guys?” Zac grumbled.
“We didn’t –”
“It wasn’t us!” Zac rolled his eyes and leaned over the board.
“All right, spirit. What’s up? How’s the afterlife treatin’ ya? I bet Gacy throws one Hell of a party.” Greg smacked Zac’s arm, sending Zac into hysterics, “Oh, come on. This is ridiculous, you guys. You can’t seriously believe there’s a fucking ghost here.”
The pointer zipped across the board to the letter, “K” as Greg and Zac bickered. Rob grabbed a pen and scrap piece of paper. The pointer went to “I,” then “L,” then away and back to “L.” He wrote down each letter, then dropped the paper on the board, his eyes wide.
“Guys…guys, look,” he muttered. Greg was just as stunned as him, wincing at the word, but Zac laughed harder.
“Oh my god. Kill? Really? Are we in a fucking horror movie? You guys are idiots.” Zac tossed his bottle into the sink, and it shattered, catching glass in the garbage disposal. He turned to leave when the pillow he’d been sitting on was yanked from under his feet. His chin slammed against the back of the futon, sending his top row of teeth through his bottom lip. He screamed as blood streaked down his neck and he crumpled to the floor in pain.
Suddenly, all around the room, glasses exploded. Alcohol spilled over the floor as the bottles burst. Rob and Greg shielded themselves while Zac whimpered in the fetal position. They looked up in time to see Zac rise into the air by an invisible force that was dragging Zac’s hands towards the ceiling. A line appeared across Zac’s neck, and blood seeped from the cut. His body fell to the floor and Greg scrambled to back away, screaming. His head quickly spun to the left and his neck snapped, leaving him lifeless and limp.
Tears flooded Rob’s vision as he clambered for the fire escape, but the window to the balcony shattered, sending a stray piece of glass into his chest. Slivers sliced his skin all over, and he fell back, landing next to the board. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and he struggled to call out, but could only manage a whisper, “Help…”
The pointer on the board slid away from “L,” then crept up to stop on “NO.”
3. BERSERKR
Breathe.
In, out.
Breathe.
It was only a dream… he thinks. He sighs to slow his heart and sits up in his darkened room. The smell of wood is rich around him, the candle on his table in the corner long cold. He shivers and wraps a wool blanket over himself. A scream echoes in the hall. He stumbles through the dark and to the heavy door, pushing down the metal handle and pulling it open.
The hall is dark, but he can see the woman at the end of the hall as she is thrown against the wall by the inn owner. She screams once more, but is silenced when her skull cracks against the wood and her blood begins to pool on the floor.
“Norris?” he calls. The inn owner turns to him, and although they are far apart, he can see the fury in the man’s eyes. Norris comes towards him. He can see, now, that Norris is wielding an axe, and his eyes have turned a bright glowing red. Blood trickles from Norris’ eyes and he is sweating profusely.
“Norris?!” The inn owner continues forward as he runs back to his room and uses all his might to shut the door. Finally, the metal handle clicks and the door closes. Norris reaches the door and slams his axe into the wood.
“Lock.” A woman’s voice comes from behind him and he jumps. He turns and recognizes her as Ailin, the girl who stays next door.
“Ailin?” She rushes to the door and places the bar in the lock, keeping the door shut against Norris’ fervent attack. “What is this?”
“They call it The End,” she whispers.
“And Norris?” Ailin looks at the door, fear painting her face.
“Berserkr.” He stares at her and shakes his head. Ailin’s breathing becomes more rapid to match the increase in Norris’ swings, “A sickness. They are struck with the fury of The Devil.”
Norris breaks through the door and his axe meets Ailin’s neck. She falls, crying, and Norris continues to hack through her skin and bones. He runs from the room, leaving Norris and Ailin behind, and staggers into the foyer of the inn. There stands a group of townspeople and guests of the inn, all wielding weaponry and fire.
He lets his eyes fall over each of them and sees the same signs as Norris: tears of blood, red hot eyes and a sweat-inducing fever.
“No! Please!” But they are on him before he can run, and his blood paints the wooden inn walls as his screams slowly fall to hush.
In, out.
Breathe.
It was only a dream… he thinks. He sighs to slow his heart and sits up in his darkened room. The smell of wood is rich around him, the candle on his table in the corner long cold. He shivers and wraps a wool blanket over himself. A scream echoes in the hall. He stumbles through the dark and to the heavy door, pushing down the metal handle and pulling it open.
The hall is dark, but he can see the woman at the end of the hall as she is thrown against the wall by the inn owner. She screams once more, but is silenced when her skull cracks against the wood and her blood begins to pool on the floor.
“Norris?” he calls. The inn owner turns to him, and although they are far apart, he can see the fury in the man’s eyes. Norris comes towards him. He can see, now, that Norris is wielding an axe, and his eyes have turned a bright glowing red. Blood trickles from Norris’ eyes and he is sweating profusely.
“Norris?!” The inn owner continues forward as he runs back to his room and uses all his might to shut the door. Finally, the metal handle clicks and the door closes. Norris reaches the door and slams his axe into the wood.
“Lock.” A woman’s voice comes from behind him and he jumps. He turns and recognizes her as Ailin, the girl who stays next door.
“Ailin?” She rushes to the door and places the bar in the lock, keeping the door shut against Norris’ fervent attack. “What is this?”
“They call it The End,” she whispers.
“And Norris?” Ailin looks at the door, fear painting her face.
“Berserkr.” He stares at her and shakes his head. Ailin’s breathing becomes more rapid to match the increase in Norris’ swings, “A sickness. They are struck with the fury of The Devil.”
Norris breaks through the door and his axe meets Ailin’s neck. She falls, crying, and Norris continues to hack through her skin and bones. He runs from the room, leaving Norris and Ailin behind, and staggers into the foyer of the inn. There stands a group of townspeople and guests of the inn, all wielding weaponry and fire.
He lets his eyes fall over each of them and sees the same signs as Norris: tears of blood, red hot eyes and a sweat-inducing fever.
“No! Please!” But they are on him before he can run, and his blood paints the wooden inn walls as his screams slowly fall to hush.
2. Mr. President - a Penumbra Sneak Preview
***FROM AN ESPIONAGE SERIES COMING OUT IN THE NEAR FUTURE***
“Which closet can we use?”
The black-suited men stood in clusters throughout the house. Special lights had been installed in one of the bedrooms. Traffic cones had been placed in the street to block off anyone who might park there. People with earpieces and suits were at every door, every window; every place that might be considered a “weak point” of the house.
The homeowners held each other’s hands as their guests were led to the dining room. The husband looked at the man who had asked him the question.
“Closet?”
“In case of an attack. If we need to protect the President, we’ll need a small, enclosed space. Which closet can we use?”
“Well, we have a linen closet in our bedroom, but you can’t fit us all in there.”
“The closet only needs to fit myself and the President, sir.”
“W…what about the rest of us?”
The man met the husband’s eyes, his own speaking words he wouldn’t say as he bowed his head once and turned on his heel. The wife’s eyes watered and she buried her face in her husband’s chest. He held her close and rubbed her back.
“It’s okay, Clarice. We’ll be fine. Terry just wants to get my opinion on something. We’ll have dinner, we’ll talk, then we’ll say our good nights and go to bed, all right?”
“…okay, Adam,” Clarice whispered, nodding. She wiped her eyes and made her way to the kitchen, catching the watchful eyes of the black-suited men as she passed them. Adam sighed and followed slowly behind, taking a right at the end of the hall to head into the dining room. President Terrence Bates sat at the far end of the table, chatting with his head of security. When he noticed Adam stepping into the room, he waved the suited man away and smiled.
“Adam. Thank you so much for having us over,” Terrence said. Adam nodded.
“Of course, Mr. President. You know you’re welcome any time.” Terrence furrowed a brow and gave Adam a look.
“For the love of god, Adam, call me Terry.” Adam stifled a laugh.
“Yes, sir,” he said. Terry chuckled as Adam joined him at the table.
“Where’s Julia?”
“She went in to help Clarice with dinner. We should be in there, too.”
“Yep, as long as I don’t get in Clarice’s way. She turns into Chef Ramsay if you screw up her kitchen,” Adam joked. The pair walked into the kitchen and helped the women carry food and drink out to the table. Finally, everything was served and all guests, seated.
“Grace?” Adam asked hesitantly. Terry shook his head.
“We’re not in the public eye right now, Adam. No need to pretend.” The couples passed around each plate, filling their own with a hearty meal. Clarice served wine, biting her lip as droplets trickled onto her lace tablecloth. Terry smiled and downed half his drink, holding his glass up for a refill before Clarice had poured her own. The table laughed.
====
The women placed the dirty plates and silverware in the sink as the men grabbed a carafe full of fresh coffee and a tray of small cookies and headed for the living room.
“Thanks for having us,” Julia said. She began washing the dishes when Clarice put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head.
“Don’t, don’t worry about it, I’ll do it later. It’s always nice to have you two over.”
“Since the inauguration, it’s been so hard to do anything. Every single move of Terry’s is plotted and planned, down to how many seconds he spends waving to a crowd before he has to get back in his armored van, again.” Julia sighed, drying her hands. She leaned against the counter and met Clarice’s eyes.
“I know it’s been difficult for you two, but you seem to be doing well.”
“Thanks…I just wish we could go somewhere without an army of suits following us.”
“I know,” Clarice said, “I know. But it’s all for the best. Besides, Adam’s excited to be a part of Terry’s Kitchen Cabinet.” Julia giggled.
“You can’t separate those two. If Terry couldn’t have Adam running things inside the White House, he’s having him run them outside,” she winked at Clarice.
====
Terry swallowed the last bite of his third cookie and sipped his coffee. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
“So…what did you want to talk about?” Adam asked. Terry opened one eye.
“You can’t relax for a second, can you? Shouldn’t the President be the one constantly worrying?” he smirked. Adam laughed.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he replied. Terry waved a hand and sat forward, placing his almost empty cup on the table.
“No, no, it’s fine. Let’s get started.” Terry glanced at the agents in the room and they slowly slunk to the doorways and faced outwards, creating an almost enclosed haven for the men. He sighed, “There is a man in my Cabinet who is rallying against me.”
“Already? You’ve been in office less than two months!”
“It’s never too early, I suppose. Anyway, this man…he’s well-liked in D.C. He has a lot of sway, lot of pull. He wants me out of my seat. He wants to invoke Section Four –”
“The Twenty-fifth Amendment? Are you kidding?” Adam furrowed his brow, but Terry shook his head.
“I know. It’s crazy. It’s politics. He has so many people in his pocket – people in the Cabinet, Congress, friends, colleagues…he’s even black-mailing some people. I need to get something on him to keep this from being an issue. I thought…"
“You thought the ex-Director of the CIA might be able to help?” Adam said. A knowing look crossed his face and he smiled, “Absolutely, Terry.”
“Good. Thank you, Adam. I owe you one.”
“You owe me one-million.” Terry laughed and downed the rest of his coffee. He pointed at Adam and pursed his lips.
“I owe you one-million.”
A scream cut through their conversation and both men jumped from their seats.
====
Everything was a blur.
It was Norris Harker’s first official day on the President’s Secret Service. He had gone through thorough training, extensive tests and vetting and finally, he was allowed in. He took care to keep his suit straight, his earpiece secure, paid attention to every last detail.
But no matter all his preparation, he wasn’t prepared. When shots rang out and a scream filled the kitchen, he wasn’t prepared. When the head of security dragged the President down the hall to the small closet in the bedroom, he wasn’t prepared. When the rest of the agents swarmed throughout the house, taking bullets to the chest, he wasn’t prepared.
And when a bullet knocked him onto his back and sucked the air out of him and he saw his blood pooling all around him through half-lidded eyes, he wasn’t prepared.
====
President Terrence Bates stared wide-eyed up at his head of security. The suited man held a hand over Terrence’s mouth and a gun at the ready. He was crouched over Terrence, listening intently through the closet door.
Gunshots. Screams. Footsteps. Agents ran all over the house, and Terrence could hear them easily. He held his breath, wishing he could burst out of the closet and find his friends and wife. The head of security crouched lower, forcing the pair down into the corner. Footsteps came closer as the house grew more silent, and the head of security held the gun to his lips like a finger, signaling for Terrence to keep quiet. The footsteps stopped outside of the closet.
The door flew open, shots were fired, and the man outside the closet fell backwards, slamming his head against the wooden poles at the foot of the bed. Terrence’s eyes flicked up to meet his head of security’s, but the man was already falling out of the closet, collapsing onto the ground. He had taken a bullet from the assailant and was already gone.
Another man in a black mask stormed into the room and dragged Terrence out of the closet, over the bloody bodies of the dead men.
“No! Get off me! Let me go!” Terrence screamed. He swept his leg around and tripped his attacker, sending them both to the floor. He threw a punch, hitting the man square in the jaw. The man groaned, dazed, and Terrence scrambled to his feet. He ran down the hallway and into the kitchen, where he saw Julia in a pool of blood.
“NO! JULIA!”
A gun smacked against the back of his head and he fell forwards, unconscious.
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Which closet can we use?”
The black-suited men stood in clusters throughout the house. Special lights had been installed in one of the bedrooms. Traffic cones had been placed in the street to block off anyone who might park there. People with earpieces and suits were at every door, every window; every place that might be considered a “weak point” of the house.
The homeowners held each other’s hands as their guests were led to the dining room. The husband looked at the man who had asked him the question.
“Closet?”
“In case of an attack. If we need to protect the President, we’ll need a small, enclosed space. Which closet can we use?”
“Well, we have a linen closet in our bedroom, but you can’t fit us all in there.”
“The closet only needs to fit myself and the President, sir.”
“W…what about the rest of us?”
The man met the husband’s eyes, his own speaking words he wouldn’t say as he bowed his head once and turned on his heel. The wife’s eyes watered and she buried her face in her husband’s chest. He held her close and rubbed her back.
“It’s okay, Clarice. We’ll be fine. Terry just wants to get my opinion on something. We’ll have dinner, we’ll talk, then we’ll say our good nights and go to bed, all right?”
“…okay, Adam,” Clarice whispered, nodding. She wiped her eyes and made her way to the kitchen, catching the watchful eyes of the black-suited men as she passed them. Adam sighed and followed slowly behind, taking a right at the end of the hall to head into the dining room. President Terrence Bates sat at the far end of the table, chatting with his head of security. When he noticed Adam stepping into the room, he waved the suited man away and smiled.
“Adam. Thank you so much for having us over,” Terrence said. Adam nodded.
“Of course, Mr. President. You know you’re welcome any time.” Terrence furrowed a brow and gave Adam a look.
“For the love of god, Adam, call me Terry.” Adam stifled a laugh.
“Yes, sir,” he said. Terry chuckled as Adam joined him at the table.
“Where’s Julia?”
“She went in to help Clarice with dinner. We should be in there, too.”
“Yep, as long as I don’t get in Clarice’s way. She turns into Chef Ramsay if you screw up her kitchen,” Adam joked. The pair walked into the kitchen and helped the women carry food and drink out to the table. Finally, everything was served and all guests, seated.
“Grace?” Adam asked hesitantly. Terry shook his head.
“We’re not in the public eye right now, Adam. No need to pretend.” The couples passed around each plate, filling their own with a hearty meal. Clarice served wine, biting her lip as droplets trickled onto her lace tablecloth. Terry smiled and downed half his drink, holding his glass up for a refill before Clarice had poured her own. The table laughed.
====
The women placed the dirty plates and silverware in the sink as the men grabbed a carafe full of fresh coffee and a tray of small cookies and headed for the living room.
“Thanks for having us,” Julia said. She began washing the dishes when Clarice put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head.
“Don’t, don’t worry about it, I’ll do it later. It’s always nice to have you two over.”
“Since the inauguration, it’s been so hard to do anything. Every single move of Terry’s is plotted and planned, down to how many seconds he spends waving to a crowd before he has to get back in his armored van, again.” Julia sighed, drying her hands. She leaned against the counter and met Clarice’s eyes.
“I know it’s been difficult for you two, but you seem to be doing well.”
“Thanks…I just wish we could go somewhere without an army of suits following us.”
“I know,” Clarice said, “I know. But it’s all for the best. Besides, Adam’s excited to be a part of Terry’s Kitchen Cabinet.” Julia giggled.
“You can’t separate those two. If Terry couldn’t have Adam running things inside the White House, he’s having him run them outside,” she winked at Clarice.
====
Terry swallowed the last bite of his third cookie and sipped his coffee. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
“So…what did you want to talk about?” Adam asked. Terry opened one eye.
“You can’t relax for a second, can you? Shouldn’t the President be the one constantly worrying?” he smirked. Adam laughed.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he replied. Terry waved a hand and sat forward, placing his almost empty cup on the table.
“No, no, it’s fine. Let’s get started.” Terry glanced at the agents in the room and they slowly slunk to the doorways and faced outwards, creating an almost enclosed haven for the men. He sighed, “There is a man in my Cabinet who is rallying against me.”
“Already? You’ve been in office less than two months!”
“It’s never too early, I suppose. Anyway, this man…he’s well-liked in D.C. He has a lot of sway, lot of pull. He wants me out of my seat. He wants to invoke Section Four –”
“The Twenty-fifth Amendment? Are you kidding?” Adam furrowed his brow, but Terry shook his head.
“I know. It’s crazy. It’s politics. He has so many people in his pocket – people in the Cabinet, Congress, friends, colleagues…he’s even black-mailing some people. I need to get something on him to keep this from being an issue. I thought…"
“You thought the ex-Director of the CIA might be able to help?” Adam said. A knowing look crossed his face and he smiled, “Absolutely, Terry.”
“Good. Thank you, Adam. I owe you one.”
“You owe me one-million.” Terry laughed and downed the rest of his coffee. He pointed at Adam and pursed his lips.
“I owe you one-million.”
A scream cut through their conversation and both men jumped from their seats.
====
Everything was a blur.
It was Norris Harker’s first official day on the President’s Secret Service. He had gone through thorough training, extensive tests and vetting and finally, he was allowed in. He took care to keep his suit straight, his earpiece secure, paid attention to every last detail.
But no matter all his preparation, he wasn’t prepared. When shots rang out and a scream filled the kitchen, he wasn’t prepared. When the head of security dragged the President down the hall to the small closet in the bedroom, he wasn’t prepared. When the rest of the agents swarmed throughout the house, taking bullets to the chest, he wasn’t prepared.
And when a bullet knocked him onto his back and sucked the air out of him and he saw his blood pooling all around him through half-lidded eyes, he wasn’t prepared.
====
President Terrence Bates stared wide-eyed up at his head of security. The suited man held a hand over Terrence’s mouth and a gun at the ready. He was crouched over Terrence, listening intently through the closet door.
Gunshots. Screams. Footsteps. Agents ran all over the house, and Terrence could hear them easily. He held his breath, wishing he could burst out of the closet and find his friends and wife. The head of security crouched lower, forcing the pair down into the corner. Footsteps came closer as the house grew more silent, and the head of security held the gun to his lips like a finger, signaling for Terrence to keep quiet. The footsteps stopped outside of the closet.
The door flew open, shots were fired, and the man outside the closet fell backwards, slamming his head against the wooden poles at the foot of the bed. Terrence’s eyes flicked up to meet his head of security’s, but the man was already falling out of the closet, collapsing onto the ground. He had taken a bullet from the assailant and was already gone.
Another man in a black mask stormed into the room and dragged Terrence out of the closet, over the bloody bodies of the dead men.
“No! Get off me! Let me go!” Terrence screamed. He swept his leg around and tripped his attacker, sending them both to the floor. He threw a punch, hitting the man square in the jaw. The man groaned, dazed, and Terrence scrambled to his feet. He ran down the hallway and into the kitchen, where he saw Julia in a pool of blood.
“NO! JULIA!”
A gun smacked against the back of his head and he fell forwards, unconscious.
TO BE CONTINUED...
1. Down in Mexico
Mark Mello stared at the computer screen.
“Mexico?” He leaned back in his leather chair, clasping his hands in his lap. “For thirty hours straight? Wow…”
The stats for his radio show spread out across the screen, bullet points on the graph connected by rising and declining lines. The previous day’s hits had reached an all-time high, at around three hundred, with a handful of listeners in Mexico having tuned in for over thirty hours, non-stop. Mark moved forward and clicked back to his radio show’s home page.
Selecting the “live broadcast” option, he let the current song finish, then quickly jumped in for a vocal transition.
“That was Foreigner with Double Vision. How are all you fine folks doing out there? This next one’s going out to my fans in Mexico. Streaming thirty continuous hours with no end in sight? You guys are amazing. Keep listening, keep rocking.”
He let his preset queue continue on its way; “Dirty Deeds” emanated from the speakers.
====
The man screamed in horror.
His fingers were severed, until he was only left with thumbs on each hand. He had acid marks burned across his chest, with cuts and bruises coloring the tender skin here and there. His legs had been broken early in the night, and were now swollen and purple. He had been there for hours – somewhere around thirty? – and, finally, they seemed to be taking a break.
“Subir el volumen, ¿quieres?”[i] the man with the electrodes called out to his darkly-dressed cohort in the corner of the room. The shadow man turned up the volume on the internet radio as an American song he didn’t recognize came to an end.
“That was Foreigner with Double Vision.”
Mr. Electrodes strode forward towards the victim, who continued his terrorized scream, but at this point, the music and voice of the DJ were drowning out his cries.
“How are all you fine folks doing out there?”
Electrodes attached the devices to the man’s restrained thumbs and toes, two on his nipples and one on his tongue. The man struggled to get free – even a little wiggle room would help – to no avail. Electrodes threw a power switch and shocks coursed through the man, making him bite down on his tongue until it bled.
“This next one’s going out to my fans in Mexico.”
Electrodes turned off the switch and listened to the man gasping for air while the shadow man in the corner tilted his head at the computer screen.
“México?” he asked. Electrodes nodded.
“Sí…” The shadow man turned up the volume once more and listened closely, despite knowing very little English. Electrodes shook his head. Hombre necio…[ii]
“Streaming thirty continuous hours with no end in sight? You guys are amazing,” the voice in the computer said. A chuckle built up in Electrodes’ chest and slowly trickled out of him, until it became a booming laugh. The shadow man faced his cohort, confusion painting his face. Electrodes continued to laugh.
“¿Qué?”
“Él piensa que estamos escuchando a la música para la diversion,”[iii] he choked through guffaws.
“Fun?” the shadow man repeated, in English, and Electrodes nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. The shadow man joined in the laughter as the victim on the metal bed shuddered in fear.
“Keep listening, keep rocking.” Electrodes smiled down at the man and threw the switch once more. The victim’s body trembled with each shock of electricity that flowed through him.
In a thick Mexican accent, Electrodes leaned down and whispered, “Keep listening, keep rocking.” Leaving the switch active, he strolled over to the computer and turned the music up to its maximum volume, which, with the speakers they’d attached, was incredibly loud.
“Siguiente...”[iv] he hissed.
He and the shadow man made their way up from the basement and out into the sunlight as the victim screamed and “Dirty Deeds” drowned out his death.
“Mexico?” He leaned back in his leather chair, clasping his hands in his lap. “For thirty hours straight? Wow…”
The stats for his radio show spread out across the screen, bullet points on the graph connected by rising and declining lines. The previous day’s hits had reached an all-time high, at around three hundred, with a handful of listeners in Mexico having tuned in for over thirty hours, non-stop. Mark moved forward and clicked back to his radio show’s home page.
Selecting the “live broadcast” option, he let the current song finish, then quickly jumped in for a vocal transition.
“That was Foreigner with Double Vision. How are all you fine folks doing out there? This next one’s going out to my fans in Mexico. Streaming thirty continuous hours with no end in sight? You guys are amazing. Keep listening, keep rocking.”
He let his preset queue continue on its way; “Dirty Deeds” emanated from the speakers.
====
The man screamed in horror.
His fingers were severed, until he was only left with thumbs on each hand. He had acid marks burned across his chest, with cuts and bruises coloring the tender skin here and there. His legs had been broken early in the night, and were now swollen and purple. He had been there for hours – somewhere around thirty? – and, finally, they seemed to be taking a break.
“Subir el volumen, ¿quieres?”[i] the man with the electrodes called out to his darkly-dressed cohort in the corner of the room. The shadow man turned up the volume on the internet radio as an American song he didn’t recognize came to an end.
“That was Foreigner with Double Vision.”
Mr. Electrodes strode forward towards the victim, who continued his terrorized scream, but at this point, the music and voice of the DJ were drowning out his cries.
“How are all you fine folks doing out there?”
Electrodes attached the devices to the man’s restrained thumbs and toes, two on his nipples and one on his tongue. The man struggled to get free – even a little wiggle room would help – to no avail. Electrodes threw a power switch and shocks coursed through the man, making him bite down on his tongue until it bled.
“This next one’s going out to my fans in Mexico.”
Electrodes turned off the switch and listened to the man gasping for air while the shadow man in the corner tilted his head at the computer screen.
“México?” he asked. Electrodes nodded.
“Sí…” The shadow man turned up the volume once more and listened closely, despite knowing very little English. Electrodes shook his head. Hombre necio…[ii]
“Streaming thirty continuous hours with no end in sight? You guys are amazing,” the voice in the computer said. A chuckle built up in Electrodes’ chest and slowly trickled out of him, until it became a booming laugh. The shadow man faced his cohort, confusion painting his face. Electrodes continued to laugh.
“¿Qué?”
“Él piensa que estamos escuchando a la música para la diversion,”[iii] he choked through guffaws.
“Fun?” the shadow man repeated, in English, and Electrodes nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. The shadow man joined in the laughter as the victim on the metal bed shuddered in fear.
“Keep listening, keep rocking.” Electrodes smiled down at the man and threw the switch once more. The victim’s body trembled with each shock of electricity that flowed through him.
In a thick Mexican accent, Electrodes leaned down and whispered, “Keep listening, keep rocking.” Leaving the switch active, he strolled over to the computer and turned the music up to its maximum volume, which, with the speakers they’d attached, was incredibly loud.
“Siguiente...”[iv] he hissed.
He and the shadow man made their way up from the basement and out into the sunlight as the victim screamed and “Dirty Deeds” drowned out his death.
