
The Lake and 17 Other Stories
Kindle Edition
All stories written by David McAfee except:
One Last Dinner Party, written by David Dalglish
Cover by David McAfee
Lake image provided by stock.xchng
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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For Dad, who isn't here to see this.
Dear Reader,
I'd like to explain something about the tiny short horror stories in this book. All but three were part of a challenge to tell a complete story in exactly 100 words. Not 99, not 101, but 100. That included the title. When it first came up I didn't think I could do it. How can you tell a story in only 100 words? But I gave it a shot and came up with 15 of them. You will find 14 in this book. The one I didn't include really stunk, and I'll never show it to anyone as long as I live, so don't ask.
I found the exercise to be fun and educational. When your goal is to have a certain number of words, it really makes you think about word choice. Aspiring writers hear a lot about word choice and tightening up the narrative, but putting it into practice is something altogether different. You really have to pay attention to the individual meaning and impact of every single word. Does it belong there? Does it make sense? Is it too much? It was quite a challenge, and I've rarely had as much fun writing stories as I did when putting those mini tales together.
The other three short stories are longer, more traditional horror stories. All three were previously available from my former publisher, but for a much higher price. I love all of them, and I'm hoping you will, too. And if you think I'm slightly off in the head after reading them, then I guess that's OK.
Enjoy!
David McAfee
Contents
Mario
"Mario! Come back here!"
Mario kept silent. His mom could yell all she wanted; he wasn't going back. After fifteen years he would soon be free. Besides, she wouldn't be yelling for much longer.
"Mario!" She was answered by an explosion that shook the whole block. Her eyes widened to dinner plates as she flew through the air to crash some twenty yards away.
"There you are!" his father said. His white lab coat looked orange in the firelight. Mario tried to hide the detonator, but the buckles on his sleeve hindered him.
"I'm not going back," Mario said.
Joe
Her fucking car wouldn't start. Again.
"Damn it!" She reached over and slapped Joe hard on the face. "What am I gonna do now, asshole?" Joe didn't reply. Instead, he stared vacantly toward the dust-covered windshield. The bastard didn't even acknowledge the slap.
"You're no fun anymore, Joe." She said.
To this, Joe slumped forward in the seat until his forehead rested on the glove box. Fresh blood poured from the wound on his neck and mingled with the puddle in his lap.
She licked a stray drop from her upper lip. "Next time, fix my fucking car right!"
Exhibit A
Oh good, you're awake. You've been out of it longer than I thought you'd be, I was gettin' worried. But hey, you're up now. That means we can get started. Great! Now, just hold on. Settle down, you shouldn't try to move so much yet. Just relax. That's right. Wait a second, I gotta make sure the tape recorder's on. Yup. Good. Ok, now we're ready.
Y'know, watchin' you layin' on the floor like that really got me thinkin'. I'm always amazed by the guys who think having the ability to do somethin' is the same as havin' permission. You know the type; the men and women who believe the laws of Man and God don't apply to them, like they live above the rest of us. And I ain't talkin' about some rich prick, either. Hell, those guys're conditioned to think that way. Nah, I'm talkin' about the people who are mostly just like you and me. Regular folks, so to speak, who for some reason get it in their head they ain't regular folks.
I see 'em on TV every now and then. The jackass rapist who sticks his dork in half a dozen women and then wonders why everyone hates him when he gets caught. Or the twenty-somethin' year old gang-banger who kills four kids in a drive-by and then can't figure out why the prosecutor's demandin' such a stiff sentence. Or even the housewife who thinks her hubby isn't payin' enough attention to her and decides she'd be better off with his life insurance payout than with him. They all got one thing in common; they're always surprised as Hell to find out they gotta be punished for what they did. It's almost like they think they're entitled to do that shit, you know what I mean? Those are the assholes I'm talkin' about. I just wanna smack 'em in the face and say "You did the crime, y'know? Now take your fuckin' medicine. You earned it, after all."
Say, how's that rope, buddy? Too tight? Shit, my bad. I guess you can't really talk right now, can you? Sorry about that. Tell you what, if the rope is buggin' you, just nod your head. Yeah, like that. That's good. If I had a better place, with soundproofin' and whatnot, I'd take the gag off you, and we could have ourselves a civilized conversation. Ah, well. We'll just have to make do.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Assholes.
Not me, though. When they catch me (and I know they will sooner or later), I'm gonna deserve everythin' I get. Maybe they'll even give me the death penalty. Hell, I guess you could kinda say that's my goal. That's why I'm startin' this audio journal; so later on, when the prosecutor is trying to prove Mental Capacity, he can play this tape and shout "There! There in the defendant's own words is the proof that he knew exactly what he was doin'," and point at the tape player with a righteous look on his face. Or her face. Hell, this is the two-K's, I gotta start thinkin' multi-gender, huh?
People's Exhibit A. That's what they'll call it, I bet. Like they do on those cop shows. I like C.S.I., don't you? I watch that show every week. It pisses me off they got ridda Warrick, though. Assholes in Hollywood don't know what the fuck they're doin'. But anyway, yeah. People's Exhibit A. As in "I'd like to present People's Exhibit A, Your Honor, an audio tape made by the defendant himself." Then they'll play it for the whole courtroom, and I'll just sit there watchin' the jurors squirm and tryin' not to smile. Hey, you'll be on everyone's mind, then. Won't that be great? I like to imagine it as a dramatic moment, full of hushed whispers as a courtroom full of people try to puzzle out the hows or whys.
"How could he do such a thing?" They'll ask. Then: "Why would he do such a thing?" That's the one that'll keep 'em awake at night, I bet. Not the how, but the why. They just won't know. They won't get it. But that's ok. I'm used to that.
Well, for those future jurors sittin' in that stupid little box, let me clear it up for you: There is no how. There is no why. I'm doin' this because I can, and because I want to. Oh, don't be so prissy. Not one of you can say you never thought about it. Also, let me say right now, at the outset, that I don't give a rat's ass what the defense's shrink may say about me while I'm sittin' there, don't you believe a word of it. I ain't fuckin' crazy. Give me the quack's name and I'll do him or her next so you won't have to listen to their bullshit. Well, I guess that's jumpin' the gun a bit, but you folks in the jury box get the idea. Hell, with any luck, maybe my next guy will be a lawyer. Ha! That'd be great.
Hey, man, quit thrashin' around on the table. You're only makin' the knots tighter, anyway.
Shit. You know what, though? You're abso-fuckin'-lutley right. I'm bein' rude. You're my guest; I should be payin' attention to you, not some future jury of my "peers." Okay, then, let's get to work. I got my knife right here. Now, don't worry; I sterilized the blade. See? There's still some alcohol on it. Well, there was a second ago, but that shit dries pretty quick.
Don't let the size fool you. I know it's just a little one, but -- hey, what's that line women are always feedin' us? That shit about how it ain't the size, it's how you use it? Ha! I love that one. Well, I promise you ain't gonna be disappointed. Sure, it's small, but this little sucker's good'n sharp. And this ain't gonna be one of those two-minutes-and-it's-over type of deals, either. You and me, we're gonna be here a while.
Now, I woulda liked to get my hands on some good anesthetics. Maybe that crap dentists use. What's it called? Novocain? Somethin' like that. But I can't afford any of that shit, so this might sting a little. Sorry about that, I really am. Can't be helped, though. You go on ahead and scream if you have to, it's cool. That's why I put the gag on you in the first place. Oh, and don't worry about infections, either. I have lots of water and rubbin' alcohol, so the cuts'll stay good and clean. Besides, this'll be over long before any infections set in.
I know this might not mean much to you, but in a way, you should feel special. You're my first, y'know. After this I won't be a virgin anymore. You're gonna pop my cherry. Ain't that cool?
Quit squirmin'! You're only drivin' the blade deeper...
Cardiac Episode
Pain in his chest. Numbness in his left arm. Not good. Not now. This can't happen now.
The drugs did their job; the woman was out cold. He opened her gown, exposing her breasts, and smiled when her nipples hardened. Time to get to work.
More pain. The worst yet. He fell to the floor, taking his scalpel with him.
\*\*\*
Groggy, she lifted her head from the table. According to the wall clock, she'd lost two hours somewhere. A frown creased her face when she noticed her uncovered chest.
"That's funny," she said. "They don't look any bigger."
The Basement
What remains of her boyfriend Robbie hangs from a pair of rusty hooks in the ceiling. Hunks of dripping flesh spatter the concrete floor with blood and other body fluids.
She wriggles, trying to loosen the ropes. No use.
"There," a voice says. "That oughtta do it."
She turns, knowing already what she will see. Robbie's murderer stands nearby, grinning. Six foot three, easily two seventy. The sweaty man wrings his hands with a wet towel, his features twisted with glee. Robbie's blood stains the front of his white T-shirt.
"Birth control pills, my ass," her father says.
Vague
She put the barrel to his temple and pushed. The cold steel sobered him instantly. "Are you willing to die for it?"
Her question mocked him. Surely she knew the answer already. She had to. He shook his head, no longer trusting his instincts.
She smiled. "I thought not." She placed the handle in his grip and pointed the business end between her breasts, just left of the sternum. "Well, then...are you willing to kill for it?"
He pulled the trigger. Click! Nothing.
She laughed as she took the gun away. "Did you really think I'd be that stupid?"
Scott and Mary
"What is it, Scott?"
"It's a penis. What's it look like?"
"That's a penis?"
"You're hilarious, Mary. Get over here."
Smiling, she grabbed the penis in her hand. "It looks red. What'd you do to it?"
"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Mary!"
"Ok, ok. Sheesh!" She put it in her mouth and got started. When she finished, she wiped her lips with a napkin. "That was a good one."
"Told you."
"Where'd you get it, anyway?"
"I caught a hobo yesterday," Scott waved a greasy rib at the freezer door. "The rest of him is in there."
The Spider and the Fly
"Come, boy," Beakle said, wagging his finger at the child in the tattered clothing. "We are almost there." The weak light of the gas streetlamps battled with the light of the full moon, bathing the street in a soft, surreal glow. The boy walked too slow. Beakle kept having to slow down for him to catch up. He wanted to get off the streets and get on with the night's business. Back in his kitchen, his stores stood nearly empty, but soon he would fix that. The boy would fill them quite nicely.
"Are you certain, sir," the boy asked, "that you can help her?"
"Of course I can." Beakle smiled. The boy, whose name Beakle did not know, had come 'round the streets an hour ago asking everyone he saw for help. His mother was laid up, and by the symptoms the boy described, Beakle knew she was sick with Plague. There would be no saving her, and the boy's proximity to the Plague did not endear him to many passers-by. Only Beakle was unafraid, but then, what could the Plague do to him that Time and God had not already done? He looked at his gnarled, liver-spotted hands, crippled with the Twisting Disease, and bit back a chuckle. Plague indeed... he should be so lucky.
Besides, Beakle was hungry.
He'd boil the boy first, until he was good and tender, soft enough for his old teeth to manage. That was always the best day; right after the boiling. The flesh was so easy to eat he almost didn't need to chew. After that came the salting and the drying, which always made the meat hard and tough. Less fun. Much like that which hung in his pantry now; the remains of a little girl he'd found roaming the alleys one night. Now nothing but jerky in a sack nailed to the wall. Sustenance, yes, but enjoyable? Hardly. Like chewing rawhide or shoe leather.
But not tonight. He smiled. Tonight, he would feast.
He turned back and looked at the boy again. Scrawny lad; of the type often seen wandering the streets. Dressed in rags and with a mother soon to be dead of Plague. No one would come looking for him. Beakle looked at a patch of the boy's thigh, visible through a tear in his ragged trousers. The thigh was his favorite part. Big muscle, took a long time to cook, but with the right seasoning...
He had to turn away, lest his face give away his intent. The boy was small, but young, and Beakle would have no hope of catching the young sprite if he took a mind to run. His knees, twisted by the same malady that afflicted his knuckles, simply would not allow him to chase after his meal, hence the need to lure the boy into his kitchen. The spider and the fly.
"Tell me again how long your mother has been ill," Beakle said, wanting to keep the boy distracted. "It will help me figure the dose."
"A few days. No more than three," The boy replied, holding his hand up and showing Beakle three splayed, dirty fingers.
"Good," Beakle said. "That's not too bad. I should be able to fix her right up."
The boy smiled, revealing crooked, slightly yellow teeth. Common enough for the urchins who prowled the city. Beakle was doing him a favor, really. Three days of the Plague? The mother was probably dead by now, and if the boy didn't already have plague, too, then he'd likely die of starvation or thirst soon enough. Beakle would save him from all that. This time he did chuckle. If anything, he should get a medal for sparing the boy the hardships ahead.
He reached his street and turned left. "Only a short ways, now." His house hunkered at the end of the lane, the last one on the street. Old, and in a sad state of disrepair, but also isolated and with several good, solid rooms. Rooms like his kitchen, which was really a basement dug under the wooden floor. No sound escaped the place, and he'd taken to boiling his meals alive, like lobsters, to enjoy the screaming. He fancied that struggles and pain made the flesh extra soft and juicy. He licked his lips as he led the boy to his doom.
At the doorway, the child balked. Beakle swore under his breath. So close!
"Is this your house?" The boy asked.
"It is," Beakle said. "Come on, lad. Just a bit further."
"I don't want to go in there," the boy said.
Blast! Beakle glanced up the street to see if anyone was about. Traffic on this end of the lane was thin, with only a few people walking and not a carriage to be seen, let alone a constable, but there were enough people that someone would notice if the lad started to scream while being dragged inside Beakle's home against his will. While most people would likely mind their own, especially in this area of the city, he couldn't chance that some busybody might take offense and send a constable his way.
"Whyever not?" Beakle asked, thinking better of trying his luck with witnesses.
"It's haunted, isn't it?"
"Ha! Haunted?" Beakle might have known. He did not have to feign his amusement; the rumors about his house had circulated the city for decades. "Only by myself, lad. Where did you hear such a thing?"
The boy looked at his feet, shuffling them in that innocent manner young children possess, and his face reddened. Damn, but his cheeks looked sweet filled up with blood as they were. Perhaps Beakle would have them for dessert tonight, maybe with a bit of sweet cream or cherry glaze.
"Look here, boy," Beakle squatted down so as to place his face right in front of the boy's, though his knees howled in protest. He reached out with a gnarled hand and grasped the boy's chin, raising it up so their eyes could meet. "This house is just old, like me. It is no more haunted than I am."
The boy remained unconvinced, and Beakle's touch seemed to have spooked him. Probably the Twisting Disease; it had that effect on the young. The boy looked ready to bolt, Beakle had to do something quick.
"You must not pay attention to rumors, boy," he said. "Your mother needs you now."
The boy's eyes brightened with moisture at the mention of his mother. Delicious! Oh, God, Beakle thought. Just two more bloody steps! His knees felt like they were on fire, but if he stood up now he would lose the boy, and that was not acceptable. He swallowed his pain and stroked the boy's cheek -- so tender! -- with the fingers of his left hand.
"Can't you bring the medicine out to me?" The boy asked, his lip quivering.
"I have to make it, yet," Beakle said. He knew this one; he'd used it before. "And I can no longer reach everything in my kitchen, nor can I lift my kettle to the fire. I need a young, strong body to help me."
The boy turned his head back down the street, possibly envisioning his mother lying in bed, coughing and whooping in the late stages of plague. Then he turned, and Beakle saw resolve in those little blue eyes. Inwardly Beakle jumped for joy; the boy was his! He maintained a calm, yet earnest exterior, however, lest he give the boy reason to doubt.
"Ok," the boy said. "For mother."
He stepped around Beakle and into the house. Beakle smiled, took one last look down the street, and stood. His knees creaked and spit fire at him, but he smiled just the same. The lad was inside. Time to get to work. He stepped through the doorway after the boy and closed the door behind him.
He reached out to the lamp just inside the doorway and pulled the tinder from its post. Lighting the spark wasn't as easy as it used to be, but he soon had the lantern lit, casting a dancing, if somewhat dim, light through the front room of the house. He shut the dampers almost entirely to preserve the lamp's oil, and turned to find the boy staring at him from the hallway.
"Where do we go?" The boy asked, his confidence apparently bolstered now that he'd entered the house and found it to not be as bad as imagined. "Where is your kitchen?"
Beakle pointed down the hall. "Second door on the right, down the stairs."
"That's an odd place for a kitchen," the boy said.
"I keep my herbs down there, as well as the big kettle."
The boy shrugged his shoulders, turned away, and headed to the door. Beakle followed behind, shuffling his old man's gait and feeling an old man's pain in his limbs. He ignored them. Soon he would eat, and he always felt better afterward. He watched the play of the boy's calves as he walked down the stairs. Magnificent! Maybe he would eat the calves first, instead of the thighs. Decisions, decisions! He smiled to himself; it really didn't matter which part he ate first. With this young lad, each piece was likely to be just as good as the next.
Beakle closed the basement door behind him and slipped the key into the lock. There would be no escape now. He started down the stairs, gnarled hands reaching to the wall for his shovel. One quick blow and the boy would be out long enough for Beakle to tie him up and stick him in the huge iron pot he kept downstairs. The boy would awaken to water that was just beginning to get warm. Beakle could not suppress his smile; he would have to boil the boy slow. That was best, anyway; it made for more tender meat. The idea excited him. Why, even his Old Man Downstairs was starting to stir, which surprised him. How long had that fellow laid flaccid and dormant? Too long, he thought. Maybe he would do something about that soon, as well.
The boy reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the basement. The feeble light cast little illumination, and the boy stood half in and half out of the shadows. Beakle stood behind him.
"Up there," Beakle said. "The orange pot. That's where I keep the thistle root."
The boy reached up, grasping for the pot, still with his back to the old man. The pot was just out of his reach, so he stretched further, and his fingers brushed the edge of the handle. Beakle raised the shovel high overhead, then brought it down on the back of the boy's head with such force the shock traveled through the shaft and into his twisted hands. Beakle knew to expect the jolt, it happened every time, but expecting it didn't lessen it at all. Pain flared in his wrists and hands, and Beakle clenched his jaws and eyes shut against it. It would pass soon enough, and then he could tie the boy up, put him in the pot, and have at it. Well worth a few moments of agony.
Beakle waited for the pain in his hands and elbows to subside, then he opened his eyes.
The boy stood facing him, not seeming at all the worse for the blow, and regarded him with a curious expression on his face. Amusement? Then the boy's eyes began to glow, looking like a coyote's near a campfire. Beakle sputtered and staggered back, his frail hands clutching the shovel's handle. This couldn't be? He'd heard the blow connect. Heard it and felt it. The boy should be unconscious.
"I knew it," The boy said, and pointed an accusing finger at Beakle. "I knew you weren't a nice old man. Thank goodness, I was getting hungry."
With that, the boy began to squirm and groan. He twisted and writhed until he fell to his hands and knees, and then he began to scream. His high-pitched shriek pierced through Beakle's heart and shriveled it with fear. What the devil is this? He thought. He turned and shuffled for the stairs as fast as his twisted knees would take him, dropping the shovel in his haste. It hit the ground with loud clang, and he stared at it, noting the blood on the blade. He'd hit the boy plenty hard, of that he was sure.
He reached a gnarled hand for the railing, trying to ignore the boy's screams, which seemed to grow louder as the seconds passed. Just as he put his foot on the bottom step, the screams changed in timbre and length. Instead of long, loud screeches, the boy now issued a series of short, chuffing grunts. It almost sound like... laughter?
"Where are you going, old man?" A gruff voice behind him asked.
Beakle turned, but the boy was gone. In his place stood something else, something dark and hairy, like a large dog standing on two legs, but more muscular and solid than any dog he'd ever seen. The thing stood about five feet tall, with long, sinewy arms that reached almost to the floor. Beakle shuddered as he noticed the thing's hands, which would have looked almost human had it not been for the five-inch claws jutting from all ten fingers. Its muzzle parted in a wicked, canine grin, revealing a set of gleaming white fangs.
Beakle screamed and turned and tried to run up the stairs, ignoring the bright flash of pain in his knees and hips.
He got about three steps up when a wave of searing agony tore through his shoulder. He brought his hand up to it and found four pointed things sticking from it. The creature's claws; it had skewered him. The tips of the claws curled inward, grabbing hold of him by his torn flesh, and Beakle felt moisture build in his eyes.
He was jerked backward, the smell of his own blood in his nose. The pain in his shoulder burned like gunpowder. The boy/creature slammed him to the hard floor of the basement and stood over him, licking his chops. A slow strand of drool fell from its jaws and landed on Beakle's cheek, but he didn't move to brush it away.
"Yes," the thing said, sniffing the air. "Yes, I can smell it! You smell good, old man. Fear is a wonderful spice!"
"Please," Beakle said, sobbing, "Please, boy, don't hurt me."
The thing snorted out another bit of laughter, then nodded his head in the direction of the big pot in the middle of the floor. "The spider and the fly," the thing said, echoing Beakle's earlier thought. "Which is which, old man?"
"Your... your mother," Beakle said in a last-ditch effort to save his life. "I can help her, you know. I can." He pleaded, but pain and loss of blood did their work, and he started to grow dizzy. "I can help...her," he mumbled as his vision faded.
More chuffing laughter. "What mother?"
Brothers
Wide-eyed, Mark blasts by me as I peek around the corner.
"Come on. We gotta go!"
"Why? What is it?" But I am asking Mark's dust; he never even slows down. Now terrified, I take off after him, but he is too far ahead. "Mark, wait! You know I'm not as fast as you."
I think I hear him shout, but I can't quite understand the words. "What?"
Suddenly I am yanked backward. All I can see is a snarling, berserk mass of fur and teeth.
Mark's voice comes to me from up ahead, "I said, that's the point."
Bobby and the Mayor
Adults never believed a kid. Ever. All over town people were dying, and all the mayor could say was "Where's your proof, Bobby?" Like a ten year old boy couldn't have a brain.
Well, this time Bobby came prepared. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the evidence. It was heavier then it should be, although that could just be a trick of his mind. "Here's my proof."
He dumped the bag over the polished desk. The mayor screamed when his wife's head rolled out, trailing blood behind it.
"They ate the rest," Bobby said.
Cold
Cold. After the pain fades, that's the first thing you feel.
Your insides shrivel up and your first instinct is to wrap your arms around your chest for warmth. But it doesn't help. Soon you realize your body doesn't shudder like it used to. Your flesh doesn't pebble with the chill and your breath no longer fogs the air. That's because the cold isn't outside, but inside.
After that it doesn't take long to figure out how to warm yourself. The very first time you see a stranger walk by, you just know.
Fresh blood is so very warm...
Writers Wanted
Writers of short fiction wanted.
Jim checked the ad again, wanting to make sure he had the right address. The building looked deserted.
2122 Wilshire Blvd.
It was the right place. He knocked.
An old man answered. "You a short fiction writer?"
Jim nodded.
"Come in."
The old man led him down a long hall to a sturdy wooden door. "I do enjoy short fiction writers," he said as he opened it and stepped aside.
Jim gasped. Blood and gore covered the walls. He felt a sharp pain in his back.
"They taste so much better than novelists."
The Lake
This time of year, the water in Green Lake is so thick with algae you can't see past the layer of light green goop floating just beneath the surface. The combination of large volumes of rain and direct sunlight contribute to a generally nasty-looking body of water, yet people still swim in it. They paddle their kayaks across it or run their powerboats through it. Hell, they even water ski in it. And why not? After all, it's just algae, right? Nothing to stop a person from, say, skinny dipping or fishing out a nice bass.
That's what Wally said as he walked out the door to the cabin and strolled down to the beach. I told him the water was disgusting, and I wasn't going near it. Being from the south, I'm not used to Maine lakes, and Green Lake seems to get more algae and moss than most. But Wally grew up in the area, and swam those nasty green waters as a kid.
"It's perfectly fine," he told me, but I wouldn't budge. No one else wanted to go, either. He shook his head at us. "Come on, guys. It's gorgeous out, and there's supposed to be a full moon tonight. Let's go have some fun!"
"Can't we go to a pool or someplace clean to swim?" I asked.
He just laughed and walked out the door, saying something about me being too picky.
That was noon. Nine hours later, Wally still hadn't come back to the camp. The guys and I started to worry. There were only five of us, plus Wally, and only he knew the area. The rest of us had flown in from various parts of the country in response to an ad online. Wally placed it. It said he needed five housemates for the summer to split the cost of renting a small camp on the shores of Green Lake. I'd just finished my freshman year at Baylor, and a quiet summer on a lake sounded like the perfect getaway after the bustle and noise of Dallas.
The other four were all college guys like me. And believe me, after the first week in Maine, we all started to think we should have gone to Miami for the summer like every other red-blooded college kid in America.
"Should we call the cops?" Brayden asked.
"Are you kidding?" I said. "We've got enough pot here to choke a horse and you want to call the fucking cops? How stupid are you?"
"We could hide it."
"It's too risky."
"I got an idea," Spencer said, "Let's smoke it all, then call the cops."
Brayden, Spencer, and Josh laughed so hard I thought they were going to choke. Mickey and I just stared at them. Between those three, they'd managed to smoke half the weed already, anyway. That's all those guys did; smoke Wally's weed and complain that there weren't any women in the cabin. Like they could have found one who wanted to fuck them, anyway. Bunch of lazy, stoned-out-of-their-mind hippies.
"We're not calling the cops," Mickey said. "Besides, which one of you bright guys even has a fucking signal out here?"
None of us did; there wasn't a tower around for miles.
"And we aren't smoking any more weed tonight, either," he continued. "You guys already smell like a burning pot field."
Brayden's face fell at the mention of no more weed. I felt a stab of anger at him. How his life must have sucked so...Oh, no. We're out of weed. It's a crisis! Sheesh. Some guys just don't want to grow up. Meanwhile Wally was out alone somewhere, maybe hurt or dead. But hey, we had weed, so all was cool.
Ugh.
"Listen, guys," I said, "We need to go look for him. He should have been back by now. He could be hurt. Or worse."
All four heads nodded, but Brayden chimed in and said he wasn't going unless he could bring a doob or two. "To chase away mosquitoes," he claimed.
"Whatever," I told him. "Let's just fucking go."
We stepped outside as a group -- Brayden brought three joints, of course, and happily puffed away at the first one with Spencer and Josh -- and headed toward the shore. There wasn't much light, but Mickey had his Coleman lantern set on high, which lit our way to the lake. At one of the few other camps, music and laughter pumped from windows propped open against the oppressive humidity and heat of a Maine July. Most of the surrounding camps don't have air conditioning, so open windows and ceiling fans are about as good as it gets unless you wanted to sit in a tub of ice water.
"Man," Spencer said, "We should be in that camp. Those guys are having a blast, and there are girls there."
"Just start looking," Mickey snapped. "The sooner we find Wally the sooner you guys can go get your party on, OK?"
That seemed to satisfy the guys and they managed to quit complaining the rest of the walk to the lake. Since the camp is only about a hundred and fifty feet from the water, that isn't saying much.
We got to the shore and Mickey held up his Coleman. "Wally?" he called, "You out there?"
We couldn't see a thing. Just water. Green Lake isn't a big lake, not compared to, say, Lake Tahoe, or even nearby Moosehead Lake, and there aren't nearly as many camps around it. But at night, in the dark, it can seem a good bit of swimming to try and cross it, and there's a lot of shoreline to cover. And that algae glowed in the light of the Coleman like a phosphorescent ooze.
We decided to split up. Since Mickey and I were the only ones who brought Colemans, he started out going south along the shore, taking Spencer and Josh with him, while Brayden and I headed North. The idea was to meet up at the cabin at midnight if we didn't find Wally because by then the three stoned guys would be sober enough to talk to the cops, at least in theory. We'd have to stash the weed, but by then it'd be inevitable; the police would have to become involved. One of us would have to grab the jeep and drive into town so we could use a cell phone to call the Aroostook County Police.
Brayden and I walked north along the shore for about an hour, but there was no sign of Wally. Brayden kept giggling and puffing, puffing and giggling. You know the type; they don't take anything serious. When he stopped to light his third joint I just kept walking, wanting to put a little distance between us just in case we did end up having to call the police. I could smell Brayden from twenty feet away, and I didn't want to smell like pot.
"Hey, wait up," Brayden called. "Don't you want a hit?" I ignored him and kept walking.
"Suit yourself," he said, still giggling. "More for me." Then he jumped into the lake and started to splash around, making a ton of noise in the process.
"Damn it, dude," I said, "Would you cut that shit out? It's annoying."
Brayden didn't stop splashing, but he did stop giggling. He gurgled and sputtered and tried to say my name but couldn't seem to get it out. I started to worry he was too stoned to be in the water and might drown, so I turned around to see if he needed help. I immediately wished I hadn't.
Brayden wasn't so much in the water as he was lying on top of it. Glowing green algae covered his torso like a blanket, slowly creeping up his body toward his face. His mouth was underwater, but he tried to kick his neck up and scream. Something held his head down, and as I watched, the algae crept over his head and covered it. I heard his muffled voice coming from under the green hood for another moment or so, then he slid under the surface of the water, his feet kicking so hard one of his Sketchers flew off and plopped in the grass next to the lake.
The whole thing happened so fast I never had time to open my mouth. One second Brayden was there and the next he was gone. Poof! Dragged under the water like a fishing bobber that doesn't work.
I looked down and noticed my feet were touching the lake. I jumped back and sat in the grass by the ghostly white trunk of a birch, dropping the Coleman. Thankfully it didn't break. All I could think of was getting my shoes off. They had algae on them, and so they had to go. I could hardly get my fingers to work because they shook so badly.
Once I got the shoes off I grabbed the lantern, wondering how much juice the batteries held, and sprinted back toward the camp in my socks. Small stones and twigs jabbed at the bottom of my feet, but I barely noticed. I ran until I didn't have much breath left and had to stop or risk giving myself a heart attack. I bent over and heaved up my dinner, splattering the grass with puke.
I looked to the right; the lake sat shimmering twenty yards away. The light of the Coleman didn't touch it, but the moonlight cast an eerie luminescence on the surface of the water, and the algae continued to give off a faint, sinister glow.
"Dude!" The voice came at me from up ahead. I looked up to see a lantern bouncing in the darkness like it was on a tripwire. "Dude, is that you?"
Mickey ran up to me, clutching the Coleman like his life depended on it. Behind him Spencer huffed and puffed, a locomotive on low steam. Josh was not with them.
"Where's Josh?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"It got him! Spencer screamed. "It fucking got him!"
Mickey dropped his lantern to the ground and tackled Spencer. "Don't start that shit again, man," he said. "Pull it together."
"What got him? The algae?" I asked.
"See?" Spencer said, "See, Mickey? I fucking told you! He saw it too!" Spencer pointed right at me. "Now get off me, you asshole!"
Mickey looked up, his eyes begging me not to say it. I couldn't lie, though. Some weird shit was going on.
"Brayden's gone, too," I said. "He jumped in the lake and that green shit...it just fucking grabbed him and dragged him under."
"How much of his weed did you smoke, man?" Mickey asked me.
I just glared at him. Mickey and I were the only ones in the cabin who didn't smoke weed. Christ, I had a scholarship to think about. I couldn't afford classes without it. Mickey knew that.
"You know I didn't smoke any, Mickey," I said.
"Fuck!" Mickey said, still sitting on top of Spencer. "What are you telling me, man? This lake eats people?"
"I don't know, Mickey. But I saw Brayden go down. Whatever that green crap is, it pulled him under."
"Goddammit, Mick. I told you, now get the fuck off me!" Spencer's face had turned bright red in the light of the Coleman.
Mickey stood up, grabbed his lantern, and without even looking at Spencer, he walked up to me. "What did you see?"
"I told you," I replied. "The algae pulled him under."
"That's not possible."
"Then go for a fucking swim." I said. I turned away from him and headed back to the camp. "I'm getting my ass back to the cabin, and then first thing tomorrow morning I'm leaving this dump and going back to Dallas. You guys can stay here and go swimming if you want to."
"What about Brayden and Josh?" Spencer called.
"They're gone." I replied. As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. "They're gone, and I bet Wally's gone, too."
"Shit," Mickey said, and stepped into line behind me. "We should call the cops."
"Fuck that," Spencer said. "They'd probably arrest all of us as suspects, and I'm not---"
Spencer was cut off as he tripped in the grass, smashing his nose in the muck. He looked up, his face covered with mud and goop. "What the fuck? Hey!"
Then he slid backward toward the lake. We were on an incline, so at first we thought it was gravity that pulled at him. I took a closer look, and that's when I saw the green rope wrapped around his foot. The rope was the same glowing green color as the algae in the lake, and the other end of it was submerged under the murky water.
I threw my lantern to the ground and grabbed one of Spencer's hands, then I planted my socked feet in the muddy grass and pulled. It was no use; the rope pulled both of us along as easily as it had pulled Spencer by himself. I looked over my shoulder, wanting to ask Mickey for help, but he was gone. I suppose I couldn't blame him. The first time I saw the algae attack someone I couldn't do anything but piss myself. At least Mickey had the presence of mind to get the fuck out of there.
By this time Spencer was screaming at me not to let go, and I tried; I really did. But his hands were so covered with muck and mud from scrabbling at the ground that I couldn't get a good grip. As a green tendril slid up his torso and covered his mouth, I lost my footing and fell backward into the mud, losing my grip on Spencer's wrist.
Spencer slid down to the water and a green carpet of algae enfolded him, neat as caterpillar's cocoon, and pulled him the rest of the way into the water. I slid in right behind him, grabbing frantically at anything I could get my hands on, but the slope was too slick, and I splashed into the water a pair of seconds behind Spencer.
The water was fucking cold, I noticed that right away, and it was murky, too. I couldn't see a thing. I pushed my head through the surface and gulped in air, thrashing around and trying to keep the algae off me long enough to climb out of the water. What I saw when I opened my eyes made my bladder let go.
Right in front of me, Spencer's face, half covered by green moss, bobbed just above the surface. One wide blue eye, streaked with red, pleaded with me to help, but there was nothing I could do. Blood leaked out of his nose and the corner of his eyes. Beneath the green carpet that covered him, I heard his muffled screams. Then another sound, a cracking like branches snapping, filled the air, and Spencer's one visible eye clenched shut. His torso seemed to fold in on itself. The muffled screaming stopped and Spencer's face relaxed as he, too slid under the surface of the lake.
"Oh, shit," I said, over and over again. "Oh, shit. Oh shit. Oh, shit!"
The algae floated all around me, shimmering in the moonlight just under the surface of the water. I glanced back toward the shore, ten feet away. The water was up to my chest. I'd never make it. Five and a half feet of the floating green stuff hovered in the water between me and freedom. I clenched my eyes and waited for the worst, wondering what my corpse would look like. I counted down the seconds I had left to live.
Thirty seconds went by. Then another thirty. Then sixty more. After three minutes, I opened my right eye and looked around. The glowing algae was gone.
Without waiting to find out why, I bolted for the shore, running full speed from the lake and back toward the cabin. I left the Coleman where it sat, lighting the edge of the lake where now only normal algae seemed to grow.
I reached the cabin and the door was wide open. Mickey must have beaten me back. That made sense since he ran screaming from the shore while I tried to save Spencer. I hoped he was still inside so I could beat the living shit out of him for leaving us to die like that. Fucking pansy!
When I stepped into the room I saw him lying on the floor. The cowardly bastard must have fainted. I pulled off my sodden shirt, walked up to him and kicked him hard in the ribs. "Get up you chickenshit!" I yelled. "Get the fuck up!" But he didn't move.
That's when I noticed the spreading pool of blood underneath him.
"He's dead, man." A voice behind me said. I turned to see Wally standing in the hall, a joint in one hand and a gun in the other, complete with a muzzle silencer. Wally raised the gun and pointed it right at me, then brought the joint to his lips and took a long puff.
"You guys didn't smoke the weed, did you?"
"What?" I asked, never taking my eyes off the gun.
"The weed," Wally said. "It's special. The lake smells it. That's how it knows when to eat."
"What?" Then the pieces clicked into place in my head. "You son of a bitch. You knew, didn't you?"
"Well, everyone's gotta eat, you know."
I looked at the door, a good ten feet away. Could I sprint through it before Wally shot me? I didn't know, but I didn't have much choice. I tensed my legs, ready to bolt.
"Don't even try it," Wally said. "I've got you dead to rights."
I looked back at him and realized it was true. He could squeeze the trigger before I could move. Fuck. He had me. What to do? I sure as hell didn't want to die in that cabin, but I wasn't going to let him march me down to the lake, either, if that was his plan. I said a quiet prayer and tried the oldest trick in the book. I looked over his shoulder and tried to look like I was focusing on something behind him, hoping he was stoned enough to fall for it.
He was. He turned his head just slightly. I threw my wadded up T-shirt at his head and bolted for the door. The shirt smacked into his face with a wet plop, but the bastard still got a shot off. I heard a light fwiiiiip and white fire seared through my shoulder as the bullet went in one side and out the other. Luckily it didn't hit any bones and just tore through muscle. It hurt like a bastard, but I could still run. And run I did.
I sped out of the cabin and sprinted toward the lake, hoping to stop at one of the other camps that dotted the shore. Behind me Wally screamed at me. The colossal fuck even had the audacity to tell me to hold still. Yeah, right. Let me make it easy for you, Wally, you prick!
I ran to the lake and sped along the shore, not really having a clear idea of where I was going. All around me patches of dirt and grass popped up as Wally let loose a volley. Fwiiip! Fwiiip! Fwiiip! The bullets whizzed around me, one passed so close to my ear I heard it buzz as it went by. I ducked as another round tore into my lower back. Fuck, that hurt!
Then a round caught me in the knee and I fell face-first into the muck and grass, panting and wheezing like a track star right after a marathon. I tried to pull myself forward, but my shoulder couldn't hold my weight, and I just fell again. So this is it, I thought. This is how I'm gonna die.
Then Wally screamed. At first I thought it was a victory scream, but soon I heard the terror in his voice. I pulled myself up on my good arm just in time to see him fall to the ground, a glowing green rope wrapped around his ankle. He raised his gun and pointed it at the water. Fwiiip! Splash! Fwiiip! Splash! Click! Click! Out of ammo.
"No," he screamed at the rope. "No, not me! I feed you! I take care of you!"
He looked over at me. "I take care of it." His eyes brimmed with moisture.
Then a bit of the mossy rope covered his mouth, muffling his screams like Spencer's and Brayden's before him. Wally was dragged, kicking and fighting, into the lake. I watched as he sank below the surface, leaving nothing but a ripple.
"You shouldn't have smoked your own weed," I said.
Headaches
After months of headaches, she finally went to the doctor. As the platform slid into the waiting maw of the MRI, she breathed a sigh of relief. Dr. Seymour was a specialist, he'd help her.
"Now just relax, Miss Emmil," he said through her headphones. "Try to stay perfectly still."
In the confines of the MRI, she twitched as the machine thumped to life.
"Very good, Miss Emmil. Ah, there it is. As I suspected, you have a dense tissue mass just behind the temporal lobe. It resembles a variation of---holy shit!"
"What? What's wrong?"
"It... it moved."
Kyle is Hungry
Kyle bit into the severed forearm and almost fainted. He'd eaten the fingers already, and they were great. But this... this was Heaven. There was so much more meat. His teeth ripped a chunk of flesh from the bone, and a drop of blood rolled down his chin. He grinned. Still warm.
In the weak light, he could see the pooled blood on the floor near the hacksaw. Such a waste. Next time he'd bring a bucket.
The door opened, and his mother stepped into the room.
"Kyle! Oh, God, what have you done to your arm?"
Late Night Swim
The Hudson is full of ghosts.
I descend through the icy water to meet them, shivering from more than just the cold.
The city lights filter down, pale and wavering, to the outstretched arms of the waiting dead. They look like plants reaching for sunlight. As I settle among them, my body raises a small cloud of silt, barely visible in the lightless depths of the riverbed.
I can feel the ghosts gathering around, eager to welcome me as one of their own.
With my foot chained to the concrete block, I wait, helpless, to join them.
Protégé
"How about that one?" The boy asks.
"Too big," Mike replies. "How would you overpower him?"
The boy looks again, a frown creasing his face. "I couldn't, but you could."
Mike smacks him on the head. Hard. "Think, boy! We're talking about you, not me. Try again."
The boy bites back tears and looks around again. "OK, then. That one," he says, pointing.
Mike looks in the direction indicated, but sees nothing. His confusion clears up the moment he feels the knife in his back. He slides to the ground, smiling despite the pain.
"That's my boy," Mike says.
Teeth
Teeth. That's what she tells the detective when he asks what she remembers. I watch from the fire escape. This is important. A test. She tells him the thing that attacked her had teeth. Long. Sharp. Painful.
"That's all you can remember, miss?" he asks.
"Yes," she replies. Her voice cracks. Her eyes, still moist, glisten in the moonlight.
He turns to look into the alley. A faint trace of a smile touches her lips. Eyes ablaze, she reaches up and grabs his shoulder.
I smile and nod to myself. She'll be fine. She has her own teeth now.
Like the stories in this book? Please check out David McAfee's other works:
33 A.D.
Saying Goodbye to the Sun
Find David McAfee online at:
mcafeeland.wordpress.com
Facebook: David McAfee
Twitter: DavidLMcAfee
Email: Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com
BONUS STORY:
One Last Dinner Party, by David Dalglish
"Try to hurry back," Wilma told Oren as he climbed into his old Ford. "I'll get worried if you're out too long, and it's a devil to put blush on when my face gets red like it does."
"Don't you worry," said her husband. "Call the Pankratz while I'm gone. Maybe they'll change their minds."
"I doubt they're home," she said. "They have family down in Texas, though god knows what the roads look like since the..."
"Just try."
He drove into town, dirt billowing behind his truck. The Dollar Store would have been cheaper, but instead he turned down Main for Hank's Groceries. Hank waited outside, his ankles crossed, his arms calmly folded over his belly, and a loaded shotgun tilted upward by his feet. Oren pulled up, parked the truck, and shut off the ignition.
"Morning," Hank shouted as the roaring engine died. "I was wondering if you'd show."
"Yeah," Oren said. While climbing out, he made a grunting noise and gestured to the shotgun. "Hope you haven't had to use that."
"I've let people take what they want," Hank said. His voice sounded tired, and the puffy darkness below his eyes signified tears, drink, or both. "The first couple families cleared me out. The rest wandered around like stunned mules. I let them see everything's gone, and then they go, usually holding something weird. You know those filters for the big window air conditioners? Had a guy walk out holding ten, all I had. What in Jesus's name he think he's going to do with them?"
"I'm sorry," Oren said, as if the whole mess were his fault. He certainly sounded like he thought it was his fault.
"Think nothing of it," Hank said. "Though I'm glad to be talking to someone who's not waving a gun in my face. You hear about the Dollar Store?"
Oren turned to the side, spat, and then shook his head.
"Glenda lock it up tight, I take it?" he asked.
"Not like it did any good. There's a reason my door is wide open, because if it weren't, I doubt you and Wilma would ever see my ugly face again. Besides, not like money means anything, not anymore."
Oren glanced inside. Every wall and shelf was stripped bare. He caught a puddle of what looked like milk spilled across the floor of one aisle, apple sauce in another. He felt a bit of pity for old Hank, and he clapped him once on the shoulder.
"Looks like me and Wilma will make do with what we have at the house," he said. "You're welcome to come with."
"Nah," Hank said. He glanced back at his store, and he looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. "I planned on climbing up on the roof with one of my lawn chairs and sit up there. And wait, you know? When did they say the whole shitstorm would start?"
"About four-thirty," Oren said. "Though you never know. Weathermen are hardly better than the farmer's almanac. Hell, a coin flip does better than them, I heard once."
"Yeah?" said Hank. "I think they're right this time around. They wouldn't dare fuck this up. I take it your radio's out, too?"
"Every station. I checked on the drive here."
A bit of awkward silence followed. Oren turned to his truck. When he waved, a bit of the hardness in Hank's face broke.
"You know," Hank said. "I stashed a few things when I heard. Not much, not like the hoarders with their water and flour and god knows what else, but enough for a good meal. I'll come over in a bit, once I say goodbye to the old place. Thirty years. Thirty goddamn years, mopping the floor with my sweat and paying bills with my blood. And for what, Oren? For what?"
He looked ready to cry. Oren frowned, not accustomed to such easy emotions from another man. Unsure of what to do, he hopped into his truck and slammed the door.
"Come say hello to Wilma," he said. "She'd like that."
"She's a sweet gal," said Hank. "Anyone else going to be there?"
Oren turned the ignition. As the engine banged, he continued talking, the satisfying rumble easing the nerves he had felt building during his conversation.
"Wilma's trying the Pankratz," he half-shouted. "Don't think they'll be coming. The Williams will be there. Kids were living in California, so Thelma's pretty shook up, and Roy isn't taking it much better. They needed the company, so..."
His voice trailed off. Hank resumed leaning against the front of his store and braced the shotgun across his lap.
"Go straight home," he shouted. "Stay away from the highway; the roads are hell right now."
Oren had a thought to tell him that the whole world would soon be hell, not just the highway, but kept his mouth shut. He drove home to his wife.
Wilma had done well applying her blush along with the rest of her makeup. She had on a modest white dress and her finest jewelry. Oren felt a tug of memory at the forty Easter services he had attended with his wife. They'd had two kids, and through fevers, snot, tantrums, and teenage rebellion they'd dragged them into their small community church year after year. Their eldest, Julie, had married a German man at college and moved to New York. They'd managed to talk with her about two minutes before the cell phones went dead. Julie had sounded scared but holding together well.
"I wish I was home, dad," she said only moments before the static. "That's all I want right now, I want to be..."
Oren wiped a tear from his cheek. A part of him was glad that his son Jerry was not alive to see everyone so afraid. He'd been born slow in the head. He could wipe his ass, but that was the most complex set of actions he could manage by himself. A seizure had claimed him in his thirties. He might have lived, Oren had told the lawyers that, but the rest home had been too full of difficult patients and poorly-trained attendees. His son had died thrashing and shitting himself, unable to call for help, and by the time someone noticed, he'd nearly chewed off his own tongue.
Poor Jerry, he thought. Never could watch nothing but Disney shows. Hospitals are crowded so bad they're worthless; that's what the television said before it went blank, anyway. God, what would it be like at a rest home? Would the nurses even stay?
He doubted it. He felt pity for all the elderly and retarded, but he clamped that emotion down. Pity was a dangerous thing, for there were too many, just too many, and a man could become overwhelmed. There were the elderly, the sick, the pregnant, the nursing, the little babes, the orphans, the poor...they'd die. All of them. Just like the rest of North America.
Hell, if he was going to pity anyone, he'd pity Wilma and himself.
"Did they have any?" Wilma asked as Oren got out of his truck.
He shook his head.
"Cleaned out. He didn't have a lick of spit left to sell."
The wrinkles on his wife's face pulled back tight across her jaw.
"Not even the zucchini? Cripes, no one liked it before, but I can't make my lasagna without it, Oren. I thought, surely, it's just zucchini, they'll take the water and the flour and the meat, but not the zucchini..."
She wasn't crying; she more appeared to be leaking out the corners of her eyes. Her voice never wavered. Oren wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He felt her quivering against his chest, and he had a strange image of himself as a child holding a scared rabbit.
"You'll make do," he said. "We raised two kids on water and hope. You can manage your lasagna without zucchini."
Wilma sniffed. When she pulled back, she reminded him less of a rabbit and more like an old tree, its bark peeling and its leaves fallen but the roots still firm in the ground. He kissed her cheek, and she smiled at him.
"You're right," she said. "Not often, but when you are, you are."
Oren was not much for baking, and even with the end of the world approaching, he felt awkward in the kitchen. After a few clumsy attempts at separating pasta and chopping tomatoes, his little bat of a wife ushered him out the door.
"Go get a fire going," she said. "Thelma will be fine with my lasagna, but you know Roy. If it wasn't mooing, he don't want it."
Three squirts of lighter fluid were enough to get the charcoal going. He'd known others that would drown the coals with fluid for an easy light, but that felt wasteful to Oren. It seemed a silly thing to worry about, but some habits are hard to break after sixty-five years, and that was one.
They'd kept a giant freezer full of meat on their porch ever since they bought their first pig thirty years ago. A few of their neighbors had swung by since morning, right after the news first hit the air. They all had a desperate, embarrassed look on their faces, as if they were ashamed to steal but knowing they would anyway. Sighing, Oren gently nudged the coals with a poker, trying to forget that he was building his last fire.
What the hell, he thought. He grabbed the lighter fluid and gave it a healthy squeeze. With a satisfying roar, it flared high above the grill. Oren jumped backward, letting out a 'whoa' before laughing. It felt good to laugh.
The first of the steaks was on the grill when Thelma and Roy pulled up in a brown Chevy that was ten years passed its date with a junkyard. Oren continued plopping down and flipping steaks, preferring to let his wife handle the initial greeting. From the corner of his eye he watched them climb out of the car. Thelma wore a black dress and an old hat that reminded him of Jackie Kennedy. Roy, meanwhile, wore a tux that had served him reliably for the past ten years.
Absurd, thought Oren as his wife wrapped them both in a hug. My wife's going to Easter, Roy a wedding, and Thelma a funeral. What's so wrong with jeans? If I'm going to die, I'll die comfortable, not like a stuffed Barbie doll.
His wife led Thelma into the den while Roy wandered over to check on the fire. It was a habit of his, quite possibly a habit of every man. All roaring fires needed communal assessment.
"Looking good," Roy said, sounding as if Oren should be pleased by his seal of approval. "Hotter than normal for you, though. In a hurry?"
"We've got an hour," Oren said. "And I'll be damned if I don't get to eat my steak first."
He stole a glance at Roy. The man had a haggard look to his face, and his bloodshot eyes made him look damned, steak or not.
"Thelma baked up a pie," Roy said. "Well, cobbler. Peach. It was Randy's favorite, you know? His..." His words drifted off, and Oren kept his eyes fixed on the fire so he didn't have to see the tears.
"We had no word from there," Roy said after composing himself. "News said the satellites and radios were knocked out immediately. But the winds coming from the ocean, they might push it away, right? Randy and Susan are south of Yellowstone, maybe it's far enough, and the winds will just push it our way. You think there's a chance of that, Oren? Do you?"
Oren flipped a steak.
"No," he said. He could imagine the tiny thread of hope that his friend clung to, and while a part of him thought to let him hang on, another couldn't bear to lie. "I don't think so, Roy. Not from what I was hearing. Not from what the TV was showing."
Roy nodded. More tears ran down his cheeks, but he wasn't sobbing, and his voice was firm when he talked.
"I can keep hoping though, right? Who knows, I may walk up to Jesus and ask for my little boy and girl, and he'll look at me like I'm a simple-minded fool and say, 'You beat them here, Roy, but don't you worry, time flies up here, it'll fly, and before you know you'll be seeing them again.' You don't know everything, Oren, and that damn TV knows even less."
"I reckon you're right," Oren said, though he didn't think he was.
Hank arrived when they were pulling the steaks off the grill. The two women had joined them outside, iced drinks in hand. When Hank stepped out of his Ford, he held up a giant 24-pack of Bud like it was a basket of gold.
"Nothing I had could match your cooking," Hank said to Wilma. "But this here's something."
Wilma accepted a can, but Thelma refused. Her makeup had run from a recent crying fit. Her wig was askew, revealing a bit of the gray underneath. She looked much like a deer staring at a pair of oncoming headlights, baffled and unable to move. They were all like that, Oren realized. Soon they'd see headlights in the western sky, and they'd stare in wonder. Like the deer, they'd stayed put, unmoving, unblinking, waiting for its approach.
Oren hoped it'd be quick, like a speeding car, and hurt for even less.
The steaks finished before the lasagna. Oren slapped a few hot dogs on the fire. As they cooked, he listened as Thelma told stories about their children to Wilma while Roy quietly sipped a beer nearby. The tales of diaper changes and midnight scares and faulty pregnancy tests brought Oren's mind back to Julie in New York, and he wished that Thelma would talk about something else. Their life was soon to end; did they have to sulk about it?
Shame they cancelled the baseball games, he thought. Could use a good distraction.
The two women went inside, and after a moment, Roy followed.
"He looks like hell," Hank said, crunching up an empty can in his fist.
"We all do," Oren said.
Hank chuckled, still holding the can. A queer smile crossed his face, and looking like a naughty schoolchild, he tossed it to the ground.
"Might make an indian cry," he said, "but I think they got bigger things to shed tears for lately."
"I'll drink to that," Oren said. "God, I just want to watch one more ball game. Cardinals had a shot this year, you know? Seems silly, but I always knew I'd go one day, and Wilma probably soon after, but the Cardinals...they're supposed to go on forever. No more seasons, now. No more records. No more playoffs. It's a goddamn shame."
Oren piled the hot dogs onto a large plate directly atop the steaks. When he glanced up, he saw Wilma at the door wearing a look he knew well.
"Supper's ready," he told Hank. "Let's get to it."
They ate outside. The weather had already grown chillier, but none of them could bear the idea of being cooped up indoors. They piled their plates atop a circular white patio table, devouring lasagna and steaks and beer with ravenous appetites. Even Wilma, a notorious light eater, devoured two helpings of lasagna plus a third of a dog.
Conversation remained light until Thelma said what had obviously been on her mind the whole day.
"Today's the Rapture," she announced. "It has to be. God wouldn't let our good Christian nation be wiped out unless he's preparing for the end."
"I don't know," Hank said. "The local stations lasted a bit longer than the cable, and they had on a little spitfire in a suit shouting about how this was our punishment. We've gotten too sinful, you know? We're like a modern day Sodom, and hallelujah, we're all about to become pillars of salt."
He chuckled, but Oren saw no humor in it. He didn't think either of them was right, but he wasn't going to say so. Thelma flushed a deep red, as if insulted that someone might disagree.
"If the Rapture's come," Hank continued, "then why are you still here?"
Shut your mouth, Oren thought. Just shut your damn mouth.
"Because," Thelma said, "the angels are in the clouds. They'll get us when it hits, just like they got Randy and Susan."
"There ain't no angels in that fucking cloud!" Hank was shouting but didn't appear to know it. "If Randy and Susan are in heaven, they got there the old fashioned way; by coughing until their lungs bled and their throats..."
"Enough!" Oren shouted. His abrupt stand knocked his little plastic chair sprawling. He glared at Hank, who stared back with tears in his eyes.
"You got ten minutes," Oren said. "Maybe you should go back to your store. You can take my chair."
"I reckon I'd rather stay," Hank said. He glanced over to Thelma. "I'm sorry, really I am. Just scared is all. I hope you're right. Never considered myself a good Christian man, but I think today I'm terrified enough to try. Think the angels will grab me?"
Thelma was too busy wiping at her tears, but Wilma piped in with her usual perfect timing.
"Bible says god refuses no man who asks humbly enough," she said. "Humble ain't your nature, Hank, but try it for today. If we're lucky, we might all make it through just fine. Right, Oren?"
"Right," he said.
Everyone pushed away his or her food. Wilma brought out the peach cobbler and spooned out massive servings for everyone. Oren could only pick at it. Cobbler might have been Randy's favorite, but it sure wasn't his. When he looked around, he noticed no one else was eating, either. It was his fault, he realized.
I shouted ten minutes, didn't I? What is wrong with me? Why'd I have to remind everyone?
But now it was only eight minutes. Oren felt angry at the clock. It had crawled by all day, but once he was with friends, it burst into a frantic sprint. All around were sad smiles and faces wet with tears. What a way to end the world: together at one last dinner party, sobbing like children and snarling at each other like dogs.
"Let's get the chairs over to the front lawn," Oren said. "We're all thinking it, so let's stop pretending. We'll get a good look at the western sky from there."
"Are you sure?" Wilma asked. "We've still got some time before..."
"I'm sure," Oren said, and that ended the discussion.
Wilma and Oren sat next to each other on their lawn chairs. Hank sat opposite them and the Williams. Oren thanked god for small favors. Once positioned, they took their beers (even Thelma had one) and toasted the sky. The clouds were soft and gray, but looming behind them seemed to be a storm thick with a substance more solid than rain and more frightening than thunder. Oren checked his watch. Five minutes at the most, assuming the weathermen knew what they were doing.
"Breathe in deep," Hank said to no one in particular. "I heard that makes it quickest. Coughing only drags it out."
The left side of Thelma's face twitched, but she held her tongue.
A breeze picked up from the west, so sudden that Thelma had no time to grab her hat before it sailed across the lawn. For a moment she looked ready to chase after, and then decided otherwise. The clouds rolled across the sky, pushed on by an unseen wave. Another gust of wind hit them, and it was surprisingly warm. Oren felt Wilma grab his hand and squeeze it tight. He squeezed back.
The clouds broke, and the sun shone down on them from a beautiful blue sky. The wind seemed to pause for a moment, as if respectful of the momentary calm. Oren heard a little 'oh' from his wife, and even Hank grunted in surprise. When the wind returned, and clouds shadowed their faces, Oren felt like the last remnant of peace in the world had died.
"Will it hurt?" Thelma asked.
"Just a cough," Hank replied. "Just like a bad cough."
Rolling toward them, an eager minute early, was the ash cloud from the Yellowstone Caldera's eruption. Within it they saw lightning. A soft white, like the foam of a wave, rushed ahead. With a blast of hot air, they felt it hit. Like a desert wind, it burned the back of their throats and nostrils. Roy shouted something, but Oren could not hear him. Then the air slowed, although the heat remained. The light of the sun faded. The roar left their ears.
"Look," Oren said, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Falling in thick, twirling pieces was what looked like snow. It fell upon their hands, their hair, their faces. It was warm to the touch. When they brushed it across their skin, it left a gray smear.
"Sweet Jesus," said Wilma.
The rest of the ash cloud covered the sky, ramming away the white. It was so thick, so monstrous, that night fell. Oren felt his wife's hand tremble in his, and he clutched it tight. High above, thunder roared.
In the darkness, Thelma was the first to cough
If you enjoyed One Last Dinner Party, please check out these other works by David Dalglish:
The Weight of Blood
The Cost of Betrayal
The Death of Promises

