The Carrion Monster

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 08:58:46 GMT

O amiable, lovely death!

Thou odoriferous stench! Sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night.

Shakespeare, King John III

"I told you; we needed to use human blood. Pig blood's just not going to fool anyone."

"So you make a donation. It's more than I planned to give. Besides, I had to get the candles and the incense."

"We didn't even need the incense; I told you. According to the book…"

"The book. The book said we'd see something by now. Come on, let's go."

"We can try again when we find some human blood."

"Let's just go." The two teenagers collected their paraphernalia and scampered over the low stone cemetery fence, leaving behind them a small rough circle of burned grass where a fire had been built. Nearby was a stain on the lawn, black on gray in the dim moonlight.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 05:50:50 GMT

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky.

CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern

shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated

by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always

prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas

when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which

by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly

Hunted

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 13:30:20 GMT

Claire crouched among the fronds of a tall, thick fern. Trembling with terror, she bit down hard on her bottom lip, preventing herself from screaming as the creature bounded through the treetops above her.

The high-pitched howl of anger it emitted was so piercing that she had to clap her hands over her ears. It was unearthly, something she’d never seen or heard before and briefly Claire wondered if it had anything to do with the strange mist they’d driven through on their way to this isolated area.

As the howling grew louder and closer, an odd sense of detachment stole over Claire’s thoughts; warm, sticky liquid flowed down the side of her face from her trembling fingers. Taking her hands from her ears she held her palms in front of her face and stared at them. They were drenched in Jeff’s blood; the blood that had spilled from him as the creature had surprised them in the forest clearing.

Jeff had not stood a chance. Claire and Jeff had been giggling and laughing as they lay together in the moonlight, blissfully unaware that death was stalking them. Jeff hadn’t even uttered a sound as the thing had rushed at him, ripping him open with dagger-like claws

Adrenaline had kicked in and Claire had run, zigzagging through the closely clustered trees as fast and as far as she could. Now, as she sat huddled among the foliage at the base of a thick pine tree, Claire realised that the creature was playing with her.

It was the cat and she was the mouse. The trembling motion of the canopy leaves slowed as it approached her hiding place. As she looked up into the hideous, snarling face that suddenly loomed above her, Claire understood why the prey always stood frozen before a superior hunter. It was acceptance.

Lightning crashed to the ground in a dazzling blaze that lit...

Spirit Night

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 09 May 2008 06:01:56 GMT

June 1868

A stone rolled under his boot, and Private Ned Johnson fell. The knees of his blue uniform pants ripped and rocks tore his dark skin. His palms were shredded as he tried to stop his forward momentum. He half succeeded and kept his face from digging into the ground. For a few seconds he lay still, straining his ears for any indication that the thing on the mountainside was in pursuit, but could only hear his pulse thudding in his ears.

The cougar’s scream had erupted out of nowhere while he tried to approach the Apaches’ campsite in the darkness. In itself, it meant nothing was wrong. Cougars were well known to roam New Mexico Territory, as all the soldiers at Fort Bayard knew. But the cry sounded again, and again. Then the noise of a furious row filled the air. The cougar moaned in pain and anger. Whatever it fought, fought in silence. With one final outcry that was so filled with sorrow that Johnson shuddered, the cougar fell silent and the loudest wolf-howl he had ever heard reverberated across the mountain. The hair stood on every part of his body. Something crashed through the undergrowth to his right; he panicked, and had bounded down the path toward his horse.

He felt foolish as he brushed the dirt off the front of his faded blue uniform. The night was again silent, and the cloud covering the face of the full moon drifted to the side, giving him enough light to examine his wounds. They were superficial, but the greater insult was that his rifle lay somewhere on the path behind him. Like the Colt revolver in the holster at his side, the repeating rifle had cost a pretty penny. He couldn’t just leave it.

He glanced downhill. His horse was just visible next to a large rock, and the others hadn’t arrived yet. He’d known it was a bad idea to split up, but with so much ground to cover they didn’t have a choice. Corporal Barnett and a new recruit named Hallow had gone into the valley to check out a cave while Johnson scouted up to the ridgeline. But he’d found the Apaches instead of a cold camping site. Could have been worse - the Apaches could have found him.

He looked up the path. Skid marks in the rocky, di...

Bitter Souls

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 05:39:06 GMT

I hide in shadows, sweat dampening my clothes as I nervously destroy the cuticles on my fingernails in anticipation. Today, on el Dia de Muertos, the ancient celebration of the Day of the Dead, I worry that I will soon be numbered among them.

Earlier, I succeeded in tracking him to his new abode. I had come across his trail of destruction on the Internet, of all places. Reports from a Mexican city near Juarez detailed an unusual number of missing among the homeless and prostitutes, fitting his standard modus operandi. As I had only recently lost his trail near the border in New Mexico, it seemed likely that he had continued further south.

In his dotage, he had become sloppy, demasiado confidente, and he appeared not to observe me as I followed him from his latest human slaughter to his current shelter. An untrained eye would not have been able to distinguish him from the surrounding environment as he traveled, for he had dispersed his essence into little more than vapor. My eyes, however, had been schooled by many previous bloody encounters with him over the years, and were not so easily confused. The billowing form moved from a rat-infested alley on the outskirts of the city to a more rural hacienda, secluded and encircled by well-stocked animal pens. Centuries of existence had taught him well, to maintain an alternative supply of food in times of scarcity. A small, polluted stream meandered on by the livestock, supplying a cheap, readily-accessible waste disposal service. He eventually slipped from my sight under the sill of a low stained glass window, undoubtedly heading to the basement.

I bide my time in a copse of nearby ficus trees, waiting...

The Shadow

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 09:15:37 GMT

     You remember that video on the news--the one shot by the reality TV crew riding with the police? The squad car pulled up, the cameraman jumped out just as something wrapped up two would-be jewelry store thieves. I mean literally, engulfing them before spitting them back out to collapse shivering at the feet of the police. The video was bouncy at first, but steadied quickly enough to capture the thing’s form (too thin and stretched too high, like a funhouse-mirror reflection) and its features (none, just a smoky silhouette of utter black).
     The Shadow it was from that day forward. I think Walter B. Gibson and Orson Welles would have approved, but--what in the heck is it? A ghost? An alien, even? The theories flew, and are still flying.
###
     Most people look scared when a stranger pulls a gun on them. Whether it’s a young couple dumb enough to walk through the park after midnight or a guy in an alley like now, it’s always the same: hands fly up, eyes wide, don't hurt me! But not this guy. He doesn’t look anything more than mildly surprised, and that startles me. I'm used to getting instant respect from my handgun. I want to shake my weapon and say, "Hey buddy! See this?"
     But I've had a bad feeling about this from the start. Sure, he looks about forty and his belly bulges. Balding, too. He's also wearing a three-piece suit and white earphones that proclaim loud and clear he's carrying an I-Pod worth at least a hundred on the street. What's he doing downtown well after dark?
     Maybe he's a dope dealer or something. All I know is I can't pass up this chance--I've been averaging forty dollars a holdup, and at that rate it'll take forever to get into any kind of school.
     And I can't stay out too long. There's a full moon...
     All the same, I wish this guy would hurry. He puts up his hands at least; but all the time he's sizing me up like he's the one who initiated this meeting.
     "Your wallet.” I snarl it out, thinking of how pirate crews used to pull alongside merchant ships and yell and scream and wave swords to encourage their victims to surrender without a fuss.
     Then, in the distance--a howl. Then another.
     Easy, I tell myself. Just dogs.
     "Your wallet! Your I-Pod! Now!" I'm clutching the pistol with both hands by this time, and though I can't see my knuckles, I know they're white.
     "You know," he says, "somehow, you don't seem like a criminal." He draws out his billfold and sets it down slowly on the pavement, like it's ma...

Belvedere's House

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 11:04:06 GMT

The lights in the large meeting room dimmed and the dozen people around the circular table clapped politely, their eyes locked on the wide screen lowering from the ceiling. It flickered into life showing the Belvedere Corporation Inc. symbol. Joseph Belvedere swept back his hair and took his place at the podium.

When the applause subsided, the presentation began.

“Since early developments in genetic engineering, the Belvedere Corporation saw its potential for the human race. Now, we have finally made the breakthrough to make a real difference.” Using a remote, he changed the company symbol to a complex genetic diagram. “By isolating specific characteristic genes, we can purify these strands, alter for a particular organism and inject directly into an embryo. The altered DNA then spreads to each cell in the organism’s body. This completely eliminates the need for some selective breeding and saves a lot of time.”

Some members of the board nodded to each other and comments were passed.

“Yes, Belvedere,” said an over weight bald guy in a sharp suit, “this may save a few days, weeks, months. This is no major breakthrough. Please don’t tell me that I’ve left my little girl’s birthday party for this!”

Belvedere simply glared at the annoyance and continued. “This process has allowed us to do something never attempted in genetic science before –species mixing.”

The shadowy figures exchanged glances, unsure whether they should believe what Belvedere was saying.

“Need convincing?” He used the remote again and video footage appeared on the screen. It showed a man in white protective overalls in front of a forest of dark yellow. The man was waving, although he seemed very nervous about being filmed.

“One of our technicians there,” Belvedere chuckled. “What you really want to be looking at is what’s behind him. We grew a field of corn in which we had injected with a gene from the palm tree, the gene for height.”

The view of the camera panned back and sheaves of corn could be seen twenty feet above the technician.

“This provides us with a larger yield, and takes up less space.”

The board murmured approval amongst themselves.

“And here,” he said as the picture changed to a cluster of white tubes with a white liquid gushing through them. “Ideas?”

A woman with tightly tied-back blonde hair and a sharp suit, shot up her hand, like an overenthusiastic school child. Belvedere nodded towards her.

“It’s milk. A milking machine.”

“Indeed,” replied Belvedere, “but have you ever seen one like this?”

Again, the camera panned back revealing a cow, the tubes attached to its udders. The board looked over at Belvedere expectantly. A gasp came from everybody around the table as on the screen, a technician stepped into view, showing the cow to be o...

Graven Image

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 15:02:24 GMT

     “Our clients all have a peculiar fear.  They’re not convinced their loved ones will stay dead,” the director of Sanguine Mortuary said.

     Hatch fought for control, he thought he might go from smirk, to grin, to all out laughter.

The Director, his face as dead as any of the clients entombed in Sanguine’s walls, stared at Hatch from behind an expensive looking oak desk.  The dire need for the job forced Hatch’s expression to the same state as the director’s name.

     “Mr.  Stone, I...”

     “Jonathan, I know what I’m telling you might be hard to accept but we provide a valuable service to our clientele.” Stone wrinkled his face into his best mortician’s smile.

     “Mr.  Stone,” Hatch said.  “I really need this job.  Whether I believe or not, I can watch your building and everything in it.  ”

     “You seem like a good fellow.  Pity, companies will throw away employees after a decade of service.” Mr.  Stone gently placed Hatch’s resume on the desk.  “I’ll give you a chance, just keep your wanderlust to a minimum.  The last guard couldn’t contain his curiosity.  If he hadn’t up and disappeared, I would have had to fire him.”

Elation.  At this point any job was a good job.  He made a mental note to pick up a bottle of wine on the way home.  He and his wife would at last have something to celebrate.  But behind the euphoria and relief something nagged at him.       Later, when he gave it some thought, after half a bottle of wine and with his wife in a satisfied sleep beside him, questions arose, questions he couldn’t answer and they chattered through his mind, lulling him into a troubled sleep.

#

     “Uh--what’s on the monitors?” Hatch asked.  The surreal images were better than caffeine, no way he would drift off with those things staring at him.

     “Those? Oh go on, take a good look.” Michael Evans, the Second-Shift Sergeant, said.  “What do they look like to you?”

     “Looks like dead people.”

     “Those are our charges, three-hundred and thirty-eight of ‘em.” Evans seemed proud with the knowledge.  “Oh, don’t worry, they ain’t gonna bother you much or entertain you for that matter.”

     “Then why are we monitoring them?”

     “Just in case they wake up,” Evans said. &n...

The Darkness Within

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Alex shuddered and slammed on the brakes, certain that he was about to strike something. He gritted his teeth, bearing down on them tighter. His car soared toward the large branch that blocked the road. The dangerous road, which many people drove way too fast, had been responsible for numerous wrecks. He put the car into park, hoping that Tammy didn’t see him shiver, but he felt certain that she did. He needed to get to the party. Laughter, camaraderie, drinks—he glanced toward Tammy’s teasing jeans—and lowered inhibitions awaited them. He had known Tammy for several months, but had never worked up the nerve to ask her out.

Something stirred in the darkness that encompassed the woods to his right. It whispered to him that he had better pay attention to it. Alex flinched and gazed off into the shadows that surrounded the trees, certain that he was about to find something terrible. The black woods spanned several miles, having no other road running within them. There wasn’t even a path for hikers.

The crisp sound of a tree limb snapped in half jolted him, remaining in his ears for longer than a moment. A dark figure ran out of the woods. Its shadow, long and eerie, prowled toward the road. The shady form lurked for some distance, sliding back into the black forest, not even leaving so much as a single peep in its wake. A breeze curled around the car, smashing leaves and twigs up against it. He thought, What is that thing? If it’s nothing I’m going to look like a total dweeb in front of Tammy. Man, I should’ve never taken this road. It’s only fifteen minutes longer the other way.

Alex just turned twenty-one and appeared somewhat muscular. He had dirty blond hair and a beard. He wore jeans with holes near the knees, a tee shirt, and a pair of fairly new Nike’s. Tattoos, ones that he got from his two year stint in the Army, decorated the upper portions of each arm.

“Well hurry up and get that branch out of the way,” Linda said from the backseat. She moved her head over to the right then checked her hair in the rearview mirror. She wore newer jeans and a nice shirt. She wore make up but looked all of her fourteen years. She manicured her nails to the finest detail. She always got the upper hand over Alex with her parents since she was both the youngest and the only girl among three boys

“Just re...

The Chew-Chew Train

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

An orange flame danced happily upon a log within the fire. Its illumination tossed shadows about the forest edging the campsite, giving the trees the appearance of life as they swayed in the flame’s light. The movement seemed to beckon the four hunters gathered at the fire to join in the shadow dance.

Three of the men gazed at the escaping embers fluttering upward following the rising hot air; the fourth man looked contently at his friends’ somber expressions, knowing he had them where he wanted them … scared to death.

“… And that’s the story of Angelina, the Cajun witch,” he exclaimed, grinning. The reflection of the flame shone on his thin facial features and glistened in his brown eyes. His words snapped the others out of their transfixed state.

“You’re good at telling spooky tales, Lou,” said Eddie, the youngest of the four, “that one got my heart pumping.”

“It’s just a story,” Eddie’s older brother Richie said sarcastically.

“Gonna sleep with your rifle tonight?” Lou laughed, knowing Eddie was riled from his stories. He liked to tease and pull pranks on his friends, sometimes going too far, sometimes turning a harmless joke into a dangerous game, especially with his friend’s kid brother. Lou was almost embarrassed at how simple it was.

Maybe the kid was acting stupid.

Lou recalled their first day of hunting. He upset a beehive dangling from a limb above Eddie who stopped to urinate. The nest fell next to him scattering thousands of angry yellow jackets over the unsuspecting boy. Luckily, a nearby stream offered him a shallow haven from the insects.

That was it for the rest of the day. Eddie and big brother Richie did not speak to Lou because of yet another moronic stunt. It wasn’t until camp was set before the three begun to grunt towards each other, finally letting slip a word or two towards reconciling.

Eddie’s arm and neck suffered several stings including one on his cheek, reminding him...

The Clock Watcher

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Alan tracks the second hand as it slowly makes its way around the clock face. It’s the last minute of the last day of his last year in high school. He is ready to be done, despite the fact that it’s been one big party since he led the football team to the state championships in December. One more minute to freedom. He can barely stand it. This is the longest class ever.

10 seconds. The class begins to fidget. Alan sits up from his slouching position. 5 seconds. Backpack zippers slowly click open. 4 seconds. The clock stops. Oh no. She won't notice and they'll have to stay even longer.

"Hey Todd," Alan whispers to his buddy in the seat next to him, "the clock stopped."

No response.

He glances at Todd. A spitball hangs in midair just in front of his mouth. He realizes no one is moving. Notebooks hang just above backpacks. Old Crabby is stuck with her mouth wide open and a pointing finger in the air. Silence permeates the classroom. The tense excitement is gone.

Alan rises slowly from his desk, expecting Old Crabby to scold him. She doesn’t budge. He heads for the classroom door. Before opening it, he glances out of the small rectangular window into the hallway. There's not a soul in sight. Tentatively, he pushes the door open.

The W hall corridor is eerily silent. No bang or clash of locker doors slamming shut. No excited murmur of students out for the summer. Alan stands motionless in the hall, listening. A strange sound is coming from the end of the hallway. It's like people whispering when they are trying not to be heard in ...

Scourge

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

My mother and I first went to see the dark lady with the ragged cough after everyone else had been gassed and swept away, but I thought we could have used her sooner. Her kind, they scare the enemy.

Dinah Arc was who you asked for when you wanted to see her, but really, at least with everyone who didn’t know her personally, she was known as Dam Widow.

She was a rough lady, although she looked like a spindly shadow of a human creature when I first saw her, and it was her beard that Mother warned me about first.

“When we see the Dam,” she said, looking stern and straightening my stiff collar, “you’re not to stare at the stubble on her face.”

“Why would I stare?”

“Because it’s not normal for a woman to have stubble on her face, even an old woman. Don’t you know that?”

I shook my head.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just pretend you don’t notice.”

One of Dam Widow’s many eccentricities was that she would only conduct her business in the evenings and at night. Not that it was an altogether absurd nuance for one of our kind, but outside the comfort of our true forms, we tried to stick to the way the enemy did things.

“Tell me again how many children she has, Mother,” I said, stepping lightly over a crack in the sidewalk and enjoying the feeling of the cold on my pale skin.

&ldq...

Man & Wolf

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

It was a cold night, too cold for hunting.

Snow and hail pelted the lodge as the winter wind snaked through the surrounding forest, kicking up a sound which was eerily similar to wolves howling at a full moon hanging in the sky.

The creatures of the night, deep in the lonely Mackenzie Mountains of the Canadian Northwest Territories, were nestled away in holes and trees and caves, fearfully waiting out the storm.

Twin beams of light cut through the darkness and settled on the side of the lodge as a beat-up truck barreled down the dirt road and came to an abrupt stop. The lights turned off with the engine and the doors opened quickly. Two young men, coat collars pulled up tight against their cheeks, jumped out of the truck and ran inside. Warm light spilled out from the old building, then vanished as the door swung shut, and the night was black again.

Something watching stirred in the woods.

The men took off their gloves and rubbed their numb fingers together as if they were trying to start a fire with a couple of wooden sticks. They left their brand new orange hunting coats on as they saddled up to the bar, their boots trailing muddy water behind them.

The lodge was busier than it had been the past few nights; the storm had driven most of the nearby hunters from their expeditions to seek the sanctuary of the warm fire of the South Nahanni Lodge. Although it was packed with bodies, the roof beaded with sweat and the windows fogged up, the old building was uncharacteristically quiet; a thick gloom filled the air with its weight.

The two newcomers were soon greeted by the barkeep, who also happened to be the cook, the cleaner, the room booking manager, the truck-, gear- and firearm-rental agent, and the owner.

“Ol’ Mother Nature got the better of you two boys, eh?” said Sekwi through his thick, tangled beard. He pulled ...

Looking for Work?

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Phil looked at the classified ad for the thousandth time.

“Looking for a new job filled with excitement and eye-opening experiences?” It asked. “Come to 1329 Home Ave. at 3:00 pm on Monday for open interviews.”

Ordinarily, Phil wouldn’t have answered something so vague, but he was reaching the point of desperation. His last job as a call center Customer Service Rep had ended abruptly when he made the mistake of telling a customer what those hidden charges were really for. The job before that, as a pizza delivery driver, had been even worse. He’d always thought people, on some subconscious level, loved the pizza boy, but after being run off the road by angry drivers for the fifth time Phil had decided it was time to move on.

After several disappointing interviews, Phil had begun to think he might just be unemployable. Whether it was because of his long hair or the scowl that had taken up permanent residence on his face, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that if he didn’t come up with some cash soon, he was going to lose his apartment. That is, if he didn’t starve to death first. If he had seen anything else in the classifieds the day before that had seemed even remotely promising, he wouldn’t have answered this one.

But there hadn’t been, so he found himself parked in front of 1329 Home Ave. at a few minutes past 3:00 wearing a shirt and tie he’d dug out of his closet the day before. He’d even polished his shoes that afternoon and pulled his hair back in order to make a good impression. As he looked out his windshield at the front of the building, though, he wondered why he’d bothered.

When Phil thought about what a business was supposed to look like, many things came to mind. Shop fronts, offices filled with cubicles, and even restaurants. In his mind they all had exteriors that, if not new, were at least professional looking. This place did not qualify.

He was parked in the gravel driveway of the building. The gravel driveway that was also an alley. The cracked, brick sides of the two neighboring structures loomed over him, blanketing everything in shadow. At the far end of the alley was an old, monkey-shit brown Buick. It was parked at the foot of a metal staircase that, like the Buick, ...

Car Crash Weather

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

           When the first drop fell, Michael Richards was sitting by himself in front of his word-processor and dictating a letter to one of his fans. His office was dark, just like way he liked it whenever he wrote, and at first he dismissed the splashing sound as another mysterious apartment noise. Being a professional fiction writer, Michael was used to long bouts of silence, so peculiar little ados throughout his domain was something he’d long been accustomed with.
           It was only a few minutes later, as he was nearing the end of his brown-nose thank you letter, that it came again and he quickly whipped his head around hoping to find the source. At first there was nothing; the only things he could see were the same damn bookshelves that he looked at three million times a week. Then something caught his attention on one of the lower cases that housed his own collection. Something . . . dark.
           He got out of his chair and began walking toward the shelves as though the strange mark might leap off at any moment and attack him. It didn’t look like a pest, but Michael didn’t want to take the chance. Everyone knew rats weren’t the only problem facing New York residents these days.
           I bet its just water, he thought. This whole building’s going to shit anyway. Why the hell didn’t I just take Lori’s advice and buy a house?
           He shook his head sadly. Coming to the conclusion that your ex-girlfriend was always right could be a little frightening.
           But gradually, however, as the little mark hove into view, it became apparent that what he was staring at definitely wasn’t dirty pipe water. It was thick. It was dark. It had the substance of . . .
           ‘Blood,’ he murmured, then bent to the shelves to get a closer look.
           Even though the meager light that came through the slatted blinds was orange and dull, there was still no mistaking that the liquid he was staring at was red. He placed a tentative finger toward its shiny surface, touched it, and then brought it to his nose for a sniff.
           ‘What the?’
           As a writer choosing the horror fantasy genre as his field of study, Michael had made quite a comfortable living dealing with the constitutes of blood. Now, as he breathed in its hard lacquered scent, an observer could be forgiven for thinking he had a career in ballet.
&n...

Runner

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Bayou Sorrel,

Iberville Parish, Louisiana.

Hour seven of Hurricane Katrina

Georgie Dugat guided his rowboat through the darkness using the outboard motor as a rudder. Usually, under better circumstances, he would steer by oar; it was quieter when poaching crawfish beds or gators as they mated or slept. But tonight the boat had become a rescue vehicle, his only hope.

Water sloshed around his ankles with floating pieces of torn netting, crushed beer cans, shards of gator skin and shells of broken crawfish littered the floor of his poaching craft. The swamp had risen with the influx of water from fallen levees pouring into areas where tides had been denied access for so long. When the swamps murky surface began to enter his cabin above the bayou’s bank, he decided it was time to get on the road for shelter.

He loaded two blankets and a case of Coors into the boat then ordered his common-law wife, Paula, in as well. They pushed off into the dank disturbed bayou just moments before the cabin submitted to the waters onslaught.

“Did ‘ya take a light?” Paula yelled through the wind.

He twisted his head to hear as though catching her words before Katrina whisked them away.

“Maudit!” He yelled realizing too late his error.

“No, you damn fool! Don’t ask god to damn anything, Georgie,” she yelled looking up into the black treetops swishing frantically in the wind, “looks like he pissed enough!”

“Maybe he no Cajun?” Georgie bellowed and ducked just as a cypress branch whipped passed his head.

“Where’re we going?” she screamed through the opening of the blanket she placed over her head for protection. She tilted her head to hear his answer.

Shark's Tooth

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Benjamin Crabb enjoyed sweating, and today the sweat on his forehead made him feel especially alive. The salty air that swirled off Key West complemented the moisture beneath his shirt, making Benjamin feel forty years younger. To see him preparing the complex rigging of the Sonia's Smile was to believe that age was only a state of mind. The triangular shark's tooth around his neck glittered in the sun upon its golden chain as he stepped onto the flying bridge.

        "Nella! The tanks! Would you check the hoses for me? And the pressure? And - -"

        "--And the six cold ones? Not to worry, Dad. Done, done, and done!"

        Benjamin peeked into the cooler just to be sure. There would be one hell of a reason to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday if he found the golden treasure he sought today. How many years had he searched for it? How often had he failed? He knew only that it was out there somewhere in the Atlantic, just about seventy nautical miles southeast of the Saddlebunch Keys.

        He knew because forty-five years ago he had left it there.

        He checked that the fuel supply of his twin Volvo diesels read 'full' and wiped the glass of the fathometer and radar reflector clean. His thirty-four foot trawler would not fare well if one of those freighters en route to the Gulf Stream crossed the Sonia's path.

        Benjamin felt uncomfortable knowing the Coast Guard closely monitored the area surrounding the Keys, and getting around those maritime salvage laws was always tricky. But his age had worked in his favor the last time the USCG boys had stopped him. Three officers had smiled at the old man in the scuba gear, and one had said something under his breath about Jacques Cousteau being alive and well in Florida. Benjamin had simply smiled back at the young officer.

        Behind him on Duval Street the sign to Crabb's Bait and Tackle Shop swung and squealed on its rusted hinges. Benjamin knew how much Nella hated that sound and pictured his daughter gritting her teeth with each swing. He turned to watch her through the store's huge bay window.

        Nella seemed too absorbed in her Cosmopolitan to be giving much thought to the sign. She looked up at the old man and shrugged. The store had been open for over an hour and there had not been a single customer. She stepped out onto the pier and rolled up her Cosmo into a megaphone.

        "Better you should be giving...

The Umbrella

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Tricia always carried the yellow and blue umbrella.

“Ain’t ya noticed the sun’s out today?” Bob called, hanging out his bedroom window to shout out his obnoxious question. He lived on the second floor of their shabby three-story apartment block. Most of the tenants were like Bob - unemployed or working a shitty job, but all making way below the minimum wage.

She tilted her head up towards him, shielding her eyes with one hand. Tricia never bothered to provide an answer when he asked her questions. It was usually about the same thing anyway. Bob either liked to repeat himself or was suffering from some memory loss problem which had him stuck in a cycle of repetition.

“You crazy fool!” He yelled, the fly screen falling on his hairy back like a messy curtain.

Bob twirled a finger near his temple several times before disappearing inside his pig’s sty. He was dirty, obese and smelled bad. Still, he thought she was nuts. That didn’t bother her - everyone usually thought the same. Tricia couldn’t expect them to understand, they hadn’t witnessed the world through her eyes.

She shrugged before moving forward with the umbrella tight in her right hand. Tricia didn’t care what her neighbors thought of her. It was just ironic how she usually wound up saving the life of someone that detested her oddities!

Black to the Bone

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

As Tom McGill pulled his rig into the coal dock, a truck swerved into his path.

“Watch it asshole!” he snarled, giving him the finger.

When his headlights shined into the cab, Tom saw an ethereal black skeleton laughing in a miasmic mist. He stepped on the brakes, just missing a pile of coal.

Man, Carol’s right, he thought, I gotta lay off the Sci-Fi channel. I’m fuckin’ seein’ things.

The steering wheel slipped from his sweaty palms as he backed up. He jumped at the honk of the truck behind him. Goddammit, I’m gonna miss the scales before the dock closes if I keep fuckin’ around, Tom thought, as he veered his truck back on the black beaten path that led to the scale house.

“Hey Tom, ya alright? Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost,” laughed Ed Howard, the scale house operator.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Eddie. Just tired, I guess. This here’s my last load before my vacation. Me and the old lady are goin’ to Vegas.”

“Good luck, man. I lost my ass there last year.”

Tom turned the cab light on and handed Ed a truck ticket to fill out. “Yeah, I finally talked Carol into goin’. Ya know, ya can only go to Florida so much before your skin fries off,” Tom said. He grimaced at his dark tanned skin. He straightened his ball cap that covered a bald spot nestled in a thin nest of salt-and-pepper hair.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ed laughed. “OK, you’re good to go. Just dump it over in that big pile. We’re gonna start loadin’ barges soon.”

“Thankee, Eddie.&...

Community Service

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

    The local council had decided to clear up the Katherine Young Memorial Park as part of their centenary celebrations, or at least, they had decided to appoint others to clean it up for them. More specifically they had decided that those sentenced to community service would clean it up, which was why on a hot summer’s day, Kate, and twenty or so other young men and women, found themselves standing in the overgrown park almost up to their knees in stinking, half rotten vegetation.
    “It’s the lake that really needs clearing,” Peter Matkin told her, puffing on a cigarette. “People have been fly-tipping there and it’s filled with garbage and general rubbish that people can’t be bothered to take to the tip. There’s even a bloody trolley!” He thrust several thick lined bags into Kate’s hands. “That’s for the crap.” He handed her a pair of gloves. “These are so you don’t touch anything with your bare hands.”
    “Thanks,” Kate replied, staring at the bags and gloves distastefully.
Peter just snorted before stomping away to go and help one of the other people also assigned community service.
Kate let out a heavy sigh and made her way in the opposite direction towards the lake.
    She could smell it before she reached it, the stench of rotting vegetation and pollution, of rubbish. There were overgrown weeds and thorny bushes in her way, but she ripped through it all, mercilessly, and eventually she reached the lake, a dark, still and stagnant, putrid mire, filled with all manner of items that no one wanted anymore. Dead fish floated on the surface, next to tin cans and cigarette butts. Discarded clothes, needles, food wrappers and scraps of paper, even an old book, lay fallen around the edges. They nestled among the dead and dying vegetation that was slowly rotting away due to the lack of sunlight caused by the overgrown trees.
    And, as Peter had said, there was a trolley, half stuck in, and half out, the lake’s black surface.
    Kate sighed again, more a muttered oath this time, as she knelt down on the sodden ground, trying not to grimace as she felt dampness soaking her jeans, and set to work cleaning up other people’s mess.
    At least she was getting some fresh air.
    Kate worked alone for about an hour until she heard the sound of twigs breaking under foot and a boy came out of the overgrown shrubbery to join her, arms full of more of those thick lined rubbish bags. “Hi,” he said, with a smile. “I’m Stuart. I’ve been assigned to be your helper.”
    Kate grinned as she introduced herself, squinting up at him. He had nice blue eyes, gentle, sparkling, and a ready smile, but most importantly, he was co...

Winded

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

"Where are the legs with which you run

Indeed, your dancing days are done!"

Anonymous Irish Song_

It was just past ten when the fireworks started.

Patrick - in training for the firm’s fun run - hunched down into a squat, threw his arms up, and stammered: “Jase...no, Ja-”.

He sneered at his foolishness, looked up at the lights, and then down to the city below. He had known that the show was about to begin, but had still jumped like an ape in a thunderstorm. He relaxed his brows and shoulders and willed his thin, white legs on.

The night was overcast. Some stars straggled through the canopy of cloud. But the moon was missing and the air tasted of coal and mercury.

A ragged crowd massed along the distant foreshore. After a year of plague, they were happy to sing their songs, propitiate their gods, and beg for a better year.

Patrick heard no folk-songs. Trance pounded 130 beats a minute into his head, banishing 5,000 years of culture to hell.

Jenny loves this crap enough for both of us, thought Patrick, and squinted out, into the distance. His wife was no doubt embedded somewhere down there, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ with her girlfriends from The Post and half the city.

Patrick screwed his earphones deeper into his lugs. Then he tugged the player’s clip at his waistband and sped left around a corner.

After a few hundred meters, Patrick found it harder to breathe. He'd been slapping the asphalt for almost 20 minutes, and his calves and...

Brother's Keeper

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Brian’s lagging behind again. In a tired voice I tell him to pick up the goddamn pace, we’re almost home. It’s closing in on midnight now. Don’t ask me how I know as I don’t have a watch. I can just tell by the way the dark shifts around us. With the passing of an unseen second hand, October 31^st will soon become November 1^st,All Saint’s Day. Not that clocks or calendars matter anymore. For the rest of my life it will be Halloween…

I had my hand on the back door, Henry already waiting outside, when my dad’s voice found me. “Hold up, son, hang on a second.”

Shit. As badly as I had wanted to keep going, pretend I hadn’t heard him, I knew had to stop. Henry begged me with his eyes to make a run for the street but I could no more have fled just then than the tides could have disobeyed the moon.

I turned around to see my father in the kitchen door, arms folded. He was still dressed in his business suit, jacket folded over one arm. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“I got my flashlight and cell phone,” I automatically replied.

“Did he remember his jacket?” a voice called out from down the hall.

“Yes, mother, he’s got it.” To me he said “You know I’m not talking scarf and gloves here. We’re talking about your brother, Brian. Didn’t we discuss you taking him out trick-or-treating last week?”

“Aw, c’mon, Dad, he’s never going to be able to keep up!”

“Which is exactly why we want you to keep an eye on him,” Dad said. “There’s a lot of danger out there, especially for a six-year old.”

I glanced out the door at Henry, who rolled his eyes and mimicked hanging off the end of a noose.

The Bathhouse

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Peter Sheldon pulled into the driveway of the old Victorian manor and parked beneath the naked tree branches that twisted in the winter breeze.

He kept the motor running and the heater on as he sat gazing at Aunt Laura’s house. He had to stop thinking of it as her house - it was his now. She left it to him in her will, along with a small bank balance. No grand fortune, but enough to tide him over the divorce from Nancy. It would give him a place to live for a while.

If he had any other choice, he’d never stay here, but he was deeply in debt, and had borrowed against his commissions to pay the divorce settlement. Once he got back on his feet, he’d sell the place and move on. As long as he stayed away from the bathhouse, it would be fine.

The bathhouse. The words sent a throb of revulsion over him. Peter shivered as a picture of grotesquely oozing flesh flickered across his mind. He closed his eyes against the horrific memory and pulled his coat collar up against the chilly air.

Skeleton branches scratched at the windshield, as though trying to get in out of the cold. Peter turned up the heater and let his realtor’s eye appraise the plusses and minuses of the two-story house. All the blinds and drapes were drawn in melancholy silence. He hadn’t been here since he was a child of eight almost twenty years ago. When Aunt Laura died several months ago, he hadn't come up here then, because he was in the middle of the divorce. There was no one else left in the family, and now, without Nancy, he was completely alone. It didn’t matter. Better to be alone than in a marriage turned sour.

The house obviously needed lots of work. The gingerbread trim was rotting, layers of paint flaked from the clapboard, and the bushes and shrubs were wildly ov...

The Reunion

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

“Honey, we’re going to be late.”

“I’ll be right there,” Luke Spencer called from the master bedroom. He combed his thin gray hair and adjusted the maroon silk tie he bought at Harrods in China. He stepped back to inspect his full reflection. He pulled his sleeves down beyond his tan jacket to reveal gold cufflinks engraved with his initials.

Twenty-five years, he thought. It seems like only yesterday. He glanced at his Rolex. The social hour of his twenty-fifth high school reunion started in five minutes. Luke didn’t care. He never liked to wait for others. He always preferred to make a grand entrance. He grabbed his ID card from the bedside table and went into the living room where his wife Janelle fidgeted in her gold sequined gown.

“What took you so long? We’re going to have a terrible time trying to park.”

He walked over toward her and kissed her cheek. He twirled her golden blond hair. “You worry too much, dear. I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

They walked hand-in-hand through the marble foyer and out onto the front porch. The door closed and locked behind them. The floodlights came on when the sun stepped beyond the horizon and the drapes inside the house slid across the windows.

“We better hurry. I think it’s about to rain,” Luke said.

“Why do you say that? It doesn’t look like rain.” Janelle scanned the horizon and saw only pale peach clouds that bloomed in a vast purple field.

“I thought I heard thunder.”

“I didn’t hear anything, dear.”&n...

Afterburn SF - The Very Best in Speculative Fiction

Not Your Kind of Heathen

The Carrion Monster

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Hunted

Spirit Night

Bitter Souls

The Shadow

Belvedere's House

Graven Image

The Darkness Within

The Chew-Chew Train

The Clock Watcher

Scourge

Man & Wolf

Looking for Work?

Car Crash Weather

Runner

Shark's Tooth

The Umbrella

Black to the Bone

Community Service

Winded

Brother's Keeper

The Bathhouse

The Reunion