9 Tales Told in the Dark 8 Read online

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#8

  © Copyright 2015 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2015

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

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  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#8

  Table of Contents

  LIGHTS IN THE NIGHT by S.L. Dixon

  A TALE OF THE LONG ROAD by Keith Kekic

  SHOE IN by George Strasburg

  THREE MORE DAYS by Anthony Vann

  LOON by Sara Green

  THE EYE OF THE BLUG by Jeffery Scott Sims

  AL DENTE by D. A. D'Amico

  BIG EYES by Jim Lee

  ON THE WATERFRONT by Shawn P. Madison

  TALES

  TOLD

  IN THE

  DARK

  #8

  LIGHTS IN THE NIGHT by S.L. Dixon

  “Shh, shh,” she reached back, but kept her eyes glued to the road ahead. Evening had been upon her spot in the world for a few hours. She sat, in wait, the darkening evening cloaking like a blanket of surprise, the reddish landscape smothered away as she watched shadows lengthen, as the shapes lost edges and blurred into the night. The shadows were her friend, her cover, but she had to be ready, what if he swayed from his norm?

  All quiet in the backseat, she straightened and slugged back a third energy shot of the day, the tiny plastic bottle said RAW and made her think of something Alice would drink on the other side of the Looking Glass. The little boosts made her jittery, but ready for the impending time, it would come.

  She knew his schedule up to the day, knew his need, but hadn’t pinpointed a moment in time to watch.

  She sat and she waited. It was how she’d finally get him. He came every month and that was his downfall. He had to do it. He had no choice, the central function of insanity incarnate.

  She had a choice, but she had to do it anyway, the central function of love incarnate.

  Around the soft exterior of the stiff steering wheel, her hands gripped until paled, the blood moving elsewhere, away from the tension. She twisted, headlights bounced up the asphalt creating the illusion of four.

  The light drew closer and four became two. One hand from the wheel, she felt for the key, foot on the brake the way her mother taught her when she was just a girl. Closer and closer, those lights rolled and her heart thumped a rampage against her rib cage, rattling a tune of revenge.

  The lights moved beyond and she stared out at the blue Ford.

  “Not the one,” she whispered and loosened her hand, stepped off the pedal. It was the forty-ninth time that day she spoke those words. She’d counted, she’d counted and waited and stared out the wide window. There was an empty coffee cup and a lifeless grocery bag, the only pieces of litter on the rectangle of her near-sight. The bag came from the back of a pickup truck, she pondered calling in a litterer, but decided to focus on one vendetta at a time. The can was there from a time before she parked. It was worth a nickel, someone would grab it eventually.

  To the left and to the right of the dark asphalt, grass grew high in the ditches, swamp beyond that, not far from where it happened. A scene she couldn’t escape; a scene she refused to forgive.

  Forty-nine times that day she had envisioned the memorized scene, the wreckage and that smiling face. Never milky or soft like a TV memory, the edges were hard carved into her mind. She’d driven a happy sing-along excursion with the whole family. It was a long day, but good. The sky around had begun to dim and… from the backseat she heard her baby cry out again and the sound brought her up from the depths of harsh reminiscence.

  “Shh,” she turned and stroked the baby’s belly, he was getting big for the seat, “Mama gonna get you a treat real soon. Mama just gotta do this one widdle thingy.” The baby quieted and lights filled the screen of her vehicle. Watching the lights felt like sitting at the drive-in watching a movie that featured her as the key player.

  Her hand gripped the wheel and the key in the ignition, her foot rested against the brake. The lights became like the sun breaking over a mountain, filling her with purpose. Closer and closer, moving much faster. Fast, fast, just like before.

  “Maybe, maybe,” she whispered.

  A small gold Fiat passed, it wasn’t the right car, not even close. The grip loosed and the foot planted on the carpeted floor. Her mind roved back over the day, the day that became evening and tore her life to pieces. The mark on the calendar that it all went dark and pain clouded over life like spilled tar, seeped into cracks and crevices, mastering the human canvas.

  It was dimming and cool when she drove, she sang Disney songs played on the dash stereo, the family was happy, everything was perfect and she smiled her last true smile. She had her hands on the wheel, the grip perfectly normal; she drank bottled water, replenishing after a day of many cups of coffee.

  She, her husband and her baby spent the day at the beach. It was wonderful, the little baby whined as babies do when sand got into his diapers, but he was happy once back into his seat, under his blanket. Warm and happy listening to Mommy and Daddy sing the childish tunes, tap-tap-tapping out rhythms on every surface.

  The beach was close to an hour from home and she pushed on the accelerator, rising a little faster than normal, but far from ticket range. She wanted to get home herself, get the sand out of her own undies. The moon rode directly ahead, it was big and yellow, her husband stopped singing long enough to ramble an explanation for the size and colour; she didn’t care. She wanted home, it was a good day, but it was long. All good things must end or risk becoming bad things. Horrible things.

  Lights filled the family minivan, approaching faster and faster behind her, “High beams, jerk,” she muttered as if the approaching driver might hear and heed.

  “He really is booting it, eh?”

  She didn’t reply, instead she watched those approaching lights; pushing her foot down, something about the speeder suggested that she didn’t want to deal with his type. Something about that speed suggested malice.

  “Hey, no need. Just let him pass.”

  It’s always him when someone’s flying that fast up a dark road, something about testosterone and horsepower creates a need for speed and a lack of consideration. She didn’t lay off the gas, in fact, she pressed it further; the speedometer needle told a tale and it wasn’t just men and boys that got the need for speed. Seventy, seventy-five…

  “What are you doing?”

  … Eighty, eighty-five. The minivan shook, the baby in back wailed.

  “Slow down!” demanded husband, but she didn’t hear, those lights continued to gain. She fell under their spell, they were demon lights and they’d come to take it all away.

  The needle refused to climb beyond eighty-seven, the minivan’s shell too encumbering and engine too small to permit anything more. The boxy design and lean horsepower meant for family comfort and trips to the beach or the pitch, not for races against stalkers on dark highways.

  The wails from bot
h father and baby came like pounded cymbals and gongs…

  Light filled the vehicle and the memory shook from her grasp, it was a single, a motorcycle, not the vehicle that rides the night every thirteenth of every month. She’d spotted it before, oh yes, but it is tricky and had a way of escaping, a way of shifting into… the meaningless motorcycle lights open her mind and the memory picked up where it left off.

  “Slow down, slow down!”

  Husband yelled, baby wailed and she kept her foot down.

  “Damn it all, Kelly! Slow down!”

  She watched the mirror the terror of the road blazing up, almost touching her bumper and then just like that; it shifted lanes and blazed a red running light trail passed the family van.

  “Slow down!”

  What colour was that?

  Blue or black, that’s for sure.

  What make?

  A muscle car of some creed, a Charger, or a Camaro, or a Mustang, she wasn’t sure, she never was into cars, more of a girly girl. Her lungs threatened to burst, two overblown balloons, she finally exhaled and the world crashed into reality. She slammed on the brakes, the wheels weren’t exactly straight and the illusion of control evaporated when that first wheel lost contact with asphalt.

  The minivan rolled over and over… brightness filled the space around her and reality filled her hands and feet.

  Lights. Lights and speed. It poured from behind, it was him she knew it just from the speed; her heart sped right along with the approaching car. She’d traded in the minivan lifestyle for something streamlined, maybe not a muscle-bound monster of the night, but something more aerodynamic than the family box. Something fit for revenge.

  She squeezed her hand and turned the key, let her foot from the brake and pulled the shifter to drive. The racing demon of the night swerved and teetered to avoid the car, its lights pointed into the swampy ditch.

  “Ha!” she screamed and the baby laughed.

  The car flipped and rolled, there would be no chase. A mess of debris sprinkled shiny chrome and glass about the road, the moonlight shimmering as falling onto a gentle lake.

  She rolled ahead and parked, she checked the wreckage, the demon of the night, finally she’d gotten him, finally! Month after month she came for retribution, month after month she chased and…

  “Oh,” she said after stepping out to check the vehicle, “oh no.” It was a car, a Honda, no muscle, nothing even close to muscle. The driver looked out the window, blood running his face, mask of death. “Damn it!” she jumped back behind the wheel and tore off toward home. The baby crying over failure, he knew what Mama knew.

  She pulled into her driveway only twenty minutes’ drive from the scene of the… accident? The motion light blinked into life and she fussed over the baby’s seat.

  “Kelly?” a voice asked from behind.

  She stopped, frozen and caught, “Uh, yeah?”

  “What are you doing? Where have you been?”

  She pondered and straightened, bundle tight to her chest. There was no good answer to that question, nothing that would sit with the normal order in her husband’s mind. She’d promised him, but how could he possibly expect that she keep such a promise?

  “Not again! You didn’t!” husband rushed to wife, stumbling, his leg hasn’t worked well since that night. He squeezed his body tight to hers, the bundle centering the embrace, core of their world... once upon a time.

  “You’ll crush him,” she mumbled.

  “Oh honey, how long? Four years already, how much longer?”

  She shook and sobbed, her baby didn’t die, he didn’t! The accident was the other driver’s fault, not her speed, it was the demon in the night that took things, that brought the storm cloud.

  “He’s not, not!”

  “Shh, shh, did you catch him this time?”

  She thought about it, there was a car, it rolled, it rolled right into the swamp, but it was a… maybe, it was the man, him in that car.

  “Maybe, but I’m not…” she trailed, her arms let go of the empty bundle, “I can’t be sure, next month I’ll have to be sure. I’ll know next month.”

  “All right, all right, hush now,” husband rocked wife in his arms, “I think you must’ve got him by now.” He’d fought with his conscious, but couldn’t imagine turning his wife into the police, so what if she ran speeders off the road? So what! He couldn’t lose her too, he’d already lost too much. “I’ll bet you got him and you don’t need to go out anymore.”

  “Maybe, but…”

  THE END

  A TALE OF THE LONG ROAD by Keith Kekic

  Adrian Waters walked the twisting alleyways beneath the shadows of old, decaying buildings. He knew the corridors and makeshift paths by heart, having walked them many times before. It smelled of rust and garbage, of piss and smoke. The smells of the slums.

  Adrian was on his way back to the projects. Mama had wanted some beer and cigarettes, so that’s what he had to get. And even though Adrian was only thirteen, the owner of Andy’s Liquor Store didn’t mind selling. As long as the cash was green, the exchange was clean.

  The buildings cast dark shadows over the alleys. Most of the time Adrian walked with his boys, but today he had no choice but to go alone. Mama was in a mood, and didn’t give Adrian much of a choice. When the beer well ran dry, Mama made sure it was filled, and quickly.

  Adrian wished he had a gun like his boy Little Tony. Little Tony ran with the Little Devils, and those guys didn’t mess around. All of them had ‘Little’ before their names, and all of them sold crack. Adrian’s mama always told him to keep away from them, and he mostly did. Still, she couldn’t really say much considering her new boyfriend was one of the Devils most loyal customers.

  That’s how it was in the hood. You sold it, you bought it, you smoked it, or you just had to put up with it. Adrian fell into the last category.

  The alleyway cut to the left, flanked on both sides by the crumbling ruins of multi-story apartment buildings. They were cracked and bleeding. Water stains streaked the concrete walls. Holes punched through the roofs, some of which sagged low with age.

  Adrian was glad that he hadn’t run into anyone yet. He had only his butterfly knife, and at five-foot-four and a hundred and change of weight, he wasn’t exactly an imposing thirteen-year-old. But the slums were seldom empty, and it didn’t take long until he ran into others. They were lying on a dirty blanket, in an old garage. The door was busted and hanging open, revealing the innards. Adrian recognized them at once. Zombies. Those were the worst of the worst, folks who were dead from the inside out, living from fix to fix. Adrian felt his hand instinctively reach in his back pocket for the butterfly knife. Luckily he didn’t need it. The zombies were out of it. One was an old white dude with a yellowish beard. He actually looked dead, Adrian thought. Next to him a black girl was on her back, head lolling on her scrawny neck. She turned to Adrian, and he felt the hairs rise on his neck.

  “Need a good time shuga?” she slurred. Adrian quickened his step, leaving the abandoned apartments behind. He came to a chain link fence that once stood tall with barbed wire. Now it just kind of leaned against a nearby tree, rusting away. A huge chunk of the fence had at one time been cut, so Adrian slid through the makeshift hole and stood up on the other side. This place had once been a junkyard. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled like dead bodies. If he travelled straight ahead, he’d reach Mount Rustmore, a heap of derelict cars, machines, and whatever else the ground had belched back up.

  The actual junkyard building was lying, literally at Adrian’s feet. Adrian kicked at the remains of a wall, long flattened by rains and wind, and maybe some gunfire judging by the round holes. When he looked up he saw something, no, someone, rather peculiar. A white kid sat on the remains of an old Ford Escort, looking at Adrian with the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen. He was around Adrian’s age, maybe twelve or so. He wore jeans and a blue t-shirt. His hair was pretty long, and as dark as Adrian’s. He had a look on his face
like he knew something, a secret maybe. The boy raised a hand. Adrian stopped and stared back at him. What was this white kid thinking?

  “Long days, dark nights,” the boy said. His voice sounded calm and melodic, so different from the voices heard on the street. But this kid was out of place. He was asking to be robbed for sure. Adrian nodded, took a few steps in his direction.

  “Whatcha doin’ out here?” Adrian asked. The boy responded, “The same as you.”

  “Really? You bringin’ your mama some beer and smokes?”

  “I have no mother,” the boy said. Adrian didn’t know how to respond so he remained silent. The boy motioned for Adrian to take a seat on the hood of the Escort. Adrian shrugged and sat beside him. The Escort sat low to the ground. No tires held it up. Adrian noticed the boy’s feet were planted in a small thicket of wild grass and weeds springing up through the rubble strewn soil. He wore no shoes. Adrian wondered if the kid had been kidnapped or was a runaway. Maybe there was a reward for him…

  “So, why you here man? No offense, but the only white folk I see around these parts are winos and crack heads. You don’t look like a crack head, and I ain’t seein’ no paper bag in your hand.”

  The boy didn’t laugh. He looked at Adrian with eyes the color of moss. Then he said, “I’ve always been here. This is my land. You are the intruder.”

  “Maybe you are a crack head.” Adrian let out a single laugh. “You in the hood white boy. Now I don’t know where you’re from, but I’m guessin’ you’re a long way from home. The boys see a ghost like you chillin’, and shit might get ugly. I’m just sayin’.”

  Those moss green eyes peered into his. Adrian caught his scent. It was minty, with a hint of pine. The smell calmed Adrian’s nerves. Maybe the kid was slinging weed or something.

  “My skin isn’t white. And this is my land. It isn’t what it used to be, but it is still mine.”

  “Whatever you say playboy,” Adrian said, and opened up the pack of Kools. He knew smoking was bad and all that, but compared to what his boys did, he was squeaky clean. Adrian put a Kool to his lips and lit it. The white looking kid sniffed at the smoke and said, “Tobacco?”