Onyx Neon Shorts: Horror Collection 2016 Read online

  Edited By

  Jeffrey P. Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Failsafe © 2016, Karen Bovenmyer

  The Case Yuri Zaystev © 2016, S. L. Edwards

  Partisan © 2016, Brit Jones

  Sweetie © 2016, Michelle Ann King

  Originally appeared at Drabblecast, July 2013.

  The Corners Have Arms © 2016, Jeremy Hepler

  Chestnut Hill © 2016, Joseph Rubas

  The Marked Men © 2016, Ben Stallwood

  Published by Onyx Neon Press, United States

  First Edition October, 2016

  Originally published October 2016

  Edited by Jeffrey P. Martin

  Cover Art by Jeffrey P. Martin

  Designed and Typeset by Jeffrey P. Martin

  shorts.onyxneon.com

  Onyx Neon Shorts

  We are a collective of writers, editors, artists, poets, techies, nerds, and book lovers, who strive to release the best original content.

  We publish fiction of all varieties and we are always seeking new authors who also believe in the power of short fiction to express ideas powerfully.

  If you have questions or would like to submit a story please email us at [email protected]

  Introduction

  Jeffrey P. Martin

  Last year when the Horror Collection was released we wanted it to be successful and were, as with all things, cautiously hopeful. Once released, we received almost universally positive feedback from readers and reviewers. The book was a big deal for us because we’d never released a collection of horror and had no way of knowing if it would succeed. It became the highest selling project I’ve ever worked on and continues to sell copies a year later, continuing to garner positive reviews. Without you it wouldn’t have succeeded. There’s a desire for Indie Horror fiction and we are hoping this one continues that trend. All the support has been humbling, to say the least.

  This year is also the last collection I work on and I honestly didn’t think I was going to have the chance to make this collection. Due to other commitments I had dropped out of the project. When I was later asked if it would be possible for me to come back in and finish up what I had started. My circumstances and mind set were different and I got excited to come back and delve into the genre I’ve fallen in love with. Working on Onyx Neon Shorts, Horror Collection 2015 and End of the Year Collection 2014 has been an absolute honor. I’ve done so much, and have some regrets, but in general couldn’t have asked for a better experience. This collection specifically is a special treat because it has a wonderful mixture of new and returning authors who have written seven absolutely wonderful stories that I couldn’t prouder to share.

  That’s all for me, but thank you for buying, borrowing, or stealing this book. I really appreciate it, and I hope that you find something truly disturbing within the pages you are about to read.

  Jeffrey P. Martin

  Lead Editor – Horror Collection 2016

  Onyx Neon Shorts

  tales of horror:

  Chestnut Hill by Joseph Rubas

  A group of people are besieged by demonic beings on a cursed, remote hilltop.

  The Corners Have Arms by Jeremy Hepler

  When Sophie’s ex-husband doesn’t return their twin daughters after their week-long visit with him, she fears the worst. Maybe he’s kidnapped them, taken them across the border, or worse. She goes looking for her children. If she finds them, will it be worse than she possibly ever imagine? And will she ever make it back?

  The Case of Yuri Zaystev by S. L. Edwards

  Yuri Zaystev has a thankless job: driving the victims of Stalin’s purges into the darkness of the Arctic. One night, something goes horribly wrong. Yuri Zaystev, gulag guard and proud supporter of the purges, finds himself the victim of a violence he helped unleashed.

  Sweetie

  A travelling showman and his demonic companion teach their latest audience a little respect.

  Failsafe by Karen Bovenmyer

  Space salvager Kira hates dead bodies. When she finds a lost colony ship, ripe with corpses and a huge finder’s payoff, she’s happy to report the location and leave well enough alone—until she receives a distress call from a little girl trapped aboard.

  Partisan by Brit Jones

  Four big game hunters enter the deep woods of a war torn country in search game. It isn’t long before they realize that it is they who are being hunted.

  The Marked Men by Ben Stallwood

  Two men, one recently bereaved, go on a hiking trip in a Norwegian forest. This tale of suicide and loss will leave you breathless and unnerved.

  Onyx Neon Shorts

  Horror

  Collection 2016

  Partisans

  Brit Jones

  When the war was over Anderson found himself at loose ends. The Loyalists had lost and, as such, his paycheck had evaporated. Not to mention his welcome in the country. He had heard that there were still partisans operating against the military forces of the new regime, but partisans didn’t pay well, if at all, and he hadn’t been in it for the cause. There were plenty of brush wars going on around the world, but they all seemed nastier, more primitive, than those to which he had accustomed himself. As an independent contractor he liked more civilized warfare, if there was such a thing. And there was the matter of timely and consistent payment.

  Not that money was an issue at the moment. He was in The Bahamas staying drunk and chasing women when he met Blackstock, the scion of a publishing empire and the adult version of a spoiled brat. Nevertheless, he liked the kid. And Blackstock always picked up the check.

  They were drinking Long Island Iced Teas on a patio bar at sunset when Blackstock said, “I’m thinking about signing on to a hunting expedition.”

  “What the fuck put that idea in your head?” Anderson said.

  “There was a guy around earlier, a lawyer, who was talking about putting one together. Sounded interesting.”

  “Have you even handled a firearm in your short, sweet life?”

  “Well, skeet shooting,” Blackstock said. “That counts, doesn’t it?”

  “If you’re hunting doves. What’s this guy after, anyway?”

  “Not doves. Bigger game. Elk. Boar. Maybe even a bear or two.”

  When Blackstock told him where Anderson choked on the sip he had just taken.

  After coughing it out he said, “I was there. Not even a year ago. It’s bad, kid. The government’s bad. The military’s bad. There’s still fighting going on in some places.”

  “Well, this guy said he could get a small expedition in with the new government’s approval. He’s already got another guy signed on. He needs two more.”

  “And you’re pretty determined to do this, I take it?” Anderson asked.

  “It seems kinda like a once in a lifetime chance, don’t you think?”

  “If you expect your lifetime to be a short one. Let this one go. Wait until you’re older and the place isn’t a hot spot. You’ve got plenty of time, as long as your liver doesn’t quit on you.”

  “You’ve made up my mind. I’m signing on. I’ll sit in places like this and drink myself to death if I don’t start seizing opportunities like this by the horns.”

  “God damn it!” Anderson said, slamming his
drink on the table. Blackstock looked shocked.

  “Jesus, Anderson, don’t get so worked up. It’s just something I feel like I oughta do.”

  Anderson took a deep breath and lit a cigarette.

  “Well,” he said, “If you’ve got your heart set on this you’re going to need somebody to keep you off of the wrong side of those horns you mentioned.”

  * * *

  The airfield was carved out of the deep foliage of the primeval forest and didn’t look to Anderson like you could land a remote controlled toy plane on it much less the Cessna in which they were flying. The approach was low, as the whole flight had been.

  Under the radar, he thought. Government approval my ass.

  Still, he had hacked similar airfields out of the forests up north with The Loyalists—you just had to trust that the pilot was skilled enough or crazy enough to put the plane down in one piece.

  They hit the ground hard, bounced, and suddenly the Cessna was spinning down the makeshift runway. It finally slid to a halt and the noxious odor of burning rubber filled the cabin. The pilot, decked out in a filthy ball cap and aviator sunglasses, turned around to face them and smiled. He was missing most of his teeth.

  “Blew a tire, there,” he said. “Everyone okay?”

  “You’re no Chuck Yeager,” Anderson growled.

  “Who the hell is Chuck Yeager?” the pilot said.

  They had talked on the plane.

  “So, Thomas, what are we out here for?” Anderson asked.

  “Big game. Trophy hunting.”

  “Anything specific in mind?”

  Thomas seemed stumped for a minute.

  “Anything big. Something that will look good over my mantel.”

  Anderson got a sinking feeling about the leader of their expedition.

  They unpacked their gear from the hold of the plane. Other than the lawyer, Thomas, their fourth was Croslin, a taciturn, hulking man who claimed to be a doctor. Anderson instinctively disliked him, but the guy displayed a well-appointed med kit so he went ahead and gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  Thomas he liked even less, but more for the man’s seeming incompetence than anything else. He was overweight, red faced, and looked stuffed into his expedition outfit. He was sweating in spite of the chill in the air.

  Anderson lit a cigarette, ignoring Croslin’s dirty look.

  “So what are we packing?” Anderson asked.

  “Croslin and I have a Springfield .30-06 each. Plenty of stopping power. What about you and Blackstock?”

  “I got the kid a .308 Winchester, about the biggest gun he could handle at the shooting range without crying like a baby. For myself, I’ve used a .338 Winchester Magnum since I got out of the service, and I’m not about to stop now.”

  “That’s a big gun,” Croslin said. “We’re not hunting elephants.”

  “Man or beast, I like to be prepared. Speaking of prepared, where’s our fucking guide?”

  “I wasn’t able to communicate a specific time to him,” Thomas said. “We’ll camp here for now. I’m sure he’ll be here by tomorrow night.”

  “What kind of Mickey Mouse bullshit are you trying to pull here?” Anderson snarled. “A shitty ride on a shitty plane under the radar? A crash landing on an improvised airfield? No fucking guide? I think I want a refund and a ride home.”

  As if on cue, the pilot, who had been examining the Cessna, stood up and said, “I think she’s ruined. I go for help. Meet you here in seven days.”

  Taylor spluttered, “We only have provisions for five!”

  “Then eat what you kill.”

  With that, the pilot grinned his jagged grin and trotted off down the runway in the direction of what looked like impenetrable forest.

  Thomas was incensed. His face became redder than it had been before.

  “Why, I’ll see that that man never works again!”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Anderson said. “You’re never going to see that man again.”

  Their guide, a local to the region who went by Thibault, showed up late the next afternoon. His skin was sallow, almost jaundiced, and what they could see of it from underneath his well-worn garb seemed to hang loosely off his bones. With half lidded eyes, he seemed likely to collapse at their feet. When he took off his cap to brush his hair back Anderson noticed it was patchy and what he could see of the man’s scalp was covered with ringworm scars.

  “Did you see much action here during the war?” Anderson asked him.

  His answer was slow and slightly slurred.

  “Some. The Loyalists called us partisans, but we fought only to keep the soldiers from our woods. They withdrew quickly. We’ve lived here for generations, and strangers are not welcome.”

  Blackstock said, “Aren’t we strangers? I mean, I don’t want to go pissing off the locals.”

  “Stay with me and all should be fine. The Old Ones will never know you are here.”

  Thomas interjected.

  “The Old Ones? Who the hell are they? Witch doctors or something? My contact didn’t say anything about hostile natives.”

  “You are strangers. The less said about The Old Ones is for the best. The rest of us will tolerate you, as long as you listen to me and follow in my footsteps.”

  “A little uppity for a dirt farmer,” Thomas muttered to Croslin, who never seemed to say much.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, Thomas,” Anderson said.

  Thomas was about to reply when he saw something in Anderson’s eyes. Muttering to himself, he busied himself with his pack.

  “Break camp,” Thibault said. “We must be in the woods before dark.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until morning?” Blackstock said. “It’s going to get dark soon.”

  “Listen to me or do not,” Thibault said listlessly. “I tell you it is safer not being out in the open. If you listen you will be safe. If you don’t I will return tomorrow, but you may not be here.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Thomas blurted, an edge of fear creeping into his voice.

  “Oh, just shut up and listen to the man,” Anderson growled. “Try and remember we’re guests here. Act like it.”

  Near dusk, they entered the forest on what was more of a game trail than a path. A few hours later, in the stygian darkness lit only by their lanterns, and after several twists and turns, Thibault finally spoke.

  “You sleep here for the night.”

  “Here!” Thomas exclaimed. “There’s not even room to set up tents!”

  “There are few places to set up tents on these paths. You must do the best you can. I will return in the morning.”

  With that he disappeared into the forest.

  “Hell of a guide you found there,” Croslin muttered.

  “We bivouac,” said Anderson. “Compared to some of the places I’ve slept this is a God damned Hilton. I assume you brought sleeping bags.”

  “Of course we did! We’re not idiots,’ Thomas declared.

  “So far you could have fooled me,” Anderson said.

  This led to a snort from Croslin and more spluttering from Thomas.

  “Shut up and roll out your bags. I’ll try and get a fire going,” said Anderson.

  This went on for two nights. The days were spent trudging through thick, dark and gloomy forest, following Thibault, who didn’t seem to be in any hurry. When there was a break in the forest canopy they could see a slate grey overcast sky.

  On the second day Thomas testily asked Thibault, “So where’s the game? I didn’t come out here to wander around the damned woods.”

  “The game will come. You need to be patient,” Thibault said.

  “Leave him alone, fearless leader,” Anderson said. “Or do you want to wander around this forest for the rest of your life?”

  It didn’t stop Thomas from endlessly complaining. Anderson wanted to break his neck, and easily could have, but thought it was probably a bad idea, all things considered.

  Croslin remained si
lent unless asked a direct question. Blackstock, clearly terrified by this point, took his cues from Croslin.

  At one point he whispered to Anderson, “I think this may have been a bad idea.”

  Anderson replied, “Just think about how we could be laying around drunk in The Bahamas. That should make you feel worse. And don’t forget what I told you when we were there, dumbshit.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Thomas practically shouted. “No pussies on my expedition!”

  Anderson calmly said, “If you ever speak to either of us like that again I’ll kill you where you stand. I’m sick of your whiny shit. And if you want to see a pussy go find a fucking mirror.”

  Croslin laughed out loud.

  Thomas tried to lock eyes with Anderson, but quickly looked away.

  Croslin made a rare statement.

  “We are in practically trackless deep woods in a foreign country. I, for one, am hopelessly lost and entirely dependent on Thibault to lead us out. Now is the worst time to turn on each other. Anderson is clearly the most capable among us. I suggest we make him the expedition leader.”

  “Fuck that,” said Anderson.

  But nobody else spoke and it was decided.

  They saw no game. On the third day Thibault did not arrive in the morning. They stayed put that day, waiting. On the fourth day it became apparent he wasn’t coming back.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Thomas said, clearly terrified. “How are we going to get out of here? We’re almost out of supplies.”

  “First of all, we start rationing. Now,” Anderson said. “By my reckoning we’ve come farther in than out. Thibault has to live somewhere. If we keep heading roughly in this direction we’ll hopefully find a village or something like it. Let’s take a bearing on the compasses.”