Onyx Neon Shorts: Horror Collection 2016 Read online

  But something was wrong with the compasses. They all pointed in different directions, and occasionally spun wildly.

  “Shit,” said Anderson. “Start hatching trees so we can at least get back this far if things get worse.”

  The trees did not like being hatched. The bark seemed to recoil from the hunting knives, and the marks looked like they were covering over a few moments of being hatched.

  “What’s going on, Anderson?” Blackstock said. “You’ve been here before.”

  “I was up north. It wasn’t anything like this. But there was a war on. Maybe I just didn’t notice.”

  The game showed up that night, shortly before they decided to bivouac. There was a thrashing in the brush by the path and a hunched over form erupted out of it and slammed into Thomas’ side. He screamed and went over sideways as the form lurched over him and into the brush on the other side of the path.

  Croslin couldn’t seem to get his carbine untangled from his pack. Blackstock emptied the magazine on his in five randomly fired shots. The forest roared as Anderson fired three carefully placed shots and was rewarded with a howl on the third.

  “You got it!” Blackstock said excitedly. “Let’s go look!”

  “Thomas first, idiot,” Anderson said. “He’s wounded. Croslin, I hope you’re better with that med kit that you are with that gun.”

  Croslin gave him a dark look and headed toward Thomas, who was laying in the path groaning. Anderson followed. He looked back at Blackstock.

  “You coming?” he said.

  “I don’t think I want to see.”

  Thomas’ side was torn open and gushing blood. His face was pale and his teeth were gritted. Anderson gave him credit for not moaning and crying.

  Croslin was frantically pulling hemostats and a field dressing from the med kit.

  Anderson took a closer look at Thomas’ side.

  “Don’t bother, Croslin,” Anderson said roughly. “I’ve seen wounds like that. Unless there’s a miracle in that med kit he’s not going to make it.”

  “I have to try.”

  “You’re the doctor,” Anderson said, lit a cigarette, and walked back to Blackstock, who had gone from pale to green.

  “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” said Blackstock.

  “Yeah, he’s going to die. Don’t get all weepy. I’ve seen plenty of better men die for worse reasons.”

  “You know, Anderson, you’re kind of an asshole.”

  “Yeah, kid, I am.”

  He crushed his cigarette under his boot.

  “Why don’t we go take a look at what I killed?”

  When they got back Thomas was dead. Blackstock looked more than ever like he was going to throw up.

  Croslin was covered in blood and looked like he might start crying. There were two blood soaked field dressings and four blood stained hemostats lying around him.

  “I couldn’t save him,” Croslin said. “I did everything I could.”

  “I know, big guy,” Anderson said. “I told you it was a lost cause.”

  “Fuck you, Anderson,” Croslin said, without rancor.

  “Yeah, fuck me. Move over so I can take a closer look at that wound.”

  After studying it for a few moments he said, “What I thought. Croslin, you’re never going to fucking believe what got him.”

  “What did you kill?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I killed Thibault. You better come take a look.”

  At a distance it looked like a dead boar. As they got closer Croslin realized it wasn’t. It was Thibault. He had a boar pelt strapped over his back and limbs. The hooves had been replaced with cast iron claws and he had a metal contraption strapped over his face that had sharp metal tusks where a boar’s would be. They were covered with blood, presumably Thomas’, as the rest of the blood originated from the large gunshot wound in Thibault’s side.

  “What the hell,” Croslin said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “We’ve obviously alienated these people. In a bad way.”

  “So what do we do?” Blackstock said. Everything he said sounded more frantic.

  “Cool your jets, rich boy,” Anderson said. “We’ve obviously gone and pissed off the locals. I’m pretty sure we can blame Thomas for that. Maybe, hopefully, they just wanted him. All we can do is try and retrace our steps to the airfield. That plane may be ruined, but I bet it’s got a working radio. I’d rather be captured by government soldiers than be stuck out here to die.”

  “What about Thomas?” Blackstock asked.

  “We take his supplies and leave him. Unless one of you wants to carry his fat ass.”

  Neither Croslin nor Blackstock seemed happy about it, but neither objected.

  They got Croslin the next night. Just as the expedition had settled into their sleeping bags a large, dark figure dropped out of the trees onto him. The only thing louder than the muffled roaring was Croslin’s screaming. It stopped before Anderson could get his gun up and fire two shots, which knocked the figure off Croslin and out onto the path.

  Croslin was dead. The blood made it difficult to differentiate between what was the sleeping bag and what was Croslin. The only sound was that of Blackstock being noisily sick in the brush by the side of the path. Anderson went over to see what he had killed.

  It was a man, clearly of the same stock as Thibault. He was covered with bear pelts and had long, sharp metal claws attached to his forearms. There was a similar contraption to Thibault’s attached to the man’s face. He walked back over to Blackstock.

  Blackstock was frantic.

  “What’s happening, Anderson?” he sobbed. “What are we going to do?”

  “What’s happening is we’re fucked. All I can think of to do is find this village and try to talk some sense into these Old Ones Thibault mentioned. Get the med kit. I’ll get what supplies Croslin had left. Then we don’t sleep until we find these people.”

  They moved slowly, Anderson in front with Blackstock, quietly sobbing, following close behind. They had their guns locked and loaded. Anderson was using all the skills he had picked up as a guerrilla soldier to watch for traps or ambushes.

  He knew they were headed in the right direction when the traps showed up on the path. He carefully disarmed two bear traps and a rudimentary tripwire. It didn’t make him feel any better about where they were headed. The only solace he took was that they hadn’t been attacked again.

  A few hours later they stumbled out of the forest into a ramshackle village. The huts were wood and thatch and looked like they were rotting and sinking into the ground. They surrounded a roofed brick tower that Anderson estimated was about thirty feet tall. He could see a hill with a cave opening in it on the other side of the building. There were stunted, sickly looking people working in dying fields of vegetables.

  They were immediately noticed by the closest woman, who hobbled to the tower at alarming speed. A minute after she disappeared into the single door a bell gonged. The rest, consisting of roughly thirty-five people, stopped what they were doing. Still holding their farming implements, they formed a crowd between Anderson and Blackstock and the tower.

  “If you can manage it, look mean,” Anderson whispered to Blackstock.

  The crowd of undernourished yet still intimidating looking people stared sullenly at them. Anderson stared back. Eventually a man, somewhat healthier looking than the rest, shouldered his way to the front. He was holding a rusting bolt action M1 rifle that Anderson judged hadn’t been fired since World War II, if ever.

  “You are not welcome here,” the man said, a slight slur to his voice.

  Anderson said, “Yeah, we got the memo. We just want out. There doesn’t need to be any more killing. If one of you would guide us back to the airfield you’ll never see us again. And you have my word that we won’t tell anyone what happened out here. Simple hunting accidents, the way I see it.”

  A woman shouted, “Thibault was my son!”

  Another shouted, “Gregor was m
y huband!”

  “Yeah, shame about that,” Anderson said. “But Thibault and Gregor attacked and killed two of my men for no reason. We acted only in self defense.”

  Anderson noticed that the crowd had completely surrounded them.

  “You are not welcome here,” the man with the gun repeated. “I will consult The Old Ones. They will—”

  Anderson didn’t get to find out what The Old Ones might do because Blackstock chose that moment to crack.

  “You sons of bitches!” he screamed. “You killed our friends!”

  His rifle boomed as he shot the man with the gun, who flew backwards, the old gun flying from his hands.

  The crowd roared.

  “The tower!” Anderson shouted at Blackstock.

  They broke for the tower door, Anderson using the butt of his rifle to clear a path, dodging the farming implements being swung at him. Just outside the door Blackstock shouted in pain as a hoe landed on this shoulder. Anderson grabbed him and pulled him inside. There was a stout wooden door, which Anderson slammed and secured using a makeshift bar. Blackstock was sobbing.

  “Let’s take a look,” said Anderson.

  After a cursory examination he said, “Your collar bone is broken. There’s nothing to do for it except strap your arm down, keep it as immobile as possible, and give you some morphine for the pain. I’m not crazy about that last idea, but I don’t need you moaning and crying while I figure out what the fuck we’re going to do.”

  The pounding on the door was subsiding.

  Anderson opened the med kit and fashioned a splint. There were five ampoules of morphine in squeeze syringes. He took one, jabbed it into Blackstock’s neck and squeezed.

  About ten seconds later Blackstock said dreamily, “Oh, that’s better already.” He then leaned over and threw up.

  Taking the splint, Anderson said, “Take a deep breath. Even on that dope this is going to hurt like hell.”

  Blackstock screamed as Anderson strapped his arm to his chest, immobilizing his shoulder. He then gave Blackstock another dose of morphine.

  “Try to stay awake,” he said as Blackstock’s head nodded forward. “It won’t be easy but I can’t drag you around.”

  Finally, he explored the space in the dim light. The door was heavy, reinforced wood with the bar they had used across it. It was so lazily constructed he was surprised it had held up under the villagers’ assault. Spiraling up into the dim light was rail less stairs clinging to the curve of the tower’s wall. A rope dangled down from above, presumably to ring the bell they had heard. Leaning against the wall opposite the door, under the staircase, were two human figures.

  Anderson whipped out his hunting knife and crouched, but the figures were still. He carefully approached them only to find two people wrapped completely in corn silk. They were clearly dead. Knowing what he’d find from the shapes of the bodies, he ripped the corn silk from one of the faces. It was Croslin, eyes wide open and a look of terror and pain on his face.

  “Well, fuck me,” he quietly said. But Blackstock heard him and struggled to his feet and stumbled over.

  “Jesus Christ,” he moaned, slurring slightly. “Who the hell are these people, Anderson?”

  “Don’t get hysterical,” Anderson answered. ”That’s not important. What is important is figuring out how to get out of this fucking village, and then the forest, with our skins intact. Do you think you can make it up those stairs?”

  Blackstock made it. There was a large bell, its rope dangling down into the dimness of the tower. The platform was open on all sides, a peaked round roof held up by four posts. They could look out at the entire village.

  Everything seemed to have returned to normal, the villagers heading back to their meager fields. There was a small group of them around the mouth of the cave in the hill. It was difficult to hear, but they seemed to be chanting.

  “It looks like that’s where the action is,” Anderson said. Blackstock didn’t reply. He looked over and Blackstock was leaning against a post, eyes at half-mast.

  Anderson slapped him on his injured shoulder, eliciting a yelp from Blackstock.

  “I know it’s hard, Richie Rich,” Anderson growled. “But you need to stay with me. Our lives are on the line. Look. Something’s happening at the cave mouth.”

  Five preternaturally tall figures, entirely enshrouded in robes, were filing from the mouth of the cave. The villagers there were bowing and moving away backwards.

  The figures began to chant loudly, and a mist started coalescing around them.

  “So, we finally meet The Old Ones,” Anderson said.

  “They look tall, not old,” Blackstock said, and giggled.

  “Christ. Sit down before I knock you down.”

  Blackstock slumped to the floor, back to the wall. Anderson crouched in such a way that he could glance over it.

  “Well, you’re the soldier,” Blackstock said. “What are the odds for us?”

  “Not good, but I’ve been in tighter situations. Not with a doped up rookie to take care of, though.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “At least you held on to your rifle. Score one for us. Did you bring two magazines like I told you.”

  “Yeah, two magazines.”

  “Okay, by my count that leaves you with one magazine after your shooting spree when they got Thomas—you reloaded and shot their head man. One magazine left for me after I took down Thibault and Gregor. Nine cartridges total, but these motherfuckers don’t know that. As far as they know we’re armed to the teeth.”

  “Why didn’t you take Thomas’ and Croslin’s guns.”

  “Added weight and I didn’t think we’d need them. There was no way to know we’d be up against a small army of pissed off locals.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” said Blackstock. “I sure wish we had them now.”

  Anderson said, “Well, you can shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one fills up first. There’s no point in grousing about it now.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I think the best play is to use your .308 to take out the four of the five freaks, presumably their leaders, which might ruin their morale, then break for the forest. I’ll use my weapon sparingly. They won’t know I’ve only got five shots. I think I’ve figured out which direction north is, so that’s where we head. If we make the forest, and with the grace of almighty God, we’ll run across a group of partisans, or even a government platoon, before these assholes catch up to us with their animal suits. We’ll have to move hard and fast, and stay off any paths as much as possible. It’s a long way.”

  “Why didn’t you take Thomas’s and Coslin’s guns?” He asked again.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Anderson. “I think I gave you too much morphine. Just trust me. Go to the bottom of the tower. I’ll light these fuckers up and be down in ten or fifteen seconds. We open the door and go. Stay behind me and keep up. Watch our backs. I don’t intend to die in this shithole. Now go.”

  Blackstock stumbled down the stairs. Anderson thought it a minor miracle he didn’t pitch off the side. He returned his attention to the action below.

  The mist had thickened and taken on a greenish tint. It was unnaturally holding form and creeping slowly toward the tower. Anderson picked up the .308 and sighted on the figure in the middle who, by this point, was almost entirely shrouded in green mist. He fired, worked the bolt and fired again at the figure on the left, satisfactorily seeing both figures drop. He took down two more of them and ran for the stairs.

  At the bottom he found Blackstock leaning heavily against the wall.

  “God, it hurts,” he said. “We can’t leave Thomas and Croslin in this awful place.”

  “We can and we will. Soldier up, we’re losing time. Here, carry this with your good arm and let’s get the fuck out of here. Remember to watch my back.”

  He shoved the exhausted .308 into Blackstock’s good hand. Blackstock immediately dropped it.

 
“Shit,” he said. “Hold on. I’ll pick it up.”

  “Fuck it. Time to run, sunshine.”

  Anderson unbarred the door and threw it open. He went out in a fast crouch, hoping Blackstock was behind him. The villagers were listlessly shuffling toward the tower, forming a crowd in front of them as they came. He shot the closest one and moved forward, using the stock a couple of times to clear a path. Then he fired again, knocking another villager back and down. The crowd stopped closing in and suddenly there was an opening before them.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Anderson and sprinted through the opening.

  He made it about ten yards before he heard the scream.

  Looking back, he saw Blackstock belly down on the ground with five tall, robed figures crouched over him. They had begun to turn him over and their claw-like hands were beginning to wrap him in what looked like corn silk. Anderson quickly aimed and let off his final three rounds at the figures. He saw the bullets rip through their robes but none of them fell. One stood up, pointed at him and howled. Anderson found himself running ahead of a mob moving much faster than he would have expected.

  “Anderson!” Blackstock screamed. “Don’t leave me here!”

  Anderson kept running and didn’t look back.

  Chestnut Hill

  Joseph Rubas

  Harry Parkins shifted in his chair. Murphy, at his feet, lifted his head but didn’t move; at seventeen, the hound only moved when he absolutely had to, and when his master showed no signs of getting up, he put his head back down and closed his eyes.

  Daryl Morgan, Harry’s nephew, closed the magazine he’d been skimming and set it on his lap. The fire in the wood stove was getting low, throwing wild shadows across the walls, and some of the cold autumn wind shrieking outside was starting to seep in. “Are you about ready?”

  Without looking up from his book, Harry said, “In a minute.”

  Daryl sighed. “Come on. We haven’t had a customer in hours.”

  “Go home then,” Harry said, crisply turning a page.