One Buck Horror: Volume Three Read online

  One Buck Horror

  Volume 3

  edited by

  Christopher Hawkins

  Kris M. Hawkins

  featuring stories by

  Mark Budman

  Augusto Corvalan

  Leisa K. Parker

  David Steffen

  John F. D. Taff

  J. Tanner

  cover art by

  Shawn Conn

  ISBN: 978-1-937346-04-1

  Copyright © 2011 Coronis Publishing. All rights reserved.

  www.onebuckhorror.com

  Also Available

  One Buck Horror, Volume One

  One Buck Horror, Volume Two

  Contents

  Helpers by David Steffen

  Home by Augusto Corvalan

  Child of Dirt by John F. D. Taff

  The Catman Blues by Leisa K. Parker

  Vacation by J. Tanner

  Off With His Head by Mark Budman

  Helpers

  by David Steffen

  The boy crept out of the front door, distant streetlamps bouncing dim reflections off his smooth cheeks, breath misting in the chill air. Pete couldn't help but smile. The boy was just the right size, old enough to have grown some real muscle but still well short of being a man. He was downright plump compared to the half-starved urchins Pete was used to. Strange for a boy with a family to be out at this time. Hadn't his parents told him the night was populated by thieves and killers? Their loss.

  "Ripe for the plucking, yes," Pete whispered. "How tough, strong, how healthy."

  The boy looked around, but didn't see Pete where he stood in the pool of shadow between streetlamps, bulging sack set next to him. Convinced he was alone, the boy crept right past Pete and on down the street. Pete shouldered his sack, heavy even for him. The sack squirmed and let out a muffled moan before falling quiet again.

  They crept along, the boy's fine shoes scraping against the cobblestones, Pete's footsteps light and silent. Pete allowed the boy to walk, to gain some distance from his home, less chance of struggle that way. The boy's head turned this way and that in fits and starts, like a bird watching for predators. He shivered; his coat did little to hold off the night's chill.

  A few doors ahead, a pub door slammed open, filling the street with light and noise from inside, the smell of roasting meat. Two men staggered out, yelling loudly to each other, and the boy froze, then ducked into an alley. Pete followed, his eyes adjusted quickly into the cramped space. The boy picked his way by feel over the refuse strewing the alley, putting his foot down in a mound of dung, too fresh to be frozen, soiling his fine shoes. Pete grinned. Little boys, blind in the darkness, should know to scurry home to be safe from foxes.

  A tall figure approached from the other direction. Tall compared to anyone but Pete, who stood two heads taller yet. It was a man with hand extended as if holding a knife, silently picking his way through the trash. A night stalker, cutthroat, intent on his business. The fool boy didn't see him coming. What a waste that would be to see the boy bleed and die!

  Pete dropped his heavy sack with a thump, and quickened his step, abandoning his efforts to be quiet. The boy spun at the sound, screamed. Pete pushed the boy aside into the trash. The cutthroat lunged with his knife, and Pete sidestepped, catching the wrist with his own hand, twisting the hand sharply so the knife fell into Pete's other hand. In a moment the hilt of the knife protruded from the cutthroat's eye socket, and he fell, still silent.

  The fight had taken but moments, and the boy was still struggling to find his feet. Pete grabbed him by the back of the shirt.

  "Fabric so fine," he said. "Not a hole in sight." He could find a use for that fabric as well.

  "Mama!" the boy screamed, as Pete hauled him back to his sack and stuffed him in with the others.

  Shouldering the bag, Pete ignored the kicks and muffled screams, grinning at the night's haul. The struggles went on and on.

  "Full of life, that one. Good, good. Those are the best. Nick will be pleased."

  No one accosted him. His size was enough to keep most away. His long strides ate the ground quickly, carrying him out of town to his humble home, worn but comfortable. First, he barred the door and set the heavy steel lock in place. Second, he lit a lamp, so the children would be able to see. Third, he dumped his haul out on the floor. Four boys and one girl in total, all street urchins but the last. Freed from their cramped confines, they began to stir, all but the smallest of the boys, who wasn't breathing. He'd been the first in the sack, smothered by the others. No small loss, but the last boy more than made up for it.

  While the others lay on the ground and wept, that boy was the first to his feet, staring wildly around, noting the lock on the door, the lack of windows, the door to the only other room in the hovel, but lingering the longest on the huge cauldron hanging over the banked coals.

  Without a word, Pete strode over to it, and scooped cold porridge, mixed with his special herbs, into four wooden bowls. He put a wooden spoon in each and set them on the floor in front of the children, not wanting to startle them. Once he stepped away, the street children sat up and ate, surely the first food they'd had in days.

  The last boy, plump and proud, looked once at the porridge, but didn't move. "You mean to fatten me, and eat me up." It was easy to not eat when you weren't hungry.

  "No, no, children aren't for eating." Pete chuckled. "Old Pete needs children, but not for food. You can starve, if you'd rather."

  The boy eyed him wildly, looking for an escape.

  "Yes, yes," Pete whispered to the others, quiet as he could. "Eat, eat, keep you strong and keep you small, the better to keep you."

  When they were finished eating, Pete led them into the other room, the walls lined with bunks stacked four high. The girl sneezed at the sawdust raised by their feet. Eyes peered out from each bed: his little helpers, some old, some young, every one kept healthy and small by Pete's special porridge. Those eyes sized up the newcomers.

  The lamp illuminated the tables filling the rest of the room filled with hammers and saws, blocks of wood and nails. "Sleep and sleep hard," he told the new workers. "Nick's list is mighty long, and all those good girls and boys need their toys, don't they?"

  Home

  by Augusto Corvalan

  I'm in my room when Mom calls me for dinner so I tie on my mask and go downstairs. Uncle is already slumped in his chair, fidgeting in his huge brown suit made out of scraps. I say hi and he nods at me with his painted-on smile, crooked of course.

  Mom yells at him to stop itching behind his mask. She lugs in an enormous silver dish piled high with raw meat. It's all been mashed beyond recognition. Mom's very peculiar about getting all the bones out. It could easily pass off as rotten puree at some restaurant. If there were any restaurants anymore.

  Dad walks in straightening his grease-stained tie and takes up a big scoop. "What will it be for you, Junior?"

  "Can I get two chicken wings and some corn please?"

  Dad nods his frozen face and dumps three spoonfuls of meat on my plate.

  "Make sure he gets some greens," Mom says and Dad shrugs and piles on another lump. "And remember, you're trying to watch your cholesterol, so no sweets," she says to Uncle, who grumbles a response as best as he can. It's gotten so that he can barely remember words anymore, and you can tell his mouth struggles behind his mask. "I swear, he's like a teenager sometimes."

  "How was your day, honey?" She says once we're eating.

  "Nothing new, really. Dave had me sit on another exec meeting, so he must have liked my ideas."

  "Congrats, babe! Isn't that great now?"

  "Great job, Dad," I say with as
much enthusiasm as I can muster, but it's gotten harder these days to keep it up. My clothes feel itchy and I can't stop kicking my legs under the table.

  "And how was school, J?"

  "Well, hm," I stumble as I try to come up with something. I've gotten worse and worse at preparing for dinner conversation. I can barely remember what school was like, but I know it makes Mom happy. "Yeah, good, great actually. Ms. Robin showed everyone my cursive. But I have lots of math homework."

  "Make sure you don't do a rush job again, okay? It's very important to get ahead in the world. Isn't that what we always say?"

  "Yeah, Dad. School's number one. I got it."

  I shove handfuls of meat under my mask, slurping it, wishing I still had lips. I imagine what it would be like to be a lion—to tear the flesh off a gazelle.

  - - -

  The first thing that went were the mirrors. Then the windows. You can hear their scattered corpses crunch under your sneakers as you walk down a city street.

  Most fell apart. Tore off their clothes in madness, despair. Torching just to see something burn. Killing themselves when they couldn't stand the pain. Killing others when they didn't have the courage. Laughing a hideous laugh that might split their faces in two.

  Most are gone now. Back to the woods, the countryside. The city is basically deserted, except when some herd comes in to take shelter from a storm or are just passing by. Their hair is matted with leaves and dried blood, their eyes burned out, a shiny black like pebbles on a beach. They've forgotten how to speak and they flash their deformed faces without shame.

  They run around on all fours now, their club hands strangely fused, their backs twisted and tortured. I've tried it, now and again, when I'm far from home and I know Mom or any of the rest can't see me. I like the feel of the wind against my cheek and the sense of momentum and speed I can build up. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly daring, I take off my mask and run down a hill on all fours. The rush in my ears makes me want to whoop in joy, but I can't risk anyone hearing.

  There's still some like us left, around here, people whose minds didn't shatter. Mom keeps mentioning a future visit to Gladys, a neighbor, but it's possible she doesn't exist.

  Mom says I need to be really careful out there, when I'm out grocery shopping. Mostly dead squirrels and rats. Sometimes I can chase down a raccoon or possum. The wild ones eat about the same diet, which I know irks Mom. That's why she tries to make our food as unrecognizable as possible, to forget that we are still tied to an appetite for meat like everyone else. Dad and Uncle used to get the groceries, but they're not taking the changes so well anymore, especially Uncle. Dad says I'm young and strong and can run faster than both of them put together. It's true that I can snap a deer's neck with one hand. I've done it.

  - - -

  Mom said there was going to be a special surprise so we had to wear our church clothes for lunch. I was surprised when Mom said this. She's been oddly distant these past couple of weeks, vanishing as soon as dinner is over, spending her days pecking around the city, which she's always complaining about.

  "It's a big surprise," she says whenever we ask her where she goes. I'm happy to let her go and sit in my room, cradling my head. The migraines have gotten worse and I just pace and peel off my rotting skin. Dad and Uncle mostly sit and pretend to watch a show on the busted TV set, but I know they're as uncomfortable as I am. Seeing them snap to attention whenever Mom comes around, pretending to chit-chat about some imaginary football game, it almost makes me cry.

  - - -

  I've been having dreams; visions. Certainly for the first time since the incident, and now I can barely sleep. I'm looking out the window and their black pebble eyes are staring back, hundreds of them, howling at me. Or I'll be in bed when I hear a knocking from outside, that distinctive clicking they make. Then I throw off my covers to go explore the night but all that's left of my legs are gnawed off stumps ending at the knee, strips of flesh like ribbons. The worse one is the one where a little young one of them is being eaten, ripped apart, his cheek splashed with blood, but his eyes lolling, not even dead. His frail body is supported on these scarred, heavy hands. Then the creature looks up from the entrails of the little one, gore and guts dripping down his chin. And that face is mine.

  - - -

  We were eating on the patio, which we never do because Mom hates being outside. But as soon as I step out I can see exactly why.

  There's a banner tied to two posts that says "Happy 4th of July" in dark red and gray (I'm guessing dried blood and gravel?). Dad is at the grill, poking at a row of skinned squirrels with one of those big grill forks. Mom is walking around with a red plastic cup and she spots me. Her mask's smile is the widest of all, and her eyes are drawn almost closed to accommodate for its size.

  "Honey, you look so dapper. Make sure you say hi to all your relatives, okay? I want us to have a nice Fourth this year."

  Their hands are tied to white plastic chairs that are now yellow with age and caked with dirt. My relatives. Or, at least, people dressed in fancy Sunday dresses and suits, the same rigid, smiling mask tied to each of them. I walk over in curiosity before realizing, by the odd tilt of their heads, by the bluish bruises around their wrists where rough rope is holding them in a seated position, that they are all long dead.

  My suit is itchy, and I can feel it scraping against my scarred skin. I run my hands through the cloth and imagine tearing it to shreds with my fingers, running my long fingernails through it and feeling the warm afternoon sun on my naked body.

  I turn when I hear the familiar clonking that follows Uncle. He more or less crashes into the patio. He's dragging one of his legs, due to an injury sustained while walking around the house, I guess. I walk over and we stand together, exchanging grunts in spurts. I've grown to enjoy spending more and more time with Uncle, who hardly says anything at all. I've taken to grunting with him, relishing in the coarse rasping in my throat. Stumbling over syllables and sounds with Mom and Dad has become almost exhausting.

  Mom lets out a screeching giggle and Dad tries awkwardly to match her with his own barking laugh. "Come hear Cousin Mark's story, you two."

  I drag my feet behind Uncle, trying to mentally summon up the energy to continue the charade.

  When I get to Cousin Mark I see that Mom has somehow captured a wild one, dressed it up in mask and all. It struggles weakly against the bonds securing it against the chair. I wonder how long it's been since it last ate.

  "Go on, J, tell your cousin about your big hockey game."

  Hockey. That was a new one. "Mom," I say, asking in that one word to be let off without playing my part for once.

  "Don't be rude now."

  I turn to face the creature, but there's something bubbling inside of me. It almost feels like I'm going to cry.

  "Junior, listen to your mother."

  "Don't embarrass us in front of our guest."

  But I know now I'm not going to cry. I square my shoulders and let off a grunt. The poor thing grunts back weakly.

  I can imagine Mom's shocked expression through her mask. I turn away, hard, with new-found energy. I bump into Uncle, who groans and tips, his legs like two useless trunks. He flails with his arms and one of them plunges straight through the rotting ribcage of one of our guests. Mom shrieks in horror, dropping the dirty water that was serving as her lemonade. Dad rushes over and helps Uncle pull his arm out, and they both stagger and fall backwards from the effort.

  I don't notice that I've been walking towards the corpse until I bump right into it. There's something about the gaping wound, the ruby blood spewing, a hint of purple. I crane my neck and can see its inside, the shiny curves of the intestines. I poke a finger, then a whole hand, feeling the cool skin stretch before me, the greasy feel of flesh slushing through my fingers.

  "Junior," Mom yells but she seems so far away. I bend and bring my face closer to the wound. I rip some meat with my teeth. Swallow. It tastes natural, as if I was always supposed to
be like this. I feel a hand on my shoulder and push it away by instinct.

  I toss my mask and dive in. I'm not really sure what I'm doing, I just know that I'm hungry and I want to eat meat, to scoop it with my hands and feel the blood running down my chin.

  Something heavy pushes me to the ground. I look up to see that Mom has thrown a chair at me. I stand up and shred the clothes and stand tall in front of them. They look at me like a monolith.

  "Dad, do something. To his room, he's grounded," Mom keeps screaming, but it all fades away. I see Dad abandon Uncle on the floor and rush at me but one of my fists strikes him across the face and he collapses like a deflated balloon. All of my movements feel so real, so free now. I don't know what I'm doing when I hoist the grill into the house, the curtains whispering screams as they flutter with flame.

  Mom is running around, too shocked to decide on any action. Uncle manages to stand and picks up the bucket of lemonade, but it's too heavy for him and his wrists crack open, dropping the bucket and drenching himself. He flails his arms over his head, groaning in animal pain, running into the fire and collapsing there, rocking in blind spasms.

  I run naked through the flames, feeling the heat on my body, the air splashing my bare face. I run out into the city, the night sky as my destination, the rotting, burning house of my childhood as my background. I whoop in sheer joy and animal excitement. I bathe in rivers and blood and forget what my horrible, snarling face looks like. All I know is my strong thighs carrying me through the underbrush.

  I don't sleep and I still have nightmares, only this time I'm living them. I relish in it, bathing in the bubbling blood of my victims, the primal release. But the flaming house is always on my mind, always burning silently in the background. I know I will tire, that I'm destined someday to go back and rebuild it and perhaps close my eyes in a dreamless slumber.