CATTLE CALL by Terry White

Terry returns in style with...

Cattle Call






Freddie Arbogast had no more doubts now.  When the call came, he was giddy with relief.  It was like dropping his gear after a forced march.  He had arrived back at two a.m. from his second pizza delivery shift and saw the red blinking light of the message recorder.  A young woman’s voice with that irritating California lilt said he was to report downtown in front of the Radisson lobby at five in the morning.  He was told to shave closely, wear a dark business suit and would be given instructions and told what to do when he got there.


Expecting something like this, Freddie had already provided himself with three inexpensive suits from Goodwill—blue, charcoal gray, and beige—and had made the same alterations in all three including the darts in the back that would allow him to wear his holster without drawing attention.


Freddie’s cab dropped him off at quarter to five in front of the hotel.  A beefeater opened the door.  He hadn’t slept and his eyes were scratchy.  His heart hammered in his ribs.  A film of sweat lacquered his brow and his armpits were dripping from tension. The temperature was in the seventies with the suffocating mugginess of Lake Erie certain to make things unbearable by noon.  A one-minute walk-on might not happen until late at night. 


By five, people were milling about like hungry sheep.  Freddie held himself in check with a pasted-on smile and tried not to seem out of place in case somebody was watching via the hotel’s CCTV system.  By five-forty, one of the assistant lackeys herded them all into a dozen SUV rentals and they were driven to the Warehouse District. A different lackey showed up and divided them into groups; when the cue was given, he said, they were to walk toward the camera, on a tracking dolly in front of Arturo’s on the corner of West Sixth.  They were not ever to look at the camera. He repeated these instructions with emphasis on not looking at the actors heading opposite them.  


Freddie was soaked in perspiration from listening to this self-important minion rattle on.  His guts seemed twisted into a pretzel, he had an urge to take a dump, and ants crawled under his skin.  He could no longer hear the words the imbecile was speaking.   


An hour went by, then two.  A dozen times Freddie felt himself on the verge of blowing a rod, ripping off his clothes and running down the empty streets, gibbering.  It was unbearable. Amazingly, no one noticed the volcanic pressure boiling up inside him.  A tall black man in sunglasses stepped out of the restaurant and looked around for a moment, frowned and fixed his beret.  His shaved head glistened when he removed his beret and Freddie recognized him as one of the four stars in town.  


At four, Freddie’s group was signalled to begin walking down the street.  He manoeuvred to get himself near the back and when the cue was flashed across the street, they headed toward the restaurant at the pace explained that morning.  Each man and woman was given a prop—umbrellas, attaché cases, laptops—“accoutrement of the workaday professional,” as that little creep director had tediously explained a million times.


As the group passed the restaurant, Freddie peeled off, a wingman on his own mission, and headed directly up the steps of Arturo’s.  He heard a loud voice amplified by a megaphone scream: “Cut!  Cut!  Where the hell’s that guy think he’s going?” 


Freddie ignored him and everything else.  Sound coalesced to a tinny buzz in his head.  His vision contracted like a hi-beam on what was directly in front of him.  


His heart bumped in his chest:  Where were they?  The Fate Sisters made it easy.  The four big celebrities were isolated at a table in the center of the restaurant with all the other tables pushed back.  Waiters or actors playing waiters hovered nearby.  Three cameras triangulated on the table. Two couples having an unreal meal.  A last supper . . . 


Freddie removed his Baby Desert Eagle from his holster and shot the older female in the back just as she was raising a cup to her lips.  The .45 ACP round blew a grapefruit-sized hole coming out her chest and spattered the young beauty opposite her with a face full of red matter.  Her carefully made-up face was instantly stippled with red freckles while tissue debris and bone fragments dotted her coiffed hair.  Before she could form her pretty mouth into a scream, the famous tall black man stood up.  Freddie shot him just below the Adam’s apple and he somersaulted backwards.
Time had stopped now.  No sounds at all, which didn’t surprise Freddie because he had experienced the same thing during those terrifying firefights in Afghanistan.  


Freddie held the gun on the bespattered young star, hesitated, and then shot the second male lead instead as he tried to scramble under the table.  Freddie suddenly forgot his name.  He was a typical Hollywood pretty boy with his good looks and buffed body.  The third shot scored a neat wound channel through the scalp and blew off a piece of skull cap.


The starlet’s eyes were glazed over in shock.  His fourth shot took her in the right cheek and punched through her brain before exiting with a thwacking sound into the table behind her.  


Freddie, now firm master of his destiny, looked down at the havoc he alone had created like a god.  Time stood still.  He could feel everything in the flood of adrenalin surging through him.  Suddenly, the air around him seemed to ripple, sending him signals: danger, movement from the corners.  The big bodies of the security men and bodyguards smashed into him a second later; they drove him face-first into the gleaming parquet floor.  It was like being dragged beneath the chassis of a speeding car.


While they mauled him on the floor and snarled into his face, spitting curses.  Freddie felt his elbow snap and a bone crack in his ribs.  One hard kick to his face put his lights out. Before he drifted into that black whirlpool rushing toward him, he smiled through cracked teeth and bloody lips.  Freddie wondered what his new body would look like when he emerged once again into the world in his terrible reincarnation.


BIO:
Terry White lives in Northeast Ohio and has been publishing noir and hardboiled fiction for several years. Among his recent publications are stories in Yellow Mama, A Twist of Noir, Sex and Murder and “The Dog Returneth to His Vomit,” archived in TKnC. “The Frotteur in the Dark” was named one of the 6 Best Of stories for 2009 by 10,000 Tons of Black Ink.


An excerpt from Terry's first novel, featuring the P.I. Thomas Haftmann (Grand Mal, 2011) can be read here. 

PREDATOR/PREY by Leon Steelgrave

Leon's debut TKnC chiller will have you looking over your shoulder... Yes - YOU.

Predator/Prey

Picture a singles bar. You don’t need to know its name or location, we are all familiar with these types of cattle market and no greater definition of the club is required.

The woman is tall, sinuous and beautiful, in a cold sort of fashion. She moves with the primeval grace of a great cat, for that is what she is - a hunter.

‘Will she pick me?’ you wonder. The answer is, of course, no. You are too tall or too short, too thin or too fat. Your gender is wrong, unsuited to the direction in which her sexuality is swinging this evening. The capricious favours of her bed will not be yours tonight. You instinctively know this to be true.

The man, sipping a Gin and Tonic at the bar, is equally suave. The dark intelligence in his eyes shows that he is more than equal to the woman’s lust. If such a thing were possible, one suspects that his desire may run even deeper than hers does. But surely no one is that carnal?

Their eyes lock, a stream of unspoken dialogue passes between them, then they close in for the kill. You watch, a little ashamed of your voyeuristic behaviour. It’s not as though you couldn’t find a trap of your own. God knows you could have your pick of any of the people in this sleazy den. The night is still young and you have plenty of time to try a few moves of your own. In the meantime, you might as well enjoy the floorshow.

Their interaction fascinates you. You’ve seen all the tricks before, but rarely performed with such intensity. The woman accepts a drink form the man and giggles (that laugh’s much too young for her) as she dips a finger with an exquisitely manicured nail in the clear liquor. She traces her finger around the rim to produce a single, ringing note. Whenever she looks at him it is through lowered lashes, showing him deference and hinting that she is willing to surrender herself into his power.

The man smiles in return (I bet he’s sucking in that gut) and reaches across to retrieve an ashtray from the bar, his hand brushes against her breast seemingly by accident. The woman remains ice-maiden cool. Yes, you can touch me but it’s going to take far more sophistication than that to win the game.

She asks for a cigarette and he obliges. When she leans forward to accept a light she is careful to show off her breasts to their full advantage. The movement causes her to lose her balance on the high barstool and she reaches out, her hand grabbing the man’s thigh. It lingers there a fraction too long to be purely accidental or decent.

‘Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you were sitting alone. I don’t wanna to be presumptuous, but you look kinda lonely. Perhaps you need a friend?’

The voice makes you turn, your anger flares momentarily at this interruption to your enjoyment of the floorshow. You smile; this suitor is rather attractive. A sense of irony makes your smile wider, for it would seem that you are now the prey. Your uninvited guest takes this as a sign of acceptance and sits nervously beside you.



The man returns his lighter to his pocket with a well-practised movement. His eyes never stray from the woman during the operation. He is thinking that it is all too easy. The prey is naïve and falsely confident in its abilities. It is a pity there is no greater sport to be found.

The woman exhales and carefully crosses her legs, showing the maximum possible amount of thigh. Her thoughts run in a similar vein to that of the man. She is picking up overconfidence and an excess of ego. It lends a rank odour to the air around her and makes her savour the thought of destroying both confidence and ego.



You offer a drink, conversation, but your attention is rarely focused on your conquest. The man and woman at the bar continue to fascinate you. They draw your attention from your partner at every given opportunity. Your inattention does not go unnoticed, but you gloss over it with saccharin pleasantries. Then the man and woman are moving, weaving through the crowds, heading for the exit. Shocked by your own actions, you find yourself on your feet, mumbling feeble apologies about some forgotten prior appointment. You hustle your way across the room without a backward glance. Your limbs feel stiff and leaden. Perhaps you’re getting old? Ha!

You give the cloakroom girl your ticket and wait impatiently for her to find your jacket. Each second of delay decreases your chances of being able to pick up their trail. Though what you intend to do when you find them you do not know. Will you follow them home to his or her apartment? Will you wait afterwards and follow whoever leaves to their abode. If you do, what then? This is madness. You have clearly lost your mind.

‘Hey, buddy, are you gonna to take your coat or are you just gonna stand and stare all night?’ the girl grouses. Glaring at her impertinence, you snatch your jacket and hurry out onto the street.

Outside it is dark and cold drizzle is falling, making the sidewalk slick underfoot. Despite the weather the street is relatively crowded. You walk a few paces to your left, your head weaving from side to side like a cobra getting ready to strike its prey. You turn on your heel with a silent curse and head back to the right. Something catches your eye. Is it them? Yes. Necking in the harsh sodium glow of the streetlights. You slow down and will them to go on so you can continue to follow them. Your breathing is harsh and you’re surprised to find yourself sweating heavily despite the chill night air. Perhaps you’re coming down with a virus? Maybe that’s the source of your madness?

They disengage and move off down the street. Your heart skips a beat when they pause at the edge of the road, if they should hail a cab you’ll have no chance of following them. But no, they are waiting for a break in the traffic. Your heart slows - it’s all right - you can continue your pursuit.

They cross the road and step into a garbage-strewn alley that stinks of urine. It makes you apprehensive to find yourself in the city’s seedy guts, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from following them. You have embarked on a journey of self-discovery from which there is no turning back.

A hand grasps your ankle and you cry out. The old derelict stares at you with bloodshot eyes as you hurry past. With luck, they will not have heard you.

From the alley to a viaduct beneath the road and then back to another alleyway, you follow them until they arrive outside a cheap motel, the kind that rents rooms by the hour. Not that you are familiar with such places.

You watch them through the glass doors of the reception as they check in. Your wheezing breath reminds you of an elderly relative whom you watched sicken and die. You ask yourself what you should do now the hunt is over. You’re fevered. You really should go home now that there is no more to see. Yes. Go home, back to your warm, comforting and safe little life.

Taking your own advice, you are just about to turn away when a light illuminates one of the downstairs windows. The blind rolls up and the woman stands framed before you. You watch as the man, now naked, comes up behind her and grabs the straps of her dress. His muscles ripple as he tears the fabric into ribbons, which hang about her waist. Her breasts rise and fall in rhythm with her quick, shallow breaths.

The man is strong and handsome. The woman is firm and beautiful. How you crave to feel one set of that ripe flesh against your own, and how you envy them. Ensnared, you continue to watch as the man tears the remaining scraps of fabric from the woman and steps in closer, to encircle her from behind. She shudders. The muscles in her thighs and belly ripple.

You’re sweating heavier than ever and each breath burns like fire as you struggle to draw oxygen into your starved lungs. You ignore your growing malaise and continue to watch.

The woman’s breasts flatten against the glass as the man forces her against it. Her palms and spread fingers press against the window as she braces herself. With horror you realise she is staring straight at you, just like the man who, with fingers knotted in her hair, looks over her shoulder. Their eyes seem to ask if this is what you came to see. You don’t know. You’ve been struck mute. A growing sense of dizziness threatens to rip you from consciousness. You stare in terror at your wrinkled, liver spotted hands and scream silently in fear and incomprehension. Your vision dims and the last thing you ever feel is the sickening lurch in the pit of your stomach as you fall.



The woman sighed. ‘Was it good for you, darling? Such a gorgeously filthy id, I feel quite bloated.’

‘Yes, I knew the moment I felt those eyes watching us in the bar that we’d found the one. Almost too easy. This city’s full of the desperate and the needy. But we’re only doing to them what they do to themselves.’

_____

Bio: Raised and educated in what he describes as a town of narrow streets and even narrower minds, Leon Steelgrave was afforded plenty of opportunity to hone his acerbic wit. If he never looked back, he certainly spent a lot of time looking inward, a practice that has stood him in good stead, not least in his writing career.

White Vampyre, his first work of fiction, was originally published as a Print On Demand paperback by Booklocker.com in the USA in 2003. Out of print for a number of years, he recently issued a revised version via Kindle Direct Publishing. Two sequels are currently in preparation along with a police procedural, A Pauper’s Shroud, and a collection of early short stories.

Web Site: www.leon-steelgrave.com

TEDDY IN THE TREE by Wayne A. Conaway

Wayne debuts in style with this chiller... 


Teddy in the Tree



It wasn’t fair.  Stan had just finished his summer school classes for the day, and now all his friends were leaving.

“C’mon,” he said.  “Let’s go on the zip line.”  They had stolen rope and a block-and-tackle from a railroad yard, and hung it in the woods behind their housing development.

“We did that all morning,” said his friend Mike.  “We’re going to the movies now. Come with us.”

Stan was flat broke but too proud to admit it.  “Nah. I wanna go on the zip line. Is there anyone still there?”

Mike laughed.  “No one in the woods except Teddy the Retard-o.”

And they left, leaving Stan alone.  A squirrel chittered at him from a tree at the edge of the woods.  He picked up some smooth rocks and threw them at the squirrel.  The squirrel quickly vanished.  

“Stupid summer school!” he muttered.  If he hadn’t flunked two classes last year, he wouldn’t have to go to school this summer.  Maybe he’d have a summer job, and plenty of cash to go to the movies whenever he wanted.

But Teddy was back there.  Stan and his friends had been stealing Teddy’s lunch money since the second grade.

“Time to pay up, Teddy,” he said.  And he entered the woods.

***

It took Stan so long to find Teddy that he was afraid that the retard-o had left.  But there he was, sitting high up in a sycamore tree, at least fifteen feet above the ground.  If Teddy wasn’t wearing his usual red shirt, Stan might not have found him at all.

The sycamore was a good climbing tree, but it was hard to get to.  There was a huge bramble, taller than he was, on one side of the tree.

Stan called to Teddy, but he didn’t respond.  Well, Teddy was weird.  He wasn’t really retarded, but he has a disease called Asperg-something.  It made Teddy really, really concentrate hard on some things.  Other things he ignored, even important things.   For instance, Teddy didn’t seem to care about money, and gave his up without arguing.

When Stan finally reached the crotch of the tree where Teddy was, he saw that Teddy was concentrating on some bugs.  Teddy loved bugs.

Stan, puffing slightly from his climb, was about to demand Teddy’s money when he noticed that Teddy had his pipe with him. 

Teddy loved bugs so much that he carried around a kit for collecting them.  They wouldn’t let him bring it to school, but he carried it everywhere else. Teddy had a magnifying glass, and a bug book for identifying bugs, and little plastic jars for storing bugs in.  And he had a long, narrow length of aluminium pipe, sharpened at one end.

Teddy liked to stick the pipe in an ant hole, and watch the ants crawl up the pipe.  He’d look at the ants with his magnifying glass as they crawled out of the end of the pipe.  The ants always seemed to be confused when they reached the end of the pipe.  Sometimes Teddy used the sharp end of the pipe to dig into rotten wood, where he would usually find disgusting grubs and things.

Today Teddy had a big piece of sycamore bark in one hand.  There were some kind of egg cases on the underside of the bark.  He used the sharp end of his pipe to scrape one of them off the bark and into one of the plastic jars.  

“What’cha got there, Teddy?” Stan asked.  Not that Stan cared.  Teddy didn’t answer; he didn’t even look up from his work.

Stan wasn’t afraid of Teddy the Retard-o, but he wasn’t about to demand money from him when he had his long, sharp pipe in his hand.  He decided to wait until Teddy put the pipe away.

The two of them leaned on separate branches, almost close enough to touch.  Stan looked around the tree.  Once you looked carefully, you could see bugs everywhere.  Ants crawled up and down the tree.  Beetles, too.

Stan looked down.  At his feet, the two big branches met, forming a small depression.  The depression – almost like a bowl – was filled with rainwater.  And flying around the surface of the water were bugs.  Then something bit his neck.  He slapped at it, and found a crushed mosquito in his palm.

“Skeeters!”  Stan shouted.  “They’re not supposed to bite during the day!”

Teddy finally looked up.  As usual, he didn’t look Stan in the eye.  Teddy didn’t look anybody in the eye.

“No,” he said.  “There are lots of different types of mosquitoes.  Lots and lots. This type is the tree-hole mosquito. It bites during the day.”

Teddy was always tapping something: his fingers, his hands, his feet.  Now he was tapping the tip of his pipe on the tree.  

Stan was getting impatient.  He wanted money for the movies, and all Teddy could do was talk about bugs and wave his pipe around.  “I’ll show you what I think of your tree fulla bugs,’ he said.

He unzipped his fly and started peeing into the puddle of mosquitoes.

And suddenly, Stan noticed that Teddy’s pipe was sticking out of his side.  He stopped peeing.  His blood was spewing out of the end of the pipe like a faucet.  He felt weak, and leaned back against the thick branch.

Stan slid down the branch a little, until one foot was in the puddle of pee and mosquitoes.  He was kind of wedged in, and it kept him from falling out of the tree.

Teddy looked at Stan like he was just another bug.  A confused ant, maybe.

Then Teddy reached over and grabbed the pipe.  He twisted it so that the stream of Stan’s blood went into the mosquito puddle.  “Mosquitoes eat blood, not pee,” he said.

After a few minutes, Stan started peeing again.  This time his pee was red with blood.  

When the blood stopped coming out of the pipe, Teddy was pretty sure Stan was dead.  

Teddy had been to a funeral once, and recalled that people talked about God when someone died.  

Teddy was happy that he knew a quote about God.  He pronounced some of the hard words carefully:

When somebody asked the scientist J.B.S. Hal-dane what he’d learned about God, he said that God has “an in-or-din-ate fondness for beetles.”

Getting a good grip on his pipe, Teddy gave Stan a push.  The pipe slid out easily.  Stan fell into the center of the bramble, completely obscured by the growth.  Disturbed by the impact, a riot of insects flew, hopped, and crawled out of the bramble.

Leaning out over the bramble, Teddy whispered, “The beetles are gonna love you, Stan.”

A beetle crawled on the tree limb.  He looked at it and identified it.  “Carrion beetle. Go eat.” Teddy flicked it into the bramble, where Stan fell.  

Teddy packed his insect kit into his backpack.  Then he climbed down from the tree.

Teddy stopped by the stream, to wash the blood off.  Then he went home for dinner.


BIO:
Wayne A. Conaway has co-written nine books and authored many articles and essays.  He has twice been president of the Brandywine Valley Writers Group (www.bvwg.org).  He blogs at http://wayneaconaway.blogspot.com/

P+E Readers' Poll... last day of voting...

The 'Best of 2011' polls close at midnight tonight (Jan.10th).

There's still time to cast your votes for TKnC here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

...and for our horror Editor, Lily Childs, here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml


...David Barber's TKnC story, Best Mates and Lovers was nominated in the short story section - vote here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml


...and my 'fun' adult short, Supper Time, is up for best horror...


http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

... and help children read by voting for OFF THE RECORD charity anthology here...


http://critters.org/predpoll/antho.shtml


Congrats to all the nominees, and thanks for your continued support.


Best,
Crime Dude,
Col Bury

MAN MEAT by Angela Sargenti

A tasty soujourn into the land of knitters and critters with the inimitable words of Angie Sargenti.

Man Meat

I guess I’m man meat now.

Yeah, me.

Can you believe it?

Well, let me tell you how it all went down.

There I was just walking down the street, not bothering a soul, when this weird-looking guy came up to me. Well, I never watch the news, so how was I supposed to know?

How was I supposed to know about the outbreak?

I never was too smart, I guess, nor too good-looking, but I do kind of like this new look of mine.

Gives me character.

And what the hell?

I didn’t need that damned ear anyhow.

Hurt like a mother, though, having it off like that. And I would’ve thought a person would bleed to death just from that, but no.

I didn’t even go deaf on that side.

Just makes it harder to figure out where the sounds are coming from, is all.

So there I am just standing there, my hand over the gaping hole in the side of my head. I’m looking at him and he’s looking at me while he chews up my ear. And he probably would’ve come after me again if he wasn’t so busy trying to figure out what to do about my earring.

He couldn’t chew it, I guess.

The post kept getting stuck in his gums.

Damnedest thing I ever saw, except for my ear hanging out of his mouth.

It finally occurred to me maybe I ought to start running or something. Then I remembered about the knitting needles I had in my bag.

See, I was on my way to this knitting class I was taking. Me and a lot of other overweight, homely girls, and a couple of old ladies, too.

Hell, wasn’t like any of us was getting laid any time soon, so what else was there to do? And if that zombie bastard didn’t like the earring post in his gums, he sure as shitwouldn’t like what I did next.

It was real fun, though.

Satisfying, if you know what I mean.

And by the way?

All those crappy old Hollywood movies?

They’re right.

You can kill them if you can wipe out their brains.

I tried ramming them knitting needles down his throat a few times, but he still moved and flopped around, so I gave him a few jabs in the eyes, figuring at least I could slow him down some if I blinded him.

Slowed him down, my ass.

Dropped him is what I did.

I looked around, but I didn’t see any more of them in the street, so I figured maybe it was a good time to take it on the toes and forget about that knitting class for the day.

When I got there, I turned on the TV.

Yep.

There it was, on all the major channels. The usual bone-headed nonsense.

I swear, this government can’t find its ass with both hands.

I started feeling kind of funny and all, but the bleeding petered out, so I had me a good look in the mirror.

“That’s gonna to leave a mark,” I told my reflection.

It don’t hurt a lick, though.

At least, not after that initial blast of pain, and even that’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, I broke my ankle once (that’s what I get for trying to prance around in high heels) and that hurt way more than this.

I am gonna wash this dried blood off me, though. No sense getting it all over my furniture. And maybe after that I’ll go pour me a nice big glass of whiskey and call it a day.

Makes me wonder, though.

Do zombies have sex?

I mean, they’re ugly as hell, so they can’t be too picky, can they?

All I have to do now is get past their stinking breath and I’ll be in business.

Man meat.

Can you believe it?

Someone finally wants me, for chrissakes.

Yeah, me.

Nice.

____________________________


Bio: Angie is the author of the zombie blog After Old Joe, and is currently working on her next novel. She's penned dozens of erotic and horror stories and has written for Leo DeGraunce, Every Night Erotica, Oysters & Chocolate, For The Girls, and others. Her most recent work, “Snow White,” was published in Best Bondage Erotica 2012 under her pen name, AR Shannon. You can find her zombie blog at www.afteroldjoe.wordpress.com and her erotica website at http://angiesargenti.blogspot.com/. She also invites followers on twitter, @angiesargenti

ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE by Joe Clifford

Joe's back, and hits the new year running with this beaut...

Another Man's 

Treasure

“He’s just a skeezy old man that sells junk,” Geiger says, sifting through scraps of foil in the candlelight, “what do you care?”

            “I don’t.”

            “Then shut the fuck up.”

            It’s just me and Geiger in the condemned church off 22^nd and Mission.  Geiger used to sell meth to the decrepit priest who held the lease.  The priest ain’t around anymore.

            It’s dark inside the church.  We got some butane candles in spread-out clumps, a mattress we dragged in from the street.

            “And who’s that young boy he’s always got with him?” Geiger asks, inspecting each piece of tin foil.  “Little fucker with the squinty eyes?”

            “Donnie.”

            “Well, a dime bag says the old man’s diddling Donnie.  Which makes him a skeezy old man pervert, too.”  Geiger finds a scrap with a nugget left, smiles, his fleshy mouth filled with brown nubs.  “You told him about the furniture, right?”

     “I told him.  But I don’t want to hurt anyone.”  Last week I asked the old man if he wanted to look at some furniture my mom is supposedly getting rid of. 

            “Christ,” Geiger says, “you sound like a fucking after-school special.” 

     Geiger sticks the straw in his mouth, puts flame to foil, sucks in a big hit, his long shadow cast like a racked ghoul against the broken-down altar.  “Stop being such a pussy and hit this.” 

     He passes me the foil.  I take to it like a starved rat to rotten alley fruit.

            ***

            On Saturday, me and Geiger are back at the flea market off Bayshore.  It’s early.  The sun is up but you can’t see it.  A wall of fog has rolled off the ocean, blotting it out.  It’s usually foggy and cold this time of year but today is worse than usual.

     The flea market is where me and Geiger do most of our business.  Most of the vendors are tweakers too, taking meth to stay up all night and dumpster dive across the city.  You’d be amazed at what people throw out.  Electronics that only need a new plug or fuse.  Sometimes you can really score, like vintage train sets or old-time cigarette lighters like the kind my granddad used to have.  His was silver and shaped like a genie’s lamp.  He brought it home from the war.  He said it was a fair trade, since the Koreans took his leg.  I took the lighter when I left Kentucky.  I don’t feel bad about too much of the stuff I done.  I feel bad about that.

    A lot of the vendors make what they sell—knitted hats and gloves, pottery.  Geiger says it’s all shit, but I think some of it’s pretty cool.  Like what the old man does.  He collects roadkill, boils their heads, bleaches off the fur and turns the hides into bracelets, the skull fragments into jewelry.  The old man sells other shit, too, like furniture and lamps.  But I like the jewelry best.  Sometimes I help the old man and Donnie load the trailer.  The old man don’t like Geiger.  Once Geiger tried to sell him shit, and the old man called him a parasite.  The old man might be the only seller here who doesn’t do meth.

   A couple weeks back the old man gave me a bracelet and necklace.  Didn’t want no money for it or nothing.  I got my fingers wrapped around the necklace now.  I play with things when I get nervous.

   “Stop daydreaming and pay attention,” Geiger says.  “I want to be sure he’s got the same size roll as last time.”

***

   We’re walking around the flea market now, keeping an eye on the old man and Donnie.  I don’t like Donnie much.  He looks inbred.  You’d think he was twelve, he’s so small, but when you get up close you can see he has whiskers.  He’s a weirdo.  Last Saturday when I was helping him and the old man, Donnie kept singing these little kid songs, nursery rhymes my mom used to sing me before she got killed.  Except when he was done, he’d say this fucked-up shit that ain’t true.  Like, “You know what ‘London Bridge’ is really about?  It’s about burying dead bodies.”  Or “‘Ring around the Rosy’ is about kids dying from the plague.”  Creepy ass shit. 

   I still feel bad about what we’re planning to do.  But you can’t argue with Geiger.  He’s about ten years older, and about 50 lbs. heavier, and he’s got a temper.  I once seen him almost kill a man at this crumbly old house on the hill above the hospital, bashed his head with a toaster.

  We go seller to seller.  No one seems to be buying today.  All we sell is a teenager, that’s half an eight ball, and some lousy quarter bags.

  “It’s OK,” Geiger says. 

  Because we’ve seen the old man whip out his roll.  There’s more cash than last week. 

 ***

  Everyone is packing up, loading the racks of clothes and TVs nobody bought into the backs of trailers.  It’s a sad sight.  Maybe Geiger’s right and this is all nothing but a bunch of junk. 

  “Do your thing,” Geiger whispers.

  I ask the old man if he still wants to look at the furniture.  Very much, he says, then glowers over his shoulder at Geiger, off in the distance. 

  “I don’t know why you hang around with that trash,” the old man says.   

  I shrug.  Sometimes I don’t know either.

  I hoist the last box, slide it across the trailer’s wood paneling.  The inside of the trailer stinks like somebody died.  You can see nasty red-brown stains from all the roadkill they scoop up.

  All I have to do is get the old man to go inside an abandoned house on Potrero Hill for the furniture.  Geiger says he’ll take care of the rest. 

  The three of us climb in the cab.  The old man tells Donnie to give me a sandwich.

  “Looks like you could use something to eat,” the old man says, kindly.

  I am pretty hungry. 

  The old man passes me a soda.  “Something to drink too.”

  My mouth is so dry, I chug the whole thing in one long gulp. 

  The streetlights look like fuzzy halos in the fog, zipping taillights on the overpass ahead like tracers racing between invisible stars... 

  It’s the last thing I remember.

  *** 

  I come to with a terrific headache, my bones and muscles stretched, like after football games in the winter back home in Kentucky.  My eyes don’t work so good, too crusted and swollen.  Through a haze of orange light, I can make out the outline of a cow hanging next to me about to be butchered. 

  I’m having a hard time breathing.  My hands are over my head, ropes around my wrists.  It feels like my shoulders are being ripped from the socket.

  I start to shiver so hard I almost spasm.  It feels like I will break my own back.  Now I understand why I am so cold.  I don’t have any clothes on. 

  Something groans beside me.  It’s not a cow.  I look over and see Geiger strung up and naked too, his head slumped.  I whisper his name but he don’t answer.  I can see where his skin’s been pulled off his back and ribs in long strips, like straps of jerky to be dried. 

  “Geiger,” I say again, but not too loud ’cause I don’t want the old man or Donnie to hear me.  But Geiger don’t wake up.  Whatever the old man put in that soda bottle, he must’ve put twice as much into Geiger. 

  I gotta think.  But I never been too good at that.

  Someone fiddles outside with the padlock.  I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

  “Open your eyes, boy,” I hear the old man say with a groan as he climbs into the trailer.  “I know you’re awake.  I can hear you outside.”

  I open my eyes, and there’s the old man dressed like a butcher, heavy canvas apron, rawhide gloves.  He’s holding a big tin bucket in one hand, a plastic jug in the other.  Donnie stands beside him, rat-faced and giddy.

  Now Geiger screams, feeling the pain of having been skinned alive. 

  “And you can stop that screaming,” the old man says.  “Ain’t nobody can hear you.”

  Geiger rocks back and forth, snorting snot, which bubbles out his nose and mouth.  He gives up and starts whimpering.  He reminds me of one of those coyotes we’d trap on the farm. You hear coyotes in the wild baying all the time, but they don’t sound like they do when they get trapped.  In the wild, coyotes sound strong, dangerous.  When they’re trapped, they act docile, cowardly.  They really will chew off their own paw if you let them.  When you go to finish them off, they don’t bare their teeth or growl at you.  They’re meek as a house collie.  I once seen a coyote lick my granddad’s boot just like a pet dog.  Before he put the shotgun between his eyes.

  “Ain’t so tough now, are you?” the old man says to Geiger.  “I know what you were planning to do, take my money.”

  I look down at Donnie, who returns a devil’s grin.  He must’ve followed us back to the church one night, eavesdropped as we made plans, the sneaky little weasel.

  The old man reaches into the bucket, pulls out a hacksaw, which he passes to Donnie, and a box cutter.  The old man slides the razor blade out, stepping in my direction.

  “Please,” I say.  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  He shakes the box cutter at me.  “But you was gonna do it just the same, weren’t you?  You wasn’t gonna stop him.  Makes you just as bad.  Maybe even worse.  ’Cause you know better.”

  The trailer doors are open into the black night.  There is nothing to see out there, just the cold fog drifting like aimless ghosts cursed to wander the ends of the earth.

  The old man stands in front of Geiger, who keeps blubbering.

  “You think I’m just an old man who sells junk,” the old man says, to no one in particular.

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  “It’s OK,” the old man says.  “I do dabble in junk.  And you and your friend here are the garbage.”

  The old man thrusts the box cutter into Geiger’s stomach, sticks and sticks, yanks it up like he’s gutting a sow, bloody entrails slopping on the floor.  Geiger convulses but doesn’t die right away.

  I try to break free, fight against the restraints.  It’s useless.

  The old man walks behind Geiger and slits his throat.  Hot blood spurts, gushes, until it’s nothing but a trickle. 

  Donnie brings over a stool, cuts Geiger down.  He empties the jug into the bucket, turning his head to avoid the fumes, and even from where I hang, I can feel the toxic acid singeing my nose hairs.  Donnie picks up the hacksaw, and starts sawing away.  First the fingers, then the hands, then the arms, and so on, dropping each part in the bucket, bleaching off the flesh.

  And I understand.  The blood stains on the floor.  The leather bracelet on my wrist and bone necklace around my neck.  None of it came from any roadkill.

The old man drags the stool in front of me, straddles it.  “I come across garbage like you two all the time,” the old man says, wiping the blood from the razor on his canvas apron.  “In fact, I seek it out.  I collect it.  I take scum and vermin, the refuse and waste that serve no good purpose, and I make it useful again.  I strip away the ugly parts, make something beautiful.”  He waggles the razor in front of me.  “Because you know what they say.  One man’s trash…”

BIO:
Joe's work has appeared in Big Bridge, Bryant Literary Review, the Connecticut Review, Dark Sky, Fringe, Hobart, Opium, Thuglit, and Word Riot, among others. He produces Lip Service West, a gritty true story reading series in Oakland, CA.

P&E Readers Poll - Lily, Col 'n' TKnC nominated!

It's that time of year again. It's great to see so many of our writer and editor friends nominated for awards this year. 

We're honoured that Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers are again in the race for 'Best Fiction Magazine', and in some great company. 


Here's the link to vote for your favourite: http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

Some selfless, hard-working ezine editors have been nominated... notably and unsurprisingly, our very own horror editor, Lily Childs, who has invigorated TKnC with her class. Plus, my long time mate, David Barber for resurrecting The Flash Fiction Offensive so adeptly. Top notch U.S. editor, David Cranmer is also one of my faves, for the sterling work he does over at Beat To A Pulp.


If you have a minute, vote here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

Personally, I'm ecstatic that my adult zombie short, Supper Time, has been nominated in the 'Best Short Horror Story' category (I'm supposed to be a crime writer!). It's in good company along with the likes of... Paul D Brazill... Richard Godwin... Erin Cole... the list goes on...


You can vote for your favourite horror short here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

Finally, TKnC is ably represented in the 'All Other Short Stories' section by David Barber's Best Mates and Lovers (it has the most comments of any story ever on this site), along with some crackers from Darren Sant, Graham Smith and Luca Veste, to name a few.


Vote here:http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml 


Current standings are here.


The poll runs through to January 10th 2012.


Ps. Sorry if I missed anyone out  - nominations increase hourly.

Editor's Christmas Special...THE HOLLY AND THE I.V. by Matt Hilton

Rounding up this trio of editor's treats for Christmas, I bring back a good ol' chestnut (being seasonal and all), a morality tale featuring my regular thriller character, Joe Hunter. Enjoy, and all the best of the season to one and all.

The Holly and the I.V.

(A Christmas morality tale featuring Joe Hunter)

I’m a bad ass mutha, and don’t let anyone tell ya otherwise.

You doubt me an’ I’ll kick your ass all the way to New Year’s Eve.

So don’t be doubtin’ me, man, an’ we’ll get along just fine. You start thinkin’ you can take a liberty with my good nature an’ I’ll do yer. Got it? Good.

See, the way it is, it’s Christmas, and even a bad ass mutha like me ain’t all bad at this time of year. The season’s good will can even affect a bastard like me. I can laugh with the best of ‘em. Last Christmas I nearly laughed my dick off when that punk, Jakey Cenato, got his balls crushed in a vice when her old man caught him with Sherry Bischoff. Jakey was givin’ Sherry a good ol’ seein’ to in back of the garage where they worked. Office romance, my ass! Jakey was just hot for the little whore and Sherry had just gone way over the top on the eggnog. Johnny Bischoff got two of his boys to hold Jakey down while he twisted the screw tight. Jakey won’t be filling any stockings on Christmas Eve ever again, I’ll tell ya. What a freakin’ wheeze.

Anyways, I’m whatchacall digressin’.

I’m tryin’ to point out that, see, when it’s Christmas, I’m not as bad as I normally am. So, I was just not on top of my game. Doesn’t make me any less a man than normal, just, like, not as up for it as usual.

I was in Blake’s Bar. My usual hang out. Most of the usual guys were there. We were drinkin’ for ol’ times sake and stuff. Thinkin’ about goin’ home and trimming the tree and all that crap. Some asshole had even put a Bing Crosby track on the juke box. Christmas in fuckin’ Kilarney or some other freakin’ Mick shit. I supposed it was a good match for the Irish whiskey I was putting in my guts, so I didn’t complain. I was havin’ a good time. I was as happy as a bad ass mutha could be on Christmas Eve.

Jakey’s nuts roastin’ on an open fire, Bischoff nipping at his balls...yeah, we even struck up a Yuletide carol. I was feelin’ warm an’ fuzzy when I finally stumbled outa Blake’s an’ hit the road. It was blowin’ a blizzard. Didn’t dent my good mood, though, just made me want to get home quicker. The bitch I’d hooked up with, Brenda, was waitin’ for me, an’ there was a certain part of me that was in need of hottin’ up.

Most of my pay check was in the cash register behind Blake’s bar. There wasn’t enough in my pocket to get me all the way back home. Them goddamn cabbies are on a good thing, way they bump up the price of a fare at Christmas they need their heads bustin’. Uncharitable pricks!

But that’s what got me thinkin’. Good will to all men an’ all that crap. All I hadda do was ask somebody an’ they’d hand me over their change. An’ if they weren’t feelin’ up for the season, I’d just hafta remind them. Problem was, there weren’t too many people out in the weather, ‘ceptin’ one guy who’d been sittin’ in a corner of Blake’s half the night. Once over I almost went over to him and asked him what the hell he was lookin’ at, but Billy and Clem had told me to leave it. Some sorta bad ass this guy was supposed t’be. Joe fuckin’ Hunter, Bill said in a whisper, the mutha who did the dirty work for that Jap dick over at Rington Investigations. Well, I owed Jared Rington big time. That slant-eyed gook stuck a shotgun in my neck an’ led me back to my bail bondsmen an’ got me a six-month stretch in the big house. It even got as far as me gettin’ up, but my buddy Clem grabbed holda me. He knows karate, Clem warned. Like I gave a fuck! He starts all that Bruce Lee jumpin’ about bullshit, I says, an’ I’ll show him what a kick in the balls feels like. Plus, in my coat I've got me ten inches of lead pipe. One slap upside the noggin with that should do the trick.

Maybe this Hunter asshole knew to get the hell outa my face. He got up an’ walked outa there before I could show him who he was messin’ with. Bastard doesn’t know how lucky he was. I downed another coupla drinks before I heard Brenda’s hot little ass callin’ me home.

Shoulda wondered what Hunter was doin’ standin’ there in the snow. But like I said, I was in a good mood, a bottle of JD down, an’ lookin’ forward to givin’ Brenda her Christmas treat.

Gimme fifty bucks an’ I’ll let my beef with Rington go, I told him. To show him I wasn’t beggin’ for charity I pulled out my lead sap.

Musta been the booze an’ my good mood.

Hunter kinda swarmed all over me.

Bastard.

He took a freakin’ liberty with my Christmas spirit.

If I’d been my normal bad ass self he wouldn’ta stood a chance.

But, hey, I’m still in a good mood.

Apparently when Bill and Clem found me I’d been makin’ some of them angels in the snow. Very seasonal, huh?

Two broken legs, two broken arms, a busted jaw…sheesh, is it any wonder?

First time I’ve spent Christmas in hospital, but it ain’t all bad.

I’m warm and I’ve got these pretty nurses fussin’ all over me. Not that the bitches’ll give me the sponge bath I asked for. An’ it ain’t the same eatin’ Christmas puddin’ through a goddamn straw or pullin’ a cracker when you’ve got a I.V. drip in your wrist. But at least I did better outa this deal than Jakey did last year.

At least when I’m healed I can get back to bein’ my normal bad ass self.

BIO:

Matt Hilton is the author of the Joe Hunter thriller series, the latest of which is 'Dead Men's Harvest'. Matt has also recently published two standalone horror thrillers, 'Dominion' and 'Darkest Hour', available as ebooks via all Amazon platforms. Matt is the founder, and current thriller editor of Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

Editor's Christmas Special... LICKING IT UP by Lily Childs

I'd like to echo Col's message and wish everyone a great holiday and a happy, healthy and prosperous 2012. I'm looking forward to reading/posting more delicious horror from you in the New Year so don't be afraid to make me afraid.

Here's my Editor's Christmas Special Licking It Up. If you think you've been tricked into a light-hearted piece of gastro chick-lit, please do read on...

Licking It Up

We’d all been looking forward to the annual glam-fest with its usual tinsel and trolloping about, and had agreed to make an early start. Big mistake - I get bored too easily, then the craving starts; it’s inevitable.

Casa Molana in Broad Street served fusion food and confusing drinks. I decided to play it safe. A green Margarita, heavy on the tequila with plenty of crushed ice - no salt. As soon as Jodie’s old-fashioned Martini arrived I so wished I’d ordered one instead. Classic, classy – everything Jodie wasn’t. The cocktail should have been mine. Sucking through a squat black straw I grumped and grouched and examined the way-too-long menu.

We had a gossip and a bitch and I forgot about my annoyance - until the starters arrived. The waiter minced up to us and placed three plates in all the wrong places. Jodie tutted and swapped them around. I looked at my potted shrimp and knew, before I even tasted it that it would be disgusting. Wrapped in thick, transparent gelatine the prawns were huge. I picked all the jelly off and prodded one of the pink monsters before forking the thing. I gagged as it hit my tongue. Cold, tasteless – it hung in my mouth like a watery fibroid. I swallowed it quickly to stop the rising bile. That wasn’t potted shrimp. Potted shrimp has a delicious pâté quality to it; a buttery melt in your mouth-ness, all studded with gorgeous chunks of prawn. I shoved the foul offering away.

Beside me Adie – Adrianna – had ordered a poncey-sounding chicken liver parfait in a warm marsala coulis. I’d laughed as she read it out from the menu but when the dish actually appeared my heart fell. It looked bloody gorgeous. We all drooled at the sight and moved in closer. Adie let each of us have a dip with a smidgen of bread – it tasted like heaven.

I prayed my main course would make everything right, make me feel better - guinea fowl in a Normandy cream, cider and caramelised apple sauce. It arrived. The meat was brown and gamey, not white and peppery as it should be and the apples were burnt. I dug at the sautéed potatoes, only to find the golden crisp exterior hid a par-boiled lump of lead, and when I bit into the squeaky French green beans they spat butter all over my brand new midnight-blue top. Perfect.

Lisa, with her sweet lips pursed to an unnecessary level of cuteness actually squeaked when her main course arrived. I was quite surprised; I hadn’t heard her order blue steak and lobster tails. She giggled - a rapacious child - cutlery in her hands ready and waiting to attack. I watched her face, studying the pale, steely grey eyes that darkened to reflect the carnage as she ripped into the meat. Taking the first bite she looked up at all of us, her smile savage. The flesh on Lisa’s plate had been flash-griddled – a minute at most on either side. She poured a Roquefort sauce onto a dark-leafed salad and watched the blood streak curling patterns into the pale yellow cream. Spittle glistened at the corner of her lips as she anticipated the next mouthful. I don’t eat red meat, but by God I wanted it at that moment.

I left my own plate scattered with bones and slivers of fowl; a disappointment – as was the Chardonnay I’d ordered to go with it. Crisp, pale – and decidedly unoaked - the bloody thing was Italian. Cheap Italian at New World prices. I knew at the first unscented sip that it would give me heartburn like so many Pinot Grigios.

“Would you bring me the wine list please?” I asked a passing waiter who vaguely nodded in my direction. I handed the offending Chardonnay across the table to Sarah; she usually stuck to water, being so skint.

“Oh, really? Thanks babe.”

She grabbed the glass and downed half the wine in one gulp. At least someone appreciated it.

The indifferent waiter arrived with the wine list for me and dessert menus for all of us. I mumbled a request for a large Merlot and looked around to see what the others were up to. Despite complaints of full bellies and the inability to dance later I counted three Banoffi Pie orders, two Eton Messes and five Tiramisus. How could they? Jeez. I don’t have a sweet tooth – I just don’t get it. I declined to order, feeling suitably smug until I heard Ellie ask for the Spanish Cheese Platter with sliced pear and a walnut chutney. I nearly succumbed but with Ellie sitting opposite me I thought I’d just wait for hers to arrive and try a nibble, if she’d let me. 

She did. I leant over the table towards the slice she held out on the end of small wooden paddle and took the smallest suck of the ewe’s milk cheese. Oh heaven and bliss on a stick – even the tiniest morsel was exquisite. We looked up as the restaurant owner, smiling graciously, came over to demonstrate how to best eat the Manchega. He cut a thin wedge of pear, sandwiching it between the cheese and a chunk of chutney, then picked up a tiny pot I hadn’t noticed and dribbled what he explained was his family’s own Valencian thyme honey over the combination. Fantastic. It looked... fantastic. And Ellie had it. Not me.

It wasn’t my night. All my girl friends had everything I wanted; everything I needed. I had nothing. I slumped down in my chair and drank several glasses of Cointreau together with a thick double espresso and let the others argue over the bill and tip. Before we even got in the cab I was shaking with the caffeine and more drunk than I wanted to be.

They all pulled. Of course they did; they’re stunners, each and every one of them. Fed up, and writing another Christmas off as lonely and shagless I grabbed my coat to leave – alone - when I saw him. Drop dead gorgeous; angry but vulnerable and so damned pretty. He watched my friends and every other dancer on the floor with a moody glare. Before I could make my move Liz already had her claws out, ready to nail him. I decided to stay.

Somehow we all ended up going back to Liz’s flat – Club Boy too. And that’s when everything changed. I couldn’t let Liz have him – it was one tease too many, besides I’d recognised something familiar about her treat that night. I noticed how his skin shone translucent in a certain light, how he licked his teeth when he smiled. It had been so long since I’d had one of my own I just couldn’t resist it. I only had myself to blame for the bad choices I’d made earlier in the evening but this was just right. Although Liz had pissed me off with her usual man-eater act I did love her – as I love them all – so thought I’d better warn her.

“Sorry Sweets,” I said in the kitchen as Liz hung her head, a solitary tear ripping through the thick foundation trowelled onto her face. I wiped it away with a thumb and kissed her on the cheek. My lips lingered as I breathed in the throbbing pulse at her neck. Liz pushed me off, reaching for a bottle and a glass with an unsteady hand.

For a moment I felt bad, but I knew she’d thank me in the end. I put my arms around her waist and whispered in her ear.

“I know him. He’s mine. I’m afraid he’s always been mine.”

“You’re bastards, you gay blokes,” she spat, deliberately misunderstanding. Her nose ran and she wiped it on her wrist like a child. “Why are you always the most gorgeous ones?”

She walked away and I heard her mutter the old classic under her breath. “What a bloody waste, and poor bloody me.”

***

His name was Christos. It suited him. He would be my Yuletide present to myself and I was ready to unwrap. Christos stood with his back against the front door barely able to disguise his irritation.

“She was my feed,” he said finally, blaming me for his hunger.

“Not tonight, I replied. “Not any night.”

I left my girls to bitch about me and walked Christos a fumbling and sticky mile home with the promise of sex and a fridge full of blood afterwards. He got the sex, but I just didn’t feel like sharing any more after that.

His head came away from his body quite easily. I’d garrotted him – he thought it part of the game until his eyes shone livid with shock, his lips swelled – blue and pert.

I don’t suck the blood off the deceased any more; I don’t need to. But I extracted it with trusty, well-used equipment and in the morning drove down to the hospital with it and the remains to visit an old mate. One of us, he looks after the bodies - and any excess blood - gratefully received.

I hadn’t risked feeding on Christof’s blood myself; I didn’t know where he’d been or who he belonged to. The hospital supplies me with more than my fair share so I feel it is only right to make the occasional donation, get it cleansed before it’s sold on to the local tribes.

I picked up a box of fresh vials, stored at the right temperature. I like it chilled these days – more Mohito than cocoa. When I got back to the house I found Liz sitting on the doorstep. She smiled, sad.

“Was he worth it?” she asked, reaching for my hand. I pulled her to her feet.

“Not really. You wouldn’t have liked it.”

She nodded.

“I didn’t tell the others. Bit of a double-humiliation-whammy really.”

Interesting; unlike Liz my reputation remained intact.

“Yeah,” I said. “I understand. Sorry hun, but...”

She cut me off with a wave of a perfectly-manicured hand and we walked down the hallway to the kitchen where she watched me stash my chinking glass ampoules in the refrigerator.

“Where’d you do it?”

I laughed and nodded at the staircase. She reached my bedroom in seconds. I ran up behind her in time to catch her expression. My bed was made, everything gleamed clean, white... almost clinical. Liz’s disappointment was palpable.

“Dammit. I just wanted to see the scene, smell him.”

She threw herself onto my crisp sheets and kicked off her shoes. I knew what was coming – and it wasn’t me.

“Don’t you ever, you know... want one of us?”

I laughed.

“What, girls – or the living?”

Liz lay back on the bed, stretching out her legs.

“Both,” she said.

I didn’t reply.

***

We held the funeral in the New Year. Not that there was much left to cremate. The police were still looking for ‘Christos’, a strange, intense drifter. All of us had given the same account; how the guy stared at us all night, how only Liz hadn’t seemed to notice the haunted expression, the blank eyes. Seemed Christos was already an urban myth, moving between towns blatantly stalking his prey in full view of the night crowd before ripping their hearts out with his teeth in dark alleys or bedrooms. Cops up and down the country had been gathering descriptions of him and his methods for years, too many years – and were convinced they were chasing copy cat attackers.

My tears were genuine as the white coffin disappeared behind thick blue curtains. I felt shame. I had lost a friend to guilty lust for the first time in hundreds of years; it was why I stopped playing with girls in the first place. My answer to Liz’s final question – had I taken the time to reply instead of fucking and biting her to death – would have been “Yes. Girls – the living, I want you both.”

For the first time I shivered in the sunlight as we traipsed back to our cars, and I recognised the beginning of the end. The memory of Liz’s flesh in my hands was still fresh in my mind. I’d dribbled it with some of Christos’ blood I’d kept for posterity before half-burying lumps of Liz in a trail across the countryside – London-bound – where it could easily be discovered.

We kissed at the car-park – all of us.

“Jeez, babe – you’re so cold,” Sarah wrapped me against her bosom. I pulled away – the smell of her, the heat of her – the desire rising too fast in my mouth, in my groin.

“Gotta go,” I slurred and clambered into my Peugeot.

***

I’ll send them postcards next week, once I’ve put the house up for sale. They all know I’m a sucker for the Algarve in the winter – and I’ve got just enough time to get a flight before it’s no longer an option. I don’t think any of them will be surprised that I’ve given up on soulless England and taken my bones somewhere warm. They’ll forget me over time – they’ll have to. They know what I am, but they don’t know what I’ve done. And that’s how it must stay.

I take a final look in the mirror; I’m already half the man I used to be – transparent, gaunt.

Still beautiful.

Like Liz.

This time next Christmas I’ll be living in a box, living off tramps and counting my days.

It won’t take long.

I have to go now.

Forgive me.

I forgot.

____________ * _____________

Bio: TKnC Horror Editor Lily Childs likes her demons best when they're dancing. 

She has a pile of stories published online and in print anthologies including THEIR DARK MASTERS; TALES OF EXTREME VAMPIRE HORROR, DAILY BITES OF FLESH 2011 and CAUGHT BY DARKNESS. Lily is the author of the MAGENTA SHAMAN dark urban fantasy e-book series and is a Spinetingler Award nominee. 

Visit The Feardom where she blogs and runs a weekly microflash fiction challenge, 'Lily's Friday Prediction'. You can follow her on Twitter @LilyChilds and Facebook www.facebook.com/lilychildsfeardom