SHIPWRECKED by Phil Ambler

Grab your travel sickness tabs and take to the waves with Phil Ambler's latest chiller...


Shipwrecked

Waves lapped lazily against the 'island', three hundred square feet of barren sand and rock in the middle of the Pacific. A herring gull hopped cautiously onto the outstretched leg of one of the sandbank's new inhabitants, snapping at insects before flying off with indifference.

The three men lay prostrate in the sand, battered and bruised, their clothes ragged, a circle of stones filled with ash in the centre of the group. They had been stranded for days, the only survivors of the SS Valiant, a frigate bound for the latest jewel in the Empirical crown; Australia. They slowly began to move as the sun rose above the horizon.

The first to stir was Mitchell, a mountain of a man, clothed in a dark jacket with two white stripes hanging by threads from the tattered sleeve; his barrel of a chest was bare underneath, his missing shirt wrapped round his balding head. He had been one of the ship's guards, and a vicious one at that, overseeing the prisoners sentenced to start a new life at the request of the Crown. He sported a handlebar moustache on a face which had seen a lot in its time; little of it pleasant. His great bulk inhibited him as he struggled to stand, his feet slipping as he tried to find purchase in the yielding sands. He stretched and looked at the others. Beside him lay a rake of a man, scrawny and barely old enough to shave; of the three, he had fared the worst. Blake was his name and he had been amongst Mitchell's charges; arrested for stealing bread. What clothes he had, rags to begin with, were now ripped to shreds and he had suffered a big gash down his leg which had been bandaged as best as possible. Even so, flies buzzed around the wound, burrowing in its warmth and laying eggs waiting to be hatched. The third castaway lay slightly away from the others. A portly fellow in a shredded suit which had come from one of the finest shops on Saville Row, ruined forever, not that it mattered on this Godforsaken rock. The back of his head was bald and peeling, burnt red raw by the unforgiving sun over the days spent without any shelter or shade. Bored of his life in Harley Street, Roberts had decided to seek adventure and to take his skills to the new lands. Now both aspirations were dead and buried as all their lives looked set to end out here with no human civilisation for thousands of miles.

Mitchell turned and scanned the horizon, looking for ships, hoping for a miracle.

"Good morning," piped up Roberts, rousing himself from his sleep.

"If you say so," grouched Mitchell.

"Still with the attitude I take it. I'd hoped a night's rest would make you more reasonable."

"Well what the hell do you expect? We've been stuck here for days in the middle of nowhere with no food, no water, and no way off this hell hole! You said that we would be rescued by now, you said that God would provide for us, so yes, I'd say I still have some attitude!"

"I am not one of your charges Mitchell. You mind your tongue when you speak to me!"

"I think I'll talk to you however I see fit doctor."

Mitchell menaced towards the physician, his hand reaching into his jacket pocket, grasping for…..

"Aaargh!"

"The cripple's awake then," snorted Mitchell, taking his empty hand from his pocket.

Roberts turned to Blake, relieved at the distraction. Mitchell was more erratic with each passing day and all three were quite aware of what he carried in his pocket.

"Damn, you man, he has a fever. Just do your own thing and leave me to tend him."

"Glad to. Maybe I'll see if the fish will oblige today. Perhaps God will make some jump into my hands as they ain't been co-operating so far."

Mitchell stormed off to the far side of the island, eager to be away from the both of them. With Blake's constant groaning and Roberts' unrelenting optimism he didn't know who he despised the most.

Roberts gazed after him. He hoped God would show them the way soon. Mitchell was right, things were looking futile. They'd not eaten for days, most of the wreckage that washed up with them had been burnt to stave off the cold nights and the only water came from the sky. He didn't think it would take much more to push Mitchell over the edge.

"Aaargh!"

"It's ok, Blake, I'm here."

Roberts wasn't sure what more he could do for the man. He'd changed his bandages, strips made from their limited clothing, although Mitchell had refused to share his, yet without proper medical supplies he'd been unable to stop the infection. Now the fever had taken hold and he needed a preacher more than a physician.

Roberts tore more cloth from his ragged trousers and headed to the shoreline. He dipped the fabric in the salt water, tempted to put it to his parched lips but knowing it would do more harm than good. How did it go, 'Water, water everywhere yet not a drop to drink'. He'd always found that such a pleasant piece. He laughed at the tragedy of it all.

He could see Mitchell splashing about in the waters in the distance as he made his way back to Blake. Kneeling, he placed the damp cloth on his patient's forehead. Blake grasped his arm as a spasm seized his body, gritting his teeth as he arched his body, and then lay back down limply, his breathing shallow.

A screech sounded out from across the sands mingled with splashing water. Roberts looked up to see the leering face of Mitchell as he lumbered across the ground, his arm outstretched before him with something shining in his hand.

"I did it. I bloody well went and did it," shouted Mitchell, jumping around like an excitable child eager for their parent's attention, "but don't think I'm sharing any with you. You can go sort your own."

Roberts stared at Mitchell, anger seething in him, knowing there was nothing he could do against this brute of a man, staring at the fish wriggling in his hand, the fish with Mitchell's knife shoved through its gut.

***

Mitchell ate alone that day and, true to his word, shared none of the fish with the others. He dragged himself off to the other side of the island, for what little difference that made, and spent the time shouting obscenities at the birds circling overhead.

Whilst Mitchell bellowed, Roberts plotted, devising plans to escape the island. It was clear now that Mitchell was out for himself and nothing would change that. Blake would be of no help, maggots were spilling from his wound now and he was getting weaker by the hour. The final plan that came to Roberts surprised him and he discounted it at first as the lunacy of a fear stoked mind. It was only when Blake died later that day that he realised he had no other choice.

***

When night fell Roberts bedded down, lying next to Blake's partially covered corpse, keeping a watch across the island to Mitchell. He waited until he heard the droning sounds of snoring echoing across the sand before he made his move. The moonlight shone down, giving an eerie feel to the place, the sands silver whilst the water surrounding them looked like a black mirror reflecting the celestial light above them. Roberts moved as stealthily as he could manage, his body more used to the rigours of medical practice and fine restaurants than furtive ventures, as he made his way to Mitchell's slumbering form.

Even asleep the man looked menacing; his face still grimaced whilst dreaming. It was a mystery how he had been assigned warder and not inmate with an attitude like his. Roberts gathered himself and knelt beside the brute. Steeling himself he felt along Mitchell's body until he found the jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he searched inside for the knife, feeling for the smoothness of its ivory handle. A sigh escaped his peeling lips as he grasped the handle, pulling the knife tentatively from the jacket.

The blade gleamed in the moonlight, cold and clinical, waiting to be used. Roberts looked down at the man in front of him. He'd taken it this far, one more step and then…..he tried not to think of what next, this was hard enough but it was clear this was the path he had to take if he were to survive. He raised the knife high over his head. He held it there for what seemed an eternity, the waves lapping behind him as he paused, convincing himself of his course of action as he looked down at Mitchell's face. Mitchell's eyes opened, bleary at first then widening in terror as he saw the silhouette above him. The knife drove down into Mitchell's chest, over and over again as Roberts panicked, a stabbing frenzy, carrying on long after he was dead. It might cause complications later but at least the first stage was complete.

***

Roberts slept fitfully that night; sharing the island with the corpses which were to be his salvation. He tried not to think about his next task but couldn't help himself. In principal it seemed quite logical. He needed a boat off the island and needed away from Mitchell one way or another and his solution resolved both problems quite neatly. To escape he would construct a boat and the only materials he had were his clothing, a modicum of wood from the wreckage, Mitchell and Blake.

Roberts set to his task in the morning. His mind drifted back to his student days; the lessons when they were taught to dissect a human body. He hoped his surgeon's skills had not left him. The human body contains 206 bones, as any medical student could tell you, and these would be his materials for the boat's frame, mixed with what little wreckage was not already ash. Sinew and tendons would be used to lash everything together. To make the hull he would have to skin his comrades, stitching their hides with fibres from their clothing. There was sufficient 'canvas' for his needs from the two bodies and their garments; especially given Mitchell's size.  He regretted having stabbed Mitchell so many times but that couldn't be helped now.

It took days to accomplish his gruesome task and he paused often to compose himself. At least food was no longer a problem and he was graced with rains on the second day. Truly God was looking over him.

On the eighth day since he had killed Mitchell the vessel was complete. A rather makeshift raft but it would be sufficient for his needs. He piled it with dried meat, enough to sustain him for a week if he was careful, and launched it into the sea. For one dreadful moment he thought it would just sink into the seabed but even now his luck held. With relief he clambered onto the macabre boat and picked up his oar, a construction of Mitchell's shin bones and Blake's cranium. He set sail towards his salvation.

Three days out at sea he cursed his rashness. In the distance, barely two miles away he could see land, a small island with palm trees lining the shore, surely somewhere he could live for months if necessary until rescue came. In spite of this it was the visitors circling his vessel which held his attention. Their numbers had been building for the past hour, there were at least seven of them now; drawn by the scent of his ghastly craft. They had been inquisitive initially; just content to lazily swim beneath him, but now the sharks were getting restless, nudging the base of the raft. Roberts held Mitchell's knife in his hands and prayed.

______________________________

Bio: Phil Ambler is a writer from the South East of England who prefers to write on the darker side of life. Phil has been published by Pill Hill Press and twice previously on Thrillers, Killers n Chillers. He currently has several finished shorts he is trying to find a home for and can often be found carrying out acts of darkness on flash fiction sites. Follow Phil on Twitter @phlambler.

THE GOOD BOY by Anthony Cowin

Tony's back with a delicious little horror...

The Good Boy

I sat there eating my steamed fish like a good boy. No butter, a little Lo-Salt and some cracked black pepper. Then little green mound of vegetables sat on the side to finish it off.  I even had a huge Spanish orange waiting on the table for desert instead of cake. By the time I’d squeezed the quarter lemon over the turbot’s back I had forgotten all about the head in the box on the chair next to mine.

Dear Sophie didn’t make for a great dinner guest. She wasn’t much of a talker for a start, just being a head in a box and all. Though her presence did make me feel at ease. I wasn’t very good when left alone you see. I do things when nobody is around to see what I’m really capable of. Especially in this huge empty house mother left me.

But I was a good boy with Sophie sitting there in that cardboard box, stained a little, deep patches of red on the corners. She knew all the tricks to make me behave. Like the healthy eating. If Sophie wasn’t there I’d have had it all, the fish sweating with fatty butter and stinging with sea salt.

The turbot’s eyes were staring at me. I needed to cut them out. I don’t like things looking at me when I eat them. Never have. You could ask Sophie that, she’d tell you. Well I guess she can’t anymore.

I was glad I’d chosen a proper silver fish knife from the cutlery. They have little points on the end, a sharp curve that lets you flick out the eyes. The flat fish that resembled a torn off human face made me feel nervous looking up at me like that. Like a judge or God or my dear dead mother. There was something different about this particular fish however. It wanted to keep hold of those hardened liquid pupils.

I gouged right in there, feeding the silver curve into the socket trying to gain purchase, twisting as it plunged. I had the knife on a thirty degree angle when I felt the eye resist. I knew then it was the right time, the perfect time. I’ve had experience with knives and eyes. I jerked the blade up.

Then the strangest thing happened. The eye sucked itself back into the socket throwing the knife from my hand. It was a tough fish alright and eating it was going to be as torturous as Santiago’s ordeal with his infamous marlin.

I ducked my head under the dining table, the pale blue lace tablecloth falling around my neck like the Madonna’s veil. I saw it there, gleaming and sharp sitting on the floorboard. It was tempting me. Knives always do that to me, it’s not my fault.

“Can’t even eat a fish without screwing it up.”

My head banged against the underneath of the oak table sending a kaleidoscope of stars spinning behind my eyes.

“Come on boy, come finish the job.”

I peered over the edge of the table, the lace like an ocean horizon in my vision, my orange a burning Mediterranean sun behind palm trees of steamed broccoli. I half expected the turbot to lift its head and talk to me like those novelty singing wall plaques. It didn’t. Much to my relief. Then the other question did raise a head, a very ugly head indeed. If it wasn’t my dinner that addressed me then who or what did?

“It was me idiot.”

Again startled though less so than the initial shock, like the second turn on a roller-coaster, I looked down at the blood stained box sitting next to me. It couldn’t be though, not my Sophie. I mean she was dead. I know she persuaded me to be good but she never spoke the words, just made me feel what I should do somehow.

“Such a good boy aren’t we.”

“Sophie, is that really you?”

“Who the fuck else is it going to be, Billy the Bass over there?”

I looked at the plate and pushed it away. Dare say I was over steamed fish forever now.

“Come on good boy open up it’s getting claustrophobic in here.”

So I did. I leant over and carefully pulled back the cardboard flaps. I never used tape; I find it too permanent. I prefer to tuck the flaps beneath each other. And there she was, my dear Sophie in her box. She smelt bad and beautiful all at once. Like the smell that made me want to fuck girls and kill them at the same time. This wasn’t a sweet smell though; this was the odour of decay.

“Are you…alive?”

“Yeah I’m so alive I’m fucking dancing in here.”

I did see a movement though. Something throbbing and bulging at the top of her head. I spread the hairs, snapping some that were too matted to move and looked inside. There was a wound, deep red and covered with a thick film of blood. It was pumping like the pulse of a heart. I sliced the tissue with the nail of my middle finger and pushed it in up to my second knuckle. I hoped to feel her beating. But as soon as the clot broke open a huge black bug flew out snapping its wings between my fingers. One after another they came. Possibly a dozen winged insects crawled and flew from the gash in the top of her head.

“You wanna stop playing around up there?”

“Sorry Sophie I didn’t think.”

“No you never do. You never did.”

“I’ve been a good boy Sophie, a very good boy indeed.”

“I know,” She said taming her voice. “I know you try hard to be good.”

“I didn’t have butter. Or salt, not real salt.”

“Okay I know you’re a champion. If I had hands I’d stick a great big gold star on your chest. Top of the class for you.”

I smiled not knowing if she was being factitious or gracious. I never could work her out.

“Do you need anything? I mean can you eat or drink maybe?”

“I’m dead. You killed me. How do you suppose I can eat or drink?”

Her voice was angry again and the smell from the soggy box made my head spin. I wanted to touch her, to slide my finger back inside that hole, to search for more insects in her brain with my brown nail. To scrape away her memories, dig them right out of there.

“I’m sorry. Yes you have been a good boy. You didn’t try to fuck my head once you cut it off. That’s something I guess.”

“Yes that is something.” I agreed not really connecting with her words.

“You didn’t mind using the torso though.”

I felt the red flush to my cheeks then. I didn’t know that she would be aware of that. I’m not sure how she could be. I stuttered searching for words before she interrupted.

“Don’t worry I didn’t feel anything. No matter where you stuck it.”

I ducked my head back under the table again, not to search for silver fish knives but to throw up. The taste of lemon turbot clung to my lips like a greasy sin. I dare not come out from that hiding place.

“Come on I forgive you. I know you can’t help yourself.”

She was right that sister of mine. I couldn’t stop myself from doing those things. I tried, oh how I tried but the smell, that sweet honey and earth. That sea salt, that lemon, that fish.

 I threw up again.

“Look if it’s any comfort I died with peace.”

“How could you? I mean the things I did. The violence, the rage, the tearing of things.”

“I gave myself up long before you could do your worst. I learnt from watching the others not to struggle, to pour ice on the anger.”

“So why are you back now?”

“I’m not dear brother. You haven’t let me go.”

***

I scraped away the remains of my dinner into the compost bin in the kitchen. The lemon slices fell on her fingers, the fish eye stabbed by a nipple buried in a half full baked beans can. I decided to sort it out in the morning, I was too tired, exhausted from the whole damn mess of it. I drew a glass of water and drank until it was empty. I did this again two more times before taking another glass to my bed. I was confident I’d wake up wet in one way or another that night.

I set the alarm on my watch. The one Sophie had bought for my eighteenth birthday five years ago. That beautiful twin sister of mine. I switched off the lamp and watched the glowing green hands ticking for a while before turning over.  My pillow was cool and refreshing. I looked across the bed into her eyes. They were dead, glazed over and white. Yet she looked straight at me, through me. The wound from the top of her head stained the Egyptian cotton pillow.

“So I guess you’ll let me go then?

“I guess so.” I said watching to see if there was any movement of skin or muscle as she spoke. “First thing in the morning. I promise”

“Well that’s good. For both of us I mean. You can’t live like this and I can’t stick around forever. Neighbours will start complaining about the smell.”

“I know.”

 But her words only served to remind me. I took in a deep breath and filled my lungs with her. The decay, the lemon, the honey, the earth and the death. The death most of all. It swam through my veins riding on my blood cells, filling my body with the stuff.

“Yes the smell. “ I said. “It makes me want to fuck or kill. I never do know which to choose”

I lifted the head from the pillow astonished how heavy it suddenly felt. Yet all I could think of was that wound full of hard blood and insects.

“As you’re already dead I don’t have to make a choice, not this time.”

I lowered my dear dead sister under the fresh white cotton cover.

I let her go the next morning.  She was compost for my allotment along with the rest of them. I sat in my shed after digging and turning. I drank a mug of hot tea to cool me down as the sweat dried on my skin.

All the time I was thinking about my dear Sophie and the smell. I suddenly felt very hungry, hungrier that I had in a long time.

“Steamed fish tonight,” I said standing. “No today I’ll have fried fish with plenty of butter and chips on the side instead of vegetables. And cake for desert, with thick whipped cream.”

I pulled on my coat and walked out across the allotment, only stopping to dig out some potatoes with my hands. The smell lifted with them. I saw an eye peeking through the soil so I pushed it in with the toe of my boot and walked off home to my empty house for dinner.

“And I’ll have lots and lots of salt.” I said taking in the air around me. “I’ll start being a good boy again tomorrow. I promise.”

___________________________

Anthony has plenty of stories published online and in print anthologies. He's currently working on a urban horror novel and a themed anthology of short stories for Kindle due later this year. You can find out more by visiting his blog at http://anthonycowin.blogspot.com/ Or follow him on Twitter on @TonyCowin.

HEAD SHOT by Cindy Rosmus

TKnC is pleased to welcome Yellow Mama Editor, Cindy with something a little bit different...

HEAD SHOT

Donna Santullo, her name was.

          Julie’s best client. And she was Donna’s favorite “beautician” at Clippers. She’d requested Julie for the final styling. Before the Great Dirt Nap.

          “No,” Julie told the mortician. “I can’t do it.”

          “Mami . . .” Gil was a sweaty mess. “You got to. Or they’ll know.”

          That it was him who he killed her.

          Right outside her house, with her key in the door. After she’d won two grand in St. Jude’s 50/50, he’d plugged her in the head. He needed crack bad, and she wouldn’t give up her purse.

          That red spangly one under Julie’s bed.  With the gun in it. He should’ve chucked both in the bay, but was too scared.

          “Bastard,” she’d called him, once. The first time he’d marked up her face with that cheap ring.  “Fucking evil coward.” Always preying on the weak.

           How could you? she almost screamed. But had to keep quiet. Coward or not, she was terrified of him.

           Inside the red purse, Donna’s perfume had spilled. Tabu, maybe. After two showers, Gil still stunk from it. To Julie, anyway.

          “Call him back,” he said, meaning the mortician. “Please,Mamita. Say you changed your mind.” When he touched her arm, she cringed. Before this, she’d lived for his touch. In spite of that ring.

         “How could you?” she whispered.

         “She made me do it!” he said. “She wouldn’t give me her purse.”

          Sure. It was all her fault. A seventy-year-old in a spangled pantsuit. For not letting a crackhead grab her winnings.

          What would Julie have done?  To save her own life?

          Donna had been down-to-earth. A great tipper, and good friend. Always there to dry Julie’s tears, and to Donna, she cried plenty.

         “Dump that asshole!” Antoinette, the owner told Julie, when she came in bruised, or broke. The other hairdressers smirked.

         "She will,” Donna said, “when she’s ready.” She squeezed Julie’s hand.  “When she runs out of love.”

         Donna knew all about love. She was married to a great guy, an ex-cop who’d quit drinking for her. He’d changed, for her! Who could blame him? She’d had a warm smile, and blue eyes that actually sparkled.

         Picturing those eyes and smile sewn shut was too much for Julie. “I . . . just . . . can’t!” she’d said, and hung up on the mortician.

         “Baby . . .” Gil’s grip was tighter. “Call him back.”

          But she wouldn’t.

          She took the beating, instead.

*     *     *

         Marisa, the “new kid,” was supposed to go in Julie’s place.

         But . . . “‘No!’” Antoinette quoted Marisa, over the phone. “‘Please, not me! I can’t touch anything dead!’”

         Julie said nothing.

        “Can’t even stuff a turkey,” Antoinette added. “So how can she ‘do the dead’? Jeez.”

        Cringing, Julie knew what was coming. Gil’s smile said he did, too.

        “I can’t leave the shop,” Antoinette said. “And first viewing’s at two. So you’ve got to do it, Jules. I mean, like now.”

        Against Julie’s bruised cheek, her cell was sweaty.

        “You’z two were real close. She even asked for you, way back. Said, ‘Antoinette, if anything happens to me—I mean bad—and I die, I don’t want nobody doin’ my hair but Julie.’”

        From under the bed, Julie could smell that purse. Tabu, and gunpowder.

       “Makeup’s already on, so just the hair needs doing,” Antoinette said. “I figured you’d want to do it. Unless . . .”

       Was she on to Gil? Or was Julie just being paranoid?

       “Something . . .” She heard Antoinette smile. “Or someone—won’t let you.”

       Did she know?

       “I’ll hurry,” Julie told her.

*     *     *

        Lots of times she’d “done the dead.” Till now, it was no big deal.

        Sure, their faces were cold, and hard, but Julie got fifty bucks for a fast set and styling. And not even the whole head, as only the front and sides were seen.

            While Julie worked, she talked to them. Especially if she knew them in life.

            “It’s okay, Annie,” she’d told her downstairs neighbor. “You won’t hear screaming and fighting no more.” Gil had called Annie “that nosy old bat.”

            But with Donna, it would be different.

            “She’s in there,” the mortician told Julie, meaning the viewing room. It was too late to do it downstairs.

            As she edged inside, her guts felt like hot soup. Gil, she thought.

            In the distance, Donna lay in a fancy casket. The room felt ice-cold, though the heat was on. Zillions of flowers, there were, like at a queen’s wake. The stench was overpowering—lilies, chrysanthemums, and thatundersmell . . . That no-matter-how-pretty-they-did-you-up-you-were-still-deadsmell.

            It’s a job, Julie told herself.  She was your friend. She wants you here.

It wasn’t Julie’s fault. She didn’t kill her. Had no clue that Gil would, though she knew he’d get his crack money from somebody.

Up close, Donna looked like an angel, with straight, graying hair. Next week she would have come in for a coloring.

            “Donna,” Julie whispered, “I’m sor—”

            “Thank you,” the guy said, and she screamed.

            She hadn’t seen him, standing amongst the flowers. “I’m sorry,” he said. He looked like she’d taken an axe to his heart. “I’m Vince. Donna’s husband.”

            Julie tried to calm down.  He looked like an older, neater version ofColumbo, that TV detective. Ex-cop, she remembered. And her guard was back up.

            “Thanks for coming,” he said. “She always liked how you did her hair.”

            Julie couldn’t meet his eyes. She thought of how Donna’s were sewn shut. “S’ the least I can do,” she murmured.

            “You made her look younger. Not like an old bat.”

            “She wasn’t an old bat!” Julie smiled over at the casket. “She was due for a color. Sorry I can’t do it.”

            “‘S’not my job, man.’” Vince sounded so much like Gil, she looked at him.

            “She told me all about you,” he said then.

            Julie self-consciously touched her cheek, looked away again.

           “You wanna sit down?” she said. “Till I’m done?”

*     *     *

            While she worked, she felt his eyes on her back. Like she would trip up, if he stared hard enough. Maybe poke out Donna’s eye, from nervousness.

            She couldn’t tell where the bullet had struck Donna.  Or if it was still inside the head. Guns were Gil’s thing, not Julie’s.

            But when a chunk of hair came out, Julie gasped.

            “What’s wrong?” Vince asked, from the first row.

            “Nothing,” she said, but something was. More and more hair was coming out of Donna’s head. This had never happened, with any corpse.

            She slipped the hair into her shirt pocket. As more hair came out, she added it to the rest. So much was coming out, she suddenly stopped working.

            “It’s okay,” Vince said, from right behind her. She jumped. “Gimme.” He reached into her pocket and pulled out Donna’s hair. As he slipped it, tenderly, into his own pocket, Julie began to cry.

            “C’mon outside.” He took her arm. “I need a smoke. You?”

            “I don’t . . . smoke!” Julie sobbed.

            “I’ll teach you.”

            She nodded. Somehow, that made sense. More than anything else in her life, right now. And the smell of this place was making her sick.

            Outside, the morticians eyed them, curiously. The first viewing wasn’t far off. They tossed their own cigarettes on the ground and went back inside.

            “It’s trauma,” Vince said, lighting up.

            “What?” Julie recalled how smug Gil had looked when she’d left.

            “‘Head’ trauma. That’s why her hair’s falling out.” He handed her the smokes, but she waved them away. “Bullet moved around, never came out. Shook things up. Like scrambling an egg.”

            She felt like puking. This was his wife, that he loved, he was talking about.

            If it were Gil, how would she feel?

            Maybe . . . glad?

            “A .22 LR. With a suppressor. That’s what he used.”

     In her mind, Gil was sprawled on the sidewalk, his curly hair sticky with blood. “Who?” she said, nervously.

            “The killer.”

            She pictured Gil in that casket inside, eyes sewn shut. No more evil glare.

            “Followed her home from St. Jude’s,” Vince said. “They had a bazaar going on.”

            “I know,” Julie said.

            And that foul mouth. . . . Gil had the prettiest lips, but it ended there. 

            No more “Gimme money, you fucking bitch!”

            “She won a bundle.” Vince tossed his cigarette away.

           Julie nodded.  Gil’s hands, entwined with black rosaries, were folded on his chest.

           Helpless. Unable to beat her again. With that ring.

           It would be so easy.

          She smiled. “Two thousand,” she said, “one hundred and two dollars.”

          Vince fingered his wife’s hairs in his pocket. Like they were ashes, he flicked them into the air.

          The wind brought them back.

BIO:

Cindy is a Jersey girl who works in New York City & who talks like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She works out 5-6 days a week, so needs no excuse to drink or do whatever the hell she wants. She loves peanut butter, blood-rare meat, Jack Daniels, and Starbucks coffee (though not usually in the same meal). She’s been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter,Mysterical-E, Media Virus, and The New Flesh. She is the editor of the ezine, Yellow Mama. And she’s still a Gemini and a Christian.

MEXICAN SOUVENIRS by Eric Beetner

TK'n'C welcomes top writer, Eric Beetner, with this nasty offering, which the faint of heart need not read (and who shouldn't be here anyway)...

Mexican Souvenirs

Ryan could swear that girl was flirting with him.

Must be the heat. Ten days in Mexico and not a single girl had given him a second look. Every damn one of his frat buddies stayed so knee deep in pussy they’d run out of condoms by the fifth day. Ryan still had three Trojans making rings in the leather of his wallet.

But, the Mexican beauty waiting for a security check to board same flight back to Chicago, she gave him the eyes.

It could’ve been he was horny, or frustrated with killing time in the hotel bar every time he saw a coat hanger on the hotel room door. It clouded his judgement more than usual. He believed a girl that hot could see something in him.

The guys gave him shit for leaving early.

“It’s spring break, dude! What’re you doing?”

“I got midterms to study for.”

“But... spring fucking break.” Spencer let out his patented I’m-here-to-party yell, “Yeefuckinhaw!”

Kris, the sensible one, put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.  “You don’t bail out of Cancun to go study. It’s like fucking your sister, it’s just not done.”

“I already changed my flight.”

They all knew. They’d seen him strike out night after night in a south-of-the-border replay of every weekend since Freshman year. Seth, the engineering major, liked saying Ryan was a chick magnet whose polarity had been reversed.

In the closest thing he had to smooth move, Ryan dragged his duffle bag up the long, unmoving line to a drink vendor behind where the girl sat on her suitcase. He nearly tripped over a woman breast feeding her baby. She recoiled from the impending collision and the baby pulled free, exposing her boob and the engorged nipple leaking milk. Ryan apologized and hoped like hell the girl hadn’t seen.

He ordered a horchata and tried to act casual as he slowly turned to spy on her from a new vantage point. She was gone. Shit. Probably went to the hotel to fuck anyone wearing a Rho Delta Omega shirt. Anyone but him, that is.

Ryan turned back to the counter and jumped when he discovered her standing next to him.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hi there,” he said. “I mean, hola.” 

“You’re American?” Damn cute accent. She didn’t need any help, though. Thin, dark hair, green eyes, full breasts. Put this girl on a tourist poster and Cancun would be sold out for a year.

“Yeah, American. What about you?” Idiot. Keep it together.

She laughed. “Carmelina.” She held out a hand. Ryan shook it.

“Ryan.”

“Come with me,” she said.

He obeyed. Carmelina picked up her purse, took his hand. In his head Ryan began composing his letter to Penthouse Forum: I used to think this kind of thing didn’t really happen...

She led him away from the security line. He worried about losing his place in the glacially moving line of frustrated passengers. Screw it, give his seat away. Midterms can wait.

Carmelina threw looks over her shoulder, smiling in a coy Señorita way that made Ryan erect already. He tried to keep calm, not seem too eager. 

She scanned the terminal left, then right. No one paid attention. She pulled him into the restroom.

Ryan’s heart sped up to a dangerous pace. Giggling, she brought him to the stall farthest from the door. He heard a toilet flush from another stall. She put a finger to her lips, “Shhhh.” He couldn’t help the goofy grin plastered on his face.

She pulled him in and kissed him, locking the door behind his back. Ryan dropped his duffle on the floor, unconcerned about the sanitation of a Mexican airport bathroom.

She turned him around, away from the door and broke their kiss. “It’s okay?”

His grin was back. His erection never left. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

She moved in for another kiss. She ran a hand down his shirt, ending on his belt. She unfastened it like an expert safe cracker; one-handed, eyes closed.

Feeling behind, Ryan latched a hand onto her left breast. He knew he was squeezing too hard.

She playfully bit his lip and spun his body around, his face inches away from the white tile walls. She was in control and that was fine by Ryan. He let her lead wherever she wanted to go.

His pants were quickly down around his knees, boxer shorts with them. He heard a snap like rubber. She even brought her own condoms!

A click of something metallic confused him for a second but whatever this girl was in to, count him in.

A cold knife blade came to rest against his neck. 

“Stay still,” she said.

He felt pain but not from the knife. His asshole was being opened and something shoved in – needless to say – against his will.

His reflexes ignored the knife, Ryan spun his head to look behind him.

Carmelita was wearing one surgical glove. The gloved hand came out of her purse with a small, but not small enough, plastic-wrapped bundle of white. He saw an open container of Vaseline on the tank of the toilet. When had she gotten that out?

She dipped the plastic in the lubricant and it disappeared up his ass to join the one already in there.

When he started to scream, the knife bit in. “Stay quiet,” she ordered.

She forced the package inside him, deeper than he thought possible. To his horror she was making room for a third delivery.

Once the bundles were inside his rectum she removed the knife, stripped off the latex glove and stepped back.

Gently, Ryan turned around. His erection was long gone and he’d never needed a shit more in his life.

She spoke and suddenly the accent wasn’t so charming. “There are three associates with me on the plane. You fuck with us and you die. Once we get to O’Hare we’ll do this in reverse. You’re good to me and I’ll even hold your balls when I do it. Try anything stupid and I’ll rip them off. Understand?”

Ryan nodded. He understood he’d been an idiot to think a girl like Carmelita would give him a second look. 

He got back in the security line, feeling her stares on his back, his cheeks clamped shut and wondering what the hell he was gonna tell the guys when they got back. 

Spring fucking break. Yeefuckinhaw.

Bio:

Eric Beetner is the author of Dig Two Graves and Split Decision, co-author (with JB Kohl) of One Too Many Blows To The Head and Borrowed Trouble. His award-winning short fiction has appeared in Pulp Ink, D*cked, Off The Record, Grimm Tales, Discount Noir, Murder In The Wind and the upcoming Million Writers Award: best new online voices. For more visit ericbeetner.blogspot.com