FATHER'S DAY

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

FATHER’S DAY

By Daniel Skye

            Death’s shadow loomed over Ted Holland.

X-rays taken by his doctors revealed a brain tumor the size of a fist. Malignant and inoperable. They had given him approximately six weeks to live.

            As he stood in the threshold of death’s doorway, Ted wanted nothing more than to forget the past and live his last few weeks in peace and harmony.

            Ted was incapable of forgiving the demon that had robbed him of his only son, Gregory. Forgiveness was not even an option he’d indulge. It wasn’t something he had in his blood. So it appeared his only hope of savoring his final days was to erase Tanner Langstrom from his memory.

            Langstrom was the monster who had been traveling at three times the speed limit when Gregory was riding his bicycle down the driveway. Tanner never saw him coming, never had a chance to brake.

            The arriving officer smelled alcohol on Tanner’s breath, and he was behaving belligerently and refused to take a breathalyzer at the scene. The police finally got him to take one down at the station and confirmed that Tanner had alcohol in his system at the time of the accident. But by the time he had consented to a breathalyzer, he was below the limit.

            And now, Tanner was out on parole, walking free amongst the rest of society. Ted knew his own departure was imminent, while Tanner would most likely go on to live a long, healthy life. And that thought gave Ted no solace. In fact, it sickened him.

            Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tanner’s face. He had to stare at that face every day during the trial. It was a face he could never forget. Those bulging green eyes that made him look like a lizard. That ugly scar across the bridge of his nose. That hole in his lower lip from where he’d usually where his ring. He was considerate enough to remove it for the duration of the trial.

            Ted also found himself disgusted by how vehemently Tanner’s lawyer fought to keep him out of prison. How he expressed remorse on behalf of his client. How he called Ted’s parenting into question.

Stahl was his name. Desmond Stahl. He was a portly man with a dark complexion and a penchant for bowties that distracted from his rather plump head. He wore aqua blue shirts under his suit jacket and he spoke in such a condescending manner that every time he opened his mouth, Ted wanted to reach down his throat and yank out his vocal cords.

These were all the things Ted didn’t want to dwell on in his final days. These were the things he wished to forget.

Cynthia Rockwell had made all the arrangements for him. In his declining state, Ted was in no condition to leave the house. Cynthia was a young lady, much younger than the widowed Ted, who had no illusions about shacking up with a girl half his age.

Cynthia was a caregiver hired to look after Ted until the inevitable occurred. She wore hoop earrings, but never lipstick or a dab of makeup. She had a rare natural beauty that Ted and every other man within ten feet of her found entrancing. Though he found her attractive, he also made it a priority to show her the respect a woman deserves and refrain from flirting or staring inappropriately.

They had formed quite a bond in the first three weeks they spent together. Cynthia prepared all Ted’s meals for him and kept him company through the days. They played chess together, a game Ted had mastered long ago, though he would let Cynthia win every time. They listened to classical music like Bach and Mozart, Ted’s preference.

And Ted even confided in her, told her all about Gregory and his wife divorcing him after the accident. He told her all about Tanner Langstrom and his sleazy lawyer, Desmond. About Tanner’s parole, and his yearning to forget it all.

Ted had heard through his lawyer that Tanner had been in touch with Desmond recently. He was hoping Desmond would represent him in a case against the city to get the DWI charge expunged from his record and downgrade the charge to involuntary vehicular manslaughter. And this latest information only fueled Ted’s desire to purge Tanner from his memory.

That’s when Cynthia offered a suggestion. “Have you considered a hypnotist? I know a guy who helped my friend quit smoking. They haven’t had a cigarette in four years. This guy is supposed to be the best.”

“What’s his name?” Ted inquired.

* * *

Sunday, June 19^th, 2011.

Father’s Day.

Ted was in bed when Cynthia informed him that Brandt Bukowski had arrived.

“Let him in, please,” Ted said, summoning all his strength so he could sit up to greet him. The migraines were often debilitating and felt like a knife being twisted in his skull.

“Mr. Holland, I presume,” Doctor Bukowski said, standing in the doorway.

“That’s me,” Ted said, finally managing to sit upright. “And what do I call you, doctor or Mr. Bukowski?”

“You can call me Brandt if it makes you feel comfortable.” Bukowski walked towards the bed with Cynthia trailing behind him.

“Cynthia filled you in on all the details?”

“She did,” Bukowski informed him. “First, let me say how sorry I am about your son. If it had been me, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I can understand why you called me.”

“Okay, Brandt,” Ted said. “Be honest with me. How real is this stuff?”

“Very real,” Bukowski said. “And I have a one hundred percent success rate,” he assured Ted. “I’ve cured people of their phobias, helped them conquer smoking and other addictive substances, and suppress unwanted memories.”

“Well, that’s why you’re here. I have a surplus of unwanted memories and I don’t want them haunting me anymore.”

“Then you’ve made a wise choice,” Bukowski said. “Shall we begin?”

“Sure,” Ted said wearily. “Cynthia, you can leave us for now. Thank you.”

Cynthia left them alone and Brandt took a seat beside the bed where Cynthia usually sat and removed a gold pocket watch from his tan blazer.

“This watch is a family heirloom. It belonged to my great grandfather. It still ticks. But other than that one little marvelous detail, it’s just an ordinary watch. Nothing special about it. Hypnotism does not depend on the object used to entrance the patient. It’s all about the patients’ mentality. Those who truly wants to be cured of their affliction are more susceptible to being hypnotized.”

“So what is it I’m supposed to do here?” Ted asked.

“You don’t have to do anything except use your eyes.” On that note, he held the watch from its chain and let it swing back and forth like a pendulum. The watch drifted from side to side and Ted followed it with his eyes.

“I need you to clear your mind, Ted,” Brandt said in a soft, soothing voice. “Think of absolutely nothing. Free yourself from thought. Just let your mind drift and soon your body will follow.”

His eyelids fluttered as he tried to keep his focus on the watch. He didn’t realize how tired he was until he observed he wasn’t sitting upright anymore and his back was sliding down the headboard.

“I’m going to count down from ten, and when I’m finished, you’ll be asleep. Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

Ted was out cold before he could even count down to five. But before the real procedure could begin, Ted’s body was awakened by a massive jolt, as if some form of electrical current ran through him.

He sprung up in bed, hands shaking, eyes rolling into the back of his head until all Brandt could see was white. Then he fell back, his body going into convulsions. He kicked and thrashed and flopped around the bed helplessly, unable to communicate at all.

“Cynthia!” he called and she came rushing back.

“What’s happening?!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know…this has…this has never happened to me before. Is there a phone? We need to call for an ambulance immediately.”

Just as Cynthia ran for the phone, the convulsions ceased. Ted’s muscles relaxed, and his body returned to a calm, peaceful state. His eyes rolled back into place and he sat up, confused and disoriented.

“What’s going on?” Ted asked. “Are we done? Is it over?”

“Ted…you had an attack of some kind. We never even began. Are you prone to seizures?”

“Seizures? No. I’ve never had one before in my life.”

“Any history of epilepsy in your family?”

“Nope. The only thing that’s hereditary in my family is alcoholism.”

Cynthia returned but dropped the cordless phone in shock at Ted’s miraculous recovery. “Mr. Holland? Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, Cynthia. I don’t remember what happened. But I feel okay. There’s just this throbbing in my temples. I’m sure it will go away.”

But the throbbing didn’t go away. It intensified. Ted massaged his temples as the pain continued to surge.

“Sir, can I get you anything?” Cynthia asked. “Water? Aspirin?”

“No, I’m fine,” Ted assured her. “Just give me a moment.”

“Ted, I’m not really sure if it’s safe for us to continue,” Bukowski informed him. “I should probably be going.”

His temples throbbed rapidly and he found himself inexplicably filled with rage. It was an overpowering feeling of hatred. All he could think about was hurting Bukowski. He lost all control over his thoughts and emotions. His own mind was battling against him. And his mind was winning, rapidly ceasing control over his body.

And Brandt Bukowski was the first to feel the wrath of Ted’s imagination. Brandt’s feet left the floor and his body hovered in the air, a few feet off the ground. His legs curled on their own, bending back to such an extreme degree that they snapped at the knees, the broken bones jutting out through the skin. Then his arms, as if being pulled by some invisible force, were drawn back as far as they could be stretched, and ripped straight from the sockets.

Brandt, still suspended in the air, let out one final cry as his upper body contorted and folded back, severing his spinal cord in the process. Brandt was released from his invisible grasp and his body plunged to the floor, motionless.

Cynthia screamed at the top of her lungs as she scrambled for the phone to report the incident. Ted’s temples throbbed again and he just wished Cynthia would shut up.

In seconds, her cries were muffled as an invisible force had taken hold of her windpipe, squeezing the air out of her. She choked, gagged, clutched at her throat. Her face turned red, then purple, then she collapsed to the floor, and her cries ceased.

            Ted blinked his eyes rapidly and massaged his temples and the pain gradually subsided. He took a glance around the room and the carnage that had transpired. He couldn’t recall a second of it.

            His mind only seemed to have one direction. It craved blood. It craved revenge. It craved Tanner Langstrom.

            Ted rose from his bed, taking full advantage of his newfound energy and abilities. He hadn’t felt this alive in months. He dressed in a hurry and grabbed his coat and jacket. As he went for the door, he tasted something bitter in the back of his throat.

            Blood. Ted surmised he might be bleeding internally. But his mind would not let him focus on this concern. It pushed him towards the door, down the stairs, out the front, and into his car.

            He didn’t know where to find Tanner. But he knew where to start.

* * *

            Desmond Stahl made his living on the grief and misery of others. He was a defense attorney. But as repugnant a specimen as he was, Desmond could work some serious magic in that courtroom. And I’m not just talking about pulling rabbits out of hats, either.

            So Ted took a little drive out of town and marched right into the law offices of Kramer and Johnson. He approached the receptionist, who asked politely if he had an appointment. His temples ached and throbbed and he imagined his hands wrapping tightly around her thin throat.

            The receptionist heaved and scratched at her throat, struggling to find the air. “This is how it’s going to work,” Ted said. “Tell me where to find Desmond Stahl and the pain goes away.”

            “Down the hall,” the receptionist choked out the words. “Third door on the right.”

            “Thank you,” Ted said, his mind releasing its grasp on her. She clutched at her throat and coughed as the air returned to her lungs. The throbbing in Ted’s temples ceased and he tasted blood again and felt a sharp pain forming in the pit of his stomach.

            Dismissing the pain, he walked down the hall and approached the third door on the right, marching in uninvited. As Ted anticipated, he was wearing a bowtie and an aqua blue shirt under his jacket.

Desmond was a fidgety man, always pulling at his belt or tugging at the legs of his trousers or scratching at his ample belly.

            “Who are you?” Desmond asked, arms crossed but still fidgeting around in his chair. “I don’t believe we have an appointment.”

            “You don’t remember me?”

            “Should I?”

            “You should. But none of that matters now. You won’t remember me after today.”

“That sounds like a threat. Just who the hell are you?”

“Tanner Langstrom. Does that name ring a bell?”

“I vaguely recall representing a man who might’ve had the same name.” Desmond unfolded his arms and tugged at his pant legs.

“He killed my little boy and you got him off with a slap on the wrist.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

            Desmond’s desk and shelves were polished oak, and the long narrow windows behind him overlooked the adjacent park. He swiveled his chair around and looked out, so he wouldn’t have to face Ted.

            “Just tell me where to find Tanner.”

            “I don’t know where Tanner is. I represented him years ago. Even if I did know where he is, I wouldn’t be at liberty to divulge that information. Attorney-client privilege, you know?”

            “Tanner just got released from prison. I know he’s been in touch with you. He contacted you with plans to sue the city to try and get this stain removed from his record. Where can I find him?”

            Desmond, his back still turned to Ted, was about to call for security when he felt the sharp pangs in the pit of his stomach.

Ted’s temples pulsed wildly. Desmond squirmed in his chair as his ample belly swelled three times in size. “Help! Help! What’s happening to me?!”

“Just give me an address,” Ted said. He could taste the blood rising in the back of his throat, but it didn’t discourage him or the grip his mind had over Desmond. “The address,” he demanded again.

Desmond could not see his legs, but he could feel that they had increased in mass. They had swelled to the size of telephone poles. And his stomach had expanded to the size of a hot air balloon.

“1291 Cambridge!” Desmond shouted, just before his stomach could no longer withstand the pressure. He burst open, the explosion propelling his innards against the glass and tainting the serene view of the park.

The pain in Ted’s head dissipated but the taste of blood still lingered in the back of his throat.

“1291 Cambridge,” he repeated.

* * *

            1291 Cambridge was a dilapidated house in a neighborhood riddled with many other abandoned or neglected properties. But this hole in the wall had special significance to Ted.

            It was once the home of his childhood friend, Aaron. In the decades that had passed, the house remained virtually the same; the only major difference being a two-door garage where Aaron’s dad’s boat used to be.

            In retrospect, the boat was nothing special. But as a kid, that big boat raised up on that trailer seemed larger than life to Ted. Aaron and his dad took Ted out on the water and showed him to bait a hook and cast the reel out into the water. Ted got a catch on his first try, a six pound fluke.

            He never took Aaron for an angler, but his friend really seemed to love it out there on the water. And that made Ted enjoy the experience all the more. For years, it seemed like Ted and Aaron were inseparable.

            So what came between them? A girl. Years of friendship tossed down the gutter over one girl. Jenny Washburn. They both fought for her affection. But it was Aaron who won her heart, and he and Ted never spoke again. Though Ted had heard years later that Aaron and Jenny had married after college.

            Maybe I’ll pay them a little visit when I’m done here, Ted thought. But it wasn’t really him thinking. It was this strange, anonymous force that had taken hold of his mind and his body that caused him to think and act like so.

            Ted walked up the red stone path that extended from the sidewalk to the porch. He looked down when he reached the third stone, expecting to see a huge crack in the center. It was still there and the childhood memory made Ted–the real Ted, not the entity that possessed him–smile briefly.

            Ted didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the bell. He just closed his eyes and as his temples throbbed uncontrollably, he let his mind do the work. In mere seconds, the door was reduced to splinters and Ted made his way in, confronting a startled Tanner Langstrom in the living room.

            He looked different. He still had this bulging green lizard eyes and the lip ring and that scar across the bridge of his nose. But he looked aged and exasperated.

            “Who the fuck are you, buddy?” Tanner demanded an answer. “You can’t just bust in here. This is my family’s place. You’ve got no right to come barging in.”

            “Gregory Holland,” Ted spoke.

            “Get out before I call the police.”

            “I know you remember him.”

            “I paid my debt.”

            “Six years? You didn’t pay shit.”

            “I remember him. And I remember you staring a hole through me every day at that trial. I’m sorry about what happened to your son. I truly am. But there’s nothing I can say or do to bring him back. There’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

            “There’s one thing you can do,” Ted said and his temples pounded.

            A tear formed at his scalp, creating a zigzag-like pattern that traveled down his forehead, cutting across the bridge of his nose, bisecting his lips, and ripping down his chest. With his face ripped open and his lips torn apart, Tanner could no longer speak in his defense. He gurgled, attempting to speak, but the words refused to come. The skin peeled away, separated at both sides of the torso like an unbuttoned vest flapping in the breeze, leaving his ribcage, nerves, fat, muscle, and sinew exposed. But Ted decided he wasn’t finished there. And in the blink of an eye, Tanner’s body split down the middle like a piece of lumber, the halves of his body dropping to the floor with two loud, wet thuds.

            Ted breathed an audible sigh of relief. “It’s over,” Ted assured himself. “It’s…Ah! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

            Ted crumbled to his knees, his temples ready to burst. The pain in his head was too much to bear now. He tasted blood again, but that was the least of his concerns. Now he could actually see the blood. And not just the blood of Tanner, but his own. It was flooding out of his nose, pouring out from his ears, even from his eyes. He was hemorrhaging blood from every orifice of his body.

            The force that had possessed him was strong, but not strong enough to stop his last thoughts from being of Gregory. When every last drop of blood had been drained from him, the force vacated his body. And moments before Ted collapsed, he whispered something, barely audible.

            “I did it, Gregory.”

HUNGER PAINS

 

HUNGER PAINS

By Daniel Skye

 

 

            “These hamburgers are overcooked,” Dennis Larson bitched to his wife.

            “No, they’re not,” Amy said, minding her tone of voice. She wanted to remain as diplomatic as possible. Dennis has a short fuse. So short that Amy wasn’t even sure if fuse was the applicable word. It was more like a wall switch he could flip on at any given moment.

            “Yes, they are,” Dennis fired back. “I feel like I’m munching on charcoal. The thing is like a frigging hockey puck.”

            “They taste fine to me,” Amy said in her defense. “And I thought you liked them well done?”

            “Not this well done. This is super well done. Well done isn’t even the correct term to describe it.”

            “May I be excused?” their son, Evan, requested.

            “No, you may not,” Dennis growled. “Finish your food. Your mom says it’s fine. Then it’s fine. Now eat.”

            Evan’s head sank and he stuffed a few golden brown French fries in his mouth, hoping it was appease his father enough to excuse him from the table. He had already eaten his burger and he couldn’t tell what his dad was complaining about. It tasted fine to him, but he didn’t dare argue over it. Evan knew better than to intentionally provoke his father’s wrath.

             They finished their dinner in silence, with the exception of a sporadic sigh or groan of disgust that came from Dennis as he paused between bites. When they were done, Evan placed his dish in the sink and dismissed himself as he headed upstairs to his bedroom.

            “Can you believe the nerve of that boy?” Dennis asked when Evan was gone. “Asking to be excused during dinner.”

            “It’s that computer of his,” Amy said. “He spends his whole day on that laptop.”

            “Well, he better be talking with some girls on there or I’ll belt him good. Kid’s fourteen years old and he doesn’t even have a steady girlfriend. I’m beginning to wonder about him. Not to mention that frigging laptop cost me a fortune.”

            Amy offered no rebuttal, but instead turned her attention to the dishes in the hopes that Dennis would end this conversation. Sure enough, he lost interest and wandered off to the living room, where Roscoe was just waking up from his nap.

            Dennis had not touched Amy in six months. Not so much as a pat on the back or a kiss on the cheek. And though she took this lack of affection as a personal insult, she was also relieved he hadn’t raised his hands to her either.

            Six months before, if Amy had spilled even a drop of coffee on the carpet, Dennis would’ve blackened her eye faster than she could grab something to clean up the stain.

            But with Roscoe added to the picture, Dennis was too preoccupied to acknowledge his family’s existence beyond the dinner table. Amy would swear her husband loved that dog more than he loved her or Evan.

            Roscoe was a Saint Bernard that Dennis had adopted from the Greenville shelter; looked just like the dog from the Beethoven movies. Basically he went down to the shelter and made the cheapest donation allowable to take Roscoe home with him. But Dennis preferred the term rescue dog. He liked to think that his actions made a difference and that he was a hero of some kind, at least in his own mind.

Roscoe was an enormous dog with a thick coat and a bushy, broad tail. Every time Dennis returned from work, Roscoe would slide across the floor in excitement towards the front door and slobber all over him. The week Dennis brought Roscoe home from the shelter, he spent over five hundred dollars on a doghouse, bed, food, leash, toys, and a personalized collar.

Dennis often let Roscoe roam free, which angered some of the neighbors. But none of them came forward. They were too intimidated by Dennis and his awful temper to voice their grievances. When it rained, Roscoe would trot in with mud and grass clinging to his tousled coat. He’d track mud all over the floor and shake himself off in the living room, soaking the furniture and whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing in the vicinity. Dennis found this act to be adorable. And Amy found it to be a pain in the ass considering she was the one expected to clean up the mess.

Amy finished the dishes and contemplated joining Dennis and Roscoe in the living room. But she thought better of it, grabbed a book she’d just started reading, and headed off to bed.

* * *

            It was a grey October morning when Amy Larson was called into the principal’s office. Evan was sitting on the bench in the main office. His brown jacket was stained red, and his knuckles were raw and crusted with blood.

            Amy knew what this was about before the principal even had a chance to open his mouth. Evan had been in another fight. Fourteen years old and the boy was already taking on kids twice his size.

            This latest incident had occurred during gym class, where a boy named Ronnie Henderson intentionally pegged Evan in his lower back with a football. Evan got right back up and threw the first punch, which crushed Ronnie’s nose. When the gym coach and several other teachers were able to pry Evan off of Ronnie, thy discovered he had beaten the boy unconscious. Kids were going around school saying that when it was over, Ronnie’s face looked like raw hamburger meat, all mashed and bloody.

            The verdict was in on Evan: Permanent expulsion. The doors of Greenville High School were closed to him forever. The principal informed her that no amount of detention could correct or make up for Evan’s actions and that this was the only option. And the principal couldn’t promise Amy that the Henderson’s wouldn’t press charges either.

            Evan Larson had his mother’s pale green eyes and rosy cheeks, but he had begun to inherit his father’s uncontrollable temper as well. Evan would stay up late on Saturday nights to watch amateur boxing on the sports network. He had taken such an interest in the sport that on his thirteenth birthday, Dennis treated him to a punching bag and a set of gloves.

            Amy preferred him wailing on the heavy bag as opposed to wailing on his fellow classmates, and she hoped maybe the exercise would work all the aggression out of her son. But it had quite the opposite effect. The bag didn’t quell Evan’s rage, it only seemed to amplify it.

            “What were you thinking?” Dennis screamed at the top of his lungs, getting right up in Evan’s face. He was ready to blow a gasket when he got home from work and Amy had the unfortunate duty of telling him what their son had done.

            “What made you think you could pull a stunt like this and get away with it?” Dennis continued his tirade. “What the hell were you thinking? Where do you get the balls to pull something like this? Do you have any brains at all? I should’ve smacked some sense into you years ago.”

            Dennis could not restrain his anger and his tone was sharp and vehement, and Amy feared the neighbors might overhear. So she went into the kitchen and made sure the windows were closed as they were in the living room, and then she started working on dinner, trying her best to remain neutral in this scenario.

            “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find another school now?” Roscoe was getting so worked up at the sight his masters fury that he started barking up a storm, his barks accompanying Dennis’s screams. “And how about the boy you sent to the hospital? His family could sue us. Did you think of that?”

            “It’s not that big of a deal,” Evan shrugged it off, shaking his hands to alleviate the throbbing pain in his knuckles. “I’ll enroll in another school and everything will be fine. Besides, that kid’s a pussy. He’s not going to press charges or let his family sue. He’ll be a laughing stock if he did.”

            “Watch your language around here, boy,” Dennis chided.

            “What, only you get to curse in this house?”

            “Listen to me and listen good, boy. You can’t go around just beating people up. That won’t solve all your problems.”

            “It seems to work with mom.” That snide remark finally pushed Dennis into the red. Amy was still preparing supper in the kitchen when she heard the crinkle of leather as Dennis slid his belt from the loops on his pants.

            “Boy, I’m going to give you the thrashing of a lifetime. I’m going to whip the skin right off your ass.”

            “Just go ahead and try,” Evan dared him. Amy turned her back in the kitchen and pretended she didn’t hear a thing, fearing that Dennis would belt her too if she tried to interject.

            As Dennis raised his belt, Evan landed the first punch, planting his fist in his father’s ample beer belly. Dennis dropped to one knee and Evan struck him again, this time catching him with a right hook to the jaw.

            Roscoe growled, biting and tugging at the leg of Evan’s pants, which distracted him momentarily until he was able to shake himself free. In that time, Dennis had made it back to his feet. Evan came swinging again, but this time Dennis anticipated it and ducked. Evan missed and mashed his tender knuckles into the wall, letting out a brief grunt of pain.

            Dennis raised his belt overhead and brought it down across Evan’s back. Roscoe backed away as Dennis’s belt whipped through the air again and snapped across Evan’s lower back.

            “That’s two,” Dennis snarled. “Eight more to go.”

            Evan took ten lashes from his dad’s belt. When it was over, the skin of his back was as raw and swollen as his knuckles. But not once did Evan scream. He wouldn’t give his father that satisfaction. He took every lash in silent apathy.

            “Now get your worthless ass upstairs, boy. If you thought that was bad, let’s see how you like going to bed without your supper."

            “You can’t send me to bed without dinner,” Evan protested while trying to mask the stinging pain of his wounds. “I’m starving.”

            “Tough shit. Until we find you another school, I forbid you to eat anything inside this house. You want food? Go out and buy some…oh wait, you don’t have any money because you don’t work and you depend on me for everything. Well, this’ll teach you a listen you’ll never forget. Now move it! Upstairs now!”

            Defeated, Evan retreated from the living room without further resistance. When he was out of sight, Dennis kneeled down to pet Roscoe and give him a treat for coming to his aid.

In the kitchen, Amy trembled like the last leaf on a dying tree. Dennis and her son had their squabbles in the past, but never before had it come to blows. As many times as Dennis raised his hands to her, he never once raised his hands to Evan. Not until that night. And though she had seen Evan throw the first punch, she believed Dennis to be the true instigator.

This fight had been brewing for quite some time. Amy had noticed the looks of disgust and disappointment Evan would make every time his father cussed or raised his hands to her. She knew it was only a matter of time. She just hadn’t mentally prepared herself enough for it.

And once the fight had concluded, the silence was so unsettling Amy found herself humming nervously just to fill the void of sound. The worst seemed to be over, but that knot forming in her stomach told her otherwise. It told her the worst was yet to come.

* * *

That night, Evan rearranged his room looking for a source of food. A stale bag of chips or stray candy bar he had brought up and forgotten about. A whole night without food and even the church shoes in his closet were starting to look appetizing.

By midnight, Evan gave up any hope of having dinner and went to bed feeling both famished and defeated. He can’t starve me forever, Evan thought. Can he?

The next morning, Amy hesitantly brought up the idea of filling out applications for private school. The scowl on Dennis’s face was enough to nip that thought in the bud. She knew realistically that private school wasn’t a luxury they could afford. Not with the money they brought in and not with the way Dennis was spoiling Roscoe.

Roscoe was lying beside his feet, chewing on stray strips of bacon that Dennis would pass him under the table. Roscoe turned his head and growled when Evan entered the kitchen, his flappy ears curved past the sides as he showed Evan his teeth.

Evan’s skin was purple and welted. Dennis admired the bruises of his son the way an art connoisseur might admire a significant painting or priceless sculpture. He was disturbingly pleased with his handiwork.

Evan sat at the table and watched his father scarf down eggs, ham, sausage, and bacon and wash it down with a tall glass of orange juice. His stomach was rumbling, crying out for food. He’d have taken the scraps Roscoe was eating off the floor at this point. Halfway through breakfast he asked if he could be excused.

His father banished him with a dismissive nod. He marched up the stairs to his room while he rubbed at his tummy anxiously. Dennis Larson was a firm, strict man. But he could be a sensible man, too. And Evan was certain he’d break before this went too far.

He was starting to see red. He felt the rage boiling inside of him, ready to bubble its way to the surface and be unleashed. He wanted to punch holes in every wall of his room. He wanted to smash everything in his room to pieces.

And he hadn’t the first clue what all this would accomplish. It just felt good to think about it, picture it mentally. It provided an odd release to his tension, an outlet for his aggression.

But what he really enjoyed visualizing was knocking his dads teeth in. Giving him the beating of a lifetime. Bashing his face in like he had with Ronnie Henderson.

Above all else, the thing he envisioned the most was a steaming plate of food in front of him. Evan wrapped his hands, put his gloves on, and started working over the heavy bag, but stopped five minutes in. The lack of food was already starting to have an adverse effect on him.

He was losing his strength and his focus. Amy toyed with the idea of sneaking him some food, but she didn’t want to chance it. If Dennis found out, he’d be furious.

Dennis was off that day, and drove Evan to several schools to try and enroll him, but it didn’t look promising. Especially after Evan’s most recent incident. The Henderson family was already talking about suing not only the Larson family, but Greenville High School as well.

            Dennis sent him off to bed that night without his supper again. How much longer will he keep this up? Evan wondered.

* * *

            On the third day, Evan didn’t bother to join his parents at the breakfast table. He knew nothing would be waiting for him and he wasn’t just going to sit there and watch his dad stuff his face and feed Roscoe under the table. In fact, he barely had the energy to roll himself out of bed.

            Dennis made sure to taunt Evan about how delicious breakfast was when he sauntered past his room. “Glad you enjoyed it,” Evan said through gritted teeth.

            When dinnertime came, he could smell the food all the way in his room. It was maddening. Three days without food was enough to drive most people insane. And Evan was starting to crack.

* * *

Another day passed and another day without as much as a crumb or speck of food for Evan to digest. He had been rejected or turned down by every public he had applied to. Once the school districts got wind of the Henderson incident, Evan was branded as a liability and finding a school that would accept him now seemed improbable.

The lack of food made him weak, exhausted, disoriented. Soon his body would begin the process of devouring itself, consuming his fat, muscle, and connective tissue. But Dennis wouldn’t let it go that far, would he? Not even Amy was certain.

Evan spent most of the day curled up in bed sleeping. Waking only once when his mom barged in without knocking and removed a hunk of tinfoil from her pocket. Wrapped inside was a ham sandwich on rye, one of Evan’s favorites.

“Don’t say anything,” Amy whispered. “Just take it and don’t tell your father.”

Before Evan’s taste buds could gear up to devour this offering, Dennis barged in, his hands clenched in fists of rage. Roscoe trotted in behind him, flashing his teeth again at the sight of Evan.

Dennis stormed across the room, snatched the sandwich from Amy’s hand, threw it down to the floor, and stomped it into the carpet. His hand raised to the air and his palm came down across Amy’s cheek. She recoiled from the slap, both hands pressed against the stinging side of her face.

Dennis then snatched Evan’s Lenovo laptop from his desk and snapped it over his knee, splitting the screen and the keyboard. He tossed the remains aside and stood tall over Amy, almost daring her to get up and tempt him again.

Evan sat up in bed, defenseless. He couldn’t raise a hand to his father again without gaining further punishment. He couldn’t even risk speaking up for his mother. He just had to bite his tongue and pray silently for his father to disperse.

“Let this be a lesson to both of you. Don’t cross me again.” He stomped out of Evan’s room and Roscoe followed.

“I’m so sorry,” Amy said, holding back the tears.

“Don’t be sorry,” Evan told her. “He’s the one who’s going to be sorry.”

* * *

Amy sat awake in bed, reading quietly. The palm of Dennis’s hand was imprinted across the side of her face, leaving one solid red streak that had begun to swell.

She never once mentioned the incident. She didn’t even bother to ask Dennis why Roscoe wasn’t planted at the foot of the bed like usual. She just enjoyed the silence, took it as a brief reprieve from the misery that had become her life.

Dennis retired that evening with a big smile plastered across his chubby face. His son had stepped out of line with him, and he had remedied the situation in his own savage way. Was it any wonder where Evan got his anger and violent tendencies from?

Evan’s room was right next-door to his parent’s bedroom. Dennis pressed his ear to the wall, expecting to hear his boy snoring away. Instead, he could hear Evan chewing softly, slowly. His taste buds savored every bite he took.

            “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Dennis yelled, making Amy twitch slightly. “I think he’s eating in there. I’ll teach him, that little bastard. Where’s my belt?”

“What the heck could he be eating?” Amy wondered. “There are no leftovers. And there’s nothing else in the fridge. I haven’t been shopping since Sunday.”

Dennis Larson’s eyes widened and his lower jaw sank. “Roscoe,” he whispered, and a single tear sprawled down his cheek.

MOTHER'S DAY (Revised)

Genre: Horror (Zombies)

 

MOTHER’S DAY

Daniel Skye

 

            In the darkest corner of the Fisher family kitchen, Casey positioned a stepstool so that Bo could reach the toaster. At six years old, Bo still couldn’t reach the Formica countertop without a little assistance. Casey made sure she knew what she was doing with the toaster and then he set about making the batter for the pancakes.

            Casey was a short boy and paper thin, but compared to Bo he was a giant in the presence of an ant. His dark brown hair was shoulder-length and covered the sides of his face, concealing the scars he had bared for three years.

            He fetched a mixing bowl from one of the cabinets and brought it to the sink, where he filled the bowl halfway with tap water. Then he added the pancake mix and stirred clockwise with a metal whisk, just as he’d watched his mother do time and time again.

            Casey was only nine, but he’d watched his mom do it enough times to know he needed to add water before adding the mix to prevent the formation of lumps. Casey stirred vigorously until the batter was rich and thick. Then he scooped out a raw glob of batter with his finger and licked it off. It wasn’t as good as cake batter, but he couldn’t help himself from trying. His dad would’ve brained him good for that one, had he been around to see it.

            Sunlight peeked in through the cracks of the wooden planks that were nailed horizontally and diagonally to the windows. The front and backdoors had also been boarded up and barricaded for good measure, making both entry and escape quite impossible at the moment.

The clocks were still running and Casey could see it was just past dawn. He was learning quickly how to adapt and operate on little to no sleep. He and Bo usually took turns sleeping in shifts. Casey had been keeping track of the days with the only calendar they had in the house.

            It had been nearly a month since the chaos erupted and the whole world had plunged to the depths of hell. Nearly a month and the cavalry had yet to arrive. Every day, Casey’s hope dwindled. But he fought to stay strong for Bo and for his mother.

            He often thought back to that first day. The day the dead rose from the ashes. Everywhere he looked, there was carnage to be seen.

As one would imagine, people weren’t proceeding in a calm and orderly fashion. There was panic. Confusion. Disorder. And bloodshed. Oh, how Casey tried to erase the bloodshed from his mind. But alas, the memories lingered.

            Casey walked to the electric stove and turned one of the burners on, placed a skillet over the top. He waited for the skillet to heat up a bit, then he tipped the bowl gently and let the batter drip into the pan.

It astonished Casey that they still had running water and electricity. But he figured it wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, the plug would be pulled and they’d be thrust back into the dark ages. He had a box of flashlights, batteries, and candles set aside for when the power inevitably went. Most of the clocks in the house also ran on batteries, which meant Casey would still be able to keep track of the time.

And Ben, their father, had stockpiled enough cordwood to heat the house for two or three winters if they rationed it. They had plenty of dry and canned foods and Casey wanted desperately to believe that this conflict would be resolved before their supplies ran scarce. But there was a looming doubt in the back of his mind. Something told Casey that they weren’t going to make it through the first winter.

“Don’t forget to flip them this time,” Bo reminded him.

“You just keep an eye on that toast,” he whispered. “Don’t let it burn. And remember to keep your voice down.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Do you think mom will enjoy this?”

“I hope,” he said, flipping one of the pancakes with a spatula. “She hasn’t eaten in weeks. And it’s Mother’s Day, after all. What mom doesn’t love breakfast in bed?”

“It’s not really breakfast in bed, is it?”

“Okay,” Casey shrugged. “Breakfast in basement.”

“It just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Bo said.

Bo pressed the buttons for the toaster and four crispy brown slices sprung up from their individual slots. She slathered butter on them and spread them out on a porcelain plate. Casey topped off the stack of pancakes with a little butter and syrup. He placed all the food on a silver tray and considered adding a glass of orange juice. But they were running low on OJ and Casey knew his mom wouldn’t drink it. Since the accident, she had acquired a thirst for something different.

“Do you miss dad?” Bo asked as they walked through the hall, Casey carrying the tray and Bo toting their father’s nickel-plated shotgun. Casey didn’t have the heart to tell her the gun wasn’t loaded. He didn’t trust her with a loaded gun and let her carry it for false security. He always kept the shells in his pocket for when they were needed.

He balanced the tray on one hand and used his other hand to brush his fingers over the scars under his long hair. He experienced cursory flashes of the day he got between his mom and his dad when they were having a fight and his old man swung an empty coffeepot at him. He remembered the sound the glass made when it splintered across his cheek. It sounded like ice shattering.

Ben Fisher seemed to really have it in for his only son. The beatings were just a small fraction of his abuse. He would verbally abuse Casey on a daily basis just as he would curse the players on TV when they missed a field goal. Ben constantly ridiculed Casey for his long hair and would taunt him about it and threaten to cut it off every chance he got.

“Cut your hair, you little queer,” Ben would say. “If your grandpa was around to see you, he’d buzz your head and boot your ass straight to military school.”

One night, Casey accidently spilled his father’s Blue Ribbon when he was running through the living room and Ben snapped, ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a butcher knife. “Boy, if you pull that shit again, I’ll scalp you like an Injun, you understand?” Casey only nodded his head, the sharp knife glistening under the dim lights.

            He suffered for years under the terror of this cruel, twisted monster. And now his father was gone and Casey couldn’t help but feel liberated.

“Dad got what he deserved,” Casey muttered.

“Still, we could have used him. He could have protected us.”

“Dad was more harm than good,” Casey explained. “I’m here to protect you. That’s all that matters.”

“You did a great job protecting me the other day,” Bo rolled her eyes. She was smart and sassy for her age. But she still required constant supervision.

“I warned you not to get that close. Don’t worry, it’ll heal up.”

They approached the basement door and Casey undid the latch. “I can’t go near her,” Bo pleaded, itching at the bandage that covered her infected wound.

“Stay back then,” he cautioned her. He twisted the knob and pulled the door open, placing the tray on the top step. “Mom?” he called out and peered into the darkness below. At the bottom step, a head rested. But Casey could not see the body, nor did he wish to. Because what remained of the head was nothing more than a gnarled, mangled stump.

Their mother emerged, ascending the staircase slowly, awkwardly. Casey locked eyes with her and for a moment, he was certain he caught a brief glint of recognition from those blank, lifeless pupils.

Casey slammed the door, locked it, and watched silently through the peephole he had drilled with one of his dad’s power tools. The dark, rotted flesh still clung to her body, and even with the door closed, the stench of decay was overpowering. She leaned over, growling, drooling over the food as she sniffed and poked at it. In seconds, the tray was flung down the stairs and she was clawing at the door, growling and screeching like the rabid animal she had been reduced to.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” Casey whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek and grazed his scars. He relieved Bo of the shotgun, steering her away from the door.

* * *

            It was a crisp autumn day when all hell broke loose. Bo had been playing with her jump rope in the front yard and was the first to hear the sirens. The sound eventually dragged Casey outside so he could see what all the fuss was about. He couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from. It sounded as if the sirens were emanating from every part of town.

            Over the wail of the sirens, Casey heard muffled shrieks and turned to see Mrs. Freemont sprinting down the sidewalk in a wild panic. She didn’t stop to warn them. She just zipped right past them and ran three houses down and locked herself inside. A moment later, Casey saw who she was running from.

            Harold Moss, the old man who lived at the end of the block, was lumbering along the sidewalk. But Casey could see something was different about him. He had this glazed look in his eyes and as he moved closer, Casey could clearly see the wound. He was missing a large portion of his forearm, and it didn’t seem to faze him one bit.

            “Bo, get inside now,” Casey ordered her. Bo dropped her jump rope and made a run for the door. Just as she scurried inside, Alana Fisher had come out to investigate.

            “Mr. Moss?” Alana called from the porch. “Are you alright?”

            Moss turned his attention from Casey to his mother and started ambling across the lawn, but he was off balance with every step he took, staggering forward like a drunk who just got booted out after last call.

“Ben!” Alana called. “Come quick!” But Ben was nursing a hangover and didn’t answer Alana’s cries for help.

Casey made a dash for the porch to try and get between Harold Moss and his mother, but he was a second too late. Just as Alana had turned for the door, Moss had lunged forward and sank his teeth into her shoulder.

            Casey, small as he was, used all of his might and clocked Harold on the back of the head and knocked him to the ground. They ran inside and Casey locked the door behind them.

            Ben, massaging his throbbing temples, came stumbling into the foyer. “What the hell is going on around here?”

            He saw the blood on the floor and then looked up to see Alana’s shoulder wound. “Jesus Christ! What happened to you, woman?”

            “Mr. Moss from down the block…he…he bit me. The bastard bit me.”

            “I’ll kill him!” Ben exclaimed. “I’ll kill that miserable son of a bitch!”

            “Dad, you really don’t want to go out there right now.”

            “Don’t you ever tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, boy.”

            “Yes, sir,” Casey muttered.

            “Now go get some bandages and some alcohol to take care of your mom’s wound. I’ll be right back.”

            “Where are you going?” Alana asked, applying pressure to her shoulder to slow the bleeding.

            “I’m going to get my shotgun.”

            Ben returned with his nickel-plated shotgun and racked it. He swung the front door opened and stepped out onto the porch.

            Harold Moss was waiting for him. But he wasn’t alone. A small congregation had formed on their front lawn. They all shared that same lifeless stare, their pupils fixed and dilated.

            “You’ve all got exactly ten seconds to get off my property,” Ben warned them. But none of them budged.

            “Nine,” Ben said.

            A few of them stepped forward. “Eight,” Ben said, still counting down.

            “Seven,” he said and a few more stepped forward. “Ah, the hell with this,” Ben said and fired his shotgun into the air. But the noise didn’t send them scattering like cockroaches as he had intended. It all seemed to awaken something in them and they moved closer to the porch.

            Ben ran back inside and locked the door. He lowered his shotgun and saw that Casey had already bandaged his mother’s wound, but it was still bleeding through. “What the hell is going on around here?” Ben asked.

            The sirens were getting louder. And the end was just beginning…

* * *

“She didn’t like it?” Bo asked, already knowing the answer.

“Regular food won’t do the trick,” Casey sighed. “We tried. But she’s one of them now. And dad wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger. The only option is to find her another source of food.”

“There’s nobody out there,” Bo insisted.

“There has to be. If we survived, so have others.”

“We can’t do that,” Bo said, scratching at her infected arm. “Dad was one thing. But hurting innocent people is wrong.”

“Who said we? I’ll handle it.”

“I’d never let you do such a thing,” Bo informed him.

“What other option do we have?”

“Do you think maybe they’ll actually find a cure like dad said?”

“I don’t think there’s anybody left to clean up this mess,” Casey said regretfully. “Our only option may be to…” Casey didn’t finish his sentence. He just let his eyes drift towards the shotgun.

* * *

It took two days for Alana Fisher to turn. It started with a low grade fever and some occasional aches and pains. Then her temperature skyrocketed and the infection spread at an exponential rate. On the second day, she passed.

She returned a few minutes later with no recollection. She had lost the ability to speak and she had no motor skills, no coordination. Just the most basic of survival instincts. All she could recall was the need to feed.

Ben couldn’t bring himself to put Alana down. So he locked her up in the basement and convinced himself that this would all blow over. That the government would step in and find a cure and everything would be peaches and cream again.

But Casey saw things differently. And even Bo wasn’t that naïve. There was no solution to this epidemic, no stopping it. It was survival of the fittest now.

Ben was attempting to feed Alana one day when Casey kicked him down the stairs. It wasn’t for the scars or the constant threats or the verbal abuse. It was for Ben raising his hands to Bo for the first time ever. When Casey saw his father lose his temper and strike Bo, he promised it’d be the last time.

All it took was one swift kick when his father’s back was turned. Ben went plummeting down the stairs and when his head connected with the bottom step, Casey heard the sound of his neck snapping like a twig.

“We’re free,” Casey mumbled to himself. And a wave of relief washed over him. “We’re finally free.”

* * *

            But their freedom was short lived, as Bo’s wound proved to be quite problematic. They had managed to stop the bleeding. But the infection was undoubtedly spreading. And Casey knew too well what happened to those that had been bitten. It was only a matter of time now.

They moved to the living room, where Casey tried the television again. All stations were down. Every channel he flipped through flashed a blue screen with white text that read TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PLEASE STAND BY.

Casey heard the soft approach of footsteps, followed by the loud growling sounds that emanated from their front porch. The porch made him think of the day Bo fell running up to the house and skinned her knee. Ben Fisher was passed out in the recliner, empty Blue Ribbon cans strewn about the floor. And their mother was working at the market that day. So Casey dabbed the wound with alcohol and bandaged it. Once her tears dried up, she gave her brother a peck on his scarred cheek and thanked him. It was that day that Casey realized he was more a father to Bo than Ben would ever be.

Being the older brother is usually a tough chore to handle. But now he was playing the role of the brother and the parents. And he was charged with the task of dealing with Bo’ injury; the wound their mother had inflicted when Bo simply tried to pass her an apple. Soon, Bo would develop a bad fever and grow weak. She would die and come back as one of them…unless he spared her from that miserable fate.

Bo shuffled away from the boarded windows until she could no longer hear the clawing sounds and shrieks from outside. The sound of the zombies used to frighten her. Now what frightened her was the fact she was getting used to it.

“I’m not going to get better,” Bo blurted out. “I’m going to turn into one of them, aren’t I?”

          “Not if I can help it,” Casey said, slipping one of the shells into his dad’s shotgun and pumping the mechanism. “Forgive me for this. I love you, Bo.”

          Outside the house, a small army of the undead continued to gather as a single gunshot rang out through the neighborhood. Then another shot soon followed, this one emanating from the basement.

            When Casey had cleared the front door and pried the last board off, he stepped out and embraced the undead with open arms.