Tag: horror

Kayak

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The starter’s pistol goes off, and we all rush to the freshest graves with our shovels.
Dig up the coffin, haul it to the take, and paddle to the other side.
Welcome to Morgantown’s Coffin Kayak Race.
Ever try it? You’ll learn quickly why funerals use six pallbearers.
Will it float? This is when the cheaper coffins are better, although if you end up with a really cheap or old coffin, you’ll take on water and go down fast.
Billy won last year, but he caught pneumonia and died after the race.
There’s his grave.
He’ll make a fine copilot.

Paddling To Redemption

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They say that if you stand out in the rain on Redemption Island, all of your troubles will be washed away.
Lord, we’ve got troubles.
So we checked the forecast, borrowed a boat from the factory, and paddled to Redemption.
There was nothing on the island but sand and metal blobs.
“Are we supposed to be naked when it rains?” asked Chloe.
Nobody knew.
The sky grew dark, and the rain began.
“It tingles!” giggled Chloe.
Then the sulfuric acid kicked in, and it started to burn.
Everybody else screamed, but I was laughing.
Troubles, flesh – what’s the difference?

Coffin Shopping

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Oliver patted the lining of the coffin. “It’s very comfortable,” he said.
“Comfortable?” asked Ellen.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “Care to try it out?”
Oliver pushed her into the coffin and slammed the lid shut.
He could just barely hear Ellen’s muffled screaming and hammering on the lid.
Oliver waited for her to quiet down before opening it again.
“It’s also soundproof,” said Oliver.
“Soundproof? Comfortable?” gasped Ellen. “Why would I need those for my father?”
“Wait… you aren’t a smuggler?” asked Oliver.
“No.”
Oliver slammed the lid shut again and called for a pickup.
Damned secretary, marking the appointments wrong.

Gus

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When I was little, I had an imaginary friend.
Gus wasn’t another kid or a cowboy or a dragon or an astronaut.
Gus was a fireman.
Over the years, I made real friends, so I didn’t need an imaginary one anymore.
Gus became sad and slowly disappeared.
Last night, I lost control of my car and rammed into a tree.
The last thing I remember was the door being ripped from my car and Gus reaching in to pull me out.
“Thank you, Gus,” I said.
When I came to in the hospital, Gus was gone.
So were my legs.

The Zombietron is not a toy

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Attorneys no longer have to worry about their witnesses turning up dead.
Now you can just stick the witness or victim in one end of the Zombietron, pour in a teaspoon of nanobots, and let them soak in the machine overnight.
Sure, they reek like a latrine pit full of rotten meat, but functional and lucid zombies are admissible as evidence.
The worst part of the process is watching them die again. I wonder if they suffer.
So, what happens when you put a living person in the Zombietron?
I don’t know.
Hey, let’s grab a bum and find out.

The Finisher

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They call us Finishers.
When the subject has nothing more of use to give, we finish them off.
Now and then, something of use comes out, like a final drop of lemon juice from a squeezed and pulverized lemon.
We don’t care. We’re there to punish, not interrogate.
Some administrator got it in their head that Finishers should be licensed medical practitioners. Never mind that we have one purpose: to cause harm. We cannot take the Hippocratic Oath.
That administrator vanished the other day.
Want to hear a tape of them screaming, or would you like to see their tongue?

The Hometown Hero

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Eleven wins, State, and Honor Roll four years running.
Bobby’s the hero of Centerville High.
Until the cheerleaders accused him of rape. I said cheerleaders. All of them.
Bobby wore his letter jacket to court, claimed innocence.
Uh huh. Yeah, right.
Didn’t help one bit. Judge threw the book at him.
After five years, the DNA got re-tested.
No match.
Suddenly, the cheerleaders did a 180. Bobby’s innocent.
The governor ordered Bobby released, and he was wheeled out to freedom.
He’d taken a knife to the spine on the inside.
The same knife they found in the head cheerleader’s throat.

Observer Twelve

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Observer Twelve kept his seven eyestalks glued to the monitors flicking through signals from Earth, taking notes as interesting things came up.
Four buildings full of Observers were dedicated to keeping tabs on this information-rich corner of the galaxy, a constant source of amusement and concern.
One day, the endless chaos of entertainment, news, sports and sex polarized into panic and desperation.
Then, nothing.
All signals ceased.
Some Observers were reassigned to other units, but most were laid off. Earth had been a rare gold mine of signals.
Ex-Observer Twelve spat and cursed the “Iranians” for ruining a well-paying gig.

Murder Offer

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Usually, door hangers offer pizza or Chinese. Two bucks off, free delivery, fifteen dollars minimum order. That kind of thing.
This wasn’t one of those. It was an offer for discount murders.
They quoted rates for various circumstances. Like security considerations. Chronic health problems. Or they’re pregnant – that kind of thing.
I dialed the number and got another dial tone.
Two minutes later, my phone rings.
“Who needs killing?” asks a voice.
“My neighbor’s dog keeps barking late at night,” I joked.
A week later, I got a bloody collar and the bill.
Funny. I don’t sleep any better.

Fisherman

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Cursing, Stavros pulled in the line and ran his fingers along the end.
As usual, it was a clean break.
The bottom of the lake was littered with Stavros’ hooks and various lengths of fishing line.
There were also some government-issue four-door sedans down there.
Every so often, another car would arrive. The driver would then get out, look around, take off his sunglasses, and ask lots of questions.
“Drunk drivers,” said Stavros, and nothing else.
Either they left or they didn’t.
Stavros tied another hook, baited it with a bloody chunk of civil servant flesh, and tossed it in.