Doa Ii Read online

  “It ate his head, it ate his head!” Billie screamed, pointing at Mo’s destroyed body, the remnant of his lungs piled atop his ripped-open chest.

  Billie’s terror proved a magnet for the monster; its gaze settled on her. As though decapitating Mo had soothed its immediate blood lust, it trod slowly towards her, its footsteps thumping like hammer hits.

  “Use the ax!” Judy yelled at Billie.

  Billie, however, couldn’t move. The knowledge of her impending death held her transfixed. She peed herself as the dinosaur’s huge jaws dropped over her like nightfall and engulfed her head. She felt the chomp of them coming together in the middle of her chest, teeth boring through her flesh to meet themselves in the middle, then the horrible wrench of separation from herself. Swallowed down into her killer, Billie began the horrible countdown to blackness, as her brain slowly ran out of the oxygen it needed to consider her alive.

  Judy didn’t watch Billie’s death. Close to panic, she raced across to Mo’s corpse and grabbed up the blood-coated shotgun. Careful not to slip on his spilt blood, she headed back to the window and frantically tried to work it.

  Shit. The damn thing’s broken. The damn dino stomped its barrel. Fuck!

  (Down in the streets below, naked zombies staggered to and fro seeking brains to eat, while government workers ran after them with plastic zip-up one-piece clothes, covering them up.)

  Horrified, Judy dropped the shotgun. She looked up again, saw that the dinosaur was halfway across the room to her. Billie’s half-eaten corpse sat opposite, propped against a wall.

  The dinosaur lunged at Judy.

  She momentarily remembered she was in front of a window. In that split second she understood her single chance of escape and took it.

  She threw herself flat to the floor.

  The dinosaur sailed over Judy, crashed into the window, and became stuck in its frame.

  Judy rolled out from beneath it. She jumped up and ran behind the creature. As the dinosaur fought to unstick itself and climb back into the room, Judy began kicking its scaly ass with her hobnailed punk boots.

  Kick Kick Kick Kick. Each hard thump on the dino’s rump pushed it further out through the window frame. She kicked its ass like it was a skinhead chick she was feuding with.

  Realizing it was overbalancing, the dinosaur made a final desperate attempt to re-enter the room.

  “Oh no, you motherfucking don’t,” Judy growled. She braced herself beneath its ass, and, ignoring the white reptile shit pumping out over her mohawk, heaved mightily.

  Squealing in reptile fear, the dinosaur spurted out through the window. It flailed end-over-end down six floors of airspace and exploded into bloody pulp on the sidewalk below.

  Her heart beating like it would explode, sucking air in rapid gasps, Judy remained at the window, watching street zombies walk around the crashed dinosaur like it had always been there.

  She spat and spat and spat down on the zombies below.

  Then Judy heard the shambling behind her, and spun round in a flash.

  Shit again.

  She’d forgotten about brain-dead Mary, the original catalyst of this crap explosion. Freed from the obstruction blocking her from swallowing the baby’s arm, Mary had done so, and was now out of the toilet and shambling towards Judy, arms outstretched, jaws agape with brain-eating intent.

  “Braaainnssss!” Mary hissed.

  Judy thought a moment. She really didn’t have time for this crap now, let the government workers downstairs handle it. Besides, with Mo fucking dead, she didn’t have to worry about what his Aunt Mildred would think any longer.

  She waited until Mary was almost on her, then ducked behind her and pushed the zombie out through the window after the dinosaur.

  Judy Punkette didn’t bother waiting to watch Mary smash into the sidewalk and break every bone in her undead body. After spitting a huge gob of green satisfaction-spit on the carpet, she walked over to the toilet, turned on both taps in the washbasin and began cleaning the stinking dinosaur shit out of her mohawk.

  FINGER CUFFS

  Matt Kurtz

  Wedged behind the wheel of his van, Gene trolled the farm roads for some fresh meat, scouring anywhere a child might play. It wasn’t like in the city where the bright yellow “Children Crossing” signs advertised their whereabouts. Out here in the sticks, he had to search a little harder for all those country mice.

  Driving down the rural highway, he spotted a gas station with a sign out front that read: Girl Scout Cookies. He hooted, more excited over the tiny cookies doing the selling than the ones being sold.

  The van pulled into the parking lot alongside the gas pumps and his eyes zeroed in on the station’s front door, hoping to spot the little ladies sitting behind a folding table covered with Thin Mints and Caramel Delights.

  But the doorway was empty.

  Gene tapped the steering wheel, debating whether to go in for a look-see. Then his eyes froze on the review mirror, which reflected an image of a brown and white sedan with red and blue lights on top.

  The sheriff’s cruiser sat idling, inches from his back bumper.

  Just relax. You’re blocking the gas pumps, stupid. Just get outta the way so Smokey can fill ’er up.

  As the van coasted forward, the cruiser followed.

  Okay then. Get outta his way. Back on the road. Slowly. Carefully. But not too slow and careful.

  The van eased back onto the rural highway. The cruiser did the same.

  It was following him.

  Gene broke into a sweat from the sudden onset of near-crippling shit cramps. He knew the sheriff was probably itching to pull over an out-of-towner. And, dear God, if Smokey were to do a vehicular search and discover the large black box in the back that contained all the goodies he used…

  No! Kiddie diddlers didn’t survive in prison. If they weren’t just outright killed, they became the cell block bitch and eventually had to wear diapers because their shitters were so stretched out.

  With trembling hands, Gene fought to breathe and kept the van straight and steady. About a half-mile down, he spotted a turn off that appeared to lead deeper into the sticks.

  Okay, this is it. If ya turn and the cop still follows ya… then he’s lookin’ to get ya.

  Gene navigated the van off the highway, turning onto the single lane road. Once he straightened out, he held his breath and stared into the mirror.

  The cruiser was still behind him.

  Gene groaned, hot panic spread across his chest.

  Please God, if ya get me outta this one I swear I’ll stop, I’ll get some help, I know I’m sick and I’ve done wrong I swear I’ll change just please don’t let me get pulled over! Please. Please!

  He checked his rearview mirror again. With all his blubbering, Gene hadn’t noticed that the cruiser stopped on the side of the road about a half-mile back.

  All at once the air rushed from his lungs, fogging the windshield’s interior. He wiped his sweaty, tear-stained face with the back of his forearm and continued down the road, following its twists and turns, paying more attention to the rearview mirror than to the road ahead.

  Ten minutes later, he realized he was completely lost. Unable to backtrack, Gene pulled over and looked around. He slammed the gearshift into park, killed the engine, and stepped out. The gravel road crunched under his beefy weight. He closed his eyes and listened for traffic in the distance, hoping it would guide him out of there, but heard nothing.

  He grumbled then noticed the wooden sign leaning against a withered oak on the shoulder of the road: Ice Cold Lemenade. Spelling and handwriting clearly a child’s. An arrow below the words pointed up the road.

  Gene glanced in its direction then his eyes slid back to the sign. He grinned, suddenly feeling not as queasy.

  The van pulled back onto the road, heading in the arrow’s direction.

  Quickly forgetting his promise to the Big Guy Upstairs, Gene remembered his original plan.

  Be careful. That
cop might’ve got your license plate. If a kid goes missing out here, that could be the end of—

  Any rationality flew right out the window when he spotted the two little girls on the side of the road. One blonde, the other brunette. Both sat behind an old crate, using it as a make-shift table for their lemonade stand.

  The little girls were all alone.

  Gene kept the van moving at a snail’s pace. The girls waved as he crawled past. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the road and eyed them in his rearview mirror. They waved for him to come back, enticing him like Sirens. He turned around, glanced at his black box of fun, and smiled.

  Think ya can handle two of ’em, big guy?

  Making a three point turn on the narrow dirt road, Gene returned and pulled over. He climbed out and slowly approached the girls, giving them a friendly wave.

  “What ya sellin’?” he asked, ignoring the obvious.

  The blonde, no more than eight years old, proudly displayed the pitcher of golden refreshment. “Ice cold lemonade, silly!”

  The brunette—a year or two older—eyed Gene up and down. Did she sense something? Or was it that she couldn’t believe how stupid the fat man was since there was a big sign right in front of him clearly announcing what they were selling?

  “Ice cold lemonade?” Gene repeated, mimicking the little blonde’s enthusiasm. “Sure sounds good to a thirsty fella such as myself. Did your Mommy and Daddy make it?”

  “No. We did,” the brunette flatly stated.

  “We have to earn our keep,” the blonde added. “That’s what Grammie says. She’s the one that put us out here.”

  “Earn your keep, huh? Well, your Grammie sounds like a wise lady.” He was absolutely falling in love with the golden-haired one. The other wasn’t doing much for him, but apparently they were a package deal. “So are you two sisters?”

  The blonde quickly nodded. “I’m Bridgette. And this is Nora.”

  “Hush!” Nora snapped, shooting her little sister a look. Bridgette immediately glanced down.

  Gene hid a smile. Now that he knew their names, he could use it to his advantage. “Sisters, huh?”

  Just keeps gettin’ better and better.

  He scoped out the road. “Kinda isolated place to be setting up a stand, don’t ya think? Did ya pick this spot because ya live close by?”

  Bridgette nodded. “Yep. We live just over—”

  “Mister?” Nora interrupted. “Are you gonna buy some lemonade or what?”

  He gave an overly exaggerated look of surprise. “Why sure, Miss Nora. How much for a glass?”

  “One dollar,” Nora said.

  “Hmmmmmmm…” Gene playfully stared at them, jutting out his lower lip. “Is it really good lemonade?”

  Bridgette adamantly nodded her head.

  “Well, then…I guess that sounds like a fair price if Bridgette says it’s really good.” Gene pulled out his wallet and fished for a single, handing it over to his golden favorite as the older sister poured a glass. Right at the exchange of payment, Gene stuck his index finger out, quickly rubbing it over the back of Bridgette’s hand. He just wanted a little preview of her tender flesh.

  Bridgette giggled and pulled back. Gene gave her a wink. Nora shot her sister another look then offered the glass to Gene.

  “Why thank you, Nora.” He held it up to them, smiling. “Cheers.” He swallowed it down. “Ummmm, that’s good. How ’bout another?”

  “One dollar,” Nora demanded.

  The little brunette was already getting on his nerves. He’d make it extra painful for her later. “Then one dollar it is.”

  They exchanged items and Gene gulped it down. After returning the glass, he glanced up and down the road again. It was deserted. The entire time he had been dividing his attention between flirting with the children and listening for any noise in the distance, warning him of someone’s approach. But all was silent.

  “Well, Miss Nora and Miss Bridgette, I kindly thank ya and hope business booms so ya can make your Grammie mighty proud.” He nodded and headed back to his van.

  The little girls looked at one another then stepped out from behind the booth, curiously watching Gene walk away.

  He paused in mid-step and spun around. “Ya know, I was thinkin’…”

  The girls scurried behind the stand as he returned.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a glass of regular ol’ water, would ya?”

  Both girls shook their heads in unison.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, hitching his thumb back to the van. “ ’Cause Bubba could really use some water.”

  Both girls looked past him, toward the vehicle.

  “Who’s Bubba?” Nora asked.

  “Oh, he’s my little puppy dog. Got ’em right there in the back of the van.”

  “Is he fluffy?” Bridgette asked, wide-eyed.

  “Like a lil’ bunny rabbit,” Gene said, performing a final perimeter check. “Say, would you little ladies like to see him?”

  “I do! I do!” Bridgette squealed and ran out from behind the booth.

  “Bridgette!” Nora snapped. “Grammie won’t like this. We gotta job to do.”

  Bridgette ignored her sister and skipped toward the vehicle.

  Gene’s heart raced. He felt the sweat of excitement dripping down his plump body. Stumbling, he turned back to Nora. His head spun. Maybe he was getting a little too excited. “Don’t ya wanna…take a look also, sweetie? He’s a real cute little fella.”

  Nora stood frozen, watching him.

  The little cunt knows. “C’mon, Nora. I’m sure your Grammie won’t mind if ya leave the stand for just a moment. Bubba will be real excited to see ya. He’s been cooped up in the…” Gene swallowed hard. His tongue felt as swollen as a marshmallow. “…cooped up… all day,” he muttered.

  He turned back to the van where little Bridgette was trying to peek through the tinted windows. “Bubba? Hey, Bubba?” she called.

  The horizon seemed to tilt. Gene’s left leg slid out from under him. He stumbled into the road.

  Bridgette noticed and slowly approached as he crumbled to his knees.

  Nora came up behind him. “You okay, mister?”

  He nodded, a strand of drool stretched from his lower lip. “Yeah…just…a little…dizz—” Gene fell flat on his ass. After floundering a bit, he went still.

  “Yes! We did it!” Bridgette squealed.

  “I’ll stay here with him,” Nora told her younger sister. “You go get Pa and tell him we got one.”

  ~

  Lying on the table, Gene felt like his head was cracked open. He groaned and slowly opened his eyes.

  “Howdy,” a gruff voice said.

  Gene’s lids fluttered until he was able to focus on the man standing above. The stranger appeared to be in his late-forties, gaunt, and haggard. An old woman stood at Gene’s feet, studying him with dark, beady eyes.

  Gene attempted to bolt up but his arms snapped back to the wood surface as if his tendons were made of taut rubber bands. He tried to swing his legs off the table, but they were cemented in place. He was pinned on his back, spread eagle, with nylon rope binding his wrists and ankles.

  “Where… am… I?”

  “Our house,” the man said.

  Gene needed a little more than that. He struggled against his restraints, attempting to sit up again. The man planted a calloused palm on Gene’s chest.

  “Whoa. Just relax. I’ll explain the need for the ropes in a bit.”

  Gene looked around the bare room in confusion and saw a series of tables—partially covered in a plastic drop cloth.

  “Ya see, hoss, after I found ya lying in the road, I brought ya here so Mamma could take a look at ya. She used to be a nurse, so you’ve been in real good hands this whole time.”

  “How long—”

  “Oh, only a couple hours. Just about the time it takes for the drug to wear off.”

  “D-d-drug…?”

  The man smiled. �
��The tartness of the lemonade hides it pretty good, huh? Anyhow, I hope ya don’t mind that I fetched your van. Figured ya didn’t want it left out.”

  Although Gene was gravely concerned about these people, he was relieved to have his van off the road before anyone discovered what was in back. “Yeah… thank you.”

  “No problem, hoss. I hope ya don’t mind that I rooted around and found this.” The man nodded at Mamma.

  She stepped aside, revealing his black box sitting on the counter. Its lid was open.

  Gene felt white-hot panic electrify his body. “Look... please… I can explain what all that stuff—”

  The man held up his hand. “No need. I saw them pictures in there. Some of them kids can’t be any older than my two angels. Ya know, those lil’ girls running the lemonade stand?”

  Gene felt his stomach collapse. He fought for breath. “Are you—are you gonna call the cops?”

  The couple fought back a smile. “Nah,” the man said. “Don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  “Thank—thank you,” Gene stammered, silently questioning whether he should really be grateful to the pair.

  “But I must say that fate’s a funny thing,” the man said. “’Cause outta all the people we’re forced to do this to…” He stepped forward and leaned down in Gene’s face, studying him like a pinned insect. “None deserve it more than you.”

  Before Gene could ask ‘Do what to?’ the man patted Gene on the shoulder. “Now you relax while we start preparing ya.”

  Mamma approached with a syringe. Gene fought to break free from his restraints. The man clamped his fingers around Gene’s beefy neck to steady him.

  “No!” the crone hissed. “Not the throat!!”

  The man immediately released his grip and nodded.

  Gasping for breath, Gene winced when Mamma pulled the hypodermic from his arm, not realizing that she had already injected him during the struggle.

  He felt a soothing warmth flow up and over his chest. His lids fluttered. Before all went black, the man leaned closer again.