Small Magic: Collected Short Stories Part 11

"Nothing is more natural." Gaunt brushes his long fingers over a wall panel, revealing three b.u.t.tons: one red, one blue, one green. "But still, we fear so much." He burns his gaze into Bixley's eyes. "A sampling, for your trouble. Drowning, asphyxiation, or perhaps something quicker. Something messy."

Bixley swallows even though his mouth is dry. He runs his tongue across his lips. "I really don't...no need."

In a slow, thoughtful motion, Gaunt tilts his head. "I insist." His index finger pushes the blue b.u.t.ton. "Drowning it is."

Water begins to pour into the top of the s.h.i.+p-builder's cubicle. The man inside looks up, watching the downpour for a moment, then tries the door at the back compartment. His face flashes back to the gla.s.s. The water level rises quickly, already now at his waist.

"Really..." Bixley starts, but his voice vanishes.

The cubicle fills in less than a minute. Inside, the water distorts the man's face into pale rubber-white as the belly of a fish. His cheeks puff like balloons. He struggles, pounding his fists against the gla.s.s. The sound barely registers in the hall.

Bixley makes a small motion with one hand, but stops.

It takes a few minutes for the man to open his mouth, but as he does, natural reflex takes over, and he inhales a lungful of water. After thras.h.i.+ng about, his body hands limp, bobbing inside the cubicle like a discarded toy.

Gaunt smiles. "You can see the importance of our work, can't you Mr. Bixley?" With another push of the blue b.u.t.ton, the water drains from the room. "I would have stopped the process at a word, of course."

Bixley's eyes open wide, watching as the corpse drifts to the compartment floor with the receding water. Both hands latch onto his hat, kneading again. His eyes won't meet Gaunt's. "Of course," he mutters.

"I hope to see you on the next inspection." Gaunt extends a hand. "We seldom have repeat visitors."

Chapter 50: Tending the Garden.

John Wilton found himself in his sun porch clutching the handle of a stirrup hoe. Rain had soaked the yard for the past few days, and he knew-following Karen's example-that the garden would need a good weeding. It was her garden, suggested by her therapist, a hobby to occupy her troubled mind-something living to help her forget the baby.

But Karen didn't forget. With her in the hospital, he was left with the house and the garden to tend, alone.

He took the hoe in both hands and began at one end of the plot. With steady thrusts, he pushed the blade into the topsoil and raked it clean of small green weeds and stray gra.s.s. John took care around the base of each tomato plant. With a surgeon's precision he worked the dirt down the rows of lettuce. An earthworm, close to the surface after the rains, accidently came in the path of the hoe and was split in two. John smiled as each segment wriggled away into the ground.

He came to the potatoes and paused.

The dirt swelled at the base of each plant. Karen made neat mounds to encourage growth, covering the fledgling potatoes to urge them higher, to make more room for the tubers. In the center of each mound, a plant thrust toward the sky-in the center of all but one.

Little miracles, she had called the potatoes. They grow in secret, underground. Dig the potatoes up once the plants have died.

John laid the hoe at the edge of the garden and knelt near the odd hill of dirt. He brushed away the top layer of soil, the layer dried by the sun, and found wet, dark mud beneath. The rains had saturated everything. Close to the ground, the heavy, earthy scent hung in his nostrils. He pushed his fingers under the surface.

Just a little at first. Then more.

His index finger struck something smooth. Not too firm.

A potato?

John's face crept into a smile. No plant. Karen was right. He dug into the hill with both hands, letting the pungency of good, dark mud fill his senses.

They're my babies, she had said on his last visit to the hospital.

With the dirt cleared away, he saw the skin of the thing, a light tan, almost flesh-tone with a hint of pink. He glanced at his mud-marred hands, but something tugged at his vision, pulling his gaze back to the hole at his feet.

The thing moved. Pulled away deeper into the ground, twisting like a thick earthworm. John's throat tightened, squeezed by invisible fingers.

Too thick...couldn't be a worm.

As thick as a baby's leg.

John lurched back, sickened by the sight of the pale skin working in the ground, kicking back and forth. He staggered to his feet, stooped for the hoe, and swallowed a breath as the blade snapped to the hole, cutting into pale, twitching flesh. He struck again and again until the small hole filled with blood, dark as the soil.

Chapter 51: Ergonomic.

The princ.i.p.al drones on, and Bob's chair comes to life.

At first, he is only aware of a dull sensation in his b.u.t.tocks like bits of broken wood poked him through his shorts.

Bob s.h.i.+fts his weight, trying to wake his slumbering muscles. The chair moves with him. The metal feet skid across the tile floor, creating a jarring screech. The other teachers glare, some with mouths open. Voices blur together.

"I never..."

"Bob, really..."

"What's wrong?"

He answers with a yelp. The dull sensation sharpens as jagged bits of plastic snap off and push through cotton and into the meat of his upper thighs. The chair, it seems, has claws. As Bob stands, the chair comes too. He stumbles a few awkward, chair-stuck-to-b.u.t.t steps and collides with the table. The others mumble as they hurriedly skirt around Bob and out the door. Blood trickles down the back of his thighs, staining his calf-high athletic socks. Tears squeak from the corners of his eyes.

"Pull..." he begs, slumping to the floor, but the room is empty.

Empty except for the other chairs, all of them now awake and snapping their sharp plastic teeth as they march on the downed man.

Chapter 52: Man Bites Man.

Action Six News Team-Four Men: One Team!-were getting cramped and antsy in the back of the uplink van. There were only seconds to go and tonight had to be big.

"Why's it got to be so d.a.m.n dark in here?" said Terry as he snapped the Steadicam into place. "It screws up my light balance."

"Terry, you're a pansy," said Mick. There was a c.h.i.n.k as he chambered a round. "Why don't you just do what you usually do and screw everything up-"

Benny, the field producer, broke in.

"Guys-we need to move in, three, two, one... go!"

The back doors of the van spilled open, and the four men piled out onto the blacktop. Terry cursed under his breath and scrambled to adjust focus and light filters. Mick straightened his tie, brushed back a little hair behind his ears, and shuffled toward the front door of a modest bungalow.

"Benny: time?"

"Uplink slot in, forty-two... forty-one..."

Mick glanced over his shoulder. "Nate, details?"

Nate, an intern at Action Six, scrabbled over the paperwork on his clipboard. Mick knew the kid's look. Nervous type, a planner. Thought accidents didn't happen. Would he be ready for prime time?

"Door unlocked," said Nate. "Mr. Gruber is at the dinner table. Mrs. Gruber is in the bathroom. We've got him. We should go now."

"No," said Mick, holding up an arresting finger. "Wait for it."

Benny touched at his earpiece. "She just flushed, Mick!"

"Go!"

Mick he kicked the door open, pushed inside and strode through the foyer to the Grubers' small dining room. Mr. Gruber, middle-aged and balding, stopped with fork in hand, a bit of pork chop speared on the end; a globule of gravy hung from it, eager to fall. Mick leveled his automatic and popped him in the face.

The man's body snapped back, his head snapped back further, then nearly all of him lurched forward to crash on the table. Silverware clattered and span up in a fountain of forks and spoons.

A squeal sounded from the hallway.

"Ready, here she comes." Mick slipped the gun in his pocket and took the microphone from Benny.

Mrs. Gruber appeared in the hallway arch. When she saw her husband's body and the news team, she clamped a hand clamped across her mouth. A small noise squeezed between her fingers.

"Uplink live," said Benny. Mick spun around to face Terry with the camera.

"Mick Armstrong here with Action Six News. We are at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Gruber, the site of a grisly murder earlier this evening. Mrs. Gruber, can you tell us-"

Benny waved his hand frantically. "Mick! Cut!"

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"We've lost the show. Action One News just set fire to a school choir practice. Dress rehearsal. Doors are locked and they had minicams up ahead of time. Quality's all to h.e.l.l but the ca.s.socks, man... Those kids are going up like matchbooks."

"Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" cursed Mick, his blazing dentistry hidden behind angry lips. He was not going to be defeated by incendiary news reporting. He had to think.

Mrs. Gruber slumped against the wall, sobbing. "I-I missed it, didn't I? I missed my fifteen minutes..." She waved a furious hand at her husband's ruined head. "He got his big moment!"

Mick looked at her, his heart full of sorrow. He had to comfort her, somehow.

"Don't worry, Mrs Gruber. You'll get another shot. Benny, get the station manager on the horn."

"What you gonna do, Mick?"

He fixed on his eyes on the hole in Mr Gruber's face. In one fast, professional movement, he whipped off his belt and reached into his pants.

"Whatever it takes to stay on top."

Chapter 53: Old School.

I use black thread because of the way it looks against his skin.

Its skin.

But before I sew, I pour in the salt. At first, the stench seeping from its mouth knocks me back, but I hold my nose with one hand, hold out the container with the other, and dump the contents past its rotten teeth. The pile of salt conjures thoughts of sugar or a small hill of snow. Must taste awful though, if the poor thing still can taste.

Then, the st.i.tches. I push my needle--a heavy upholstery needle from that little shop downtown--through the lower lip at one corner. The skin is a little tougher because he--it--has been dead a few weeks, so the needle, designed to punch through thicker fabric, is a must. I don't bother with a fancy pattern, just a simple zig-zag, back and forth across the lips.

Just as I tie the knot, it opens its eyes, and I swallow a scream. We make eye contact for a second, and I imagine a muted "thank you" pushes through the clot of salt and sewn lips before the eyes roll back and go dark.

Chapter 54: Tickle, Tickle.