Small Magic: Collected Short Stories Part 5

Chapter 25: Busted.

Victor arrived home from the adult learning center with a sculpted bust.

"What's that supposed to be?" His wife pointed and sneered.

"Frankenstein's Monster."

She laughed. His face blushed red, and he thought of cracking her with the sculpture.

Later, when he learned of her infidelity with the UPS man, she laughed louder.

He blushed again, but this time, he smashed her skull with the bust of Frankenstein's Monster.

Chapter 26: One Up.

Two men lock stares across a worn table; both of their faces mottled with stubble and sweat, one wearing a green Pioneer cap. A buck knife sticks from the pocked table top. The crowd circling them, most with sewn-on name tags, grease stains, and breath to kill Satan, press closer to the cone of light offered by a single naked bulb above the table.

"What you got now, Jeb?" The man in the Pioneer hat says.

Jeb lets his left hand drop below the table. His mouth curls open. "Jus' this."

He pulls the tin snips from beneath the table and drops them with a clatter. The knife falls over, tumbles from the wooden surface, and rattles on the floor. Voices rise from the crowd. Bets are exchanged.

Pioneer hat swallows hard, opens the snips, and slides a finger through the blades. His eyes are closed when he presses down, using the table top for leverage with his free hand. He doesn't see the blood spurt across the table, but he hears the crunch as the snips break through the bone. He yanks the bloodied hand away and thrusts it in his lap, his face swollen and red as a boiled beet.

The crowd hoots and claps until Pioneer hat raises his other hand.

"My...turn," he mutters.

Jeb s.h.i.+fts in his chair. The wooden slats of the floor creak.

Pioneer hat points to his mouth and leans forward into the light. For the first time, the crowd gets a good look at his teeth, how sharp and crooked they are like the maw of a shark. Jeb raises a shaking finger, pus.h.i.+ng across the table toward the other man's mouth...

Chapter 27: Dinner.

At 4:52 PM, a delivery man, rushed and late on his route, drops a brown package on the stoop of 721 Haven Avenue. The package is clearly labeled in large, block letters: Dr. Kiekhoffer, 723 Haven. Something tinkled inside the box as it landed.

By 5:00, a small line of hungry, red dots trail from the box.

Fifteen minutes later, Kathy stumbles into the kitchen at 721 Haven carrying a heavy brown sack of groceries in one arm and her car keys in the opposite hand. She kicks the door shut with one foot and drops the groceries on the counter. Glancing at her wall clock, she takes note of the time: 5:15 PM. A small, scurrying red thing pulls at the corner of her vision.

"Ew, an ant," she mutters, pressing a thumb into the offending insect, leaving a small red smear behind. Kathy yanks a paper towel from the holder, quickly wipes up the mark, and rinses the blood-like stain from her thumb under the running faucet.

She looks back at the clock. 5:18. Steve will be home by six. Kathy reaches into the brown bag and fishes out an onion, a green pepper, and some broccoli. Stir fry. That will be quickest. Just as she slides the chopping board from its nest next to the stove, she spots two more red, scavenging ants meandering on the backsplash above the sink. Grabbing another paper towel, she wads it into a ball and smashes both with a quick blotting motion.

She begins chopping the vegetables. More red dots bleed in from the periphery, and Kathy looks up for a moment-just long enough for the sharp knife point to slice the tip of her thumb.

"s.h.i.+t!" The knife clatters to the floor. Wrapping the other hand around her thumb, Kathy rushes out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bathroom. She rinses the wound, rummages for a bandage, and applies it over the groove carved her skin.

Returning to the kitchen, she finds a score of ants milling around a drop blood in the sink. Kathy yanks the sprayer from its home next to the faucet. Little red legs kick and struggle, but ultimately wash into gaping drain. Tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear, Kathy slides the sprayer back into place.

At 5:29, she glances at the clock again, reaches under the stove, and grabs a large skillet. The burner flashes with a flick of her wrist, and she turns to her cutting board and chopped vegetables. Something tickles her neck as she pours a little peanut oil into the hot skillet.

"d.a.m.n!" She brushes one hand across her throat. An ant drops into the warm oil and sizzles, writhing and squirming. "Oh..."

Her neck begins to throb. Then the burning sensation, like hundreds of small pins scratching her skin, erupts under her blouse, around her waist band, and down her legs. Kathy digs her fingers into her flesh and scratches. The red swarm covers her exposed forearms, little ants stinging and pinching her pink flesh, and these ants draw blood. Minute dots of viscous red swelled on her skin.

Her head swings around the room. Even the walls seem to crawl with zig-zagging little blots of red.

Kathy squeezes her eyes against the burning pain and stumbles into the hallway with her hands held in front as guides. "The shower," she mumbles, staggering toward the bathroom. They continue stinging relentlessly. Tears push from her eyes, and Kathy drops hard to her knees, reaching for the wall with one hand, painting a blotch of blood and crushed insect in a great arc as she falls.

On hands and knees, she gropes toward the bathroom and promised salvation of the shower. She pulls at the hallway rug and squeezes out a little gasp as her waterlogged lenses focus on a moving, red ma.s.s, thousands strong. The ants continue to wash toward her.

The clock on the kitchen wall reads 5:45. The door rattles and clicks open. Kathy's husband Steve, a burly man in a dark suit, steps through the door, glances at the stove, and notes the empty skillet. "Honey? What's for dinner?"

Chapter 28: Armour-Plated Rooftops*.

Ralphie peered from a tiny c.h.i.n.k in the boarded window with the shotgun in his right hand.

"What'er they doin'?" Nichole asked. Hunkered behind an overturned table across the room, she clutched a Berreta like a lover.

"Dunno. They're all milling around some kind of contraption. Gettin' smart, I guess." His knuckles whitened around the gun. "Wait...oh..." Ralphie crouched and scampered away from the window. "Brace yourself."

A distant, muted thump sounded, followed by a moment of silence, then a thunderous crash above them, the sound of something big and wet--like a bushel bag of cooked oats--hitting a sheet of metal.

"Ha!"

Nichole frowned at Ralphie. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"One of them. They've built some sort of catapult, tryin' to get in the roof. Not too smart, yet..."

*for the record, the British spelling is intentional

Chapter 29: Old Water.

There was a little bait shop nestled away in the Green Mountains where old men loved to spread stories like compost on fertile young imaginations. "The water up here is full dead folk. So much history...war...disease." They laughed while we listened to the tales of those restless, lonesome souls, bobbing under the murk. "They're waiting," they said. Those stories p.r.i.c.ked our courage, forced us to ride our bikes with fis.h.i.+ng poles in hand in search of adventure.

Joel knew a place, and we rode to an old stone fence hiding at the edge of a tree line. Through a path between those trees-crooked conifers jutting to heaven with low, untrimmed branches, dying brown pines, and k.n.o.bby arthritic firs-we saw the hint of a large pond. The trees encroached on the very lip of the water, leaving only two bare patches of packed dirt open for fis.h.i.+ng. The land around the pond seemed somehow twisted, crooked, and diseased, resting as it was in purple shadow of those foothills.

As we walked through the dense mesh of grey branches, the path vanished. Our pant legs caught on bits of jagged rocks and downed limbs, swis.h.i.+ng and snagging through the calf-high gra.s.s in small clearings. The trees began to h.o.a.rd sunlight, and the mountains seemed to fold around us. Below the sound of our tramping feet, a slight humming sound grew. "Do you hear that?" I asked Joel.

"What?"

"The buzz," I whispered to him. He stopped ahead of me and balanced his pole on the ground.

Slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder all goggle-eyed, he muttered, "Come here." Maybe his quavering voice, seeing too much white around his eyes, or the claustrophobic trees spurred my fear. I wanted to leave, climb on the bike and go. But I obeyed him against the growing storm in my stomach.

He didn't need to say anything else. Lying on the ground, jutting out from behind a low, scratchy bush, I saw two legs. Pants really, and shoes, but they had form and shape unlike they would if they were empty. The pants were black, dirty with mud, and torn in places. I thought of Grandpa's funeral and the black suit in which we buried him. The stories of the poor, unhappy dead swirled in my head.

I can't exactly explain the feeling, but the body drew me to it like some sort of obscene gravity-like a lure, a worm on a hook for a curious boy. I rounded the bush and looked on the rest of this grotesque thing. The torso was still covered by a filthy suit coat that had once been black like the pants. My eyes traced one arm to a white, bloated hand covered thickly by black flies. Corrupted by insects and water, what flesh remained s.h.i.+ned like wax or melted fat. The hand seemed to twitch and move, curling those awful dead fingers.

Just then, Joel poked me in the ribs, shouting "Gotcha!" My body burst with terrible fire, all my nerves lit with fright. I screamed, dropped my fis.h.i.+ng pole, wheeled, pushed the laughing Joel out of my path, and ran without thinking. I hit the stone wall and scrambled over, tearing my pants and carving a long red scratch on my leg. I toppled to the other side, rested against the rough, cold rocks, and tried to catch my breath.

Feeling a little shame at my retreat, I crawled over the wall again. I had to go back, at least to pick up my fis.h.i.+ng pole. That's when Joel screamed. I dodged through the trees, followed a splas.h.i.+ng sound, and saw my friend thras.h.i.+ng in the middle of the pond with a white hand wrapped tightly around his throat.

I really ran then, not stopping until I reached the village and sobbed my tale to the police. They dragged the water for Joel's body, but they never found him. Officially, he became a runaway, a boy on the side of a milk carton.

I know what really happened. I'll show you the place. Maybe you'd like to bring a fis.h.i.+ng pole or even go for a swim?

Chapter 30: Casualties.

Two boys with toy rifles crawl through a drainage ditch at the far end of the high school practice field. The fog smudges distant buildings into blots of ink. Both boys stop and gaze out of the ditch.

"They're coming," says the taller of the two, a ten-year-old with too much black hair in a curly heap on top of his head. He rolls over, digs into the cargo pocket of his pants, and draws out a roll of black electrical tape.

"All right, Jack. Who is it this time?" The other boy, thin enough to slip between the posts on the guardrail at the zoo, wipes his nose on a s.h.i.+rt sleeve.

Jack peels a section of tape from the roll and starts covering the orange cap at the end of his play gun. "The Germans, Gabe. The Germans."

Gabe frowns. "I'm tired of playing world war."

Jack pokes out his tongue. "Who is it then?"

"Maybe we're protecting the homestead from border ruffians?" Gabe aims his rifle into the fog. A new shape appears as a black scribble against the white backdrop.

"With these rifles? These are M1s, Gabe. They didn't have M1s in the old west." Jack tacks one last piece of tape on his gun. "There."

"What're you doing?"

A smile splits across Jack's face. "Covering up that stupid safety tip. Now this looks like a real gun."