Horror Library, Volume 4 Read online

  The midday sun washes the deck, but clouds tower in the distance to the front and port side. They stretch up from the horizon in deep streaks of charcoal and grey that split the day like the shadowed ridges of a canyon.

  Blue light flickers across that blackness and charges the water, leaving a dome-shaped glow. Momentarily it is washed out by an outline of brilliant orange, which is followed by lime green. This bizarre electric storm has been brewing and becoming more pronounced as our boat approaches.

  I have a full view of the port side and most of the bow. The captain's helm stands tall atop the bow, obscured from my sight by the edges of the rectangular slit that I've been given to see through. Across the deck stands another crate, I think the same size as mine.

  A surge explodes over the rails. Mist roils the breeze and brushes across my viewing hole. My eyes should sting, but there is nothing. In fact, no sensation at all in my entire body, not even a tingle in my arms or legs. Perhaps the blood has constricted and my limbs have gone to sleep. Or worse, they might be dead. I'm confined so tight, it is as though I've been set in concrete to my nose. I'm also deaf. I can pick up their vibrations as the men shout at one another, but cannot hear them. Nor can I hear the storm.

  The boat crew, burly men in rubber boots and raincoats, pace, industriously preparing. These are experienced seamen, who move with the boat as it responds to the swells that pound its port side.

  During a calm moment, I study the other crate. Many rectangular holes in the side of it, and they are organized in precisely spaced columns and rows. These slits look to be the same as the one I view through, though I can't see what's behind them. The way the sun is positioned, shadows cover whatever might be looking out.

  Flashes of blue, green and orange light trade off overhead, spider webs etching the ridges of the storm and the fierce sea. A skirt of shade overtakes the boat, and stars abruptly pepper the sky. We have passed through a gateway from day to night in an instant. Clouds do not exist inside, yet the electrical storm tears through the heavy air, making for the only light to see by, and the swells grow heavier, rocking the boat still harder.

  The ship hands scramble, hurried by the deteriorating conditions. It is unclear what they are setting up, or what for. A powerful wave breaks over the side and one man is knocked over. The crewman gets up quickly and grabs onto a rail to brace for the next surge.

  The boat changes direction, heads on into the swells. The men open cases, pull out equipment. It is somewhat recognizable, but I just can't place it. Memory of my own life is not only gone, but any education that would otherwise spur recognition of objects and activities seems to be damaged as well.

  A violent flash of orange casts blinding light on the ship and illuminates the other crate. As the boat veers toward the center of the storm, the holes in the crate are angled to catch the light.

  A massive swell appears ahead. The nose of the boat rises upward, and the hull rocks from side to side from the force. The men keep their legs apart, each bracing their stance as the surge of sea moves under. My box slides on the deck with the roll of the boat, changing my viewpoint. I can no longer see the bow, but instead the stern, though the other crate remains in my sightline.

  The ship glows as orange lightning strikes nearby, and brightness washes over me. Consciousness flutters and something smothers my vision—I swoon.

  Open eyes, vision gone. Brief blackness, then outlines appear. The hazy image like a Polaroid photo developing. . .

  . . .through a window—no—a rearview mirror, a windshield. Night. Streetlights illuminate parked cars. Coming up on the lot, a building behind it, fluorescent with artificial light beaming up from below; a church with a tall steeple. Recognize the bell tower, the windows, the entrance. Come to an intersection, cannot read the cross-street sign but can recall what will be next. Cross the intersection, no more street lights. Narrowing road lined only by trees. The curves wind around in the blackness; can only see two lanes, the broken yellow dashes, and the thick line of trees along the shoulder. A charm dangles from the rearview mirror. It swings along as the car leans one way, then the next. Just enough light from the dash. Can see what's on the charm.

  A woman and a young boy. Her name, Mindy, his, Stephen.

  A pickup truck turns out in front, leaves no time to brake. The driver swerves to avoid being rear-ended, but too late. Brakes squeal. Smash into the right fender, bounce off toward the trees. Will hit the trees. A thought burbles up—"too fast". See Mindy and Stephen alone, devastated. Feel the loss, the wrenching. . .

  . . .back. I leave wife and son with no warning; they are alone.

  Bright blue light flickers from all around. I wonder if Mindy has any idea what has happened to me. Where I am.

  The electrical storm has engulfed the boat. The water lights up and unnatural splashes ensue. Giant fish surging along the surface; sea foam burbling in brilliant colors, reflecting the lightning that etches the sky. Soon I see that it is not just in the sky, but the water itself has become charged.

  The crate in front of me catches a beam of blue light, and I see what's behind the first slit. Big, frightened eyes. They bulge in the darkness and light up with the storm, and they do not blink. The sky casts a new flash with an orange glow, and the lumen brightens, stretching across a few more slits, then the rest of the crate. Dozens of them, all pairs of eyes, all darting around, a pair for each viewing hole. Something's wrong. There are way too many slits, way too many pairs of eyes. There is no room for the bodies!

  While the lightning charges the sky and branches across the sea, the water turns calm, churned only by the swarming fish or whatever sea life moves around just beneath its surface. The swells dissipate, and the boat settles. We are in the eye of the storm.

  The deck hatch opens again, and two more men climb up from below, both wearing strange suits. They are covered head to toe with metallic material, and their heads have bubble-shaped helmets. The other men hand them the equipment and climb down through the same hatch.

  One of the men picks up a stick. It is a fishing rod, but a massive one, thick and long. Constrained by the stiffness of the suit, he waddles to the stern, and carefully sits in a chair. The chair is bolted to the deck and it swivels as he straps himself in.

  The metallic man works his way over to the crate. He shifts funny. It stirs in my memory images from TV of men walking on the moon. He pulls up a lid from the top of the box, and reaches in. Just below him a set of eyes turn up. He pulls something out of the crate and lightning flashes, enlightening a glass container that hangs from under his clenched palm and fingers. It looks like a two-gallon pickle jar. Inside it are the eyes, and behind them, the unmistakable contours and clefts of a human brain. The three parts float in a liquid, the eyes attached to the cerebral cortex with hundreds of strands of muscles and nerves. The man in the space suit holds the bottom of the jar with one silver-gloved hand, and the eyes stare up to watch as he twists the cap with the other.

  A violent blast of orange light washes to yellow, and again my vision fails. I wait as the profile of a new scene takes shape.

  A hallway. White walls line each side. Move forward, a woman in powder blue pulls the bed. She watches, encourages, "You're gonna be okay," but her voice is not sincere. Two metal doors fly open and she pulls me through. A man looks over the top of me from behind the gurney. "The surgeon is waiting in the OR," he tells the woman. "It appears that there are no head injuries."

  The gurney is wheeled through another doorway. Two men standing in the middle of the room, gloves on and masks in place, rush to each side of the gurney and look down. They reach into the abdominal wounds, and one shakes his head. He looks at the other, turns and studies my eyes.

  "He's in shock", the man says. He glances at the nurse and orderly who just wheeled me in and says, "That will be all." They nod and exit the room.

  The other surgeon leans in close to my face, near enough to me that when he speaks, I can feel his breath on my cheeks. I wonder,
in this trauma, how a sense so subtle remains possible.

  "Well, it will all be for the best. The bleeding is terminal, the kidneys ruptured and his spine severed."

  "He's got a donor card," the other says.

  "Good, because we should certainly have use for the eyes. Let's see what else we can save."

  . . .I come to and the man in the silver suit has one knee on the deck in front of the jar. He is now unscrewing the cap.

  With the lid removed, he sets the jar down on the deck, reaches in with one hand and pulls the brain through the large mouth. As it glistens in the flashes of green, there is not enough muscle to support the weight of the eyes, so they dangle, staring down at the man's foot. He stands and walks over to the other man, who is waiting in his swivel chair, and stops at the rod. While still holding the brain in one hand he gathers a clear line attached to a hook in the other. It is an enormous treble hook, larger than his gloved fist.

  He turns the brain over and digs the hook into the stem. The eyeballs shudder, from shock or incredulous pain. The man then takes the bait and turns it up as the seated man reels in the line, leaves approximately two feet between the tip of the fishing pole and the bait. The man who set the bait steps away as the fisherman cranks the pole back and with a powerful jerk swings everything forward, sending the brain hurtling, its eyeballs gyrating like protons around an unstable atom. The bait disappears over the stern with a splash. Instantly, the water around it churns, and within seconds the man jerks. The hook is set into something powerful, and the rod rattles as the fight begins. The chair swings left, then right, and he reels hard. He lets up as his quarry turns and runs with the line. The drag on the reel whirs.

  The electric storm lights the stage for some time until the man, who is standing, waddles over to the stern. He picks up a pole and turns it over the side. It's got a pointed aluminum gaff on the end, and he leans over the edge, in a prepared stance, holding it so that the hook faces out.

  Green light illuminates something large as it rises up from the water, and the man with the hook lunges out at it. The man from the chair stands up, grabs a second gaff, stabs it into the fish from another angle. Both squat and strain to draw it in. The catch smacks the sidewall, its fierce fin or tail thumps three or four times, and a moment later a giant, fleshy creature slides over the rail and plunks onto the deck. It flops and squirms, and in the next flash of blue light, I see that it is not a fish. Nor is it an octopus or a sea lion. I've never seen such a beast. Ten feet long, this creature has smooth skin and blubbery flesh. It wriggles on the floor between two pairs of metallic boots. No fins, no features in the tail, and no face or eyes, it resembles a slug without antennae.

  The man who reeled in the creature grabs another tool, a device that looks much like a pitchfork, only without the middle teeth, and he pins the monster, keeping its torso tight against the deck. The other man digs his boot sole flat against its squirming head, while the fisherman holds the midsection firm. He then pulls a two-foot-long pair of pliers from his belt pack. He leans toward the creature's snakelike head, turning about to get a look into the gaping mouth. With no further hesitation, he plunges the pliers deep inside the fleshy creature, past several rows of serrated teeth and wriggling gums. He digs around, causing the gums to flare and the long throat to swell and throb. Its six-foot length of tail recoils, unfurls, slaps the deck violently in an attempt to free its upper end, but the tool seemingly designed specifically to restrict this breed of monster does its job.

  Seconds later, and the pliers are retracted. Out pops the brain and treble hook. He flips the bait onto the deck and the hook falls off to its side, a serrated chunk of cerebrum still attached.

  He picks up his gaff from the deck and plunges it deep into the blubbery hide. Together, the two men drag the beast back toward the stern. One of them pulls open a hatch and they sling the giant thing so that it slides off into the compartment. The boat rattles again as the creature thumps the floor of the holding tank.

  I turn my attention back to the sea-bleached brain as orange flashes from around the boat highlight its frayed and softened features. One milky eyeball lies next to it, a barely visible pupil gazing lifelessly into space. Again, a surge of blue energy engulfs the boat, and the eye twitches, turns up to stare at me a final time. Then it goes blank in an eternal stare.

  One of the men produces a push broom and uses it to brush the remains in short, choppy sweeps toward the stern. He shoves them through the scupper into the sea, while the other man washes the debris away with a bucket of seawater.

  He hangs the bucket on a rail and ambles over to my crate. The skies rumble and beams of neon green creep in from above, as my roof is lifted. I turn my eyes up, and for the first time I can see the lid of my own jar and the metallic fingers finding their grip around it.

  Greggard Penance has spent a good portion of his life as a part-time free-lance writer for travel magazines. With roots in Tennessee and Arkansas, he travels more than not, and cannot remember the last place he called home. While his articles have been published in journals and magazines, he has only one horror fiction credit to note: The novella "The Breach" appearing in Butcher Shop Quartet II anthology, published by the fine folks at Cutting Block Press.

  To his deficit, Mr. Penance does not subscribe to online self-promotional vehicles, and that mirrors his in-person lack of game. Shy people need love too, but who would notice?

  —TO JUDGE THE QUICK

  by Hank Schwaeble

  Ezekiel heard them approaching, an angry rataplan of hoof-beats, drumming like summer thunder. The vibration followed the sound, thumping the soles and heels of his boots, telling him before he looked up that it was horses and not cattle. Horses being ridden hard, but horses, no doubt. The tremors of a stampede would have been felt right before anything reached his ears, not afterward. He knew that, just as sure as he knew the busy tattoo was too high pitched to be longhorn, and too discernible as to each hoof to be more than six animals. He conceded the possibility of five, if his hearing had grown duller than he wanted to believe. But six was his best guess.

  A twinge of pride passed over him as he straightened to see six riders come into view. Blurry, mere blends of moving color, but he was sure there were six of them. His eyes were strong. Always had been. When asked, he attributed this to not reading by candlelight, but the truth was he only read when necessary. Everyone he had ever known to read for pleasure wore spectacles of some sort. He was thankful to have avoided such a nuisance. Not that he was much for reading, anyway. But he was always quick to show those who questioned him that he could do it. Had learned the alphabet, learned to write several dozen words properly. Probably a hundred, all told. His oldest daughter had taught him. After the war.

  The figures sharpened in their relief, and he saw there were not six horsemen, but four. The pride drained out and concern, mixed with mild trepidation, filled its place. A smaller number was no comfort, a lesson absorbed from the harsh instruction of life. He allowed that other lives may have taught differently—lives of men who'd fought on a battlefield, maybe—but in his experience, the larger the number, the smaller the threat. Besides, four horsemen were a bad omen. Everyone knew there were four horsemen of the Apocalypse. And there were usually four horsemen in a patrol toward the end, when the confederacy was in its last days and the only men left to ride were the sadistic outcasts, men living in the scornful wake of those who had bravely gone to war, men with something to prove to themselves, and to everyone with skin darker than theirs. And, at the end, always in fours.

  No. He shook away the thought, brought himself back to the present, tried to focus on the here and now, on the world he lived in, not the world that was. He was in Texas, a freedman, no longer a slave in Alabama. Mr. Lincoln had freed him, him and the rest of those like him. He had once attended a gathering where some smarty Negro in a bowler hat and fancy suit coat tried to say that Congress had freed the slaves, not Mr. Lincoln; but that slicker had clearly never worn
shackles, never felt the bite of the whip. Only one man ever did anything for people like him, at least as far as he could remember, and he was not going to let some flannel-mouthed snoot pretend otherwise.

  The details of the riders' appearance became more noticeable as they drew closer. He tried to place a finger on what was so menacing about them, whether it was the violent angle of their bodies or the militant way they gripped their reins, or the large white hats atop each of their heads. But he soon saw it was none of those things. It was the fact they had shadows for faces, shadows that seemed darker than anything he had ever seen. Or not seen.

  And he allowed that maybe it was the direction from which they rode that was spooking him. His mind resisted that one. Those stories caused tingles to grope him in ways he didn't like.

  As they closed the distance further, kicking up whirls of dirt and dust and grass behind them, the texture and shape of the shadows showed them to be not shadows at all, but masks. Black hoods beneath white felt brims. He thought of the patrols again, though he was not certain why. Those men had never worn masks, never had a need to hide who they were. Maybe it was the way he recalled them riding onto the plantation, barging in like angry landlords. Wielding rifles and whips, looking for niggers learning from books, eating in the main house, having visitors, holding church. He remembered being scared numb by how the owner was powerless to stop them, scared long after they had come and gone. Mr. Morgan may not have always been the nicest man in the world, but he was not a cruel man, nor an unfair man. And he was the man. The patrols were made up of mostly poor whites, always stealing, peddling stuff off the roadways that they took from freed blacks accused of harboring runaways or violating curfew. Ezekiel Adams knew that if the man of the estate, a white man of breeding who owned two dozen slaves and a thousand acres, if that man was helpless in the face of a patrol, then slavery had created a force of nature that threatened everything in its path with mindless destruction. Like a funnel cloud or a tempest. Forces of nature could not be pleaded with, could not be persuaded. They were unmoved by invocations of Jesus or Satan. And Ezekiel remembered fearing that more than slavery itself. Fearing that more than death, even.