SHELTER

By Steve Wands

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KINDLE EDITION

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Published by:

Steve Wands on KDP

Shelter

Copyright © 2011 by Steve Wands

Cover Design and Layout by Apparatus Revolution

http://www.staydeadrev.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Kindle Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Thanks and Dedications

Thank you for picking up Shelter. I hope you enjoy it, either way, please let me know what you think of it--I love hearing from people who have read my work, good or bad.

Shelter is dedicated to individuals who give their time to help animals, even if that means taking care of your pet, or swerving out of the way of a suicidal squirrel.

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SHELTER

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Closing time. The sun beats against the windows as dusk staggers to its feet, declaring the death of yet another sticky-sweet summer day. Everyone has left for the day, except for Carter. Carter hangs the “closed” sign in the window, and grabs the vacuum cleaner. He flips it on and the noise drives the animals bonkers. The dogs claw at their cages, barking and yelping. The cats scurry away. The lonely rabbit remains steadfast but his eyes are wide and heartbeat rapid. Carter rounds the reception desk and snags a dum-dum pop from the candy bowl next to the sign-in book.

Having finished cleaning up the place Carter washes his hands and fishes out his dum-dum pop. He unwraps it and plants it into his mouth. Carter’s beard is so overgrown that tendrils of hair continually find their way into his mouth. He hates it but refuses to shave or even clean it up till he has to, and the last time he checked the mail he didn’t notice any weddings coming up, so what was the point? He resembled an animal, and he preferred it that way. He cleaned up well but didn’t do it often enough to leave an impression. As he twirled the pop in his mouth, hair from his face twirled with it.

Carter walked over to the dog cages. He ran his fingers along the tops of the cages, and the dogs howled with excitement. Each bark was as distinct as the beast that made it. Carter considered the dogs his children, and if he had had the room and the money he would have taken them all home. He had three dogs waiting at home for him as it was. All dogs from the Adoption Center, all dogs he had come to know and love: Bee-bo, an old rottweiler with visible burn marks from his previous owner; Lucky, a blind mutt saved from death row; and, Rusty, a young yellow Labrador whose keeper died and left her an orphan. He loved them, and as much as he wanted to get home to them, he didn’t want to leave the others stuck in their cages alone till morning. But he had to. He wiped his sweaty brow and grabbed a few treats, which he dispersed among his four-legged friends. He headed for the door.

Outside lying with its feet in the air was a dead bird—a sparrow. Its small body twitched. Carter noticed it immediately. Assuming it flew into the window and broke its neck, Carter kneeled down next to it for a closer look. The bird managed to work itself back to a standing position. It spread its wings and flew at him. Carter jumped back and laughed it off. The little sparrow flew at him again and again, with its beak snapping in rapid succession. Carter having handled animals all his life was used to being bitten, but he found the birds’ behavior to be extremely odd. He grabbed the bird and took it inside, holding it in a manner where it wouldn’t be able to bite him. He placed the bird in an empty cage. He covered it with a dark sheet and left a note for the morning vet, Dr. Jessica Pierce.

Jess—I found this little guy outside, was twitching. Thought it might’ve broken its neck, and then it got up and kept trying to bite me. Probably flew into the window. Talk to you when I get in—Carter

He headed for home in his small box of a car. Despite the pine-scented, tree-shaped car freshener, the vehicle smelled like wet dog and musty books. It had good reason to smell that way, and Carter didn’t mind it one bit. Though most of his friends would always opt for driving him rather than being his passenger.

The dogs, Bee-bo, Lucky, and Rusty, knew he was home before he stepped out of his car, and when he did they scampered noisily to the front door. They jumped up and down, competing to be first in line for the head rub-and-treat train that was now unlocking the door. Carter had to force his way inside, calming the “kids” down with enthusiastic head rubs and ear scratching. Once they allowed him entrance to the house he handed out treats—little bits of rawhide, which they would take to their own parts of the home to enjoy in private. Carter tossed his keys aside and glanced down at the phone in hopes of seeing a message—there was none.

He grabbed a can of Budweiser from the fridge and sat his ass into the same spot on the couch where he always sat. He dug out the remote from within the couch and turned on the television. He skimmed the channels briefly but stopped when he landed on an episode of COPS. He sipped his beer and was soon surrounded on all sides by his fuzzy roommates. He had a few more beers and a few more episodes of COPS before he decided to get to sleep early.

After he was cozy under his blankets he could hear squirrels fighting on the rooftop. Their screeching and skittering was enough to keep him from sleep and put the dogs on edge. He shrugged it off, but the noises continued throughout the night. He woke several times to odd animal noises. Carter even walked over to the window to see what the hell was going on out there but it was too dark to tell.

Early in the morning, after a night of the worst kind of sleeping, the dogs began to bark wildly at the creatures outside. Now that the sun was coming up the dogs could see the culprits. Carter walked over to the window once again, rubbing his eyelids apologetically. He pulled open the curtains and could feel the heat trying to get inside already. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out hundreds of birds in the trees and atop the nearby homes. Squirrels, chipmunks, and even a few rabbits could be seen moving about sporadically. Carter noticed there was something unnatural about the movements the animals made. And the amount of birds was just downright bizarre—they weren’t even making any noise, all lined up as quiet as could be.

Carter’s stomach twisted and he felt nauseous. He could feel something wasn’t right. He sat down and turned on the television—white noise. He went into the other room and turned on the radio. As he did so, something smacked into the window of that room. He ran over to the window and stared into the mangled face of a bat with tattered wings. It had congealed blood all over itself, and its wings were not fit for flight—yet it managed to cling to the sill and keep itself up. Carter gasped and jumped back, nearly stumbling over his own feet. The dogs rushed past him and began jumping and barking at the grotesque-looking bat. Rabies came to the forefront of Carter’s mind. Bats didn’t fly around in broad daylight. Least not the bats around here, his mind whirled—the bat had bites, and was covered in blood—it had to be rabid.

Before his mind could run around with any other thoughts, several birds swooped down to join the bat on the windowsill. They sat unnaturally, their feathers covered in blood. Some of them had cracked beaks and missing eyes. One was even missing most of its leg. The dogs continued to bark, and more birds gathered at the window. One began to peck at the glass. Then another, and another did the same. TIK TIK TIK, the glass began to splinter and chip.

Carter called out to the dogs, and as the glass began to splinter more he screamed for them. They ignored him, focusing on the birds and lonesome bat that were in the process of breaking through the glass and flying in. Carter ran to the dogs, grabbing Lucky and Bee-bo by their collars while calling for Rusty. He barely managed to pull the two large dogs out of the room. As Rusty begrudgingly followed, the glass finally gave way. The sound of tattered wings and breaking glass flooded the room. Carter slammed the door shut. The radio broadcast was nothing more than unheard background noise. Aside from what he’d just experienced, Carter knew nothing of what was going on. He could hear the room swell with the sound of flight. He noticed they made no other noise, no screeching or cawing—just the noise of wings flapping, feet skittering, and beaks now pecking at the door. He could see wings, feet, and beaks trying to reach him and the dogs from the thin separation of door and floor. He stepped back, still trying to handle the dogs. From the bedroom erupted the sound of glass shattering again—this was turning out to be one hell of a morning, Carter thought. He heard what was becoming a familiar noise—the flapping of ruined wings—and ran, pulling the dogs. Rusty was smart enough to follow along without being commanded.

Carter ran for the basement. The flutter of wings and the sounds of small bodies bouncing off the walls followed behind him. He opened the basement door and the dogs darted past him, nearly knocking him over. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it as kamikaze birds rammed into the door. THUP-THUP-THUP-THUP, the barrage was seemingly endless and shed new light on the term birdbrain.

The dogs stood at the top of the steps. Their voices became hoarse as they continued to bark. Carter’s head swirled and ached as he fumbled clumsily for the light switch. He found it and flicked it on, illuminating the small, dirty, and unfinished basement. He descended the stairs. What the hell is going on?, he thought, but was unable to answer himself. After a few moments Bee-bo gave up the ghost and sat next to his master at the foot of the steps. Lucky and Rusty quickly followed. Bee-bo licked Carter’s hand and Carter smiled at his friend, staring into the dog’s deep, dark eyes. Something was wrong, something was very fucking wrong, he thought, and Bee-bo knew it too.

Carter looked around the small basement. He had no radio, no television, no phone, no food—nothing but the damp basement and the dim light. He scratched at his beard, not knowing what else to do. He could hear the fluttering of birds, and at least one bat, above his head. He didn’t want to think of how much the repairs to the house would cost—windows weren’t cheap, and from the sounds of it, that would be the least of his worries. New sounds went through the house: raccoons maybe, cats, dogs, squirrels for sure—they were everywhere as it was, anyway—he could hear the odd hopping that must’ve been a rabbit. Then he heard the phone ring. His eyes widened and he moved toward the door, pressing his ear forward, trying to listen. After several rings, the answering machine picked up. It was Sarah. Her voice sounded shaky. He wanted to run out there and pick up the phone. They hadn’t spoken to each other directly in weeks and he just wanted to hear her voice. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and it killed him. He couldn’t hear her anymore. The machine beeped to signify the end of the call. Carter sighed and returned to the bottom of the stairs. Lucky had something pinned underfoot and halfway devoured—it was a field mouse. Carter pushed Lucky aside and could tell that the field mouse was no ordinary mouse—its hair was matted with dried blood clinging to its body in clumps, and it had small bite marks that Lucky was much too large to make. Carter felt sick. He looked at Lucky, knowing she stood a good chance of getting whatever it was that made the animals go crazy. Carter scooped up the half-eaten mouse with an old box and set it aside. Bee-bo and Rusty kept their distance from Lucky, and she did the same. She knew she was sick. She sat at the far end of the room licking her paws and occasionally looking in their direction. Carter’s eyes grew red. These dogs were not just pets. They were his family—his children. He loved them more than anything, and he feared what he may have to do to Lucky to prevent her from infecting Bee-bo and Rusty. He looked around the room for something capable of putting her down if need be, and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to.

But there was only a hammer, an old baseball bat (which had been chewed to all hell by the dogs), and a few other items. It would be no easy task if it had to go down that way.

He and the dogs had only been in the basement mere minutes, though to Carter it felt like an eternity. How had a completely ordinary morning gone so rotten?, Carter wondered. Lucky looked sickly after a few minutes. Her continued licking resulted in clumps of hair coming off with the slightest dry lick of her tongue. Her breathing was labored and raspy, as if ready to cough or fade away entirely. Carter looked at her with what must’ve been the saddest set of eyes his face had ever held. Bee-bo and Rusty kept their distance, their faces sad, yet stern.

A few more minutes passed and Lucky breathed no more. Carter went over to her, his eyes red and rimmed with the salty tears of his sorrow. The other dogs began to bark furiously as Carter stepped closer to Lucky. Lucky raised her head, still not breathing. Her jaw hung slack and her dried tongue dangled over it. Carter breathed a sigh of relief and turned back around. Behind him, Lucky managed to stiffly get to her feet. Bee-bo and Rusty barked with venom as Lucky staggered forward. Carter turned, and as he laid eyes on Lucky he jumped—she looked terrible, lifeless. Bee-bo lowered her head and hunched her shoulders back. He was ready to pounce on her to protect his master and friend. Rusty was in a similar stance but his was not as urgent or as angry—Rusty was hesitant. Lucky continued to close the distance and as her foot touched ground once again, Bee-bo lunged at her. He charged head on and knocked her to the side. He slammed her against the side of the staircase. She didn’t huff, and didn’t seem phased in the slightest. She had no emotional response. She turned her attention to Bee-bo, as he was ready to pounce again. He rammed her with his head, knocking her back once again, but not eliciting any response. Rusty stood hesitant in the background, and Carter stood dumbfounded next to him. They watched as Bee-bo attacked Lucky once again. This time he bared his teeth and bit into her throat. Lucky shook like a doll between the massive vice of his jaw. Thick, soupy blood dripped from her neck and trickled down Bee-bo’s throat. He wrestled her to the ground, where she lay only momentarily before getting back to her feet. Carter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He grabbed the old baseball bat and readied himself to swing. Bee-bo stopped fighting, sensing that something was wrong within his body. He backed away from Lucky, whimpering in defeat—he had lost.

Carter swung the bat over Lucky’s head. She slumped to the ground without making a sound. Carter’s eyes filled with tears and began to flow as he brought the bat down a second time, and a third, and a fourth. Rusty whimpered behind him, bringing his body to the floor and covering his eyes with his paws. Carter dropped the bat on the ground. He sobbed heavily. Lucky didn’t get back up. Bee-bo continued to whine. Carter returned his rump to the warm spot on the stairs where it had been before, his head in his hands. He dreaded the moment when he would have to put Bee-bo down the same way. Minutes later, Bee-bo stopped breathing, yet he rose to his feet. He had the same lifeless look that Lucky had. Carter put him down for good, splintering the bat many times over, until it was useless. He turned to look at Rusty, who remained on the ground with his paws shielding his eyes from the horror in the room. Carter sat next to him, patting his head. Neither of them had ever looked worse. Carter stared at the ceiling, listening to the noise of the many creatures roaming around his house. He wondered how long he had before they found a way down to the basement, or how long before he had to venture out. Maybe someone will come and get me out of here, he thought, then he laughed. He laughed for a good long time.

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Please enjoy these two additional tales of terror from my new collection:

HORROR STORIES

A Macabre Collection

Available at amazon.com

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From The Page

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The walls oozed moisture. It dripped like sweat down the bowing walls, down to the well-worn and warped hardwood floors that creaked with every uneasy step. The windowsills screamed as the soft rotting wood gave way under pressure. Rats scurried through the walls, their thick ropey tails thumping along the sheetrock as wads of insulation stuck to their hairy hides.

The whole house swayed in sync with the whipping winds of the escalating storm. Gutters overflowed with rain, dead tree limbs, and fallen leaves. The downspouts swelled like clogged veins in an old woman’s leg. The window shutters slapped against the siding, echoing the lightning.

In the backyard, a tire swing spiraled by a rope tied around a large tree branch. The soft sounds of playful ghosts were kept secret by the roar of thunder overhead.

I know this house. I’ve been here before… but this place doesn’t belong here. This is the house in my dreams… my nightmares… It doesn’t make any sense.

The paint is peeling, cracked, and sagging like skin in some spots. The front door is open, hanging by a single screw in a rusty hinge. Mold has taken over the front porch and the cement steps have weathered into jagged chunks of rock.

Something wants me here. Is it the house? How did it get here? Why me? Why now?

A light on the porch flickered on. The door began to bang against the wall, calling her to come inside. She went.

She stood in the doorway, half in, and half out. She stared at the fluttering insects that danced around the light. She stepped further inside. There was something familiar about the place to her but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Hello,” she said. “Anyone home?”

There was no answer, only the sound of the storm, and the rats. There was a sketchbook lying in the middle of the hall with a pencil next to it.

I remember now. I know why I remember this place. I drew this… I made this… but, I was only a kid. This isn’t possible.

She sat down and opened the sketchbook. It was empty. The pages were crisp white, screaming for lines to be drawn on them, crying for a purpose. She picked up the pencil, examining the tip. When led struck paper the house creaked. She began to sketch furiously. The walls straightened but somehow appeared more menacing. Footsteps could be heard upstairs as she created the inhabitants. The rats squealed in terror as she drew them and then erased them.

She would sketch well into the morning, filling the pages with the things that haunted her mind: the mutants and monsters, the nightmarish architecture, the killer cars and the creepy kids. The house moaned in delight.

I have to do this. I have to get them out of my head. The world can deal with these horrors, I can’t. They can figure them out. They can stop them. Someone has to…

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Of Dust and Dirt

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He gagged and heaved, choking on the fetid remains of the dead piss-drenched rat that filled his mouth. The rat’s stiff hairs prickled at his gums and irritated the roof of his mouth. Every time he began to throw-up, his vomit either erupted out of his nose or was chewed back down so that he could breathe. The same duct tape that wrapped around his mouth, head, and ankles, rendering him useless, bound his hands. He could hear feet shuffling on the ground, walking around him. He heaved again, the stiff rat-tail felt like a tendril of sandpaper on his tongue.

He knew there were at least two people doing this to him and why he didn’t know. Mistaken identity he hoped, but knew deep down in his queasy-sick stomach that it was most likely for fun. People did the damnedest things just to make the ten o’clock news nowadays. All he wanted to know was why, and to know if he’d ever live to never tell anyone about the things they did to him. Now he waited, listening to the footsteps around him, waiting for what horrible act they would perform next. Were they recording this? Was that what this person was doing walking around him? Then he heard a door open and a man’s voice yelling.

“Get up here! Leave the little piggy alone till later,” the man’s voice roared.

He heard the set of feet skitter away. Too light to be another man--a woman, he decided, lovers from hell, he guessed. All he could do was gag, tasting the filth in his mouth, and wait till later.

“I told you not to go down there alone.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Well it does, do it again, and that’ll be you down there. You don’t want that do you?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side, staring into the man’s baby-blue eyes making certain he knew she didn’t want that to be her down there in the dark.

“Good, then. Listen, I got to run out for a bit. You just keep an eye on things till I get back and don’t go down there. Let the piggy play with his pet, okay?”

“Okay, whatever.”

The man left, grabbing a set of keys on his way out the door. He walked out into the sunshine. It was a beautiful warm day. The kind of day fit for a trip to the beach, but the man, Jerry, wasn’t dressed for the beach, nor did he aim to go there. Jerry was on his way to Club 18, the local gentleman’s club, which was full of anything but gentlemen. It was barely four in the afternoon, and Club 18 would be nice and empty for a bit.

Jerry reached into his glove box and pulled out a flask. The flask had seen plenty of action, its surface scratched and dented, but its innards full of warm whiskey that went down as smooth as spit. By the time he reached Club 18 the flask was empty and his dick was getting hard. The club had a reputation for finding the youngest, stupidest girls around and turning them into perfect little whores both onstage and off. Jerry came for both. He worked himself up watching them, even though he already knew whom he came for. By now he had his favorites and knew their schedules. He was, after all, a favored regular with the owner and the whores alike--he paid well and he paid often. So what if he was rough? So what if he was an asshole? He paid in cash and he kept coming back. He might as well have been Jesus H. Christ to them all. He sure as shit acted like it when he strode in.

Today was different, though. He came with a purpose more important than his pecker, though he’d get that taken care of as well. Today he would set up his next little plaything. He tired of the man downstairs. How much more could he take, he wondered. And he wasn’t keen on men, but when a piggy presented itself for play, who was he to say no?

Her name was Red, and for good reason: she dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood--the sexy adult version--and had reddish hair the color of fallen leaves. Her skin was pale and freckled, toned and tight, flexible and smooth to the touch. He wanted her bad. Almost so far as to keep her all to his self, but that wasn’t right, he figured. He found his way to his usual spot near the stage, between the entrance curtain and the stripper’s pole. How he wished the strippers spun around a blade instead a dull cylinder. His pocket was full of singles and they were burning a hole.

The music clambered on and a new dancer took the stage, as the previous one picked up her clothes and headed off. He didn’t know her name and didn’t give a good Goddamn. She was a fiery-hot brunette dressed up like a businesswoman in a tight black suit and skirt. Her hair was tied tight in a ponytail and her dark brown eyes glistened behind a pair of fake glasses. She carried a clipboard and strutted on a pair of high heels that were downright deadly. Jerry couldn’t help but smile, and clap, and throw down a pair of singles. Whether it was the whiskey in his belly or the scent of pussy in the air, Jerry automatically put her on the list of candidates for the next open slot in the take-all-you-can-until-you-die-or-I-get-sick-of-looking-at-you reality show filmed right in his very own basement. She’d have to take a number and get in line of course. The DJ faded his usual dance music-bullshit into some classic Ozzy Osbourne and Jerry felt right at home.

Jerry sat through another two dancers before his girl took the stage. Red had to be the youngest of them all, probably not even eighteen, but fit to dance and damned if she didn’t. He wished her hair was streaked with blood and pulled taught in his fist. Her eyes were wide and surrounded by dark, thick eyeliner that almost appeared to be streaked by nervous tears. Dance, bitch, he said to himself. Dance for daddy. Let’s see what you can do today. The DJ was back into his dance music-bullshit but Jerry didn’t care. The heavy bass synced perfectly to his throbbing member and the rhythmic thrusts of her hips. It looked like she was fucking the air beneath her. She shed the top of her dirty little red riding hood outfit, exposing her supple natural breasts. Her nipples were standing erect and he longed to tear them off with his teeth and taste her warm blood. He figured it tasted like honey, how could it not? He watched in a daze as she bounced and bucked, stripped off the rest of her outfit and fucked the pole. She worked it up and down, extending one leg as high as her head and then spinning around with the other. She was magnificent, a real talent, a natural. The things he would make her do.

She came around like she always did; a soft whisper in the ear, a sensual rub of the shoulder, and a kiss on the neck. Her scent alone made his dick ache. He didn’t need any convincing, but he loved the approach. He adored the ritual. He knew something of ritual and longed to show her his own. Soon, he thought, very soon.

Twenty bucks bought him two minutes, but since they all knew him and knew he’d be back they let it go for twice that. She took it slow, cause that’s how he liked it. Too fast and he’d be asking for a hand job the first time around. The place was dead, there were four other old guys swooning over the dancer of the minute and the bouncer didn’t think twice about Jerry. They’d gotten to know each other and Jerry had yet to cause a scene, and even if he did, he was a regular, so it didn’t really matter. Frequency was as much a currency as cold hard cash.

She rode him hard, burying his face into her sweet-smelling tits, rubbing glitter all over him. He licked her sweaty breasts and ribs and even though that was frowned upon Red was too dumb to care and no one else was watching.

“Red,” he gasped, “want to make some real money?”

She moaned, turning away from him and riding his cock with her ass, “of course. You know I love real money,” she giggled.

“Good girl, that’s what I thought. You and me after hours…I’ll make it worth your time. Name your price,” he said, knowing he’d never have to pay up.

“Price depends on what you want, sweetheart,” she said, sucking her finger.

“Let’s just say everything,” he smiled.

“A grand for the night, and you supply all the drinks and candy I can handle,” she rode him harder.

“Done, and done,” he said.

“I’m off Thursday, and don’t have to be in till late on Friday, and don’t say a word of this to anyone. I don’t want any of your friends coming in here asking for the whore of all whores, you get me?”

“I got you,” he smiled, grabbing her hips, “and don’t worry, no one will ever know.”

Time was up. He paid. She smiled. And they left the private corner as if they were a couple. She walked him back to his seat and she went to the back to refresh for round two. He stuck around for a few more dances and another lap dance from a different girl then split. He was eager to get back home and the put the piggy to rest. He wanted the place nice and fresh for his little red cock-riding bitch.

When he got back home he noticed she was downstairs again, playing with the piggy. Damn it, he thought, can’t she ever listen? He went down the stairs, his feet hit the steps heavy and served as a warning that he was not pleased.

“Kate, what the fuck are you doing down here? I thought I told you not to come down here unless I say so?”

“You did, but he got his tape loose. He freed his hand and ripped off the tape from his mouth--see, look, there’s the rat. He spit it out and I heard him moving around, trying to get out the window. So, I stopped him.”

“That’s good sweetheart. Real good, I thought I was going to have to hurt you real bad this time. And you know I don’t want that. I hate to see you hurt.”

“I know,” Kate said.

“But we got to put this piggy to sleep now, and clean up the place. We’re gonna have a new piggy soon, a really pretty piggy,”

“Prettier than me?”

“You know that’s not possible, sweetheart.”

“Let’s see what this son of a bitch can take, now,” he grinned.

She looked excited. They left the man alone in the basement for a day with the rat without hurting him. They wanted him to heal up a bit. To heal for this…

Jerry grabbed a screwdriver, and Kate grabbed a box cutter. They poked and prodded the man, who writhed along the cold basement ground. He knew he was a dead man, so he prayed through muffled mouth and asked God to watch over his family. To be there for his little girl and to watch over her, because he wouldn’t be able to do so anymore. He wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her, how much he loved their life and how he wanted to start trying for a son again. But instead he felt the dull pain of a screwdriver pierce his shoulder and strike bone, sending rockets of pain shooting through his body. Then she began to slash him across his face with the box cutter, cutting his lip, his eye, and his ear. He squirmed in agony. She kicked him. He spat on him. They laughed.

“This is great,” she said.

He didn’t respond. His eyes were wild and he was beginning to drool. This wasn’t great; it was the best, better than all the women and drugs in the world. He was death incarnate. He plunged the screwdriver into the man’s throat, twisting it as if tightening a screw. He bled out and Jerry left her to clean up the mess. He needed a nap.

Though she was able to clean up the mess, the body was too heavy for her to move and Jerry would have to do that. She didn’t want to bother him till he was done with his nap, so she just sat there in the man’s blood, petting him like a stuffed animal. His blood was sticky to the touch and before too long she tired of its feel on her fingers.

By the time Thursday rolled around the basement looked as clean as it ever did. Jerry walked around as happy as could be, not a care in the world. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and even took a shower. Which was something he didn’t do unless he had to. Kate went off to school and would be back long before it was time for him to party so, he took advantage of the solitude. He strutted around naked, sang terribly out of tune, and even gave way to bouts of laughter. He called a guy he knew that could score him some coke. He knew he needed a lot, strippers tended hit the stuff pretty heavy, and he wanted to make sure things went smoothly…at least for the first few hours, until he revealed to her his true self.

When Kate came home from school Jerry was asleep on the couch. He had a few empty beer cans scattered on the ground and she stepped on them until he woke up from the tinny, crinkly noise.

“Home so soon, sweetie?”

“Duh, Daddy, school’s over, now,” she said.

“I guess so. Don’t you have any friends to hang out with?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to make friends?”

“That’s right, but when do you ever listen to me?”

“All the time, don’t be silly,” she walked away.

“Go do your homework.”

“Where do you think I’m going?”

“To the basement if you keep giving me lip.”

She didn’t respond and went upstairs to her room to do her homework. Jerry closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Hours later, Kate woke him up once again. “Get up, it’s late. You’ve been sleeping all day,” she whined.

“I’m up…just resting my eyes,” he said, lifting his head up.

“When are you bringing home my new mommy?”

“Soon. But you can’t play with her till tomorrow when you get home from school, understood?”

“But that’s not fair!”

“Life ain’t fair, but that’s how it is. Daddy has to have his time alone first, then you can play.”

“Whatever. Can we keep her if she likes us?”

“Sure. But I don’t think she’s going to like us.”

“You always say that.”

“And Daddy’s always right, ain’t he?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Whatever.”

Jerry pulled himself up off the couch and patted her on the head. He yawned and stretched and his back cracked and he grumbled about it. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure you’re upstairs with the door locked and your ass in bed. And don’t leave any of your shit lying around, okay?”

“Whatever!”

Red agreed to meet him in the parking lot of the Food-town nearest Club 18. She’d leave her car there and he’d take her back to his place. She thought it was odd, but went along with it anyway. He was paying enough to not give a shit and she didn’t plan on doing any driving once the party started. She was a stripper with a heavy coke habit who fucked on the side for cash, looking just barely eighteen years old, but driving under the influence was a no go for her.

When he pulled up, he was disappointed that she wasn’t wearing her usual costume, but smiled when she pulled out a picnic basket from the trunk of her car with the red cloak dangling out. She looked great aside from that, not oily like she did on stage, but dry and pretty like she could live next door and not be a whore. But she was what she was and that was what he wanted. He wanted a whore tonight, and he wanted to break her in every which way.

Jerry gleefully drove back to his home. She ran her fingers up and down his leg, stroked his neck and spoke to him in such a soft voice that it almost made him forget he wished her harm. It was euphoric. He was enchanted, aroused, and eager to please her. He pressed down harder on the gas.

Once home, Jerry was ready to party. He locked the door and headed for the kitchen. He fished out a few beers, a plate, a razor, and a bag of the sweetest candy this side of the street. He handed her a beer and they clinked rings and took swigs.

Jerry took the plate and emptied out a few little piles of coke. He took the razor and began to smooth them out into nice narrow little lines as Red dug through her purse for a single. By the time he was done she had rolled up a dollar into a tight tube and was ready for it. He slid the plate over to her and she took a nice long smooth snort of it, coughing when she finished. She handed him the rolled up dollar and he did the same, only chasing it with a chug of his beer. They both did another line and found themselves high and numb and ready to fuck.

They began to probe each other’s bodies, pushing, pulling, grabbing, clawing. They tore each other’s clothes off in minutes and he was fingers deep in another. They moved at each other so quickly that Jerry found himself wondering what the rush was. To him everything was foreplay. It was all ritual. All a build-up to the climax. He could go right now if that was how it was going to play out and the coke would make sure he could go all night long if he wanted. He just couldn’t help himself, and as if hearing his thoughts she stopped.

“Jeez, tiger, you’re ready to pounce, huh?”

“Can’t help myself, babe,” he smiled, “just looking at you drives me nuts.”

“Well, then watch this…”

She walked over to her picnic basket and pulled out her usual stage outfit. She began to perform a little reverse strip tease for him, putting on one article of clothing at a time, as slow as she could. First the panties, then the leggings, the skirt, the bra, the shirt, and finally she donned the cloak, lifting the hood over her head. This was what he wanted. He wanted a show, the fantasy to become reality, the real to become unreal. And here she was standing before him, dressed in red and paled to perfection snorting another line of blow, as Jerry couldn’t take it another minute. He got up and began to undo everything she just did, but he left the cloak on. He thrust into her and it felt like everything he ever wanted, the perfect drug wrapped wet around his throbbing member. They did their dance and when it was all said and done Jerry collapsed onto the couch. He couldn’t believe how great it was, and how tired he felt. He did another line and pounded a beer, but he still felt so damn tired. Red came over to him, still cloaked and spoke to him in that soft seductive sales-pitch for the champagne room tone. Her face was blurry, and then all he saw was black.

She picked him up and carried him to his bed upstairs. She placed him gently on the bed, covered him up and as she turned around she saw Kate standing in the doorway.

“Hi, Kate,” she said, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hi…umm…”

“You can call me Lilly.”

“I thought you were Red?”

“That’s what your daddy likes to call me,” she smiled.

“Is that because you dress like Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Exactly. I’m an actress at the Downtown Theatre Group.”

“That’s not what my daddy said. Daddy said you’re a whore from the strip club.”

“That’s no way for a little lady to talk.”

“I can talk however I want when I home. Not that its any of your business…can you…I just…I want my daddy to read me a bedtime story, okay?”

“Daddy’s sleeping right now. How about I read you a bedtime story?”

“Whatever. But daddy makes up his own. He makes them better than they are in the books.”

“Don’t worry about that. I got a story for you, sweetie. Why don’t you come lie down with me and we can keep daddy warm?”

“Whatever.”

They each took to a side of Jerry. Lilly snuggled close, making sure their skin touched. Kate just looked agitated and impatient.

“So…a long time ago, when the world was still new there was a man named Adam. He was made out of dirt and dust. He thought he knew everything, but he didn’t. He was blinded by his father and only knew the world as it was told to him. Then one day a beautiful woman came along who truly knew the world. She knew Adam was made of dirt and dust and didn’t care. They fell in love and got married in a big garden. They were happy for a while, but Adam didn’t really love Lilith, he thought he did, but he didn’t really. He just wanted a wife because he didn’t have one. So, Lilith left and Adam and his father wouldn’t let Lilith back into their garden because she found another man who could love her for her, and ever since then Lilith was called bad names. Men began to hate her, they would throw stones at her, even spit at her in public, but when they went home all they thought about was Lilith and how they wanted her. After a while all the bad words they called Lilith gave her strength and power. From then on Lilith would take the power of men who spoke poorly of her and leave them to die, and if they had children she would sometimes eat them. The end, now go to sleep.”

“That’s a stupid story, my daddy tells much better ones. His have tons of blood and guts in them.”

“How about we save the blood and guts for tomorrow?”

“Whatever.”

Want more? Get it now: http://www.amazon.com

About the author

Steve Wands lives in New Jersey with his wife and son. He’s a comic book letterer for DC Comics by day, and an artist and writer by night. He drinks massive amounts of coffee, and sleeps very little. He is the author of Stay Dead: The Stranger and Tunnel Rats, Words Like Daggers, Modern Nightmares, Damaged, and plenty of short stories. He also co-edited and contributed to Dark: A Horror Anthology. Visit his blog here: http://www.stevewands.blogspot.com

Discover other titles (Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats, Dark: A Horror Anthology) by Steve Wands at http://www.amazon.com

Check out the Stay Dead blog:

http://www.pleasestaydead.blogspot.com

Nice words from nice people about the Stay Dead Series available on the Kindle at amazon.com

“…it's a tribute to Steve's imagination that my attention was held from beginning to end. I especially liked a sequence in which we find that zombies ain't the scariest thing out there… encouraging moments of insight into how a kid might feel if life became a horror movie…”

Martin Gray Journalist

http://dangermart.blogspot.com

“...focuses on atmosphere and desperation...gruesome and really interesting, both stories oozing hopelessness...a really strong debut.”

Corey Graham formerly of the Midnight Podcast

http://www.midnightpodcast.com

“One of the most humanizing zombie stories since Romero’s Night Of The Living Dead.”

Bryan Wolford of the Drunken Zombie Podcast

http://www.drunkenzombie.com

"This collection of short stories is brutal and heart breaking. Steve Wands describes the state of the world in the midst of a zombie outbreak as if he were there. These tales will make you feel like you know the characters and are sharing in their plight."

Mike Benedict of The Cadaver Lab Podcast

http://www.cadaverlab.com

“...one of the more intense and downbeat endings you will ever read... endlessly fun...nothing wasted...no pulling of punches.”

Desmond Reddick of Dread Media

http://www.dread-media.com

“...very well done...makes you want more...a great read... I couldn’t put this down.”

Darryl Pierce of A Little Dead Podcast

http://www.alittledead.com

Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats was also nominated for a 2009 Mail Order Zombie Dead Letter Award for Best Zombie Book/Fiction.

http://www.mailorderzombie.com