Harlan County Horrors Part 7

"Good. Now we can start the second act." He presses a b.u.t.ton on a remote.

And my mind surges with fear, and I imagine my body filled with TNT.

But, of course, I don't explode.

Instead, my Filter hums and drops off the back of my head.

"I have some questions for you," the warden says. "They should be easy enough for intelligent young man such as yourself. Are you ready?"

"Yes," I say, because he's still holding the gun.

"Who are you?"

"Samson Carter."

"Wrong." And he shoots my leg.

I collapse, screaming.

The audience cheers.

"Let's try that again." The warden points his gun at my other leg. "What's your name?"

But I don't answer, consumed by my hatred for this man.

"Hurry now," the warden says. "Before your time runs out. What's your name?"

"Earl," I say.

The warden nods. "Now tell me the names of your wife and son."

I grasp at shadows. "I don't know."

And in fact, I don't think I ever knew.

"One last question, Earl," the warden says. "What's your last name?"

I open my mouth to say, "Carter."

Then the fog clears.

And I know myself again.

"Hill," I say.

That's the right answer, but he shoots my leg anyway.

Just like I knowed he would.

"Enough questions." The b.a.s.t.a.r.d points at a s.p.a.ce behind me. "Let's begin act three."

I look back.

And John Miller, the curator, winks at me, standin' beside a small gla.s.s box.

"f.u.c.k you, Miller," I say, and turn back. "f.u.c.k you, Rose."

Rose chuckles, then flicks his hand. "Put him in."

I struggle against his foot soldiers.

Useless.

So they get to work.

And I think about what they done to me.

Raped my mind with their f.u.c.kin' machine.

Made me act like 'em.

Think like 'em.

Even tricked me into killin' the man I love.

I shake and jerk with sorrow.

And when they're done with me, I'm naked, trapped in a much smaller cage than I'm used to, tubes jammed in my holes and flesh.

Rose faces his men.

Gives a big thumbs up.

Applause, applause, applause.

I thought I knowed every nook and cranny in these f.u.c.kin' mines, but this here room is new. And I thought Angelica was dead, but there's her rabbit tattoo on the squashed body in front of me. I reckon there's at least a hundred men and women boxed up in here, stacked on a giant circle of black stone.

And I know Rose wants to keep us here for the rest of our lives.

Because we're troublemakers, the whole lot of us.

Unfortunate souls deemed beyond help, beyond hope.

I added my name to Rose's s.h.i.t list the day I escaped the mines. I knowed I wouldn't get far, of course, but I wanted a victory. Even a small one.

And after I broke out, I had just enough time to write on that log.

THE MONSTER IS INSIDE.

I reckon Rose thinks I'm referrin' to him in that message, callin' him a monster for all the f.u.c.ked up stuff he's done.

But that ain't it.

The monster's inside me. Inside all us captives.

Rose and his men don't know that, of course. They don't know nothin' about the monster and the so-called anomalies.

They don't know the anguish we feel with this energy gushin' inside.

They don't know how eventually, if we remain in this state long enough, we transcend the pain.

And when that happens, a monster transcends the earth.

And fills us.

Sure, the beast don't have black matted fur and metallic fangs.

But she's dangerous.

And as her electric fingers caress the curves of my tormented body, trying to work her way inside me, I think about my childhood h.e.l.l. With walls and guns and sentinels. Even then, I knowed h.e.l.l was a prison built to keep certain folks out of heaven.

I was a smart kid.

And in my hopeful mind, I imagined myself breakin' my mama out of h.e.l.l, and takin' her to a cabin in the woods where we could live in peace.

Back then, my mama was the world to me. Even after she died.

Sure, I knowed she was a traitor. I knowed she defied the will of the government. And I knowed she was the worst kind of woman, because that's what my foster parents told me. But that only made me love her more.

I loved her, and when I growed older, I did everything I could to honor her memory.

So when my government demanded that I fight in their war, I refused.

They throwed me in prison, and I'm sure they reckon I'm a coward. But what they don't understand is that I'm a warrior at heart.

And one day, the monster, she'll grow strong enough to free us from these cages.

And then the war will finally begin.

"Trouble Among the Yearlings"

Maurice Broaddus.

Maurice Broaddus works as an environmental toxicologist by day, a horror writer by night, and a lay leader at The Dwelling Place, a faith community in Indianapolis, Indiana. He is a notorious egotist who, in antic.i.p.ation of a successful writing career, is practicing speaking of himself in the third person. His stories have appeared in dozens of markets (from Weird Tales Magazine to the Dark Dreams anthologies to Horror Literature Quarterly to Apex Magazine), but it should be noted that he only wants to get famous enough to be able to snub people at horror conventions. His novellas include Orgy of Souls, co-written with Wrath James White (Apex Books), and Devil's Marionette (Shroud Publishing). Visit his site so he can bore you with details of all things him at mauricebroaddus.com. Most importantly, read his blog. He loves that. A lot.

Ernest Mayfield raced across the bridge toward home, his world little more than a jagged scar in need of suturing. Weathered hands had hammered the narrow stretch of rotting planks together years ago; now they were crisscrossed with newer boards. He ran along the central beams placed on top in presumed reinforcement, despite his pain and limp. His footfalls echoed along the scored wood like a palpated heart.

He slowed as he approached a rabbit warren of a home. Corrugated tin roofed a wood-framed hovel, its logs cut, hewn, notched, and stacked. Kudzu vine snaked along its side and threatened to digest the entire structure. A string of gourd birdhouses dangled from a pole. A little girl clad in a flower print Sunday school dress paced the wooden porch in her bare feet, oblivious to the melody of the wind chime overhead and Ernest's nearing. Her eyes never met his; her attention was on her doll. Its large eyes fluttered noisily and its large bald head gave it an alien aspect. Dirt-tinged fingerprints smudged its color to a dull grey. Behind her, an older woman rocked gently in a chair.

"What'cha doing, Ms. Clark?"

"Sittin' around watching the hippercrits." Minnie Clark's wet black hair guarded a sunken face. Wizened arms, deceptively strong as many a whupping had taught him, waved him over. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hung like apples in the bottom of a gunny sack. A long gunny sack. "I need to get the gra.s.s cut before it starts raining."

"Ain't a cloud in the sky."

"It's gonna rain tomorrow and we got a church meeting tonight." Minnie let the last plume of smoke escape her lips as she studied him. "So what happened?"

"Me and Uncle Russell had gone fishing up at Bob's Creek."

"No school?"

"There's little point in going to school anymore, not for me." Ernest slouched, hands in his pockets. His shoe dug into the dirt and overturned a rock.

"Oh, I see."

"Anyway, we'd just settled down into our favorite spot and cast our lines when we noticed an odd stink."

"It always smells odd 'round these parts." Minnie sucked her teeth.

"Yeah, but this was like moldy game. So we got up to check it out. The odor got worse behind this bend in the creek where the water pools a little deeper. When we stooped down, this body bobbed up. Half of its head was chewed away. It was bloated and swollen, like a big leech with blood still oozing down its face..." his voice trailed for a moment while he squirreled together another reserve of composure. "It stared at us with its one good eye. I swear it looked like it was grinnin' at us."

"Who was it?"

"Don't know."

"Couldn't be from around here, then. What'd you do after that?"

"We ran. Twisted my ankle somethin' fierce. Didn't want to go straight home on it."

"And your uncle?"

"He went home."

"And you left the body? I wonder if we should call the sheriff."

"Yes ma'am...I mean, no ma'am."

"You know what I think? I think you and your daddy's fool brother got to playin' too rough, you hurt your ankle and your belly got to grumblin' and it was all the excuse you needed to stop here." Minnie stood up, revealing a picture of Jesus on her faded T-shirt, and tossed a cigarette b.u.t.t into a thatch of dirt. "You boys and your fool notions. Look at you. Chest all puffed out without an idea of where to go. There is real darkness in the world we have to guard against. No sense conjurin' up some for no good reason. Come on inside."

The thick door clattered shut, the lock busted; not that it mattered: the home was long past caring if anyone robbed it. Swatches of paint, lacquer scabs of corrosion, flaked away. Patterned with a swirl of feathers, the curtains covered windows whose gla.s.s didn't quite fit. Minnie cast her eyes about for a place to sit, obviously self-conscious of how much stuff cluttered up her home. Plaster praying hands clasped toward the heavens beseeching an unseen G.o.d sat above the doorframe. Jugs of drinking water gathered in parade formation along the floor. Yellowed newspapers were stacked in the corner. Jars of preserves lined the shelves alongside oil lamps. A beautiful fanned-out turkey tail was mounted on the wall. She lit up another cigarette and sank into her couch, whose inner sponge burst through the threadbare material.

"You gonna call a doctor?" A flicker of fear underscored his thin, tremulous voice.