Jenkins sat in his reclining chair, extended the footrest and closed his eyes.
Sleep was something he found hard to come by. Just up the road from his trailer was Old Man Fredericks’s farm. The smells from that place were bad enough; damp hay and tons of shit lingering in the air.
Most of all, it was the noises that drove Jenkins bat shit.
Those fucking pigs were constantly grunting and squealing.
His clothes, skin and hair still smelled of smoke, reminding him of camping trips to the beach with Beth when they still dated.
He grinned, replaying the image of the barn going up, the flames dancing over it, consuming the structure and its occupants.
Jenkins opened his eyes and flicked at his jeans, noting the dry blood soaked into the denim.
It had only taken one swing with the first piglet to kill, smashing it on the asphalt. The second piglet, however, was tougher. After three hard whacks against the road it still squealed, despite blood pouring from its split skull.
When he set the damn thing on the ground to finish off, the piglet tried to dart off. Jenkins snapped all four of its limbs to keep it from running away then stomped the piglets head until it caved in, leaving a mix of skin, bone, brain and snout.
It had been great.
Sleep quickly crept up on him.
My god it’s quiet.
Jenkins couldn’t remember a sleep as relaxing as the one he just had. Stretching, he released a big yawn. His body was relaxed, rejuvenated and-
He was in a bed.
Looking around, he quickly realized that he was no longer in his living room. Where the fuck was he? He threw the covers back and climbed out.
The king size bed dominated most of the bedroom. A white dresser stood against the wall to his right while a simple desk with a lamp on it was the left.
Jenkins headed towards the slightly ajar door, noting the light spilling in through the gap. Pulling it open he could see a spiral staircase in a dark room but at the bottom was another open door which was the source of the light.
Jenkins made his way down the staircase but when he reached the bottom step, he stopped.
There was a sound.
A familiar sound.
A pig was grunting in the next room.
Jenkins stepped off the staircase through the doorway.
He was on a balcony where an adult pig was on all fours, sniffing around the railings. Just to his right was a glass case that said Break In Case Of Fire containing a hose along with an axe.
Beyond the balcony railing was complete darkness.
The pig stopped sniffing when it noticed him and met his gaze.
If Jenkins thought the grunting and squealing was bad, what he heard next was almost too much to bear.
“Hello there,” the pig said.
Even though it spoke words, it was a poor attempt at mimicking a human, as the sound was still pig. Its voice was grotesque and terrifying.
Jenkins could not speak.
“Oh come on now, don’t be shy. Why, we’ve been neighbors for so long we’re practically best friends. My name is Howard.” The sound of the pig’s tongue rolling over its teeth as it pronounced each word made Jenkins cringe. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Yes, you are dreaming.”
Jenkins turned to leave but the doorway was gone, replaced by a brick wall. He reached out and tried to push the wall out of the way to no avail.
“It won’t budge,” Howard said. The voice changed, darkening. “You’re in here with us.”
Looking around frantically, Jenkins remembered the glass case. Without hesitating, he punched through the glass, grabbing the axe.
“Oh, come on now, buddy. What are you doing with that?”
Jenkins swung the axe as hard as he could, bringing the blade down on Howard’s head. The blade punched through skin and bone, before coming to a stop in the brain.
It was an awful sound, much worse than the spoken words, resembling a human wail penetrated by pig vocals. Jenkins released his grip on the axe, covering his ears.
Within seconds the screaming stopped, replaced by laughter. Howard stood up on his hind hooves and clutched his belly, gasping for breath as he laughed.
“Oh Jenkins,” Howard exclaimed as blood ran down his face. “Do you really think you can hurt us here in our own domain?”
“It’s just a dream,” Jenkins muttered. “It’s just a fucking dream.”
“Just keep telling yourself that, buddy. We all love a good laugh.” He gestured beyond the balcony railing as light slowly dawned in the darkness like the opening of a Broadway show.
There was movement but as the light grew brighter he saw them.
They were scurrying around back and forth on a carpeted floor that was enclosed by old wood paneled walls. Covering his nose, the air quickly became thick with the smell of pig shit and something else.
It was familiar yet he could not put his finger on it.
“What do you think?” Howard asked, the axe still embedded in his head.
Jenkins clutched his temples and shook his head. “It’s time to wake up. Wake up, Jenkins.”
“One two three WAKE UP!”
Howard’s voice darkened even more. “You’re here for the whole show.” And he laughed.
Reaching up with its hoof, Howard dislodged the axe and tossed it off of the balcony.
Jenkins realized the pigs on the floor were no longer scurrying around. Their movements were more deliberate and less animalistic and then they stopped altogether.
The room went silent.
One by one, the pigs looked up; each of them staring directly into Jenkins’ eyes. The shit smell was dissipating and the other aroma cut through, becoming more distinct. With every set of eyes on him, Jenkins recognized the smell.
All at once, the pigs began screaming.
It was deafening and even more horrific than the lone scream when he had buried the axe in Howard’s head. As he watched, the pigs’ skin began to sizzle and bubble up into blisters, roasted by invisible flames.
Their skin then began to fuse together, absorbing one another.
“Wake up… wake up…” Jenkins cried.
Howard laughed even more and flipped himself over the balcony railing. He landed on the floor below where he began to merge with the other pigs.
“What do you think, Jenkins?” Howard asked, growing in size as he assimilated the others.
Intermixed with the screaming was a wet sucking sound. Although the bodies were absorbing one another, all the pigs’ heads remained.
It was massive.
Standing before him was an ungodly being comprised of burnt and charred pigs. It stood on two legs with Howard acting as the head.
The abomination was tall enough that Howard was at Jenkins’ eye level.
“There is no waking up from this, my friend,” he roared. “You see, we’re Tormentors. We feed on the enjoyment people get out of heinous and cruel acts. By taking the forms of the tortured, we invade the dreams of the torturers exacting revenge. It’s why we exist. Or looking at it another way, it’s how we get our kicks.”
The mass raised its arms.
On the end of each one was a piglet. The one on the left had a split skull while on the right, the piglet had no head; just a gory pulp of pig flesh.
They were the ones he killed on the road.
Jenkins turned away, screaming, looking for a way out.
The mass reached over the balcony, grabbing him by the legs. It yanked hard, tripping Jenkins onto the balcony floor, then lifting him into the air upside down where it held him for a second.
“Ready?” Howard sneered.
Without waiting, the mass whipped Jenkins into the air then swung down as hard as it could.
Jenkins smacked the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. The blow knocked him senseless.
“How about another try?”
Again, Jenkins was raised into the air and struck hard against the floor. This time, pain exploded through his body as he felt his right shoulder and rib cage shatter upon impact.
He cried out, gasping for air, blood filling his mouth.
All of the pigs began to squeal with delight. The mass lifted his broken body up again but this time held him close.
“It’s been a slice, buddy, but we’ve worked up a bit of an appetite.”
The mass pressed Jenkins against its body as the many pig mouths began tearing into his flesh, ripping chunks away.
Jenkins opened his eyes.
He was sitting in his reclining chair in the living room of his trailer.
Just a dream.
Sighing a breath of relief, pain exploded through his body.
The entire right side screamed in agony. He could taste iron as blood filled his mouth. Looking down, his chest and stomach were torn open with his entrails slipping out onto the floor.
As he raised his head, he looked out the living room window to a face looking in at him.
It was Howard.
Grinning, Howard licked his lips and said, “Oh we’re not done yet, buddy boy. We’re called Tormentors for a reason. You don’t get to wake up from this one.”
The squeals of many pigs filled the room as one of the mass’s arms smashed through the front door, reaching toward Jenkins.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2016 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
“Hello there,” a man’s voice says.
I open my eyes and realize I’m standing on a pier. Snow lies in small, shoveled heaps along the edges and the sky is a cloudless grey. It’s cold yet I feel nothing.
“I bet you’re wondering why you’re naked?”
Looking down I see that the voice is right but feel no need to cover myself up. Turning to my right, I see him.
He’s an older man with thin, white hair combed to the side. Thick rimmed glasses rest upon his nose magnifying his green eyes.
“My name’s Horton,” he says extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Herman Trotter.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“There’s no easy way to say it so I’ll just come out with it. You’re dead.”
I blink twice. “Dead?”
“Unfortunately. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Thinking back, I easily find the memory. “I was filling my truck up with gas.”
Horton nods and says, “While you were filling your truck, two rival gangs got into a shootout. A bullet ricocheted off the pavement and penetrated your skull just behind your right ear. You were dead before you hit the ground.”
I take the information in stride, knowing that it’s true. Looking at the pier, snow and the sky, nothing here seems alive, myself included.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked yet,” Horton says.
“If you’re in Heaven or Hell.”
“I’m an… was an atheist. I’d never given much thought to where I would end up.”
Horton laughs and says, “Some atheists are like that. You may not believe in a god but you still have a soul and when your physical body expires, your soul has to go somewhere.”
“Where exactly is that?”
He places his hand on my back between my shoulder blades and gently ushers me down the pier. “To the Blue.”
For the first time since I arrived, I look out beyond the end of the pier.
Upon first glance it looks like the ocean with waves rolling about, gently lapping against rocks along the shore. I then notice it’s navy blue in color with streaks of aqua green and black cutting through the jelly-like texture at various intervals. Beneath the surface, flashes of white flicker like lightning.
“What is it?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“That, my friend, is the resting place for mankind’s atheist souls. Good or bad, they all come here in the end.”
I have a strong urge to leap off the pier into it.
“What’s your role in this?” I ask.
“I’m the administrator. It’s my job to keep track of who goes into the Blue.”
“How do you do that?”
Horton reaches into his inner coat pocket, pulling out a folded paper and gold pen. “Whenever someone new arrives, they must sign this registration before they go into the Blue.”
Although I don’t want to, I pull my eyes away from the Blue and look at him. “Is that it?”
Horton nods and says, “Alexander the Great asked me the same question before he went in and yes, that’s it.”
My eyes find their way back to the Blue while I reach out for the pen. Gripping it in my hand I barely manage to scribble my name along the dotted line.
“Very good,” Horton says. He folds the paper up and slides it back inside his coat. “Whenever you’re ready, you may jump.”
I’m already in the air falling towards the Blue before he gets the words out.
There is no splash.
The sensation of falling is instantly replaced by bliss. My eyes are open and while I don’t see anyone, I connect with them; with everyone in the Blue. Time stands still as I fully accept the Blue’s embrace.
Below me is a flash.
I don’t think much of it until the searing pain hits me.
We all cry out without making a sound.
Another flash flickers below, but closer.
And I see it.
Swimming amidst the Blue is a translucent eel-like shape with a large mouth. It emits a flash each time its mouth opens, exposing row upon row of teeth.
It’s taking bites out of the Blue.
I begin swimming… struggling towards the surface. When I finally break through, I cry out, “Horton!”
The old man is still standing on the pier and he looks down at me, puzzled.
“Why Mister Trotter,” he says. “Whatever is the matter?”
“What the hell is in here with us?”
I briefly slip below the surface but rise up again.
“We call them the Translucies.”
“They’re eating us!”
Horton laughs and says, “Well of course they are. How else do you expect us to maintain the maximum number of souls allowed in the Blue at one time?”
He begins saying something else, words I don’t hear as I slip below the surface; down into the Blue.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2016 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
“Alright guys, grab a quick breather and take fifteen!”
I barely hear my foreman’s voice come through the radio clipped to the left side of my safety vest. Lowering my bulldozer’s blade to the ground, I shut the machine down. Almost immediately, I miss the roar of the engine.
A breeze blows a rising dirt cloud away from the cab as I make way down to the ground and remove my cigarettes. I shake one out of the package into my hand.
Looking up, most of the guys are standing around in a circle. Mike, I believe that’s his name, waves for me to join them but I shake my head ‘no thanks’ and light my cigarette.
I don’t want camaraderie doing this fucking job.
The drag is long but exhaled quickly. I don’t even taste these things anymore. I do it for a sense of normalcy in days that are no longer normal.
As I circle around to the front of the dozer, my fingers gently run along the chipped and worn yellow paint until they reach the blade. After almost twenty years of operating a dozer I used to love the sound of the blade scraping along the ground.
It was a sound of power and production.
A few meters away, two excavators sit idly beside a freshly dug pit, roughly the size of the foundation for a small house. The overburden sits on the far side of it as a silent witness.
Actually it’s not a pit.
It’s a mass grave for the enormous pile of bodies in front of my dozer.
They are the bodies of the formerly living dead; bodies that were once living people. Despite various stages of decay, I no longer notice the thick stench of death. I toss my cigarette away, no longer wanting it.
To clear my mind, I glance at a large section of land we finished clear cutting yesterday. A thick tree line remains around the site concealing our actual job from the public eye.
Somewhere within the trees a gunshot rings out, followed by cheers; looks like our armed escorts got another one for the pile. My eyes find their way back to the dead, imagining who they were at one time. Limbs of different sizes stick out of the pile like a grotesque form of art.
The small limbs are the ones that get me the most.
If I stare long and hard at them, I can almost make out which ones belong to—
My legs give out. Slumping to the ground with my back against the blade, I press my face into my palms. I don’t know how much time passes when my radio crackles to life.
“Alright, boys, let’s get back to it. Lucas, whenever you’re ready, go ahead and push those fuckers into the pit.”
My arm is heavy as I reach up to grasp my mic. “You got it, boss.”
I get to my feet, climb back up to the cab and start the engine. Manipulating the controls, I raise the blade a few inches off the ground before inching the bulldozer forward.
The worst part is the blade making contact with the pile. There’s a slight shudder of resistance before the bulldozer pushes through and bodies start to roll toward the pit like a wave approaching a beach.
I feel a few of the smaller bodies slip underneath the blade, getting stuck bellow it.
I’ll have to make another pass.
This isn’t the first pile I’ve had to push into a mass grave.
Nor will it be the last.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2016 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
For three hours, I’ve been chasing the Swindler through deserted neighborhoods, past charred remains of houses and finally into the ruins of what once was an elementary school.
I’m still pissed at myself for missing my initial shot. If I had made it, I wouldn’t have had to chase it here.
And it wouldn’t have killed my hunting partners, Myers and Dixon.
The Swindler ran into the last classroom at the end of the hall on the right, its claws scurrying along the tiled floors. Crouching at the hallway’s only opening, I radio for some backup, hoping my squad isn’t too far away.
Down the hall, the Swindler begins growling and snarling, daring me to come in after it.
Even with my gun, these fuckers are tough to kill one on one. They have a mental power that acts as a defense mechanism, if you allow yourself to be compromised. Somehow they are able to make you see them as something they are not. In other words, they play a trick on your senses.
And your sanity.
If it compromises you and you’re in a confined space, like one of these classrooms, the odds are not in your favor. I’ve seen too many less experienced hunters lose their lives this way.
Heavy boots climbing the stairs echo throughout the derelict building. Relief washes through me as I hear them. The Swindler hears them too and stops thrashing about.
Fleming rounds the corner, weapon drawn.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod and reply, “There’s only one and it’s in the last classroom on the right.”
“Myers and Dixon?”
I shake my head.
Fleming grinds his teeth. “Let’s get this motherfucker.”
Checking to make sure my weapon is loaded, I make my way down the hall with Fleming close behind.
We enter the room.
Old desks with plastic chairs bolted to rusty bars are strewn about the room. A chalkboard covers the entire front of the room, graffiti covering almost every inch of it. Faded posters still hanging on the walls flutter gently as a slight draft cuts through the room.
In the middle of the floor, the Swindler sits cross legged with its face buried in its three fingered hands. Sporadic patches of hair decorate its scabbed and grey skin.
It looks up at Fleming and he lowers his weapon.
“Jesus…” he says. “It’s just a kid…” His voice trails off.
The Swindler looks over at me with reflective blue eyes.
For a split second, the Swindler’s face disappears, replaced by that of a boy.
I pull the trigger.
The head explodes spraying blood, bone and grey matter onto the nearby desks and chalkboard. Fleming flinches as the body slumps back and then looks over at me, horror dawning on his face.
“Oh my god, Redcliff,” he says, with his lower lip quivering. “It was just a boy… no older than ten.”
Fleming drops to his knees, letting his weapon fall to the floor. I kneel next to him, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll be alright,” I say to him. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
The rest of the squad arrives and the medic takes over as he begins to assess Fleming. I stand up, nodding to the group that there’s a body to be burned.
My second-in-command, Gilbert, hands me a canteen of water. The water is cool and refreshing.
“What happened in there?” Gilbert asks.
“Fleming got compromised,” I reply.
We leave the classroom and make our way back toward the stairs.
“Even if Fleming is cleared by the medical team,” I say, “his days of hunting are over. He’s too much a liability now.”
“Understood, sir,” Gilbert replies.
Once outside, I take in a deep breath of fresh air and begin to feel better. How many more hunts do I have left in me?
After a few minutes, I watch as the Swindler’s body is dragged outside. It is laid in the middle of the cracked and neglected road. After a few kicks of frustration from my men, the body is lit on fire.
I can still see that brief flash of a boy’s face.
It wasn’t the first time I was almost compromised.
The flames dance and swirl over the corpse.
It probably won’t be the last either.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2016 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
The knocking on the front door was heavy and relentless, like the pounding in Jim Argyle’s head. His mouth was dry with lips on the verge of cracking as he pushed himself off the floor. Jim rubbed his forehead trying to remember how he ended up on the kitchen floor in the first place.
“Come on, Jim, open up!” a voice yelled from the front door.
His tongue itched.
He noticed the small kitchen table and two chairs were overturned. Dishes were strewn, some broken, throughout the room and the fridge was wide open with its contents spilled out across the floor. The back door was slightly ajar.
What the fuck happened?
The front doorknob rattled as the pounding continued.
“Are you in there, Jim? Open the door!”
Jim stood up and staggered towards the front entrance smacking his lips, trying to moisten them. He fumbled with the latch until it unlocked and the door pulled open.
Tom Chesterfield was standing on the front porch, and his jaw dropped slightly when he saw Jim.
“Jesus,” Tom said. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”
The last thing Jim wanted to do was to try and give his brother-in-law an explanation.
“Yeah… just a little hung over.”
“A little hung over? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for three days. Every time I called, you didn’t answer.”
Jim glanced over to where his phone sat, wondering why he wouldn’t have answered, then turned back to Tom. “I’m alright.”
“I told you.” His tongue still itched.
“No, that’s bullshit. The last time we talked you claimed that something happened in your backyard.”
Jim frowned, trying to recollect the events of the last three days.
Tom placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you remember?”
Jim shrugged but offered no further explanation, wishing his sister’s husband would leave him alone. Tom looked over Jim’s shoulder into the house, saw the overturned furniture then walked past him.
Reluctantly, Jim followed.
Squatting down, Tom picked up a milk carton and placed it back in the fridge. He glanced at the furniture, the broken dishes, then looked at Jim who lowered his head and let his shoulders sag.
“I don’t remember a thing about the last three days. The last thing I vaguely recall doing was talking to you on the phone.”
The itch on his tongue grew worse.
“So why’d you try to pass it off as being hung over?”
“It feels like a hangover. My head is aching like a son of a bitch and I’m parched. Toss in the memory loss and it sounds like one.” Jim bent down and flipped the table back onto its feet. “I do appreciate you looking in on me, though.”
Tom offered a slight smile but when he looked out the small kitchen window into the backyard, it disappeared from his face.
“What happened to your lawn?” Tom asked leaning forward for a better look.
Jim’s tongue began to twitch, making speaking difficult. “I do appreciate this, Tom, but as you can see I’m fine. You can leave now.”
“There’s a large patch of lawn torn up or something.”
Wishing Tom would go away, Jim began rocking on his feet as his tongue flapped uncontrollably inside his mouth.
“What happened out there?”
Tom slipped through the open backdoor.
As Jim stood alone in the kitchen, a ripple of calm washed through his body and his tongue stopped moving. He rubbed the back of his head, near the base of his skull then followed his brother-in-law outside, no longer feeling in control of his own body.
Tom was standing a few feet away from the house looking down at a large hole that had opened up in the ground.
“Do you think it could be an old mine shaft that they failed to fill in properly?”
Jim replied with words and a voice that were not his own. “No, Tom, that’s not what it is.” His recollection of the previous three days now clear in his mind. “The ground caved in with a slight shudder the other day while we were speaking on the phone.”
Tom pulled his eyes from the sinkhole and gave Jim a wary look. “I thought you didn’t remember?”
Jim continued almost mechanically, “There’s a colony of small, parasitic creatures living down there that have been around for a long time. For decades they remain below until it’s time to reproduce. That’s when they venture up to the surface to find hosts. One of them made its way up through the sinkhole, entering the house as I was getting ready to go out.” He could see vivid images of the worm-like shape wriggling quickly across the kitchen floor and up the front of his body, going for his mouth. “I struggled with it to no avail.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
With a quick swipe of his hand, Jim gripped the back of Tom’s head and brought it to his, locking lips. Within seconds, Jim’s tongue secreted a toxin that relaxed Tom’s jaw, keeping his mouth open. Jim began to heave, his mouth pressed against Tom’s until he regurgitated a thin eyeless worm with small hooks on the end of its tail. Using his own tongue, he guided it until it was in Tom’s mouth where it quickly found its way into the back of the other man’s throat.
When the deed was done, Jim pulled his tongue out and released his grip. Tom slumped to the ground gagging.
“What… did… you…?” Tom gasped.
“It’s how they breed,” Jim said. “It’ll grow quickly and take control of your body. Within three days it will have reached adult size and will then lay its eggs. Once they hatch, the young will feed on you, gaining what nourishment they need. At maturation, they will exit your body and travel to their underground home while I serve as the carrier to find more hosts.”
Tom struggled to speak but quickly fell unconscious.
“It’s not so bad,” Jim said. “They allow us to carry on with our lives as long as we don’t put them at risk. If we do something they don’t want us to do, they simply take control and don’t allow it.”
As if to reinforce his words, a tear formed, but before it could trickle down his cheek, it was absorbed back into his eye.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2016 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
The elevator lurches to a stop on the fifth floor and the orderly leads me out as the doors swish open. It’s always quiet up here. The carpeted floors, potted plants and framed paintings on the walls almost make you forget that you’re in a mental institution.
Dr. Quill’s office is the last door on the left at the far end of the hall. Harold guides me down; his hand gently gripping my elbow. In the five-plus years I’ve been here, the orderly has always been decent to me.
We stop in front of Dr. Quill’s door.
There are nice, stained-wood doors up here, while we’re stuck with steel ones painted a sterilizing grey.
Harold checks his watch and at precisely 4:00pm, he knocks.
“Come in, please.” Dr. Quill’s voice is faint and gentle.
Harold turns the knob and pushes the door open.
Dr. Quill’s windowless office appears smaller than it actually is thanks to four large book shelves that dominate the far wall. Each shelf is lined with expensive looking medical encyclopedias and I wonder if he’s even read one of them. There are two fake potted plants in the corners to my left and right.
The good doctor is standing behind his desk, smiling.
“Good afternoon, Xavier,” he says.
Dr. Quill nods to Harold who turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
“Have a seat,” Dr. Quill says, gesturing to the single chair in front of his desk.
I take him up on his offer and sit. The chair has always been surprisingly comfortable.
“How are you feeling today, Xavier?” he asks, pulling his chair closer by the arm rests. A yellow pad of lined paper sits on his desk with his expensive pens. He takes the cap off one of them and holds the pen in his hand, ready to write.
I smile. “Fantastic.”
“And why is that?”
“Today is the day that all of this ends.”
He begins scrawling his notes on the pad. “All of what ends, Xavier? Our sessions?”
More scrawls. “What time will this occur?”
Dr. Quill stops writing and looks at his watch, then back up at me. His glasses are resting on the end of his nose and he has to tilt his head down to look over them at me. “That’s a precise time… and so soon.”
“He’s waited long enough and sees no point in delaying his arrival any longer.”
“You are referring to…”
“So Sredna is coming at 4:09?”
I nod. “I’ve told you all about him week in and week out for the last five years. I’ve been his conduit and you still don’t believe that he exists, do you?”
“He’s real to you.”
I giggle. “Very soon he will be real to you too, Doc.”
“What will happen when he gets here?”
“He will eat our reality.”
“You say it so matter-of-fact.”
“It’s what he does.”
Dr. Quill writes some more in his notes and is about to speak when he hears it.
A low hum that’s very faint but we both register it. My fillings begin to tingle and my heart beats faster.
He is coming.
A high-pitched shriek cuts through the air and all of the light bulbs explode in a shower of sparks. Dr. Quill jumps back, letting out a cry of surprise as the entire room is thrown into blackness.
“Don’t worry, Xavier. The emergency lights will kick in any minute.”
His voice is muffled and seems far away. I cannot see him anymore in this blackness.
The blackness is moving, almost wriggling with no distinct shape.
I notice my skin is burning. The pain is excruciating yet I don’t scream as Sredna fills my mouth, rendering it useless. My skin dissolves, exposing muscle tissue and it too is quickly eaten away.
In what I can only guess to be a matter of seconds, the burning subsides and then…
…there is nothing.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2015 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
George Sutherland followed Francine McKenna farther into the forest. His interest in Sasquatch had led him to join the Nova Scotia Bigfoot Hunters Society. When he met the group’s leader Francine, however, his priority instantly became to get into her pants. When she asked him to go with her on a short overnight expedition, he saw it as good a chance as any.
Only one tent for the two of them.
“Come on,” Francine said, looking over her shoulder. “Pick up the pace back there.”
Her red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and although her cheeks were red from the excursion through the woods, George could still see her freckles. He couldn’t help but smile.
“Easy for you to say,” George said adjusting his backpack straps. “I’m the one carrying all of the heavy shit.”
“I can give you the lighter one if that one is too heavy for you. I bet the rest of the group would love to hear about that.”
George made a face but increased his speed, trying to catch up to her.
Clouds were slowly overtaking the blue sky that had been present earlier in the morning when they parked on the side of the logging road and ventured into the woods. Some blue jays chirping in the trees suddenly darted out, catching George’s attention. He didn’t see his boot catch the exposed root and fell forward with the weight of the backpack forcing him to the ground.
Francine laughed. “Are you okay?”
“Fuck sakes,” George said, pushing himself off the ground. “Where is the rest of the team anyways?”
“Matt and Ryder had to work and Beverly’s out of town visiting family. They’re going to regret not coming out on this one.”
“So exactly why are we out here? Why this particular area?”
Francine looked at him. “You mean besides living up to the NSBHS’s name?” She took out her cellphone, opened some files and handed it to George. “An old friend of mine, Bryan who works as a harvester for Triple L Lumber, sent me these photographs.”
The first few photos George flipped through consisted of large footprints in the ground and at the end were shots of reddish-brown fur snagged on tree branches.
“Those pictures were taken by different employees all within this eighty hectare plot,” Francine said. “They all reported experiencing a strong, foul odor like a combination of a skunk and wet dog as well as hearing loud grunts and sticks banging against trees. All classic evidence of Bigfoot.”
George frowned. “I know that I’m still relatively new to the group but we get dozens of emails from people with pictures like this, claiming to have seen Bigfoot. What makes these more special or significant?”
“There’s also been some other strange things going on up here. If you scroll to the end of the photos, you’ll see one that’s not related to Sasquatch at all.”
George found the photo she was referring to and looked at it.
There were four impressions in all, with two distinct prints. The first set was the smaller of the two with what looked like three knuckles side by side. The larger ones also had three knuckles and were further out to the sides. They also had small indentations that resembled bear claws.
“It kind of looks like whatever made these was running,” George said. He handed the phone back to Francine. “The way they are laid out reminds me of the way a gorilla runs.”
George undid his backpack straps and slid them off his shoulders.
He squatted down and then pushed off with his knuckles, landing on his feet and repeated for a few feet so Francine could see what he meant. She looked at the pictures, then at the slight impressions George had made in the ground and back to her phone.
“I can see it,” she said. “If we can find more evidence of this we may have something new for the cryptozoology books.”
It was sore from the struggle its previous prey had put up.
Unable to see, it relied on its sharp sense of smell that was still filled with the skunk-like smell of its previous meal. It was about to move on when it picked up on something else.
The smell was faint but recognizable.
They trudged on, venturing deeper into the forest. The air was cool, yet humid, as summer was refusing to hand its reigns over to autumn.
“I’ve always enjoyed the smells of the woods,” Francine said. “It smells alive.”
“The bugs have always kept me away from walking amongst the trees,” George said. “Fucking things.”
“They don’t seem to be too bad now.”
George realized that he hadn’t heard the high-pitched buzzing in his ear for a while. He also noticed that the birds didn’t seem to be chirping either.
“Why is it so quiet?” George asked.
Francine looked at him, listened and shrugged with little concern for the silence.
They walked on and in the pit of his stomach, George thought it felt wrong. He opened his mouth to mention it but didn’t want to ruin his chances.
The trees started to thin out, which George was thankful for as it made walking easier. Eventually, they entered a clearing and were immediately hit by a strong stink.
“Holy shit, what the hell is that…?” George said covering his nose with his hand.
“It kind of smells like a skunk,” George said.
He looked at Francine and even though the smell was bothering her, she seemed to get excited.
“Sasquatch is reported to have a skunk-like smell,” she said.
“Or it could just be a skunk.”
“No, this is different. It’s really thick and… it does seem to have a wet dog scent to it.”
Although he smelled it too, George shook his head. “To me it still smells like a skunk, possibly a dead one, but a skunk nonetheless.”
“Let’s go find the source,” Francine said.
The clearing was roughly the size of a football field. An assortment of bushes had sprung up sporadically with a few small spruce trees here and there amongst the tall grass.
George started after her and immediately felt his body break out in goose bumps. He stopped and looked around. Something about the clearing made him feel very uneasy.
“Maybe we should…”
He was cut off by Francine yelling with excitement in her voice.
“Oh my God! George, get your ass over here! Hurry!”
She was standing near the far tree line, waving her arms frantically.
“Did you find the skunk?” George asked as he got closer.
Near the edge of the clearing was a body lying on its back, its arms jutting straight out to the side. It was covered in reddish-brown fur that fluttered in a gentle breeze except for the face, which was clean shaven. The eyelids were open slightly but the eyes had rolled back into its head with a wide, flat nose sitting just below them. Its mouth was slightly agape, showing yellowed teeth.
The body of a Sasquatch.
It could tell it was getting closer; the human scent was everywhere. Very faintly, it could hear their voices.
Its pace quickened.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” George said.
“Do you know what this means?” Francine asked. “Get the camera out.”
“I still don’t believe what I’m seeing.”
“You can don’t believe all you want later.” Francine slipped the backpack off her shoulders. “Get the camera out and start shooting!”
George’s eyes, and brain, were still trying to comprehend exactly what they had stumbled across. He removed his backpack and let it fall to the ground hard.
“Hey, come on. Pay attention to what you’re doing.” She took her cellphone out of her backpack and began dialing.
“I’m going to give the rest of the team a call.”
George squatted down and began unzipping his backpack, but didn’t take his eyes off of the body. It was well over nine feet and the beast’s frame looked powerful.
His hands found the camera and he pulled it out. He turned it on, shifted his eyes from the body to the LCD screen and began taking pictures.
“Damn it,” Francine said. “I can’t get a signal out here.”
As he walked closer to the body, George zoomed in on the Sasquatch’s arms and noticed a puncture wound on each one. The fur and skin seemed to have been pushed to the sides. A hole, roughly the diameter of a pencil, penetrated through the tissue underneath.
“I really can’t believe that this is lying right in front of us,” Francine said. She knelt down beside the Sasquatch and held her hand out, hesitating to touch it. “This is incredible.”
As he took a few more pictures, George noticed the ground around the body was beaten down. A lot of the tall grass had been broken, as if it buckled underneath something heavy. Scattered around the ground were clumps of the Sasquatch’s fur.
To him, it looked like a fight had taken place.
George lowered the camera and looked at her. “It doesn’t look like it died from natural causes.”
Francine met his gaze for a moment then looked around at the surroundings. “I think you might be right.”
“So what killed it?”
It could tell it was near the clearing due to the trees’ smells fading into nothing more than background scents. The other odor was still there.
There were two human scents, a male and female, both of them nearby.
Despite its previous meal not too long ago, it was ravenous.
It entered the clearing.
“Does Bigfoot have any natural predators?”
“I’m not really sure,” Francine replied. “But, if I had to give an answer, I would say no.”
“So, I’ll ask again. What killed it?”
They both thought back to the strange tracks in the picture on Francine’s phone.
“Do you think those tracks are part of it?” Francine asked.
George opened his mouth to answer but saw Francine’s eyes open wide in fear.
Something slammed into him and tackled him to the ground, landing on his stomach. George struggled to turn over but he felt a sting in his back; within seconds a toxin entered his bloodstream, paralyzing him. Although he could not move, George’s head remained facing Francine’s direction.
The thing that tackled him was already making its way towards her. It was hairless and running just as he had acted out earlier: running on its knuckles with its fingers curled underneath, like a gorilla.
Francine screamed and ran. The creature, however, was too fast and tackled her to the ground. Two stingers shot out of its palms into her back, just beneath her shoulder blades.
When she stopped moving, it turned its head to George.
There were no eyes; only nostrils constantly flaring and a mouth running vertically up its face. A large plate-like feature jutted out along its back, protecting most of the torso.
The creature began dragging her back to where George was lying. It released her and using the claws on its hands, cut into her forearm. George watched as it dug its hook-like teeth into her flesh and then the mouth opened, tearing tissue away from the bone. A penetrating sheath shot out of its mouth into the bone and it began to ingest Francine’s marrow.
George could only watch and wait, knowing that once it finished with her it would come for him.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2015 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
His left arm hung from its socket, the blood running from deep gashes down its length, dripping off his fingers in a steady stream and collecting in a pool on the ground next to his foot. Hunched over, tired, with labored breathing, he still held his axe tightly in his right hand. Blonde hair, caked in dirt, sweat and blood, hung in front of his hardened face covering blue eyes that had yet to concede defeat.
With a Viking’s defiance, Anders Randalson looked into the eyes of his opponent.
Wolf like and taller than the average man, the creature was made in the very image of Fenrir.
The beast was not without its own battle scars. A deep cut ran from its right ear down the face, narrowly missing its right eye and ending at the snout; its torso decorated with lacerations and contusions.
“You have fought bravely, Norseman,” the beast hissed, foam dripping from its parched and thirsty lips. “It is over, though. Accept your fate and I will make it quick.” It swallowed hard before continuing. “The Valkyries are here to take you to Valhalla.”
Anders let his eyes depart from the beast to take in his surroundings. Bodies littered the coastal plains, with the earth itself a crimson brown thanks to the liters of spilled blood. The trees that sporadically grew from the ground were bare and void of any vegetation, almost serving as markers of the fallen.
A caw caught Anders’ attention and he looked up to see two ravens land on top of one of the dead trees.
“They aren’t here,” Anders said, returning his gaze to the Son of Fenrir. “Not yet.” He grinned as he readied his axe, preparing for another clash.
The beast hesitated briefly, sighed, and quickly regained its composure. It smiled, baring dozens of razor sharp teeth. A guttural sound rumbled from deep inside its throat, erupting into an ear-splitting howl of rage as the two combatants charged towards one another with death on the line.
Anders raised his axe and swung it towards the beast’s head but his opponent was quicker. It dodged the axe’s blade and raked its claws along the side of Anders’ chain mail, slicing his skin underneath. The beast snapped at Anders’ face with its enormous mouth, its breath hot and foul on Anders’ skin, just missing him by inches.
Seizing an opportunity, Anders head butted the beast between its eyes and managed to strike it in the jaw with the blunt edge of his axe.
The Son of Fenrir roared in pain and anger, jumping out of the way at the last second as Anders tried to split its skull.
Wincing as the fresh cuts on his side burned, Anders could feel his strength draining with each labored breath.
“Look around you, Norseman,” the Son of Fenrir taunted, slowly circling him. “I can bring the end about quick and painless. You have earned your spot in the Great Hall.”
The ravens flapped their wings and cawed again.
“Almost,” Anders replied.
In a sudden burst of power and quickness that caught Anders off guard, the beast charged, throwing its shoulder into Anders’ chest. The blow sent the wounded Viking sprawling onto his back. Before he could push himself up, the beast was upon him. It tore through his chainmail, driving its claws deep into his gut. Anders screamed as the beast maneuvered its hand around until it was able to grip the bottom of his ribcage.
“I gave you two chances for a quick death,” the Son of Fenrir snarled. In a motion that sent agony rippling through Anders’ body, the beast lifted the Viking into the air. “Now I will make you beg for death in such a manner that the All Father himself will be ashamed of you.” It lifted him higher and Anders rolled his head back as he screamed.
In one final surge of strength, Anders swung the axe with all he had, surprising the beast. It tried to dodge it but was too slow as the blade cut into the skull, lodging itself inside the beast’s head.
Howling, it ripped its hand, along with shreds of entrails, out from Anders’ stomach, dropping the Viking onto the ground.
The Son of Fenrir tried to grab the axe’s handle and pull it out, but the blade had been buried too deep. It staggered a few steps to the left then limped to the right. The beast’s breathing became shallow as it dropped to its knees. It turned its head and looked into Anders’ eyes one last time, then fell forward.
It did not move again.
Anders turned his attention to the grey sky and saw the ravens flying overhead. With a final caw, they acknowledged the fallen warrior as the Valkyries flew down to carry Anders home to Valhalla.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2015 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
I’m fourteen days, three hours and twenty seconds into the mission. So far the spacecraft has performed flawlessly, surpassing all expectations. It’s been rather comfortable as the capsule was designed with more room for the occupant than previous spacecraft.
When I was selected to be the commander of this mission, my wife got the biggest kick out of watching me jump around our little apartment with a big shit eating grin on my face. She said that…
…she said… why am I even bothering to mention her?
So is everybody else.
I should never have taken this assignment. Prior to the launch, the administrators had told me to say a proper goodbye to her as tensions were high with our rivals across the pond. The risk of nuclear exchange was at its greatest, even more so than during the Cuban crisis.
I didn’t take it seriously.
The officials were still going ahead with the launch and I treated it as business as usual. I cringe remembering my last words to her.
“Keep the steaks warm.”
I watched helplessly above it all as hundreds of nuclear missiles launched from their silos. Had it been a simulation, I would have described the mushroom clouds sprouting up from the impacts as mesmerizing; however, knowing each one signaled the eradication of civilization, I felt numb. My radio had gone silent after a partial scream was obliterated in a roar of static.
That all happened on the second day of the mission.
Through each window, I can see the planetoid carcass that was once Earth. It used to be a beautiful sight with shades of white, blue, green and brown; a source of wonder and full of life. Now it’s an inhospitable cancer, smothered with the unnatural, burning clouds.
I left my radio on over those twelve days but only empty static and the ghosts of my memories kept me company. I would have loved to hear another human voice – even if it had been the enemy.
I’ve just initiated my reentry procedure. Within minutes, my ship will fire its rockets one final time, propelling me back towards the nuclear polluted earth. When the moment comes to deploy the parachutes, I will simply sit back and enjoy the ride. I’d rather die in an impact crater on the earth’s surface than orbiting above it.
They fire right on cue and I feel the ship slowly descending into the atmosphere.
“Can anybody… me?” The voice crackles through my headset. “My name is…” A burst of static hisses then fades. “If anyone can hear me, please acknowledge…”
I lean forward to reply then stop. There’s no way I can interrupt the reentry procedure. Even if I could, what would be the point? As the flames begin to engulf the outside of my ship, I turn the radio off and lean back into my seat. There’s no reason to give him a false sense of hope.
Sorry buddy. You’re on your own.
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2015 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved
Ed Rutledge hugged his rifle under his right arm as he adjusted his toque with his left. The early morning hours were always cold this time of year and the fact that it was the Annual Hunt just made it that much worse.
He was glad that he wasn’t facing the task alone, though. John Glasgow and Christian Stevenson were on either side of him as they made their way through the empty streets of Emmettsville.
“What time is it?”
John looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. We still have three and a half hours to go before dawn.”
“Good,” Christian said. “Three and a half hours to kill this fucker.”
It was his eighth time participating in the hunt and the forty-nine year old welder had become something of a legend around Emmettsville when just five years earlier he had successfully killed the first werewolf, Terry Indigo. He should’ve felt proud of the accomplishment, but he knew the feeling would be short lived as there would be a new werewolf to hunt the following year.
“There’s something that never ceases to amaze me,” Ed said. “Even though everyone in town is told to go to the church hall to wait out the hunt, the werewolf always manages to kill a few every year.”
“I wish a lot more people would leave their lights on,” John said. “These old street lamps create more shadows than they cut through.”
“There are two things I hate about the hunt,” Christian said. “The fact we’re not allowed to shoot the werewolf in human form or while it’s changing and that the werewolf has to bite someone every year.”
“The bite guarantees that there will be a hunt the following year if the hunters are successful,” Ed said. “Plus you never know what can happen between hunts. You two are aware that Brendon Jenkins has been the wolf for the last five years, correct?”
Both men nodded.
“Shortly after the hunt last year, Brendon got diagnosed with cancer and they only gave him six to eight months to live. He’s lasted twelve. I would say either way that this will be his last hunt.”
“Who was it last year?” John asked. “I mean, who got bit?”
“Carly Fortner,” Ed replied. “She was only fourteen.”
Christian shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe he chose to bite a fourteen year old girl.”
The three hunters walked in silence as they remembered how Carly had been found crying with a large bite in her shoulder, knowing her fate had been sealed.
“That doesn’t mean that she’ll be the next one though,” John said. “Remember, Todd Charleston had been bitten in the second year of the hunt. He still hasn’t assumed his role. Strange how the disease or whatever it is only allows one person to change in a given area at one time. Why do you think that is?”
Christian shrugged and was about to say something when Ed held his arms out, stopping them. All three immediately brought their rifles up to the shoulders and looked about.
“What is it?” John whispered.
“There’s blood on the road.”
Ed walked up to the small accumulation of blood, knelt down and stuck two fingers into it. As he turned his hand over to look at his fingertips, he cringed. Even though he had seen his fair share of bodies over the years during the hunt, feeling someone else’s blood on his skin never got easy.
“It’s still warm,” he said, wiping his fingers on his pants.
“Is it a trail?” John asked.
“No. It’s a small pool but, it was left here deliberately. He’s close so keep your eyes open.”
Christian let his rifle drift down from his shoulder a bit as he looked at Ed. “Did you say it was deliberate?”
“Why would it…”
The attack happened incredibly fast. It leapt out of the shadows with a snarl and tackled Christian onto the pavement. Even in the shitty streetlight, the werewolf was an impressive and horrifying sight. Underneath the dark brown coat of fur was a six and a half foot muscular frame built to hunt man.
It easily bit through Christian’s shirt into his flesh.
John fired off a shot but not surprisingly missed. The werewolf howled as it sprung off Christian and disappeared into the shadows on the other side of the street. Within seconds, they heard it crash through branches into the woods.
Christian screamed, clutching his torn shoulder. “It fucking bit me!”
Ed and John both knelt down beside their injured friend but he turned away their assistance.
“I know how to take care of myself. Go kill that fucking thing!”
Without hesitating, Ed was on his feet and running. On the way by, he grabbed John by the back of his shirt, yanking him along towards the dark tree line.
Somewhere in the distance, the werewolf howled.
It felt like they had been going in circles for a couple of hours. John was breathing heavy and Ed knew that his friend was tired. The adrenalin from the attack had worn off long ago, and now they were barely able to keep on the werewolf’s trail.
“Ed,” John said between breaths. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said earlier… about Brendon being sick.”
“What about it?”
“Well, what do you think a disease such as that would do to a werewolf?”
Another howl pierced the night.
“Have you been listening to the howls?” John asked, looking around. “They don’t sound as strong or vocal as they did earlier in the night.” The werewolf cried out again. “Ed, to me the howls sound weak… almost as if the werewolf is sick.”
Ed thought for a moment. What his friend was saying sounded plausible – if the cancer did transfer over, how would it affect it?
“You might be on to something. What do you say we end this one?”
John sighed, nodded and pushed off from the tree.
They pressed on but had only walked another twenty minutes when they heard another howl that was quickly cut off by a high-pitched whine intertwined with pain.
The sounds were close by.
John looked over at Ed, clearly unnerved.
“What the hell is that?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” Ed replied.
The whining continued as they moved forward with their rifles repositioned for firing at a moment’s notice. Within a few minutes, the trees thinned out as they approached the area where the sound originated. They stepped into a small clearing and stopped with their mouths agape.
It was lying on its side.
The beast was convulsing as if it were suffering a seizure, it wasn’t completely transformed. Its lower extremities resembled a wolf’s hind haunches but the fur on its torso had started to rip, human skin pushing its way through. Partially formed hands twitched uncontrollably at the end of human arms.
“Oh my god, look at its face,” John managed to say before he threw up.
The head was a misshapen mess that reminded Ed of the bizarre animal fetuses he had seen in the freak show of last summer’s carnival – half Brendon, half wolf. Inside its malformed mouth, a tongue rolled and lapped up against its snout.
He cautiously approached and the beast tried to squirm away, but the tremors had eliminated any ability to control its movement. One golden wolf eye, along with Brendon’s own blue eye, stared back as he tried to come to grips with what he was looking at.
With a deep breath, Ed raised his rifle and fired twice into its head. Within seconds, the body lay still.
“Ed, what happened to it?” John asked. He stared long and hard at the misshapen corpse.
“It couldn’t change.”
John looked up to the sky and then at his watch. “It’s still not sunrise, so why would it be changing?”
Ed took his hat off and ran his hand over his balding head. “Maybe it was sick like you said.”
“Do you really think the cancer could interfere with a werewolf changing?”
Ed shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“This is fucked up,” John bent at the waist and placed his hands on his knees preparing for another round of vomiting. “Did you see its eyes?”
“Yes I did.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget those.”
“Neither will I,” Ed said as he watched John look over at the body and then back at him. “The wolf eye wanted me dead but its human eye…” Ed swallowed. “Brendon’s eye was pleading… pleading for me to kill him.”
“Oh my god…” John trailed off.
“You know, when I shot and killed the werewolf a few years ago, I had killed in the course of the hunt. I felt justified and like a hero.” Ed placed his hat back on his head and looked at the body. “This time, I feel like a murderer.”
~ Jon Olson
© Copyright 2015 Jon Olson. All Rights Reserved