Evil Jester Digest, Vol.1 (8 page)

More hands grabbed at her clothing, twisting the fabric into tattered shreds. They snatched her hair, pulling strands out by the roots. One gripped her throat, wrenching her face toward the earth.

Dara raised the gun. Shaking hands aimed the muzzle at Kevin and squeezed the trigger.

The Ruger roared once, twice, before ancient teeth bit down on Dara’s wrist. She dropped the weapon. Bullets ricocheted, deflected by wood and stone.

Blood sprayed as a rusted knife ripped through Kevin’s thigh, then a second through the right side of his chest, and still he screamed. Terrible, tortured sounds. Two pre-Columbian warriors stepped from behind the tree and retrieved their weapons.

Flesh hung in tattered rags, fluttering around their limbs. Mouths still full of stained teeth opened in rictus laughter. Bone rasped against bone with each stuttering step. Sleeveless tunics, more hole than fabric, stuck to ribs in large, wet spots while cloaks, tied at the neck, drifted lifeless behind. Moldy leather boots thumped against the earth, sounding a cannibalistic cadence.

They strode toward Susan, blades raised. The girl had nowhere to run.

Helpless tears, hot and salty, poured down Dara’s cheeks. They washed away dirt and grime, love and life and happiness. Her chest ached with guilt, anger, and sorrow as sobs tore free. She gulped great breaths of air.

Kevin’s eyes bulged then popped free. Nerves dangled them against his cheeks. Fleshy worms with grapnels lining their underbellies burst from the sockets, waving fat, white bodies in newfound freedom for a moment. Their tiny hooks tore at Kevin’s eyelids as the worms pulled free, crawling toward his chest. Blood flowed. And still he screamed. Dara tried to cover her ears, but she could not raise her hands. The very voice that had saved her sanity just two days ago now drove her crazy.

His screams stopped and Kevin hung limp, head lolling. All tortured cries ended. Silence reigned for precious seconds.

Then the ground split in a raw, ugly wound in front of Dara. Leathery tentacles slid out, searching, flailing, grabbing whatever came within reach. A thick, sandpapery scraping grew louder. Names filled Dara’s head, buzzing with intensity. Odd names, ones with too many consonants and not enough vowels to be human. Names like
Ghisguth, Naggoob, Snireth-ko and Yhoundeh.
There were more, hundreds, perhaps thousands, all speaking and screaming at once, desperate to be heard, needing to be recognized, wanting to be welcomed, to be embraced as they had before.

Dara fought against the skeletal hands holding her. Bone snapped and cracked. Shards flew, imbedding themselves in earth and wood. The last hold broke.

She ran before even trying to stand, an awkward skittering, pushing, pulling movement that carried her toward Kevin.

The jungle shifted again—changing, growing, moving. Moaning came from within the trees themselves. An overhead branch broke as it slammed into another, spraying Dara with more blood. The tree bellowed as the campfire flared again, this time igniting some of the tumbling, squirming vines. Smoke rose dense and acrid, filling the air as green plants smoldered and writhed.

Another figure appeared and blocked her path.

Dara skidded to a halt, legs splayed for balance. The mummified apparition shambled toward her.

Clay crumbled and fell from the skull. Firelight glittered off bean clam shells covering eye sockets. Blood and fur clung to its mouth and chest. It dragged a mutilated, panting guanaco.

Dara’s heart wrenched at the sight, and she cried out. Gulping sobs tore through the air, and dizziness tilted the world. She fell, landing hard on one hip and wrist. Pain lanced through her arm.

More unidentifiable creatures emerged from the open gash in the Earth, pulling themselves up with whatever appendages they had; some with huge claws, others with too many arms and hands, all moving within the smoke and fog like wraiths. A single bulging eye glared at Dara before fading. She heard chittering behind her, and jointed legs covered with coarse hair caressed her slick skin then pulled back.

Vaporous air swirled and churned in new patterns. A sinewy purple-red arm, veins standing up like cords, stretched out, fingerless tip testing the air. Thin tentacles unwound, adding to the thing’s length, and small suction cups shuddered, straining to move further. The tentacle pulsed and swelled as the suckers widened, searching for prey.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Suction cups gripped and released, gripped and released, sliding forward.

Dara watched, unable to turn her gaze, unable to move. Horrors surrounded her, then Hell itself stroked her body.

*****

Hollie Snider
is the Executive Editor for Hidden Thoughts Press and editor of the
Live and Let Undead
anthology from Twisted Library Press. She is a founding member of the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group and a member of the Horror Writer's Association, Broad Universe and the Wicked Women Writers. She is the owner of Swansong Editing, and has over 15 years of writing and freelance editing experience, has taught creative writing workshops, and has written several writing related articles.

Snider’s horror works tend toward the psychological, revenge, and twisted fairy tales. “Blood and guts can be scary,” she says, “if used to the story’s advantage. But I don’t think readers need anatomy lessons. Sometimes what isn’t exposed is more frightening.”

www.holliesnider.com

www.swansongediting.com

www.csfwg.org

DUST DEVIL

Gary Brandner

One minute Harry
Keyes was cruising along I-15 in bright sunshine. His pretty wife Laura dozed beside him, her head canted toward his shoulder. The air inside the classic Impala was a comfortable 71 degrees while outside the desert blistered in triple digits under an August sun. Harry tapped the steering wheel in time with the classic rock his radio picked up from a Barstow FM station. In a couple of hours he would be home in Santa Monica with winnings of three hundred Las Vegas dollars in his pants. He and Laura could enjoy a modest night on the town.

That was one minute. In the next a blast of wind hit the car like a fist, driving it toward the median strip of the Interstate. A grating hiss drowned out the sounds of Eric Clapton and the interior of the car went dark as an opaque brown wall cut visibility in all directions.

It took Harry’s brain a second to process the sensations and take him from
What the hell is this?
to
Oh shit, now we’re going to be late.

Laura jerked awake as her head bounced against his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Sandstorm.”

With his jaw clamped and eyes squeezed into slits Harry fought the Impala back to the right while the wind battered the car. He did not want to cross over into the eastbound lanes and be hit head on by another blinded motorist. He tried the headlights, but there was no effect. Every muscle tensed against the shattering collision he expected now from the rear.

After interminable seconds Harry felt the tires on the right side leave the pavement for rougher ground. He continued until all four wheels were on the more dirt surface. Here he hoped he would be out of the way of other traffic. Was there a ditch? What the hell, it didn’t matter now. He brought the Impala to a grinding stop, set the brake, and killed the engine.

Outside the sandblast continued without letup. This was going to cost him a paint job at the very least. Would his insurance cover it? Not likely. Kiss the Vegas money goodbye.

A fine dust filtered in as the car rocked from side to side. The temperature rose rapidly.

“How long is this going to last?” Laura said.

“How would I know?” he snapped. Then more gently, “I’ve never been in one of these before.”

Laura coughed and used a tissue to dab at the perspiration on her face.

“I guess we could keep the AC on,” he said. “I’ll set it so it uses only the interior air. Don’t want any more of the desert blowing in here.”

He started the engine. It made an unpleasant growling sound. The air conditioner came on and cooled the interior, but circulated the fine dust that was growing thicker and sifting into Harry’s eyes and nose.

The digital dash clock blinked once and went dark. Not a good sign.

“I wish it would stop,” Laura said.

Harry ground his teeth. They had a gritty feel. He checked his wristwatch. The hands pointed at five minutes to four. He held the watch up and squinted at the second hand. It pointed straight down at 6 and did not move. Could the abrasive dust have somehow got into the watch case?

He punched the radio from one end of the dial to the other. Nothing but crackling static. He and Laura looked at each other, their faces lit coldly by the dome light. Harry shook his head. Outside the gritty wind kept up its assault on the car.

Time passed. The fuel gage read a quarter full. The roar of the storm slackened a little. Harry leaned forward and peered through the windshield. He could see the sloping hood, once a shiny black, now scabrous gunmetal gray where the sand had ground away the paint. The wind eased, and the land became visible for some thirty feet around them.

“I think it’s stopping,” Harry said.

He banged the Impala into gear and started cautiously forward. “Now where is the damn highway?”

The car crawled ahead, and for the first time Harry wished he had splurged for a four-wheel drive vehicle. Useless in the city, but great in an emergency like this. A brown curtain of dust hung in the air. All around was dirty sand, rocks, and nothing that moved or lived.

“Where the hell
is
the highway?” Harry said again.

“Can’t you find it?” Laura said.

“Do you see it?”

“No. Don’t lose your temper.”

“I couldn’t have parked very far off the pavement. And the wind couldn’t have moved us. I just can’t see the damn Interstate. It’s probably covered with sand.”

He inched cautiously forward. The engine made a discordant grinding sound. “Don’t quit on me,” Harry told it.

Nothing outside gave him any clue. The Impala labored through the sand, complaining all the way.

“Are you going the right direction?” Laura asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t we have a compass or anything?”

“No. And what good would it do if we did?”

While the wind had lessened, it had not stopped, and bursts of grit continued to buffet the Impala. The engine screeched, coughed, and quit. Harry twisted the ignition key and let the starter grind until it barely muttered. He swore for a solid minute and pounded on the steering wheel.

“It’s not the car’s fault,” Laura said.

“I’ve got to hit something.”

“Harry, let’s try to be calm. We have enough to worry about.”

Without the air conditioner the temperature inside the car rose rapidly. Sweat trickled from Harry’s armpits and darkened his short-sleeved shirt. Breathing became difficult.

“We’re going to suffocate if we stay in here.” He pushed the door open and the full heat of the desert slammed him. A curtain of yellow dust hung in the air limiting his vision to a few yards in any direction. He made a tunnel of his hands and peered into the haze. “Now where the hell is the highway?”

Laura got out on her side and came around the car to join him.

“I can’t see anything,” she said.

“It’s got to be right here. I didn’t drive that far.”

He walked to the back of the car and peered in the other direction. “Hey.”

“What is it?” Laura said.

“Looks like headlights.”

Laura walked back and followed his gaze. Through the curtain of dust a pair of lights could be dimly seen. The lights bounced as they drew nearer, and the stranded couple could hear the grumble of an engine.

“It is headlights. Somebody’s coming.” They both stood behind the Chevy in the path of the oncoming lights and waved their arms.

The approaching car ground to a stop a few feet in front of them. It was an old, very old Ford. It was impossible to tell what the original color had been, so rusted and scraped was the finish. Harry figured it was pre-World War II. You don’t see many of those relics driving around, but Harry was damn glad to see this one. He walked to the driver’s side window and leaned down. The glass was too caked with dirt to see through. He rapped with one knuckle.

“Hello…hi, there.”

No response.

“Hey! We need some help here.”

The window creaked down about two inches. Harry could make out a pale oval in the darkness of the interior.

“I got off the Interstate when the sandstorm started, now I can’t even see the damn road.”

Squinting through the opening Harry saw the driver was a long, angular man in a wrinkled khaki jacket. He leaned away and opened the passenger side door.

Harry looked at his wife. “I guess he wants us to get in.”

Laura spoke quietly. “I don’t feel good about this.”

“I don’t think there’s any choice.” Harry led her around to the other side of the car. The door was open about six inches. It creaked angrily as he pulled it the rest of the way. A pale hand pushed the ragged seat forward toward the dash. All that could be seen of the driver was a long jaw with stubble like fungus. He wore a battered black fedora and a stained black pants.

With a last look at his wife, Harry climbed into the backseat. Laura followed.

They nearly gagged at the smell. The inside of this car had not been cleaned in a long time. It stank of grease and old meat and worse things. The couple settled uneasily on the torn upholstery.

“If you could just get us to the highway,” Harry said. “And if you have a phone I can call Triple-A.”

The driver jammed the Ford into low gear and turned right.

“Isn’t the Interstate in the other direction?” Harry said.