The Monster Man

The monster was shaped like a man. Its chitinous skin turned knives, deflected bullets. Its terrible strength hurled people against walls with bone-breaking force, ripped limbs from sockets, sheared its human teeth through muscle and bone and swallowed. It killed and ate indiscriminately. The terror brought martial law down on the city. The city protested, and the government fought its people more than its declared enemy.

#

In an abandoned train tunnel, a man lay naked in a pool of sweat. He vomited something pinkish red. Sick, moaning, he picked the splintered bone of a human finger from his emesis. Struggling to his feet, he threw the bone and screamed, and slipped to the wet concrete. Disjointed memories struck him: breaking a soldier’s leg bare-handed; stomping a woman’s head against pavement; biting through a child’s hand and swallowing.

Tears mixed with the bloody vomit. Tucking his knees to his chest, he sobbed without rest. Finally drained of tears, he lifted his dispenser: half empty. He lifted his arm to hurl it, shatter it, but couldn’t. Weeping again, he took his dose and waited for his skin to harden, his muscles to tighten, and for the monster to rescue him.

Regrets

“Your parents didn’t die of natural causes.” That would be scary even if the man speaking hadn’t been somehow waiting for Janet in her house and bleeding. Except that her parents were living in Florida. If you can call that living.

“What?” she said.

“If my parents had been taken from me, I’d want to know how they died. I’d want to know why.”

“Well, yeah,” said Janet. “That sounds reasonable, I guess.”

“I’d want to know it wasn’t an accidental gas leak.”

Janet’s mom hadn’t shut up about their solar heating in five years and hated gas stoves. “Look,” she said, “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I rigged the gas,” he said. “I’m sorry. It was about money, but I wasn’t in control. I--.” Janet got out her phone. “Wait, don’t call--”

“Wait a sec.” Janet made a call. “Hi, yeah. No, don’t, just. Listen, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.” She tossed the phone over. “It’s my mother.”

He caught the phone, paused, then hung up. “Adopted?”

“I have his nose and her boobs.”

“Is this... 1272 21st Street?

“East or west 21st?” asked Janet.

He was gone before her mom could call back.

It Matters Anyway

The glob of spit arced into the coffin. Kate almost couldn’t believe she’d just seen that. She looked around. Mom was looking down into her lap. Brother Ted was across the room talking to a cousin. And this chubby forty-something had just spit on Kate’s father and was walking away. She smoothed out her black skirt and followed him outside. Kate caught up with him halfway across the parking lot. Her tap on the shoulder turned him, and then her fist in the gut bent him over. She pushed him back against a minivan.

“What the fuck was that about?” she said.

“Gak,” he said. He regained his breath just in time for her to hit him again.

“What makes you think you can walk into my dad’s funeral and spit on him? Fucking spit on him!”

“Jesus,” he croaked, “Stop hitting me.”

Kate stared hate at him.

“Your dad,” he said, “abused me as a kid. I hope he’s in hell.”

Pieces fit together in Kate’s mind. Volunteer activities. Time spent mentoring. Time spent alone.

She hit him again, then slammed his head against the car. “You’re a fucking liar. Get out of here before I hurt you.”

Three-Sentence Story

Chuck Wendig occasionally posts flash fiction challenges. And by occasionally, I mean every Friday. Sometimes I participate. This week's is a three-sentence story:  

In a rage he hit her, and she gave her consent. She wanted to repeat it; he wanted to repent. He could only see the damage, and not see what it meant.

Rubber Band Man

I was enjoying my morning coffee in my morning coffeeshop. “Mind if I join you?” He gestured at an empty seat, and before I could say yes, I mind, he sat. Completely unremarkable, except for a razor-bright smile of ruler-straight white teeth.

“Have you ever rolled rubber bands,” he asked.

I should have said nothing. I said, “What?”

“You roll a rubber band between your fingers,” he said. He produced a rubber band and demonstrated. “Halfway, and it’s inside out. A full roll, and it’s exactly the same as it was before. The rubber band’s own infinity.”

“Uh,” I said.

He leaned forward. “It’s not just rubber bands,” he whispered. “Everything has its own infinity, and its own half roll, where it’s something different.” He leaned back. “What would you do if you saw that was true?”

“Probably,” I said, standing to leave, “Walk the other way.”

#

The next day, I was enjoying my morning coffee in my morning coffeeshop when I saw her. Completely unremarkable except for a too-bright smile of too-straight teeth.

And I did. I got up and left, and never saw that smile again. But I never stopped looking, just in case.

Like Stars

She never looked at the missiles anymore. They hung over the city like stars, frozen in place. Not that she saw stars anymore. Over the last few months - as she counted time - she’d started looking at people instead of the missiles. She found him in Central Park. He was too young for her, but she couldn’t make herself care. His knowing smile as he held his middle finger up to the missiles made her love him.

After that, she ate her lunch sitting next to him, watching him defy his doom. She thought of him often. His smile occupied her while she cannibalized the city for gear; his amused anger haunted her while she jury-rigged that gear into the machines keeping time frozen for another day.

More than once she almost brought him into her time frame. If he were cowering, wishing not to die, she could give him that. But she refused to rob him of his satisfied defiance, or to lose the person she imagined.

One morning - morning to her - she sat beside him, and waited. Soon, the machines would fail, and she could live again. Not long enough to see the stars again, but long enough.

The Hangin' Tree

“Hold up, Ted. The tree’s too low for a hangin’.” Ted caught up with Abe out of the mist. “When’d it bend over like that? Dint you hang Iverson here last week?”

“He did,” said Ben, joining them, hauling a hogtied Brekhus behind him. And Sam hanged Loberg day after that.”

“Huh,” said Ted. “I missed that one.” He turned back to the tree. “Well, we can’t hang ‘im on this. Something happen when Loberg hanged?”

“Nope,” said Abe. “Anyone get hanged after last Tuesday?”

“Don’t think so,” said Ted.

“No way,” said Ben.

“Then what we gonna do?” said Ted.

“You could let me go,” said Brekhus.

“Shu’up,” said Ben. Without looking away from the tree, he kicked at Brekhus but barely tapped the man. “We voted, an’ yer t’ be hanged.”

“It ain’t fair,” said Brekhus.

“Course it’s fair,” said Ted, “It’s democracy. Everone gets t’ vote, and we voted for hangin’. Majority won by a show o’ hands.”

“So what’s wrong with th’ hangin’ tree?” said Abe.

“Is it sick?” said Ben.

“’S not right to kill a man just ‘cause of a vote.”

“Don’t think it’s sick. Don’t know a bug that’ll bend a tree over like that in a week,” said Abe.

“’S th’ will o’ th’ people, Brekhus,” said Ted. “It’s fer th’ greater good, and if you felt diff’rnt you shoulda got more folks t’ vote yer way.”

“Look fer marks,” Abe gestured Ben at the branches. “Maybe somebody hitched it up and pulled fer some reason. I’ll look at the roots.”

“Ain’t enough of us t’ vote my way,” said Brekhus. “Y’all outnumber us three t’ two or so. An’ it’ll be two t’ one soon if you keep hangin’ us.”

“Looks fine here,” said Ben.

“Maybe y’all should go somewhere you ain’t outnumbered, then,” said Ted.

“Nothing bad at the roots, either,” said Abe.

“Don’t matter, I guess,” said Ben. “Let’s find another tree.”

“Izzat it?” said Brekhus, “Yer just tryin’ t’ get ridda us. Why not vote fer us t’ move, then?”

“Hey,” said Abe.

“Can’t make a man keep walkin’,” said Ted. “But y’ can stop him from walkin’.”

“Hey, guys,” said Abe.

“What?” Ted turned away from Brekhus.

“Lookit this tree.”

It was about ten feet away, the next closest volunteer to hold a rope.

“Why?” said Ben. “Can’t hang a man from that one either.”

“Was it bent like that when we came by?” said Abe.

“Whaddaya mean?” said Ted.

“I mean, I don’t think that tree was bent over when we came by this way.”

“I dunno,” said Ted. “It’s hard t’ see in this fog.”

“A tree don’t just bow over like that,” said Ben.

“I know that,” said Abe. “I just tol’ ya there ain’t no way to bend a tree in a week, and now you’re telling me it don’t happen in five minutes. I know that.”

“Okay, Jesus,” said Ben.

“So was it?” said Abe.

They stared for a few heartbeats.

“Probably,” said Ted.

“Probably?” said Abe.

“Well, I think so.”

“Me too,” said Ben.

Abe whuffed. “Maybe. Maybe it was. Well, fine,” he turned to the others. “There!”

They turned and looked.

“That tree was not bent over like that. We were all lookin’ at this tree here, no way we’d miss that one bein’ all bent up.”

“You’re right, Abe,” said Ted.

“Yeah, that’s weird,” said Ben.

“I think,” said Brekhus, “that y’all are missin’ somethin’.”

Ted turned to say something, but his jaw dropped open as he saw the many bent trees, looming out of the mist behind Brekhus. Ben and Abe muttered muttered curses as they saw the same, and more: trees all around them had bent double sometime when no one was looking. Hangman’s knots hung from several branches almost to the ground, remnants of previous hangings.

“Are they... are they closer than before?” said Ben.

“...No?” said Abe.

“Yeah,” said Ted.

“What’s goin’ on?” said Ben.

The hangin’ tree rustled, and the men that could jump jumped. Then all the other trees rustled.

“It’s... a breeze,” said Ted.

“Course,” said Ben.

“That went out from the middle?” said Abe. “That--”

More rustling cut him off, this time from a tree off to the side. And then trees rustled all around them. And then the hangin’ tree rustled again, all by itself.

“This ain’t possible,” said Ben.

Just a bit more than half the trees straightened to full height. Every tree trailing a rope straightened, lifting the nooses to hang a dozen feet in the air.

“What th’ hell,” said Abe, and then he froze as a tree bent over him and a noose settled around his neck. Abe and Ben were in the same spot.

“Did they just... take a vote?” said Ted.

All the trees were bowed over again, and the hangin’ tree rustled alone.

Brekhus said, “Maybe they did,” and his voice was high with fright, “and I think they’re about to take another.” He gulped. “By a show of hands.”

The trees straightened.