Friday, August 22, 2014

Evil Flash Challenge (Part Two)

Here is part II of the Scriptorium’s ode to all that is evil:

First up, Matthew Green:


There were two dead men in the cafe.

Plenty of living ones too, but my binoculars were on the walking corpses.  Sitting, in this instance, but I wasn’t going to split hairs.  I could hear Val breathing heavy over the mic, psyching herself up.  It was just the two of us, now.  Those things and their buddies in the government had got the rest of us.  Casey and Anna were dead.  Really dead, I made sure.  Kristoff and Meg had gotten arrested, and I don’t know if that was any better.  Hell, maybe it was worse.  The news calls them terrorists.

I wonder what’s going to happen to them in prison.

So it’s just me and Val and a box of Molotovs.  I hear Val suck up all the air and my muscles get tight.  Showtime.

I see a small spark in the alley next to the cafe.  A second later it flares up and I hear the crash of glass over the mic.  There’s a bright light in the alley now.  Fire’s spreading in front of the exit.

Then there’s Val, screaming something I can’t hear and tossing another Molotov into the cafe windows.  When it shatters it’s just like, waves of fire smashing up against the building.  That’s when the real screaming starts, and I know it’s not going to be anything compared to the screams when they discover there’s no way out.

One of the dead men, the bald one with horn-rimmed spectacles, backs away from the curtain of fire, his face stiffening in fear.  I smile to see a bloodsucker scared of us.  I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing that.

The other man, a tall black guy, doesn’t look that concerned.  Hell, his ~arm~ is on fire and he just rips the sleeve of his suit off like it’s toilet paper.  Underneath I can see bones and the slimy remains of flesh.  His expression doesn’t even change as he just takes this big step through the window, through the fire, and now he’s just this huge fucking flaming skeleton and he’s grabbing Val by the neck and oh god, I can hear him through the mic.

I’m running down the fire escape, jumping blindly and I can hardly believe I make it to the ground and he starts talking.  “Oh, how clever.  A radio.  I suppose you can serve another purpose, then.”  Val screams and it’s not like any scream I’ve heard a human make, like an animal, like….

The next few days are a blur.  I ditched my phone, I ditched the mic, I burned my wallet.  I’m out here in Rock Creek Park living under a fucking ~rock~ and it’s almost a relief when they catch up to me.

“Federal Marshals, son.”

“Did I get it?  Just tell me, did I get any of those

A sigh.  “You just pissed them off.  Killed a bunch of innocent folks, though.  Was it worth it?”

It was.


R.L. Wicke

When he closed his eyes, he could hear the survivors crying. Bribing. Lying. Opened them again to see wounds oozing, stomachs shrinking with hunger, pulses racing with desire and flattening out with boredom. Hungry, angry, lonely, tired; were any of them happy for longer than the time it took their orgasms to fade?

He hadn’t caused the plague that put the mass of humanity out of their misery. Not his style. He got off on happiness. Had been a junkie once, but smart enough to drop out of a losing game. Still did pot when he could get it but that was pretty rare on the east coast. Out west where he came from...

Where had he come from?

The past was pretty hazy. Mother and Father from somewhere north. There was a joke in there somewhere, but he’d forgotten the punchline. They’d put him on the road young. He had a mess of brothers, all turned out across the country, but all unsympathetic to his quest. He’d stayed with each one in turn. Gambled against one in Vegas, hitched a bike ride with another across Kansas plains. He’d met another in Memphis, and together they’d walked right through the brick wall that once kept the rabble out of Graceland. Messages of love scribbled in Sharpie on the crumbling bricks had faded nearly invisible.

Big fuck deal. Graffiti replaced by invasive vines. The Jungle Room was inhabited by real animals now. A decaying monument to another wasted life.

That brother, too, had been welcoming at first. Tried, with growing concern, to talk to him about rhythm and soul, then finally turned him away.

“The survivors,” his brother asked as they parted ways. “Why do you hate them?”

“Hate them? I, a survivor walking among them? I love them.”

“Then why this aim, brother, to chain and dominate them?”

He’d laughed. “You’re wrong about me, little bro. I love them better than all of you do. I won’t leave them hobbling in the snow on broken legs like cast out wolves. I will bind them together and teach them to fly.”


One of the survivors lay in his bed. Corn-silk hair. Nice hips. Eager to please. A pleasant, if empty-headed, companion before the jealousy had kicked in. But permanent? Hardly. His confidante, his consort, the mother of the king over men; she would understand how survivors thought, would feel how they felt, but also possess the grace and intelligence to rise above their weakness.

“I seek the Uber-wench,” he said. Chuckled. “Uber-wench. Get it?”

She didn’t laugh.

He threw the empty beer bottle at her head. It bounced off her mouth, twisting her lips crudely, landing on the quilted comforter. “Aw, don’t make a face, darling, it’ll freeze like that.”

She was beginning to stink. Leave her behind right now or toss her in the Olympic-sized algae farm under the hotel and keep the room another night?

Go. His gut said north, and the DARKNESS always listened to his gut.


Fiona Skye

When the phone rang at midnight, I knew it wouldn't be good news. Who phones at that hour, besides cops calling to say that there's been an accident and your loved one has been seriously hurt or even killed? The Publisher's Clearinghouse people never call you up at midnight to tell you that they're on your front porch with one of those ridiculously over-sized checks made out for millions of dollars and it's got your name on it. The man of your dreams doesn't ever stop by at oh-dark-hundred to say, "Hey, this is crazy, but I'm desperately in love with you. Would you like to go to Denny's for coffee and a Grand Slam?"

I reluctantly answered the phone, knowing that I should just let the call go to voice mail. "Huh-lo," I mumbled half-coherently into the receiver, hoping that at least I wasn't holding the phone upside down.

"Lindsay?" It wasn't a voice I recognized, but the male caller had at least gotten my name correct. I sat up and rubbed bleary eyes.

"Yes, this is Lindsay. Who's this?"

"You are in serious danger." The man's voice was completely free of accent, pleasant to listen to but there was nothing that stood out as particularly remarkable. If it was a color, it would be beige.

I was stunned into silence. Then I started to get mad. This guy had interrupted a really nice dream about George Clooney and I on a beach in the French Riviera. "Who is this? Did Darlene put you up to this? I'm gonna kill her! Do you realize that it's –"

"You must believe me," the guy interrupted. "Haven't you noticed the black van following you? Or the men in black suits who are always present?"

I stopped for a moment and listened. Oh, my God. He was right. I had noticed a big black windowless van in my rear view mirror more than once in the past couple of weeks. I had even made a comment about it to my mother, saying something about it being a pedophile's car. She encouraged me to call the police and report it but I'd just shrugged it off as paranoia. And there had been a table of three men all wearing black suits in two different restaurants I'd gone into in the past week. I'd just assumed they were Mormon missionaries.

I was scared now. "Who is this? Why are they following me? Who are they?"

"I am going to help you, but you have to trust me."

"Tell me who you are first." 

"My name is Norville. Go to your window and tell me if they are out there."

"Yeah, okay." I slid out of bed and peeked through the curtains on the window that faced the street in front of my house. Sure enough, there was a big black van parked two houses away. "Oh, my God. They're out there now!" I whispered into the phone, panic making my voice harsh. "What do I do?"

"Get dressed without turning on any lights. Go out your back door and into the alley behind your house."

"Okay," I said hesitantly. He hung up before I could say anything else. I stood stock still for a moment, deciding if I wanted to call the police. I heard a car door closing and it was all the motivation I needed. They were coming for me. I knew it.

I quickly got dressed, not even caring if my socks didn't match, and slipped out the back door. I kind of hunkered down a bit and quickly crossed my yard. God, this was insane! Who were those people in that van? Who was Norville?

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