Cato swung the oxygen tank down while shouting a war cry that echoed off the surrounding buildings. The flaming figure's skull was crushed and a host of sparks shot up into the air before it staggered another two steps and collapsed to the sidewalk.
Carrying the oxygen tank by it's nozzle, Cato cackled briefly before hurrying over to LeBeouf saying, “Come with me if you want to live.”
The ex chef sighed and followed the odd little old man. He had no idea where he was being led, but the occasional gunshots coming from the other directions made following seem like a good idea. They encountered crawling bodies twice on their trip across the prison complex. Both times Cato ran over and bashed them with the oxygen tank until they ceased moving.
When they reached a low slung building LeBeouf had never seen before, Cato held a finger to his lips and whispered, “Quiet now. Death welcomes us here into her sweet embrace.”
LeBeouf nodded and without having any idea why, he followed the little man through an open doorway of the building. The overhead lights showed three rows of seats off to the right and a long broken and bloody window in the left wall. As he walked inside peering nervously about, his shoes squeaked against the tacky blood that had partially dried.
Cato passed by an overturned wheelchair and whispered, “Oh my,” before bending over and lifting an Uzi that was covered in sticky blood. He handed it to LeBeouf after checking the magazine and seeing it still had some bullets inside. “Ninjas have no need of such things, but you might.”
The ex chef stared at the weapon in his hand that he'd only seen in movies before. The little man crossed back and shut the door they'd walked past upon entering the building. “Move as quietly as the shadow at midnight,” Cato whispered and entered an adjoining hallway.
A shadow at midnight? Who is this guy, really? LeBeouf wondered as he wearily followed.
At the end of the hallway they found a dead middle aged woman who'd been shot in the head as well as her chest.
Cato paused and muttered, “Rest, daughter of Eve,” before checking the execution chamber. It was a bloody mess but otherwise empty.
Another twenty feet along the hallway they paused and looked at a large heavy metal door that blocked their way. Cato reached for the handle whispering, “Be ready, like the horny scorpion at dawn.”
LeBeouf almost asked what the hell that was supposed to mean, but Cato opened the door before he could. The hall continued on, but off to the side there was a medium sized alcove with a desk, phone, and recharging station with a walkie talkie sticking out of it. LeBeouf moaned and said, “I can't go any further,” before plopping down in the office chair behind the desk.
“Shush, chubby grasshopper. You stay and rest.” Cato whispered before creeping down the hallway.
LeBeouf shook his head and tried the phone. There was no dial tone. He considered the walkie talkie briefly before sliding off and opening the med kit backpack.
Over the years of working in kitchens at many of the finest restaurants in Louisiana, he'd learned a fair amount about first aid. Of course, most injuries that happened in kitchens were caused by burns and cuts not a chewed fist and arm.
Luckily, medics who were sent to prisoner cells often had to deal with bites inflicted by other inmates. There was even a five step procedural card that dealt with bites in the med kit. LeBeouf quickly read them and found the various things listed on the card inside the backpack. He glanced repeatedly over at the Uzi as he treated the wounds and became more nervous as time passed and the odd little old man did not return. Once his arm and hand were treated and bandaged, he dry swallowed two pills from a bottle of antibiotics that were mentioned on the bite card.
He looked at the clock and saw it was nearly midnight. Where is he? Is he okay? IF he is okay, should I trust the little nut cake? What the heck is going on around here? His thoughts were swirling as he took a few wet wipes and cleaned the blood off the gun. He wondered if he might be having an odd ultra realistic nightmare and stared nervously down the hallway until finally saying, “Screw it. If this a dream what's the worst thing that could happen. If it's real...” his voice trailed off upon realizing if what was going on were real he truly was screwed.
He stood up and things felt momentarily dizzy. Water, I just need some water, he hoped.
The Uzi felt odd in his hand; heavy and odd but comforting. He kept his finger away from the trigger and quietly tip toed down the hallway. There was an odd faint sound that he couldn't identify not too far ahead. I should go back, he realized, even as he kept walking.
When the hall opened up and three cells with open doors were visible he had a horrible thought that maybe they kept the most dangerous psychotics here. The sound grew louder and it only took a second more before he recognized it as snoring. Inside the third cell, curled up under a blanket and sheets and sleeping with an impish smile on his wrinkled face, was the man who called himself Cato.
LeBeouf smiled briefly at him before checking the rest of the hallway. There was a small kitchenette, complete with refrigerator, sink, and a microwave oven. He got a cup and used the sink faucet to get a drink three times before moving on. Beyond that, there was a small shower room and a stack of towels on top of a cabinet. The last room was a walk-in cooler that was empty. On the far side of the cooler there was an ancient looking metal door that had a thick metal bar padlocked in place to prevent it from opening. An old piece of paper was taped to the door. It had a warning that guards were not to open it until the county morgue wagon personnel had signed in. The note was signed by Warden Massengail.
When he was done investigating and felt fairly secure, LeBeouf went back to where the dead woman was, sighed sadly, and pulled shut the heavy metal door. After locking it, he went to one of the empty cells and sat on the bunk. Cato was still snoring and somehow the sound was reassuring, almost comforting.
He kicked off his shoes and started to lay back in the bunk, but then stopped. Do I really trust a man who was locked up in the psychiatric ward?
LeBeouf stifled a yawn and got up, crossed over to where the little man was snoring, and stared at him for a long time. Then quietly slid Cato's cell door shut and securely locked it before going back to his own bunk. He placed the gun under the thin pillow and then stretched out.
Within a minute's time both men were snoring.
###
Closing Thoughts & Story Notes
Short stories can be a pain in the butt to write. Mainly this is because I have this bad tendency to ramble a bit when I get to writing. Take, for example, The Fall of Bayonne Prison. I envisioned it being a dozen, maybe twenty, pages long and like a malignant undead growth it just started expanding into novella length.
Some long time dead (but fairly) smart guy once wrote “Brevity is the soul of wit.”
Grumble. So, I'm soulless when it comes to being witty and tend to meander a bit when I write. What can I say? It's how I do my thing.
Notes on the stories:
The Fall of Bayonne Prison came about as a result of the first book in The Chronicles of the Undead; The Emperor of Bayonne Prison. That story begins approximately a year after the events in The Fall.
I didn't feel a full length novel of The Fall would be justified, but there were a great many questions that could be addressed nicely in a short story format. Plus, I like allowing readers a better look at some of the characters and what they were like before things changed. This is especially true for Crazy Carl, Vito, and to a somewhat lesser extent George.
In The Emperor I believe there are plenty of details on George. But even though Vito appears as either a ghost or part of George's damaged psyche I enjoyed taking a look at what he was like before he died.
I liked Crazy Carl turning out to be responsible for the overthrow of Bayonne; especially since, from his standpoint, he was doing a 'good' thing by freeing the prisoners. I sort of left it hanging in Emperor as to how the prisoners took control, and ended up having to use a fair amount of gray matter coming up wit
h a semi-plausible explanation.
Twisto the Clown's appearance is sure to make some readers roll their eyes. In Zombies of All Hallows Evil there was Ringo Dingo, who was also a clown. In The Emperor of Bayonne Prison there was Sheriff Silly Willy. But unlike Ringo and Silly Willy, Twisto plays a major role in the story.
Why clowns?
I believe there's an almost universal distrust and or fear of clowns, at least that's what I've noticed throughout my life. Many people have a condition called Coulrophobia, which is the fancy scientific way of saying a fear of clowns. Personally, I find clowns a bit creepy but not extremely scary.
Although on Halloween in 2012 I took my kids and my daughter's friend trick or treating and saw something decidedly disturbing. There was a weird guy in a dark trench coat walking all alone through the darkened neighborhood streets. I know that's not particularly odd, but he was wearing a dirty looking latex clown mask with big dagger-like teeth that covered his entire head.
The sight scared one of my daughter's friends pretty badly. There was a very long loud scream. I know it sounds or reads like a made up story, but the creepy thing is that it happens to be true. Weird.
For those who hate Twisto The Clown and never want to read of him ever again, I'm afraid I have extraordinarily bad news. He will be playing a prominent and disturbing role in the next Chronicles of the Undead novel. (sorry)
The only real concern I had in tackling the Fall of Bayonne story was trying to bear in mind it was supposed to be a 'short story'. I realize short is a relative term, but at the same time I wanted a story that felt right.
Anyway, I like it and hope you do too.
Waking at 2:47 is something that grew out of something I have personal experience with. I wake up several times at night. Sometimes it’s just a for a few seconds where I blearily glance at the bedside clock and try and see if it’s worth going back to sleep or if it is close enough to the alarm time to just go ahead and get up. BUT sometimes I awaken from a really disturbing nightmare.
You'd think undead monsters would be the kind of nightmare I have a lot of, but I actually kind of enjoy those dreams. No, it's the kind of dream where something bad happens to my kids that usually make it hard to fall back asleep. OR, like the guy in the story, I had many disturbing dreams of my ex-wife when she ran out on me and my kids back in 2002.
I don't believe I'm the only one who has suffered from bad dreams caused by the loss of a loved one. If you care and love someone and suddenly they're no longer a part of your life it's bound to affect the subconscious. No matter who it is that you lose, if you cared about them and are in pain I think it only makes sense they'd appear in your dreams.
For the hero of this story I just like the idea that somehow dream characters could be seen and spoken with in his kitchen, even if it required an experimental prescription drug to accomplish it. I like Baxter Bunny. I think he was a nice unexpected turn for the poor guy to meet after his disturbing seemingly endless nightmare.
As to the rest of the story, it's hard for me to guess whether he thought he was actually inside his wife's car or not. Perhaps part of him strongly suspected and hoped that he was, but I think he did what he did out of a need to strike back at someone who had hurt him regardless whether it was real or not.
Disgusting Campfire Tales came about from two different things. Since I began writing, I've gotten several reviews that strongly suggest that my stories are too “gross or disgusting”. So, I figured why not do a disgusting story?
The best part or worst part (depending on how you view it) is that all the stories the boys told around the campfire were things that actually happened in my life or to close friends that I know.
It's true.
The grain alcohol story was a bit exaggerated but essentially true. My friend really was drunk and actually did throw up on a metal light pole and hadn't noticed the missing access plate. He didn't die, but did receive a nasty electrical shock. (I have very sophisticated friends)
The Bigfoot prank part was something I almost did back in the early 1990's. Back then I hosted, starred, and produced a public access show while I was still in college and had time to kill. One day some friends of mine and I were prowling through a thrift store in search of props and other things to use on the show. There were several ratty looking fur coats and for about $100 bucks we could have had enough material to construct a somewhat bizarre looking Bigfoot costume.
The idea was that someone (Me) would wear the costume and run across some roadways at dusk or at night and scare the crap out of drivers, while my crew would videotape the results.
Three concerns kept us from actually doing it. 1) No one had a hundred bucks to blow on the fur coats. 2) Someone could wreck their car and get hurt if they spotted a Bigfoot crossing the road in front of them. And most importantly, 3) My friends and I filmed in and around Birmingham Alabama and many people there have guns in their cars. I didn't want to be killed for a stupid prank.
The original conclusion I had in mind was Sherman coming out and grabbing his son, just as they had planned. And perhaps one of the other boys would take a burning branch from the campfire and set 'Bigfoot' on fire in an attempt to save their buddy. It was workable enough, but just didn't quite feel right. It's possible I may write an entire novel someday based on this story and find out what happened when they were followed back to camp.
Southwestern Road Trip revisits the late afternoon when the colonel's trailer blows up at the conclusion of Valley of Death Zombie Trailer Park. I liked seeing Bo again, plus I always felt badly that Agent Dudley’s outcome was never properly addressed. All it would have taken were the words in the VODZTP “...and then Dudley died,” but I blame the lazy author for that oversight.
I was nearly done with the story when I discovered a problem. I had to make a choice; a horrible heart wrenching choice. There were two ways the ending could go and I liked both of them for different reasons.
The somewhat happier ending appealed to me because while I may write stories that have monsters, murder, clowns, death, madness, and other horrible things in them I, personally, am not a monster. I like happy endings, but even ‘happy’ ones aren’t all sunshine and prancing puppies. The death of little six year old Edwin bothered me quite a bit, yet it seemed ‘right’ that not everyone inside that overturned SUV should survive.
The truly horrific ending may or may not be ‘better’ but both made sense to me so I gave the readers a chance to choose the ending they wanted.
Some might call that a cheat. But it actually isn’t unprecedented that stories have more than one ending. Some brief examples might help illustrate that point.
John Cusack was in a film along with Billy Bob Thornton that was directed by Harold Ramis and it was released in 2005. It was based on a novel written by Scott Phillips titled The Ice Harvest. I have not yet found the time to read this novel but intend to. If it’s a tenth as good as the film, I know I’ll love it. Anyway, I was watching the DVD of this movie and noted it had many extras on the disc. One of the offered extras was different endings that Mr. Ramis had directed. There was a ‘happy’ ending and a tragically sad one. Both were great and made sense.
Many films have different endings than those written in the novels they are based on. Cujo and The Mist, both written by Stephen King, had significantly different endings than in the movies.
I’m sure if I did some research I could find many more examples where the story has different endings, but I think I made my point.
Fortunate Cookie is a tale my daughter wrote and that I stole to add to this collection of short stories. Actually, she graciously allowed me to toss a dab of my writing skills here and there into the story and granted me her kind permission to publish it. My daughter is so awesome!
I was finishing up the revisions to everything else in this publication and realized that I knew very little about this tale and got some help from her. It was a typical Saturday evening when I tapped on her bedroom door and asked, “O
h, great kind and ingenious daughter of mine, might I have a moment of your precious time?”
Her voice came through the closed door, sharp as a knife and cold as a banker's heart, “Enter.”
I ignored the cats as they cowered briefly then ran to hide under her bed. (They don't like me very much, but I like them)
“Daughter, might I ask a few questions regarding your story, Fortunate Cookie?”
“Sit father, for you are old and weary.”
I sat down and her bed groaned, as the cats hissed angrily from beneath. (Where they were hiding)
“So, how ya doin?”
Her expression showed displeasure at my inane attempt at conversation so I quickly spilled the beans and explained I need her input on the story she'd penned.
“What would you say is your favorite part of the story?” The middle-aged author asked his teenage daughter/author.
“The angel's appearance and the way she was presented.”
I nodded and quickly jotted down the words then asked, “So, uh why did you spell the word color with a u?”
She gave me a pitying look and explained, “Colour, with the u, is the original British spelling.”
I was tempted to ask if she realized that we we're Americans, living in the armpit of the south; Alabama, but feared something horrible might happen. Perhaps an earthquake, or something equally catastrophic, seemed possible so I merely nodded and jotted down what she said.
I adjusted my black fedora to a slightly rakish angle and asked, “So, what do you think of your famous father and his literally dozens of fans who enjoy reading his rambling and grammatically questionable attempts at creating literature?”
There was a slight pause that made me wonder if she were trying to think of something nice to say, before she said, “It's good. I'm going to do the same thing (write novels)... when I get old.” She then paused as she saw her old decrepit father writing her words and added, “I meant when I get older.”