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POSSESSED By: Steven D. Forbes

Sunday, February 8th, 2009

I wasn’t going to take it anymore! I refused to live with the guilt, and there wasn’t anything anyone else could do. I knew what was responsible for the deaths, and I was going to do something about it.

I fell asleep in a strange position on purpose. I wouldn’t do to have it know what was going on. Not at all. So I slept unnaturally, feeling the flow of blood slow down and finally stop. It tried to move a little on its own as it went numb, but I was smarter than it. Yes I was. Smarter.

When it was leaden and useless, when I couldn’t feel anything in the entire limb, I got up swiftly. Time was of the essence. It would take less than a minute for the blood to get back to the hand, waking it up, allowing it to continue its rampage of destruction. I couldn’t let that happen anymore, could I? So I rushed. Yes I did. I rushed over to the workstation and strapped it down.

I could feel the life flowing back into it as I tightened the leather strap. The hand was groggy, the fingers moving sporadically. I looked with some fascination. It was strange, seeing your own limb, but also totally alien to you. When the blood was totally in it again, the hand seemed to realize it was strapped down. It went totally berserk, thrashing around and trying to escape. It was a sight to behold. Yes it was. If it had a mouth, it would have made a sound like a cat that was stuck and in a rage.

It terrified me. Yes it did. Terrified me something horrible, but not more than what it would have done if it escaped. When I was sure that it couldn’t escape no matter how much it struggled, that’s when I showed it what I had.

The mallet was a little heavy, but not heavy enough to be unwieldy with one hand. That would never do. No, it wouldn’t. Never do at all. And the hand sensed the hammer, suddenly going still and trying to move away from it, curling into a ball. No, not a fist, into a ball. It was scary. At first it was all spazzing out and trying to get free, and then it kind of settled into itself, trying to become unnoticed. But it was too late for that. Yes it was. Too late by far.

“Spread out,” I said. My voice was a little hoarse. Nerves. The hand flinched, like it heard me. It didn’t move, though. “Spread out, or I’ll smash you, then spread you out.” Slowly, it spread. It didn’t want to. I could feel it. Yes, I could. It splayed the fingers wide, but not necessarily proud. They quivered. I didn’t feel bad, just like it didn’t feel bad when it killed those poor people. Five in all. Five fingers, five deaths.

The truly scary thing was that I was born deformed. Three fingers on the hand, and they were withered, at that. Withered, yes. When it killed the first one, one of the fingers grew healthy and strong. It was the same for the rest. But the fourth person? The fourth grew a new finger that was healthy and strong. Don’t look at me like that! It’s true. Yes it is. And the fifth death grew the last finger.

I was terrified about a sixth kill. Would it grow a sixth finger? A head? If it kept killing, would it grow a new body? A new me? It had to be stopped. It had to be. You see that, right? Right?

I brought the hammer down with a force that surprised me. It came down flush on the hand, crushing it with a force borne of terror and rage. The pain was something I wasn’t counting on, though. It brought me to my knees, taking my breath away. It was almost as if I could see the pain, and it was bright, bluish white, and hot. Hot and pulsing. It was a slow, deep throb, not at all in time with my heart, which was racing along to beat a team of horses, yes it was. But the pain didn’t stop me from doing what I needed to.

I brought the hammer down again, this time concentrating on one of the new fingers. The blood that spurted out was green and black. And it stank. I nearly lost it right there. I brought it down again, and then I don’t remember much after that. I know my opposite arm hurt when I came around, and that the hand was a mess still on the workbench, unrecognizable as anything other than something that was flesh-like. I dialed 911, and that’s how they found me, bloody stump and all. Yes they did. Found me, and brought me here.

I know you don’t believe me. That’s okay. You look at the hand and see the two fingers there. Proof enough, you say. Yes, I know.

But, isn’t the town down two residents since I got here?

___

© 2008 Steven D. Forbes

Steven Forbes is a comic book editor, writer, and columnist. His column, Bolts & Nuts, is updated every Tuesday at Project Fanboy

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MANADAY By: Steven D. Forbes

Tuesday, January 20th, 2009

He wasn’t a murderer. Not in any conventional sense. The fight was going to be a fair one. It was legal—well, as legal as anything was, nowadays. But he was too scared to live, and too scared to take his own life. He saw what happened to those whose lives he took, and he didn’t want that to happen to him. Not in the least.

The sun beat down on them both, the summer air almost preternaturally still. It was a small town, but growing, the saloon where he picked the fight newly opened. His opponent was just across the way, standing in the same dust, waiting for the clock to strike high noon. He had five whole minutes before he needed to kill, though, so that was no problem. Five minutes was a lifetime.

The brim of his hat blocked the sun from being directly in his eyes, and sweat slicked his white hair to his collar. John Manaday looked sixty, but had the reflexes of a man a third his age. He left his duster in the room at the inn, but had on his “lucky” hat. His hat had nothing to do with it, though. It was the steel at his hip that was the culprit.

His luck, and his curse.

John remembered the first time he had seen the gun: a six-shooter, bright silver in color, almost as if it were painted and still wet. He didn’t believe the legends surrounding La Pistola del Diablo, the Devil’s gun. A young man of twenty-three, he only had the cursed thing for three years.

Three years, and he was nearing the end of it. He hoped he went of natural causes.

The first gong of the clock tower counted down the final seconds of the morning, and that’s when Radcliff appeared, with half of his head blown off. Blown off by La Pistola del Diablo.

He thought he had more time! He had killed Radcliff last year, the last time he had missed the timestamp. Radcliff shambled, putrid and rotting, bloated in some areas, skin tight and preserved in others. John could see some brain matter in the hole of his eye where the bullet caught him. A breeze kicked up a mini-dustdevil there in the street, and wafted a stench unlike any other his way.

For the first time in a year, John Manaday was frightened. He trembled.

The second gong sounded, and Radcliff got closer, one arm reaching out for him. John knew that a single touch was all it took, and with each step, Radcliff’s nightmare smile grew.

No! The day couldn’t go like this! After keeping meticulous times of all his kills, knowing he had an extra five minutes before he was forced to kill again, or lose a year of his own life… This wasn’t right! Had he messed up somewhere?

With each gong, Radcliff got closer. Four, five, six. Would he have enough time to draw, aim, and fire before the ghoul touched him? Manaday knew that every shot was lethal, but if he wanted to retain his freedom, he wouldn’t twitch until the beginning of the last gong.

It was a race, as every day was. He just wanted to win this one, and he needed to kill in order to do it. The gun wouldn’t have it any other way.

Radcliff was closer, and Manaday would have to shoot through him in order to hit his target. That wouldn’t be a problem, since he knew his opponent couldn’t see the ghoul, anyway.

Nine, ten… Radcliff was almost there. Manaday felt his gorge rise, and tried not to notice the black worms that now made up Radcliff’s mustache. He just wanted to slap leather to jerk the now mostly black Pistola out of its rig and blow the other man away. John felt the sweat forming on his brow. Two more seconds, and he gets another day without losing a year.

Eleven…

So close, Radcliff’s hand. Hovering, really. Waiting. All he had to do now was draw and fire. One second, and he lives!

Twe-

___

© 2008 Steven D. Forbes

Steven Forbes is a comic book editor, writer, and columnist. His column, Bolts & Nuts, is updated every Tuesday at Project Fanboy

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