My hand hit the door. I sagged against it and wiped the cold cream out of my eyes. The reflections glared at me. Some beat their fists at the inside walls of their mirrors, demanding to be let out. Not a chance. I put my finger on the light switch.
“Good night, ladies.” I clicked the switch, killing the lights.
PRICE OF THE FLAMES
by Deidra Cox
This story is from the irrepressible newcomer, Deidra Cox, who has already copped an interview in Deathrealm along with her story. Cox hails from Garrett, Kentucky. If you’re from the region, you know there are horrors lurking in coal-mining country.
Cox tells us: “I’m a housewife with two kids. My husband is an electrician in the coal mines. My birthday is October 31, 1961. Yeah. I know. While growing up, I was the butt of several Halloween jokes. I wrote my first story, a horror tale about the end of the world vampires in the fourth grade, a tale which made a couple of my classmates cry, by the way. During high school, I became so engrossed in completing a lusty virgin/noble Indian saga, I nearly flunked algebra! Those hot pages were passed around most of the entire female population of Knott Central. But now… I’ve been writing the last five years and so far, I have 81 sales, including Bizarre Bazaar, Palace Corbie, Gathering Darkness, and a Russian-Polish anthology, New Worlds: edited by Edward Lee. My first novel, When the Sparrow Cries, a weird mix of dark fantasy, suspense, and splatterpunk, is out there making the rounds. I’m currently working on two different projects, Sanctuary, a tale of vampires, a serial killer, and an underground city, and The Guardian, a young adult horror novel.”
Cox didn’t say how many cats.
John saw him just ahead, leaning against the mile marker and making no attempt to seek shelter from the rain. He slowed the Cadillac and considered the possibilities. Gnarled hands trembled briefly before steering to the shoulder. He pushed the passenger door open and watched the rain trail down the vinyl.
“Need a ride?” John asked.
A pair of cold blue eyes peered at him and John shivered. If the need hadn’t been so strong, he would’ve left. Hit the gas and took off for greener pastures. But the need was a ravenous fire inside him, licking at his groin, so John stayed and tried not to weep.
After a slow shrug, the youth slithered into the car, making no apologies for the wet stains he made on the seat. They drove in silence, the boy giving no words of thanks. John stole a glance and began to sketch the unknown life.
Black hair was plastered to the boy’s skull like matted weeds in a dead field. Average height. Impossibly thin. The outline of hungry ribs protruded from the ragged Tee shirt. The young face was all angles and bones. A ripe odor flooded the car and John cracked his window.
“Been on the road long?”
“Fuck off.”
John threw him a hard look, but said nothing. Anger poured from the youth in a chilling wave, filling the confined area with the scent. John gritted his teeth as his eyes wandered back to the boy. So young. So fresh and young.
“I just wondered where you’re from,” John said and licked his lips. “Where you’re going?”
A muscle tensed in the youth’s cheek, the violence lying close to the surface. A ripple of bittersweet pleasure moved in John. Good, he thought. That’ll make it easier.
“My house isn’t far from here if you’d like to change out of those wet clothes,” John said. “You could catch a nasty cold if you stay in them much longer.”
“Yeah? Then what?” The boy suddenly came to life, snapping forward and gripping the dash. “So, whattya get outta this?”
The air crackled with electricity and the only sound was the windshield wipers slapping against the glass. John exhaled slowly, anticipation swelling in his chest.
“Whatever you want to give.”
The boy snorted and fell back into the seat. “Goddamn faggots.”
An uneasy calm settled over the two. John watched the boy carefully, waiting for the attack and strangely disappointed when none came. The sour odor grew stronger and John pressed a little harder on the accelerator while keeping a wary eye on the speedometer. Didn’t want to attract the cops. Not at this stage of the game.
He hit the exit ramp with a strange sense of relief mixed with sad wonder. He turned to the boy. “Just a few minutes now. Then we’ll be home.”
The boy sneered. “Is Auntie Em and Dorothy gonna be there, too, Pops?”
John paused, then continued, ignoring the thick sarcasm. “What’s your name? I hate to keep calling you boy. That’s not right.”
An empty silence answered him.
“I’ll tell you mine and you can tell me yours. I’m John Munroe.”
The boy smiled. “Go to hell, John.”
The words echoed in his head at a dizzying rate until he bit his tongue to stop the nervous chatter bubbling within.
Go to hell. Go to hell, John.
I’ve already been there, he thought. Many, many times.
A faint comfort eased over him when John saw the familiar markings of home. On either side of the road, vacant houses dotted the horizon in a thin, continuous line. Broken glass sparkled in the rain, sending jagged rainbows in the heavy liquid. Dead trees and brown grass adorned the landscape.
When had it happened? When did the people leave? Was it a gradual exodus or a massive evacuation?
He couldn’t remember. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t pull the memory from his brain. This was bad. Very bad, indeed.
He turned onto a deserted lane. The scenery was a repeat of the streets they’d drove by before. Nothing moved. Not even a stray dog. The absence of any living creatures gave the town an unnerving quality. A fact that wasn’t lost upon John’s guest.
“What the hell is this place?”
John smiled and parked in front of a darkened house, identical to all the others. The windows stared blankly at them like a blind man’s eyes in the relentless rain.
“Welcome to Perdition,” John said. “Surely you’ve heard of us. A few years ago we were almost famous as the town that was eating itself alive. Newspapers, television, radio. They all came to us, wanting a story.”
He removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out from the car. After a moment’s hesitation, the boy did the same. Sulfur, acid and burning, billowed in the wetness, assaulting the senses and leaving the boy slightly nauseous. An intricate web of glowing cracks worked across the ground beneath their feet. Rain sizzled and turned to steam, the heat rising like a cloud and choking them both with the bitter odor.
“Let’s go inside,” John said and motioned to the house. “You can change into some dry clothes.”