#FlashMobWrites 1 x 44 : The Remedy

I let the police deal with gathering evidence from her apartment, and find her car. I let them do their job, and try to figure out who’d last seen her alive, where she’d been, what she was doing, who she was with.

That information wouldn’t lead anywhere. It seldom did. I had to do something different. Something only an Armor could do. Something only I could do.

I started by visiting the people she worked with. The man who sat in the cube next to hers. What do you do when your computer stops what it’s doing, and asks, “When was the last day Darla came to work?” He turned the screen off, then back on. The question remained. He turned the computer off, then on. Still, the question remained, even on the login screen. He unplugged the computer, and the question showed up on a sheet of paper that landed on his keyboard. He got up, went to the restroom, and the question was written on the mirror he looked into. He gave up. He typed “Last Thursday”.

The question changed, “Did she have a date that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who might know?”

“Debbie.”

“Thank you.”

The questions stopped.

They started again on Debbie’s computer. “Did Darla have a date last Thursday?”

Debbie stared at her screen.

“Debbie, did Darla have a date?”

She looked around.

“This is not a prank.” I paused a moment, then continued, “You know Darla’s been murdered, don’t you?” Her expression showed she didn’t. “Oh. Sorry.”

Debbie stared at her screen, and spoke, “She hasn’t been at work for days.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t answer her phone, or text messages, or email.”

“She’s dead, Debbie. The police are looking for who did it.”

“Are you the police?”

“No.” I paused. “Debbie. Did she have a date last Thursday night?”

Debbie nodded.

“Who?”

“Her boyfriend.” Debbie whispered, “Tyler. I don’t know his last name.”

“Thank you, Debbie.”

“Is she really dead?”

“Yes.” I added Mrs. Whitson’s phone number. “Her mother’s phone number. Call.”

I left Debbie’s cube, but I wasn’t done yet. I found Darla’s desk, opened a storage door on my armor, pulled out the pink rose I’d stored there, and set it on the desk, with a card that read, “You are missed,” and had the date, time, and location of the memorial service Mrs. Whitson was planning.

I watched as Debbie and the man found their way to Darla’s cube. I watched as word spread like it always does. Phone calls were made. People cried. Chaos ensued. And with all that racket, no one noticed the door of the building open and close by itself.

444 Words
@LurchMunster


This is Part 3 of a story I’m writing using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels.  Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×44. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?

#HorrorBites 1 : A Bag Of Heads

imageJessica moved silently through the trees, searching for any signs of other people, and finding none. She carefully searched the area around the house, making sure no traps were present. She took her time. She needed to know the man was the only person in the house.

She remembered the bodies. Six naked women. Not even buried. All naked, bruised, battered. He’d raped them, then beaten them. Then beheaded then. The eagles told her all six had been alive when he took their heads. The bodies rested in the woods around the house. Footprints all around them lead back to the house.

The wolves and eagles guarded the bodies, protecting them from scavengers until she could bury them.

She had to stop him before he killed again.

She waited hours past the sunset, until she was certain he was asleep before she approached the house. She picked up the axe he kept by the front door, then slipped inside the house. She moved through the house slowly, making no sound as she searched for him.

He was asleep, face down, on the sofa by the windows. He snored deeply. Jessica used what she’d learned from the wolves, and silently crossed the room. He never heard her. When she reached him, she raised the axe, and slammed it down on the back of his neck, severing his spine. She wasn’t proud of what she’d done. She didn’t like to kill, but knew, sometimes there was no other choice.

As she turned to leave, she spotted a large duffel bag beneath the kitchen table. A note on the bag read “A Bag Of Heads”. She knew what was inside. The heads of the six murdered women.

Jessica sank to the floor, and cried. The whole word had gone insane.

299 words
@LurchMunster


Laura James has started a new flash fiction challenge, #HorrorBites. It happens once every two weeks, and is specific to the fiction genre, horror. I wrote this for #HorrorBites. Please go read all the other #HorrorBites stories. They are well written, and just might scare you.

#FinishThatThought : Throwing Out The Trash

My son watched as she was snatched away. It was the last thing he saw. The last thing he did. He felt the slugs from two handguns tear through his chest, leaving six-inch wide holes in his back, shredding his lungs, veins and arteries. He collapsed to his knees, his life bleeding away. His fall ending with him on his back.

His wife screamed. She reached for him, looked into his eyes and knew he would die. She never had the chance to cry. The men with the guns struck her face, knocking her out. One put his gun in his belt, and threw her over his shoulder. They walked off.

The police found her body the next morning. Her hands tied to a stake, hammered into the ground. Her feet staked out separately. She’d been raped. No one could say how many times. When they were through with her, they shot her in the head. Twice. They left her there, with a warning note.

“This is how we solve problems in our neighborhood.”

My son was white.

His wife was black.

I had hoped people had grown past their hatreds, prejudices and fears. As I watched my son die that night, and his wife suffer that inhuman assault, and brutal death, I knew.

People hadn’t changed.

In my anger, I crossed over. I left the land beyond the veil of life, and returned to the world of the living. I’d seen enough. The brutal nature of people always seemed so far away. Until I watched them murder my children. That act of violence changed everything for me.

I crossed over and hunted down the men that murdered my son, and his beautiful wife. I walked through the walls of the house of the first. Into his own bedroom, where he slept with his wife. When he rolled her face down on the bed, and raped her, I moved. I slipped my hand into his chest, and squeezed the life out of his heart.

I felt nothing as I did. It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t justice. It was simply throwing out the trash.

I found the second in his garage, with two of his buddies. From the flavor of the smoke in the air, I knew they weren’t smoking tobacco. From the beer cans scattered on the floor, I knew they were drunk. All of them.

I listened to the killer as he proudly proclaimed the neighborhood was purified, and safe once more, from the evils of the world. Like my son and his wife.

I reached into his brain, and ripped his brain stem loose from his spine. Another piece of trash thrown out.

Until the people of this world grow up, and change. Overcome their fears, hatreds, and prejudices, I will stay here. I will weed out the ones like the two that killed my son. One piece of trash at a time. One piece of trash at a time.

476 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for week 4 of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought flash fiction challenge. It’s a fun challenge. Now, go read all the other entries in week 4.

#VisDare 23 : Ornate

That afternoon I took Alice to old Phoenix, to a building I’d seen the day she’d shown me the cats. The cats gathered. “Why have you come?”

I thought of the building. The cats led us there. The building was an old church that someone had turned into a cafeteria style restaurant. The cats looked at me, “Take care of her,” I heard them say as they walked away.

I took Alice inside, and sat her at a table, close to the front, where the windows were. I sat down next to her, and held her hand. She whispered, “No one’s ever fought wraiths hand-to-hand.”

“I learned to survive in the caves.” I told her how I’d lived as a hunted outcast in the caves. She told me of her friends murdered by the wraiths and hordes. And I held her while she cried from the heartache of her memories.

150 Words
@LurchMunster


This is part 19 in the continuing story I’m working on for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.