Showing posts with label Don Bagley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Don Bagley. Show all posts
Bad Pizza
by Don Bagley
The Dollar Store had had a freezer section for over a year. David had purchased small bags of frozen vegetables and fries and cheap frozen dinners there. Today he reckoned he would get two small frozen pizzas for himself and his wife. All the small pizza boxes in the freezer were the Jeno brand except one. It was a slightly larger box of the Antonio brand.
When he paid for his purchases, David noticed that the cashier held up the Antonio pizza and remarked that she’d never seen the brand. He gave her his eight dollars and tax and thought no more of it until he got home.
As he placed the two small pizza boxes in the freezer next to the ice cube trays, he had a disturbing thought. What if the Dollar Store never did sell Antonio brand frozen pizza? What if someone placed that pizza in the freezer as a prank? Perhaps the Antonio pizza had thawed out to the point of spoilage, and then been set in front of unsuspecting shoppers so that someone would buy it and become sick after consuming it. Was it worth a dollar to find out the hard way?
David took the Antonio pizza and tossed it in the large garbage can in the garage. He wouldn’t chance his health or the health of his wife for a buck. In the morning the garbage truck would come and the trash would be forgotten.
His wife called him at four o’clock to let him know she’d be late. She had to work an extra half-shift so he should have dinner without her. He told her he’d microwave a burrito and not to worry.
After his burrito and the six o’clock news, he fell asleep on the sofa. He had a disturbing dream that his wife looked in the trash and retrieved the Antonio pizza. In his dream the pizza box was dripping with green mold, and it was writhing as if animated from inside.
Still, his wife was oblivious, and she put the box in the microwave and pushed a couple of buttons, bleep, bleep. When she removed it from the box, the pizza rippled in her hands. She held it up before her face and it wriggled into her mouth. She turned to face him, “Sorry I didn’t share,” she said, blood dripping over her chin. She had a kitchen knife in her right hand. “Wanna die now?” she asked.
David awoke, his hair soaked with sweat, on the couch. It was dark outside and he walked to the bedroom to find his wife asleep on the king bed. They often slept separately, as he had a tendency to snore.
There wasn’t really any reason to think that anything was amiss, but he felt uneasy. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he decided to go look in the trash. He opened the door to the garage and let himself in. There was enough ambient moonlight coming through the windows that he didn’t have to turn on the fluorescents.
He looked in the garbage can and saw the Antonio pizza box. Relieved, he grabbed the box. But it collapsed, empty, between his fingers. And worse, he heard the rattle of someone trying the garage door.
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
by Don Bagley
The Dollar Store had had a freezer section for over a year. David had purchased small bags of frozen vegetables and fries and cheap frozen dinners there. Today he reckoned he would get two small frozen pizzas for himself and his wife. All the small pizza boxes in the freezer were the Jeno brand except one. It was a slightly larger box of the Antonio brand.
When he paid for his purchases, David noticed that the cashier held up the Antonio pizza and remarked that she’d never seen the brand. He gave her his eight dollars and tax and thought no more of it until he got home.
As he placed the two small pizza boxes in the freezer next to the ice cube trays, he had a disturbing thought. What if the Dollar Store never did sell Antonio brand frozen pizza? What if someone placed that pizza in the freezer as a prank? Perhaps the Antonio pizza had thawed out to the point of spoilage, and then been set in front of unsuspecting shoppers so that someone would buy it and become sick after consuming it. Was it worth a dollar to find out the hard way?
David took the Antonio pizza and tossed it in the large garbage can in the garage. He wouldn’t chance his health or the health of his wife for a buck. In the morning the garbage truck would come and the trash would be forgotten.
His wife called him at four o’clock to let him know she’d be late. She had to work an extra half-shift so he should have dinner without her. He told her he’d microwave a burrito and not to worry.
After his burrito and the six o’clock news, he fell asleep on the sofa. He had a disturbing dream that his wife looked in the trash and retrieved the Antonio pizza. In his dream the pizza box was dripping with green mold, and it was writhing as if animated from inside.
Still, his wife was oblivious, and she put the box in the microwave and pushed a couple of buttons, bleep, bleep. When she removed it from the box, the pizza rippled in her hands. She held it up before her face and it wriggled into her mouth. She turned to face him, “Sorry I didn’t share,” she said, blood dripping over her chin. She had a kitchen knife in her right hand. “Wanna die now?” she asked.
David awoke, his hair soaked with sweat, on the couch. It was dark outside and he walked to the bedroom to find his wife asleep on the king bed. They often slept separately, as he had a tendency to snore.
There wasn’t really any reason to think that anything was amiss, but he felt uneasy. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he decided to go look in the trash. He opened the door to the garage and let himself in. There was enough ambient moonlight coming through the windows that he didn’t have to turn on the fluorescents.
He looked in the garbage can and saw the Antonio pizza box. Relieved, he grabbed the box. But it collapsed, empty, between his fingers. And worse, he heard the rattle of someone trying the garage door.
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
All The Traps...
by Don Bagley
The great house had stood empty for years. It was like a monolith on a small rise at the end of a court of other empty houses. The street, and all the houses along it, had been constructed just before the last real estate crash. There were no lawns, just sidewalks bordered by mud from the heavy late winter rains. Some of the mud had run over the concrete walks and settled in round peninsulas on the paved roads.
Winslow, sodden with rain, and muddy about the feet, found his way into the great house. He would hole up there, at least overnight. He had nothing to eat. Perhaps there was food within?
But he found nothing, and he soon fell asleep on the Berber carpet in the living room.
In the morning he awoke dry but famished. He needed to eat something. So he began to sweep through the house, checking the kitchen first and then the bedrooms. He found no food. He went upstairs and scoured through he bedrooms—nothing.
By midday Winslow was dizzy with hunger. He imagined that he heard a voice. “I have some cheese,” said the voice.
Where is that coming from? Winslow wondered. That voice?
“It’s cheddar,” said the voice. “Sharp.”
“All right,” said Winslow. “Just tell me where you are.”
“I have cheese,” said the voice.
Winslow looked in the closets, and he looked in all the drawers in the kitchen. He found nothing. He pretended to be exhausted and went back to the living room for a nap. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Soon enough he was asleep. He awoke to the sound of his name.
“Winslow,” said the voice. “I have some cheese for you."
“I don’t believe you,” said Winslow. “You’re having me on.”
“No,” said the voice. “If you’re hungry, you just need to find me.”
“I don’t trust you,” said Winslow.
“Why would I harm you?” said the voice. “When I have cheese for you?”
Winslow felt that it was against his better judgment, but he was ravished. He had to eat soon. He began to search for the location of the voice again.
“Mmm,” said the voice. “It’s delicious.”
Winslow felt the saliva spilling over his lips. A block of cheese would be like a filet mignon to him now. He zig-zagged through the hallways, looking for some kind of clue. Where was the voice, and where was the food?
He was crazed with hunger, ready to kill for food if he had to. There was no place in the house he hadn’t considered, except…
The garage! He hadn’t even looked in the garage. He raced to the door that led to the garage and found it open wide. He ran into the dark depths of the garage and saw the block of cheddar. It was just sitting there on a small wooden table. He ran to it and bit into the cheese, and SNAP!
* * *
“Rodents?” said the man, looking at the twisted little body in the mousetrap.
“No big deal,” said the real estate lady. “Once you live here, your presence will drive them away.”
“I hope so,” said the man. “I know the prices are good because of the market downturn, but I don’t want to share a home with vermin.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
by Don Bagley
The great house had stood empty for years. It was like a monolith on a small rise at the end of a court of other empty houses. The street, and all the houses along it, had been constructed just before the last real estate crash. There were no lawns, just sidewalks bordered by mud from the heavy late winter rains. Some of the mud had run over the concrete walks and settled in round peninsulas on the paved roads.
Winslow, sodden with rain, and muddy about the feet, found his way into the great house. He would hole up there, at least overnight. He had nothing to eat. Perhaps there was food within?
But he found nothing, and he soon fell asleep on the Berber carpet in the living room.
In the morning he awoke dry but famished. He needed to eat something. So he began to sweep through the house, checking the kitchen first and then the bedrooms. He found no food. He went upstairs and scoured through he bedrooms—nothing.
By midday Winslow was dizzy with hunger. He imagined that he heard a voice. “I have some cheese,” said the voice.
Where is that coming from? Winslow wondered. That voice?
“It’s cheddar,” said the voice. “Sharp.”
“All right,” said Winslow. “Just tell me where you are.”
“I have cheese,” said the voice.
Winslow looked in the closets, and he looked in all the drawers in the kitchen. He found nothing. He pretended to be exhausted and went back to the living room for a nap. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Soon enough he was asleep. He awoke to the sound of his name.
“Winslow,” said the voice. “I have some cheese for you."
“I don’t believe you,” said Winslow. “You’re having me on.”
“No,” said the voice. “If you’re hungry, you just need to find me.”
“I don’t trust you,” said Winslow.
“Why would I harm you?” said the voice. “When I have cheese for you?”
Winslow felt that it was against his better judgment, but he was ravished. He had to eat soon. He began to search for the location of the voice again.
“Mmm,” said the voice. “It’s delicious.”
Winslow felt the saliva spilling over his lips. A block of cheese would be like a filet mignon to him now. He zig-zagged through the hallways, looking for some kind of clue. Where was the voice, and where was the food?
He was crazed with hunger, ready to kill for food if he had to. There was no place in the house he hadn’t considered, except…
The garage! He hadn’t even looked in the garage. He raced to the door that led to the garage and found it open wide. He ran into the dark depths of the garage and saw the block of cheddar. It was just sitting there on a small wooden table. He ran to it and bit into the cheese, and SNAP!
* * *
“Rodents?” said the man, looking at the twisted little body in the mousetrap.
“No big deal,” said the real estate lady. “Once you live here, your presence will drive them away.”
“I hope so,” said the man. “I know the prices are good because of the market downturn, but I don’t want to share a home with vermin.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
The Thirteenth Train
By Don Bagley
“Every thirteenth subway is a through train, do you understand?” Jean asked.
“I got it,” said Marco, “every thirteenth one is, like, through.”
“When you moved in with me,” said Jean, “you asked me to help with directions. I’m trying to help.”
Marco looked at the skyline through the window. The sun was setting on midtown and the windows of the tall buildings were golden. It looked like heaven had touched down in the form of skyscrapers, and Jean wanted to talk about subway trains.
“Hello,” said Jean, snapping her fingers. “The reason I’m telling you this is because you’ll get used to stepping off your subway as it makes the last stop at the 42nd Street station. But one out of thirteen won’t stop there. It’ll take you to who the hell knows where. So you have to pay attention and know where you’re getting off.”
The reflection of cumulous clouds played over the windows of the building across the street. This was the best view Marco had ever had from an apartment he occupied.
“Well, thanks for helping out with the rent,” said Jean, “remember, the second bathroom is all yours.”
After lucking into the best job ever, at Apple in Times Square, Marco had been referred to Jean, a young woman with a killer apartment who was looking for a roommate to help with the rent. She even said she was cool with him bringing a girlfriend home, assuming he had one, which he didn’t.
Marco rode the subway to 42nd street every morning without incident. He didn’t bother trying to count trains; where would one start?
It was a couple of weeks later that he just spaced out on the way to work, and missed his stop at 42nd Street. It was supposed to be a terminal stop, but the train kept rolling after the doors closed. It rolled into a black corridor as the interior lights flickered. It screeched past an empty, gray-tiled station lit with glaring fluorescent lights and hammered along through another black passage.
Where was the damned thing headed? Marco wondered. The Bowery? Underwater to Staten Island?
He looked up and noted that he was the only passenger in the car. With a growing sense of unease he walked forward to the next car and found that empty too. He walked through four more unoccupied cars, staggering as the train titled and juddered in the dark tunnel. Then he found the operator’s booth, but it was unoccupied. He wondered could the train be remote controlled.
He looked back through the car and saw the thing approaching. It had the scrambled and careless look of scribbled animation, and it filled the car as it moved toward him. A maw opened in the “face” of the creature, revealing sharp teeth for rending flesh. Marco tried to find the brakes in the operator’s booth too late. The thing absorbed him with a series of chewing contractions. It hurt. And his blood spilled out like red ink onto a page.
He awoke drenched in sleep sweat with his sheets wrapped tightly around his torso. He was on the hardwood floor next to his bed, and Jean was standing over him, dimly lit by the hall lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, “I heard a scream.”
“The subway thing,” said Marco.
“Oh,” she said, “I should have known. I woke up in a hotel lobby after my encounter.”
“How can you know that it’s the thirteenth train?” Marco asked.
“Think about it,” said Jean, “someone had to go through it twice, counting the trains in between.”
“Once is enough,” said Marco, “now I’ll watch every damned stop.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
By Don Bagley
“Every thirteenth subway is a through train, do you understand?” Jean asked.
“I got it,” said Marco, “every thirteenth one is, like, through.”
“When you moved in with me,” said Jean, “you asked me to help with directions. I’m trying to help.”
Marco looked at the skyline through the window. The sun was setting on midtown and the windows of the tall buildings were golden. It looked like heaven had touched down in the form of skyscrapers, and Jean wanted to talk about subway trains.
“Hello,” said Jean, snapping her fingers. “The reason I’m telling you this is because you’ll get used to stepping off your subway as it makes the last stop at the 42nd Street station. But one out of thirteen won’t stop there. It’ll take you to who the hell knows where. So you have to pay attention and know where you’re getting off.”
The reflection of cumulous clouds played over the windows of the building across the street. This was the best view Marco had ever had from an apartment he occupied.
“Well, thanks for helping out with the rent,” said Jean, “remember, the second bathroom is all yours.”
After lucking into the best job ever, at Apple in Times Square, Marco had been referred to Jean, a young woman with a killer apartment who was looking for a roommate to help with the rent. She even said she was cool with him bringing a girlfriend home, assuming he had one, which he didn’t.
Marco rode the subway to 42nd street every morning without incident. He didn’t bother trying to count trains; where would one start?
It was a couple of weeks later that he just spaced out on the way to work, and missed his stop at 42nd Street. It was supposed to be a terminal stop, but the train kept rolling after the doors closed. It rolled into a black corridor as the interior lights flickered. It screeched past an empty, gray-tiled station lit with glaring fluorescent lights and hammered along through another black passage.
Where was the damned thing headed? Marco wondered. The Bowery? Underwater to Staten Island?
He looked up and noted that he was the only passenger in the car. With a growing sense of unease he walked forward to the next car and found that empty too. He walked through four more unoccupied cars, staggering as the train titled and juddered in the dark tunnel. Then he found the operator’s booth, but it was unoccupied. He wondered could the train be remote controlled.
He looked back through the car and saw the thing approaching. It had the scrambled and careless look of scribbled animation, and it filled the car as it moved toward him. A maw opened in the “face” of the creature, revealing sharp teeth for rending flesh. Marco tried to find the brakes in the operator’s booth too late. The thing absorbed him with a series of chewing contractions. It hurt. And his blood spilled out like red ink onto a page.
He awoke drenched in sleep sweat with his sheets wrapped tightly around his torso. He was on the hardwood floor next to his bed, and Jean was standing over him, dimly lit by the hall lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, “I heard a scream.”
“The subway thing,” said Marco.
“Oh,” she said, “I should have known. I woke up in a hotel lobby after my encounter.”
“How can you know that it’s the thirteenth train?” Marco asked.
“Think about it,” said Jean, “someone had to go through it twice, counting the trains in between.”
“Once is enough,” said Marco, “now I’ll watch every damned stop.”
- - -
Don Bagley writes from his home in north California. His work has appeared in Weiryear, Anotherealm, AlienSkin and Hackwriters UK. He's not mad like they say.
Burning Airlines
by Don Bagley
Bill Peterson, a young man in slacks and a sports shirt with a tie, had selected an aisle seat onboard the Goering 747. After stowing his carry-on in the overhead storage, he began thumbing through a paperback volume of short stories in anticipation of the long flight. He was both startled and delighted when a young woman in black Capri pants and a white peasant blouse squeezed in past his knees to sit next to him. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had that easy going beauty that is typical of southern girls—she wore no makeup.
“Hi,” she said, settling into her narrow, blue cloth seat. “Sandra Dell.” She extended a delicate hand.
“Bill Peterson,” he said, taking her hand.
There was a dinging noise, and the no smoldering sign lit up.
“Can I have your attention please?” asked the Captain over the intercom. He had the voice of a silver-tongued devil with a trace of a British accent. “My name is Nigel, and I’ll be taking you to Lost Angeles today. As we leave Ted Kennedy airport, the weather is hot with a northwesterly breeze at 5 mph and a .00001% chance of precipitation. We should arrive at our destination by 1800 hours this evening. Enjoy your flight and remember, Burning Airlines gives you so much more.”
Bill and Sandra belted themselves in, and the plane began to roll forward. A she-demon steward indicated the location of the emergency exit doors and overhead oxygen masks, which seemed unnecessary to Bill, as he knew that the atmosphere of Hell extended all the way up to the bedrock that formed a high dome over it.
“Do you live in Madhattan?” Sandra asked as the 747 lifted up from the runway.
“Lower East Side,” said Bill. “But I just got a job offer in Lost Angeles that looks pretty promising.”
“I’m going to shoot some commercials in Hellywood,” said Sandra. “If they like me.”
“They will,” said Bill. “If you don’t mind my asking…”
“I know,” said Sandra. “Why am I here?” It was the question everyone was asking upon meeting someone new.
“Right,” said Bill. “I don’t mean to offend.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “Remember those comedies from the eighties—like Hookers from Venus and Sexteen 2000?”
Bill nodded.
“I played the ditzy blond girl.”
“Those were awful,” said Bill.
“That’s what God told me,” said Sandra. “How about you?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Bill. He appeared to be blushing, if that were possible in a place where everyone looked flushed from the heat.
“I promise I won’t hate you,” said Sandra, placing her hand on his knee.
“I, I sold stocks,” he stammered.
Sandra giggled. “That’s not so bad.”
“Enron stocks,” said Bill. “I sold them to retired people in Florida.
Sandra looked confused.
“When did you die?” asked Bill.
“1992,” she said. “Jealous lover.” She made a finger pistol with her hand and pointed it at her head. Her thumb hammered down, simulating the shot.
“Oh my God,” said Bill, loosening his tie.
“That’s a nice tie, Bill.”
“Calvin Klein,” said Bill. “We’re lucky to have him here with us.”
The she-demon steward approached, pushing a metal cart through the narrow aisle.
“Food,” said Sandra. “I’m starving.”
“Listen,” said Bill. “I’m going to be living in Lost Angeles if I take this job, and I’m pretty sure I will.”
“And I’ll be staying in Hellywood,” said Sandra.
“I was thinking maybe we could hook up…”
“Why not, Bill?”
Bill took out a business card and wrote his hotel address and room number on the back. “Call me?”
“I will,” said Sandra.
The steward leaned forward to hand Sandra and Bill two small packs of hot peanuts.
Sandra opened hers. “That’s it?” she said. “Six and a half nuts?”
Bill kicked Sandra’s ankle and made a shushing sound.
“You’re not satisfied?” asked the demon steward.
Sandra waived Bill off. “No,” she said. “I am not satisfied.”
Bill’s face went white as the she-demon reached past him and grabbed Sandra by the shoulders. “She didn’t mean it,” he said, but it was too late.
Sandra was wrenched from her seat, the safety belt tearing away as she cried out. Bill wondered how much that had hurt as he watched the steward drag Sandra down the aisle by her hair.
The she-demon pulled Sandra to an emergency exit, opened the door to a howling hot wind, and tossed the girl out into the jet wash.
Then the steward shut the door. “Are there any other complaints?” she asked. No one said a word.
Bill’s face filled the tiny window. They were flying over what would have been the Midwest on Earth. There was no equivalent for the place known as the Bible Belt in Hell. Here it was a vast wasteland of rock and brimstone. He imagined Sandra’s body turning over and over, perhaps in a frog-like position, until she slammed into the rocky surface below. She would die on impact, and then her body would reconstitute itself slowly and painfully. When healed, she would begin to wander, perhaps in the right direction, until she died again from thirst or exposure. Then she would heal and start over again. She might get to Lost Angeles in a few hundred years, who could say?
The airplane began bucking and heaving, and Bill’s four remaining peanuts flew out of his grasp and rolled away under the seat in front of him. The nose of the jet must be tilted down, he thought.
There was a burst of static on the intercom and then the Captain’s voice.
“—control of the engines,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to negotiate a crash landing.”
Bill had started to reach out for his lost peanuts, but he decided it wouldn’t make any difference now. Might as well sit back and wait for it.
- - -
Don Bagley is a north Californian writer, mostly of speculative fiction. His work has appeared in Anotherealm, Weirdyear, 10,000 Monkeys and Hackwriters U.K. He believes that burning airlines gives you so much more.
by Don Bagley
Bill Peterson, a young man in slacks and a sports shirt with a tie, had selected an aisle seat onboard the Goering 747. After stowing his carry-on in the overhead storage, he began thumbing through a paperback volume of short stories in anticipation of the long flight. He was both startled and delighted when a young woman in black Capri pants and a white peasant blouse squeezed in past his knees to sit next to him. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had that easy going beauty that is typical of southern girls—she wore no makeup.
“Hi,” she said, settling into her narrow, blue cloth seat. “Sandra Dell.” She extended a delicate hand.
“Bill Peterson,” he said, taking her hand.
There was a dinging noise, and the no smoldering sign lit up.
“Can I have your attention please?” asked the Captain over the intercom. He had the voice of a silver-tongued devil with a trace of a British accent. “My name is Nigel, and I’ll be taking you to Lost Angeles today. As we leave Ted Kennedy airport, the weather is hot with a northwesterly breeze at 5 mph and a .00001% chance of precipitation. We should arrive at our destination by 1800 hours this evening. Enjoy your flight and remember, Burning Airlines gives you so much more.”
Bill and Sandra belted themselves in, and the plane began to roll forward. A she-demon steward indicated the location of the emergency exit doors and overhead oxygen masks, which seemed unnecessary to Bill, as he knew that the atmosphere of Hell extended all the way up to the bedrock that formed a high dome over it.
“Do you live in Madhattan?” Sandra asked as the 747 lifted up from the runway.
“Lower East Side,” said Bill. “But I just got a job offer in Lost Angeles that looks pretty promising.”
“I’m going to shoot some commercials in Hellywood,” said Sandra. “If they like me.”
“They will,” said Bill. “If you don’t mind my asking…”
“I know,” said Sandra. “Why am I here?” It was the question everyone was asking upon meeting someone new.
“Right,” said Bill. “I don’t mean to offend.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “Remember those comedies from the eighties—like Hookers from Venus and Sexteen 2000?”
Bill nodded.
“I played the ditzy blond girl.”
“Those were awful,” said Bill.
“That’s what God told me,” said Sandra. “How about you?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Bill. He appeared to be blushing, if that were possible in a place where everyone looked flushed from the heat.
“I promise I won’t hate you,” said Sandra, placing her hand on his knee.
“I, I sold stocks,” he stammered.
Sandra giggled. “That’s not so bad.”
“Enron stocks,” said Bill. “I sold them to retired people in Florida.
Sandra looked confused.
“When did you die?” asked Bill.
“1992,” she said. “Jealous lover.” She made a finger pistol with her hand and pointed it at her head. Her thumb hammered down, simulating the shot.
“Oh my God,” said Bill, loosening his tie.
“That’s a nice tie, Bill.”
“Calvin Klein,” said Bill. “We’re lucky to have him here with us.”
The she-demon steward approached, pushing a metal cart through the narrow aisle.
“Food,” said Sandra. “I’m starving.”
“Listen,” said Bill. “I’m going to be living in Lost Angeles if I take this job, and I’m pretty sure I will.”
“And I’ll be staying in Hellywood,” said Sandra.
“I was thinking maybe we could hook up…”
“Why not, Bill?”
Bill took out a business card and wrote his hotel address and room number on the back. “Call me?”
“I will,” said Sandra.
The steward leaned forward to hand Sandra and Bill two small packs of hot peanuts.
Sandra opened hers. “That’s it?” she said. “Six and a half nuts?”
Bill kicked Sandra’s ankle and made a shushing sound.
“You’re not satisfied?” asked the demon steward.
Sandra waived Bill off. “No,” she said. “I am not satisfied.”
Bill’s face went white as the she-demon reached past him and grabbed Sandra by the shoulders. “She didn’t mean it,” he said, but it was too late.
Sandra was wrenched from her seat, the safety belt tearing away as she cried out. Bill wondered how much that had hurt as he watched the steward drag Sandra down the aisle by her hair.
The she-demon pulled Sandra to an emergency exit, opened the door to a howling hot wind, and tossed the girl out into the jet wash.
Then the steward shut the door. “Are there any other complaints?” she asked. No one said a word.
Bill’s face filled the tiny window. They were flying over what would have been the Midwest on Earth. There was no equivalent for the place known as the Bible Belt in Hell. Here it was a vast wasteland of rock and brimstone. He imagined Sandra’s body turning over and over, perhaps in a frog-like position, until she slammed into the rocky surface below. She would die on impact, and then her body would reconstitute itself slowly and painfully. When healed, she would begin to wander, perhaps in the right direction, until she died again from thirst or exposure. Then she would heal and start over again. She might get to Lost Angeles in a few hundred years, who could say?
The airplane began bucking and heaving, and Bill’s four remaining peanuts flew out of his grasp and rolled away under the seat in front of him. The nose of the jet must be tilted down, he thought.
There was a burst of static on the intercom and then the Captain’s voice.
“—control of the engines,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to negotiate a crash landing.”
Bill had started to reach out for his lost peanuts, but he decided it wouldn’t make any difference now. Might as well sit back and wait for it.
- - -
Don Bagley is a north Californian writer, mostly of speculative fiction. His work has appeared in Anotherealm, Weirdyear, 10,000 Monkeys and Hackwriters U.K. He believes that burning airlines gives you so much more.
Not Necessarily Man's Best Friend
By Don Bagley
Lisa jogged alongside the cracked and weathered curb, her hybrid sneakers tramping at the yellow birch leaves that clattered across the street. The same evening wind that swept at the leaves swirled around her inner thighs. She ran past a series of the white trunks of trees that had been planted to beautify downtown Stockton. Stripped of their foliage by late autumn, the naked trunks fell away like fence pickets in her peripheral view.
The sun had set, and the air was cooling. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable in her running shorts. It was getting late with the last rays of sunlight going horizontal and orange. She didn’t like running at this hour, but she’d been held up at work. Now her bare legs were starting to feel the chill.
The streets gradually fell into an encroaching dark, accompanied by the mist of an early tule fog. Street lights were sparse here, as the city budget was running a deficit. People had told Lisa, you should have a dog to run with. But whenever she even thought about dogs, she imagined all sorts of problems. A dog biting a neighbor’s kid, tearing up the lawn, vomiting on the carpet. To her it was as if the very thought of a dog was an act of conjuring bad luck somehow.
When she stopped at the corner of Fourteenth and Howe, she jogged in place for a moment, while the light flashed don’t walk. She heard a low throaty growl about half a block down Fourteenth Street to her right. Looking down the dark street, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a rottweiler, backlit for a moment by headlights passing beyond.
“Stupid, stupid,” she said to herself, as if her thinking about dogs had caused one to materialize.
When she started through the intersection, she saw the dog loping along at an angle that would intercept her by the next corner. She picked up her pace, taking long strides as she sprinted ahead. The frequency of the dog’s toenails clicking on the pavement sped up behind her.
She knew she couldn’t outrun a healthy rottweiler, and her only chance was to duck into a building, and quickly. Just as the animal was about to overtake her, she pushed through the lobby door of a low rent hotel called “The Barkhurst,” and slammed the glass door behind her.
The dog stood up against the glass, scratching and whining.
Inside, Lisa looked round for a telephone. She didn’t carry her cell in her running shorts; the tiny pocket was just big enough for her house key. The lobby was dimly lit and had the odor of an alley way trash hopper. There were three filthy old couches, each with an end table with an overfilled ashtray. None of the old sofas were occupied.
A double thumping that sounded like a clumsy step startled her.
There was a movement in the shadows to her left, and she turned to see a wizened man approaching. He was wearing what looked like a soiled bathrobe, and his face was mottled with open sores. His eyes were shaded in the half-light.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
“A phone,” said Lisa, and the dog yelped outside.
“Sure,” he said. “Come here.”
He gestured toward the unlit rear corner, and Lisa cautiously followed him. When she got within arm’s reach, he grabbed her with a quick, fluid motion of which she wouldn’t have thought him capable. She screamed, and the dog whined hysterically out front.
“Give me what I want,” he said as she struggled to free herself. “And you’ll get what you want.”
She stamped on his slippered foot, and the pain buckled him. Once free, she fled to the door, jerking it open without a thought of the consequences.
The rottweiler forced its way in, seeming to pour like liquid fur through the door’s narrow opening. It flew straight to the man, and its growls were swallowed up in his screams.
Lisa pushed outside and ran hard for a block before it occurred to her. Then she stopped to catch her breath and walk deliberately back to The Barkhurst. It wouldn’t do to have animal control get there first.
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By Don Bagley
Lisa jogged alongside the cracked and weathered curb, her hybrid sneakers tramping at the yellow birch leaves that clattered across the street. The same evening wind that swept at the leaves swirled around her inner thighs. She ran past a series of the white trunks of trees that had been planted to beautify downtown Stockton. Stripped of their foliage by late autumn, the naked trunks fell away like fence pickets in her peripheral view.
The sun had set, and the air was cooling. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable in her running shorts. It was getting late with the last rays of sunlight going horizontal and orange. She didn’t like running at this hour, but she’d been held up at work. Now her bare legs were starting to feel the chill.
The streets gradually fell into an encroaching dark, accompanied by the mist of an early tule fog. Street lights were sparse here, as the city budget was running a deficit. People had told Lisa, you should have a dog to run with. But whenever she even thought about dogs, she imagined all sorts of problems. A dog biting a neighbor’s kid, tearing up the lawn, vomiting on the carpet. To her it was as if the very thought of a dog was an act of conjuring bad luck somehow.
When she stopped at the corner of Fourteenth and Howe, she jogged in place for a moment, while the light flashed don’t walk. She heard a low throaty growl about half a block down Fourteenth Street to her right. Looking down the dark street, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a rottweiler, backlit for a moment by headlights passing beyond.
“Stupid, stupid,” she said to herself, as if her thinking about dogs had caused one to materialize.
When she started through the intersection, she saw the dog loping along at an angle that would intercept her by the next corner. She picked up her pace, taking long strides as she sprinted ahead. The frequency of the dog’s toenails clicking on the pavement sped up behind her.
She knew she couldn’t outrun a healthy rottweiler, and her only chance was to duck into a building, and quickly. Just as the animal was about to overtake her, she pushed through the lobby door of a low rent hotel called “The Barkhurst,” and slammed the glass door behind her.
The dog stood up against the glass, scratching and whining.
Inside, Lisa looked round for a telephone. She didn’t carry her cell in her running shorts; the tiny pocket was just big enough for her house key. The lobby was dimly lit and had the odor of an alley way trash hopper. There were three filthy old couches, each with an end table with an overfilled ashtray. None of the old sofas were occupied.
A double thumping that sounded like a clumsy step startled her.
There was a movement in the shadows to her left, and she turned to see a wizened man approaching. He was wearing what looked like a soiled bathrobe, and his face was mottled with open sores. His eyes were shaded in the half-light.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
“A phone,” said Lisa, and the dog yelped outside.
“Sure,” he said. “Come here.”
He gestured toward the unlit rear corner, and Lisa cautiously followed him. When she got within arm’s reach, he grabbed her with a quick, fluid motion of which she wouldn’t have thought him capable. She screamed, and the dog whined hysterically out front.
“Give me what I want,” he said as she struggled to free herself. “And you’ll get what you want.”
She stamped on his slippered foot, and the pain buckled him. Once free, she fled to the door, jerking it open without a thought of the consequences.
The rottweiler forced its way in, seeming to pour like liquid fur through the door’s narrow opening. It flew straight to the man, and its growls were swallowed up in his screams.
Lisa pushed outside and ran hard for a block before it occurred to her. Then she stopped to catch her breath and walk deliberately back to The Barkhurst. It wouldn’t do to have animal control get there first.
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