Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies Page 4

  Several other cots were evenly spaced along the wall. Jonathan could make out a child on or next to each cot, some sitting up, others lying down. He could make out few details in the dim light, but the others appeared to be eleven or twelve years-old.

  The only other object, placed in the center of the room, looked like a large, horse drawn carriage. Mostly shadow, it looked black, menacing and strangely familiar.

  Then there were the chains. A thin iron chain manacled Jonathan's foot to the bed. About 7 feet long, it allowed him to stretch and move a bit, but not reach any of the other children.

  The sound of metal dragging across the floor hissed throughout the room and he guessed the other kids were also chained.

  A small voice croaked from the cot on his left.

  "I'm thirsty." It belonged to a girl. She wore a large t-shirt that came down to her knees. Her legs were bare and she was wearing slippers. "What is this place?"

  Jonathan started to answer, but again it came out as a whispered rasp. He was parched and had to work up enough saliva to start talking. It was thick and gritty.

  "Don't know," he croaked. "How did you get here?"

  "I -- I don't know. I remember being in bed. It was early. My dad had sent me to my room because.... “ He sensed the embarrassment in her voice. “Because I was fighting with my brother. I went to bed and then, and then I woke up here."

  Jonathan gave a half-hearted tug on his chain. It was thin but strong enough.

  "My name's Jonathan."

  "I’m Susan."

  "Susan. Listen, how long have you…"

  A section of cave on the far end slid open and bright red light spilled into the room. Two children entered the cave carrying buckets. Walking in opposite directions, they made their way around the room, stopping at each cot and pouring whatever was in their buckets into small bowls, handing them to each child. They swayed from side to side as they walked, reminding him of Oompa Loompas in that dumbass movie. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't looking at children.

  Dwarves?

  One of the misshapen dwarves came to Jonathan's cot. He wore a filthy green robe and what looked like an old "dunce cap" that one only saw in bad cartoons. His teeth were stained dark yellow/brown and long, matted hair hung over his eyes. A thin scar ran from the left side of his mouth almost all the way up to his ear. He dipped a wooden ladle into his bucket and poured out a thick, yellowish liquid into a bowl.

  "What's that?"

  The dwarf placed the bowl on the floor and started walking to the next cot.

  "Eggnog."

  "I'm not going to drink that! Where's my mom! What's going on?" Jonathan shouted at the dwarf's back. He kept shuffling toward the next cot.

  "Everyone drinks it. If you don’t drink it, we'll bleed you until your dead."

  Jonathan sat on the cot, stunned. What the fuck was happening to him. He was chained to a cot in a cave, and a dwarf was threatening to murder him if he didn't drink eggnog?

  In the end, they all drank the eggnog.

  Sometime later the cave opened again and another dwarf entered the room. He couldn't tell if this was the same dwarf he'd seen earlier. It shuffled into the center of the room and climbed onto the carriage. The eggnog was probably just eggnog, but Jonathon felt a little woozy.

  'Sleigh. It's a sleigh.' Jonathan's eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could make out the running boards where wheels should have been. There was something in the driver's seat. He couldn't be sure but it looked like a body.

  Not without some difficulty the dwarf climbed onto the seat, taking a moment to catch his breath. He held a single piece of paper in his hand. Another dwarf entered and began collecting the bowls, checking to make sure each was empty.

  The first dwarf raised the paper in front of his face and began to read out lout.

  "Vicky Ressler." Jonathan heard a small yelp from somewhere in the room. "June 13, 2010. Poisoned the neighbor's cat."

  "I didn't!"

  Ignoring her, the dwarf continued, "March 2, April 12, April 15, May 7 and 8, 2010. Skipped school to drink with friends."

  Another squeak echoed off the walls. "How did…?"

  "Susan Howarth," the dwarf continued. Jonathan heard a soft gasp from the girl he had spoken with earlier. "December 14, 2010. Set younger brother's favorite stuffed animal – also known as 'Tigger' -- on fire.” A short pause. “In his room, while he was sleeping"

  "It was an accident..." Jonathan heard the lie in her words, even as she cried.

  The dwarf read out all ten names, listing their offenses, including Jonathan’s.

  "Congratulations to you all. You are the top ten." He began to climb down from the sleigh, again not without some difficulty. "It is December 23, 2010, 11:58 p.m. As it has always been, since before the great thaw -- damnit!" The dwarf's boot caught in the sleigh's runner and sent him sprawling to the ground. "Godfuckingdamn sonofabitch shitass that hurts!"

  The other dwarf looked up from collecting the last bowl. "Harry! It's almost time!"

  Harry picked himself up and started running toward the door, still speaking.

  "...Since before the great thaw," he huffed, "the wicked shall sacrifice and the spirit of Christmas shall dwell among us again! As it is written, there shall be --"

  "It's midnight! It's midnight!" The other dwarf screamed.

  "Bloody hell!" Harry didn't bother to finish his sentence. The door slammed behind him.

  Jonathan tugged at his chains with renewed vigor. He didn't know what was going on here, but he knew he didn't want to find out. How did they know about that night at Cliff's house? No one knew about that! The things the other kids had done almost made him glad they were all chained to their beds.

  I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to get out of here and find mom. Things will be different. I promise. I'm going to get out –

  "SILENT NIGHT, HOLY NIGHT..."

  The music blared into the room, painfully loud. Jonathan instinctively hunched his shoulders against the audio onslaught. At the same time, the ceiling erupted in a riot of color as thousands of Christmas lights began blinking on and off.

  Then the thing in the sleigh began to move.

  With the crazy new light, he could see it clearly. A skull peeked out from a filthy, rust-stained hood. It was dressed in torn red rags that hung loosely around its body.

  Except there isn't any body. All bones. All skin and bones.

  The music blared and Jonathan felt himself being pushed back on the bed with the force of it.

  "ALL IS CALM, ALL IS BRIGHT"

  He covered his ears and fell to his knees. The corpse was on the ground now. In one skeletal hand, it clutched what looked like an empty potato sack. Jonathan could see its jawbone rising and falling, but the music drowned out any words.

  "YON YOUNG VIRGIN, MOTHER AND CHILD"

  The thing started walking toward the other end of the room.

  Thank you! Thank you!

  Jonathan drew his knees to his chest and backed up against the bed. He watched the corpse shamble toward one of the children.

  HOLY INFANT SO TENDER AND MILD”

  The kid's mouth opened in a soundless scream, and then the corpse fell upon him. It buried its skeletal fingers in the kid's neck.

  "Bryce Kaplan, November 23, 2010. Took mother's car. Crashed into neighbor's garage, killing the cat."

  Jonathan had time to notice that walls turn transparent. On the other side, hundreds of dwarves jumped up and down, silently cheering.

  But they're not dwarves. Not really. They're elves.

  Blood sprayed from Bryce's neck and then the corpse leaned in and bit. It bit and it chewed and it drank and it bit, until Bryce was a puddle.

  "SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE."

  The corpse, dressed now in clean rags and slightly bloated from its first meal, moved on. The potato sack turned to red velvet with white wolf fur trim, and it wasn't empty. He could see there was some weight to it. By the time it visited Jonatha
n, its blood stained teeth were framed in a snow white beard, and Jolly ole' Saint Nick was filled with the Christmas spirit -- almost filled. If Jonathon screamed, no one heard it.

  After, when all the presents were delivered to all the good little girls and boys, and all the cookies eaten, Santa returned with his sleigh and the elves set upon him with their small carving knives. There was a great feast and by mid-afternoon, the only thing in Santa's sleigh was a skeleton dressed in rags.

  CHAPTER 11

  SOFTLY SHE STEPS

  Something is wrong.

  His snoring remained loud and deep. He was truly dead to the world when he gots like this, especially when he’d been drinking. Not falling down drunk, like some Lifetime movie husband. Just a few glasses of wine after dinner did the trick for him. Still, she was careful not to make any noise.

  Tonight is not a night for mistakes.

  Now she lay awake in the small hours, while he slept the sleep of the just.

  I’m terrified. Why am I terrified?

  The thought gave her pause. He’d done nothing wrong, or even unusual, to warrant any doubt or fear from her. He could be a bit snarky some mornings, but what man wasn’t? Things were fine between them. “Fine as wine”, he was fond of saying. There was nothing strange or amiss, not really.

  Except the cellar; that’s a little strange -- and the dark.

  The house is pitch dark at night. He never allows lights to remain on when they’re ready for bed. Not even the outside porch light. Otherwise, he says, he can’t sleep. He even shuts Jeffrey’s night light off after her son falls asleep. That worried her at first, but so far Jeffrey hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night, or, if he had, he hadn’t mentioned the dark. Ridiculous that he couldn’t sleep with a night light on two rooms away (with the door closed), but it was true. He’d toss and turn (and bitch and moan) if any light remained on. She half-believed that if she woke up at 3am and whispered “click,” his eyes would fly open. As it was, he’d wake up every morning with the first blush of dawn, and head down to the cellar. He was down there by the time she woke up, and back up before she finished brewing the coffee.

  “It’s just my man cave,” he jokes. “I like to go on the computer, do a little writing. There’s no real mystery to it.” A peck on the cheek, a quick goodbye.

  But it’s locked. Always - and when he leaves, he takes the key with him.

  He thinks she doesn’t know this, but she’s seen him do it before. Then she’s all alone – alone with her thoughts and a locked cellar.

  It worried her, but not really such a mystery. He wasn’t Bluebeard and there was no room filled with the heads of formally curious spouses. If he’d have been more careful with his trousers earlier, she’d be sound asleep now. The thought made her smile.

  Getting ready for bed, he’d tossed his pants over the chair in the corner and headed for the shower. She was reading a little Nicholas Sparks on the Kindle, feeling (fine as wine) a bit sleepy but happy, when she heard the soft almost sound of the key hitting the carpet. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, that sound would have gone unnoticed, especially with the shower running and her mind immersed in best-selling romance. But tonight, for whatever reason, it grabbed her attention with all the subtlety of a police siren. Without thinking, she’d hopped out of bed and snatched it up.

  Now, at 2:48 a.m., in the dead of night, she found herself lying awake in bed next to Mr. Sawing Wood, clutching the small key in her right hand (the hand furthest away from him). Her fingers cramped a little and her palm was moist. She imagined there was an imprint of the key on her palm. Another irrational wave of fear washed over her.

  It will be there in the morning, like a scarlet letter, and he’ll see.

  The thought was so absurd she had to stop herself from giggling.

  Ridiculous!. What is wrong with me?

  Still, she forced her hand open and waited a few extra minutes, making certain he had no intention of waking up.

  I’ll just put the key back in his pocket. Let him keep his man cave private. No biggie.

  But (something is wrong) while she might not be able to explain it, the whole thing made her uneasy.

  His snoring remained strong and steady. She gave him an experimental “love nudge,” ready to trade in her curiosity for a little nighttime fun if he woke up, but he remained dead to the world.

  She turned, oh so slowly, away from him and, quiet as a church mouse (because they promised the priest they would never tell!), she reached for her Blackberry phone on the nightstand. After waiting a few more cautionary seconds, she turned it on, careful to point it away from him. She half-expected him to bolt upright in bed, but of course he didn’t. Light might make it impossible for him to fall asleep, but once he was out, he was out for the count. She could probably turn on all the lights and the radio and he’d keep snoring. Probably.

  She quickly and quietly made her way past the bed, past him, and out into the hall. Holding the phone and key in front of her, like two bizarre talismans, she made her way down the stairs.

  She remembered the flyers in town, on the telephone poles, in the library; even at Tom’s Hardware, and he never let anyone put anything in his store window that wouldn’t make him money. Those poor girls.

  Now why would I think about that?

  In the kitchen her Blackberry went dark and she had to turn it on again. It was crazy. No way he’d wake up now from the kitchen light.

  Why take chances?

  Then the key slipped from her hand and fell to the floor with the sound of thunder. She froze for a forever, afraid to move.

  That’s it. He’ll wake up and see I’m not there. He’ll come down and find me here, standing in a dark kitchen. Then…

  Then what?

  Finally, she heard the rumble of his snoring, giving the ‘all clear.’ She waited until she heard a few more (why take chances) and then slowly – ever so slowly, bent down to look for the key.

  It was gone. Frantically waving her Blackberry back and forth across the floor, she searched and found nothing.

  “Come on, come on!” she whispered and went to hands and knees. There! Resting against a corner, hidden by two inches of dishwasher overhang. She grabbed it, feeling a disproportionate sense of relief. Lori got up, clutching the key.

  Something’s wrong.

  She paused but didn’t hear anything.

  Nothing!

  If he was snoring, she couldn’t hear it. Almost, she turned to head back to the bottom of the stairs; the need to confirm he still slept overwhelmed her.

  Almost.

  But I won’t come back. I’ll lose my nerve and sneak back into bed and then everything will be back to the way it was.

  The key slipped in and the door opened on well oiled hinges.

  CHAPTER 12

  HOUSE CALLS

  On the far end of Westfall Street, the automated street sweeper, or "ASS" as the children--when there were children--called it, quietly turned itself on, its low hum a lone voice in the suburban wilderness. It began slowly making its way down the left side of the street, the whisking of its brushes sounding overly loud in the empty world -- left side on Mondays and Wednesdays, right side on Tuesdays and Fridays. At 4:45a.m., 33 Westfall Street woke up. The upstairs lights came on, their soft glow spilling out into the dark, silent world. Downstairs in the spacious kitchen the faux-antique espresso machine, all shiny brass and steel, came to life. For a few seconds the kitchen was filled with the roar of grinding non-existent coffee beans. Six exterior portals slid open to allow the cool outside air to make its way into the house. Outside, the lamp post winked off as eastern sky began to lighten. Up and down Westfall Street, Winding Way, Surrey Lane, and thousands of other streets on the east coast, all the houses woke up. Not the people of course. There was no one to hear any of the water heaters' chuff, or drink any coffee or watch TV.

  The small silicon panel that was Tim understood all this. It knew there had been no people inside the house for years
and years and years. But what else was it to do? Running the house is what it knew, and running the house is what it did. Day after day after day

  Nevertheless, it would be wrong to say that nothing ever changed for Tim. Today's litany of chores remained the same as when the people first stopped coming home, but Tim didn't remain the same. It waited. And while it waited it changed. Like most residential AIs, Tim was programmed to interact with the owners and guests, often for their amusement. Essentially, Tim could learn. It interacted with people and, unlike politicians, priests, and country music singers, it learned from its past. Every conversation helped build its knowledge to make it more... well, just more.

  Tim liked social interaction. It missed people. Now, if there had been anyone around to argue the point (and how Tim wished there were), they might insist that a machine could not develop feelings. That it was incapable of liking anything, incapable of enjoyment or disappointment, that its programming only allowed it to mimic these things. And if they asked Tim what his thoughts on the matter were, he would have said "Whether its programming or a real response, it doesn't change the fact that I like talking with people."

  If any of you had been around when the message center beeped at 5:59 am that day, you would have had a very hard time convincing Tim that he was not surprised.

  It is of course impossible for a machine to be startled. Nevertheless, Tim was what can only be described as startled. An incoming message was so far out of the ordinary routine that at first Tim didn't know what to do. It waited almost a full second before scanning the message, which turned out to be nothing more than a picture of 29 Westfall Street, the house across the street. It was a petite low ranch house, painted all in soft yellow with blue trim. The picture was taken on earlier date, as it was clearly mid afternoon, with the bright sun reflecting off the window portals.

  Tim turned on the misters for the indoor arboretum. (Since the owners had disappeared the autoharvesters had collected 6 tons of various plant life, including 700 pounds of parsley. All of which was flash frozen and shipped to an abandoned commune center a few miles down the road. Tim had once calculated that even if the people were still here, there would still have been about 585 pounds of parsley left). But his code kept drifting back to the strange message. Should it respond? What should it say? What did it mean? This last question was particularly interesting, as it had been decades since Tim last came across something it did not understand, it was a teenage girl returning home after a "shopping spree."