Year's Best Weird Fiction: 1 Page 4

  The rumbling is louder, and lower-sounding than thunder. By lower I mean closer to the ground, you know? It doesn’t stop, fade, or become an echo, a memory. It turns our plywood floors into a drumhead. A power saw with its sharp angry teeth shakes and rattles on the contractor’s makeshift worktable in the middle of the room. Then something bounces hard off the window behind us, and Julie screams and dives down into the blankets. I tell her to calm down, to stay there, that I’ll be right back.

  I glide through the darkened house. Been in here enough times that I’ve already memorized the layout. Practice, baby, practice. Julie’s soccer coach approves of practice, yeah? Straight out of the great room for ten steps, past the dinning room, take that second left off the kitchen, no marble countertops yet but dumbass left some copper piping out, which I should probably take and sell, then a quick right, eleven stairs down into the basement, left then through a door into the two-car garage, left again and step out the side door, into the swirling wind that pick-pockets my breath.

  Four, maybe five inches of snow on the ground, enough to cover the toes of Tony’s boots. My feet are lost in the boots and can’t keep themselves warm. Losers. My shaking hands fish for my cigarette pack. I only have one left, and one left. The world sighs, breathes, and it’s so loud, like a whale breaching in my head. Trees crack and fall all over the neighborhood, London Bridge falling down around our new house on the hill. Sirens somewhere in the distance, in town, probably. More rumbling, more stuff crashing down, cratering into the ground, shaking everything. And that world-sighing stuff, it isn’t just in my head, you know. That slow inhale and percussive exhale sound gets louder, and has company. Like more than one whale breaching. Beanstalk-high above Gran’s house, almost lost in the dark, are thick plumes of white air, exploding along with the rhythmic deep breathing. Three, no four, separate clouds from walking smokestacks. Holy Christ, Darlene’s video. They’re here and they’re walking and breathing somewhere above everything. A front section of Gran’s roof is gone. Most of the roof is covered in white, but there’s a section that’s just a dark nothing space. Then those walking smokestacks move in and more of Gran’s roof rips up and away, shingles flutter around Gran’s yard like dying blackbirds, the ones that are always falling out of the sky dead somewhere down south, always south, and I think I know how that feels. The monsters are giant shadows with giant boulders attached to giant arms or giant legs, I don’t know which, and they pile drive into the house smashing the chimney and walls, glass shattering, wood exploding, and always those white plumes of breath above it all, breathing slow, but loud, and constant, like they’ll never stop.

  Julie opens the window above me and starts screaming for Gran. I stick my head inside the garage, into more darkness, and I scream and yell at her, making sure I’m loud enough so I can’t hear that goddamn breathing and the end of Gran’s house, so I scream and I yell for her to shut up, to stop being a baby, why are you so stupid, they’ll hear you.

  Swim wants to know if it’s as bad as swim thinks.

  The ground shakes worse than ever because they’re all around us.

  My stomach is dead and it hurts to talk, but I tell Julie to stop looking out the window. I tell her that they’ll see her. I say it in my quiet, I’m-sorry voice.

  I tell Julie that I’d been walking by Gran’s house for a while now and I’d heard Gran yelling at her, calling her stupid and so bad, just like she used to yell at me, and it’s why I’d always run away to the Ewings, remember the Ewings?, and they’re not here anymore, you know, so that’s why I went and got her out of the house tonight, got her away from Gran.

  Julie hasn’t said anything to me since we got here, but then from under the pile of blankets and the pile of bones that are my arms and legs, she asks me if I still have the gun.

  I tell her my Mom became Gran to me the day they let her take you away from me.

  And then I tell Julie about that first time, a little more than seven years ago, I went and got her when she was only eight months old. I was downtown by myself, and Joey, that prick, him and his bleeding gums and cigarette burns, he was so long gone it was like he was never even there, and I remember not being able to see Julie at all, right away, and worse, not being able to remember what she looked like or what her chubby little hands and feet felt like, how that must’ve been the worst pain in the world, right?, I mean what else could’ve mattered to me?, so when the pain wouldn’t go away I went over to Mom’s house, Gran’s house, and I can’t remember if I really remember because what I remember now is how they explained it all when I was in the court room, how the lawyers talked about me and what I did before me and Julie went south where everything was green. I remember them saying how I walked into my old house, calm as a summer’s day (was how the lawyer said it, someone objected), me and a big knife, scooped up Julie out of the crib, though I don’t know how it was I held her and a big knife at the same time, right? That doesn’t make sense to me. I’d be more careful than that. So yeah, Mom wasn’t my mom anymore but your Gran, which means she became someone else, and her stupid twelve-pack boyfriend whoever he was, the one with the junky red truck and a rusted plow blade hanging off the grill too low, the one with the easy greasy hands, the one who’d walk in on you if you were in the bathroom, he wasn’t there, I was there, so was a knife, apparently, and this new Gran, she looked so angry, tough as a leather jacket, fists clenched, hair cut too short and tight like a helmet, and no wait, she looked like she wanted to give up, so old, thin, dry-boned, but she was screaming at me fine, like she was fine, just fine, like normal, or no, that’s not right because then she was crying about how she couldn’t take it, any of it, anymore, saying that she had cancer in her liver now, and go ahead she said, go ahead and do it she said, do it, and I ask Julie if she remembers Gran saying that and, and dammit I’m mixing up what happened when Julie was a baby with happened tonight. How do you keep everything that happened in order anyway? Doesn’t seem like order matters much because it doesn’t change what happened.

  I tell Julie that swim didn’t think this was going to happen.

  We listen to sirens coming closer and we listen to breathing and stomping and everything outside. So loud, it’s like we’re in their bellies already.

  I tell Julie there’s nothing to be afraid of. I tell her that when it’s morning everything will be all done. I tell her that all the houses around us and in the rest of the world will be gone, stomped and mashed flat, but we’ll be okay. I tell her that we’ll ride on the back of one the monsters. Its back plates and scales will be softer than they look. We’ll feel the earth rumbling beneath us and we’ll be above everything. I tell her it’ll know where to go, where to take us, and it’ll take us where it’s safe, safe for swims. I tell her that I know she doesn’t remember the first time but we’ll ride it south again. The monster will follow the dotted white lines and instead of trees lining the roads there’ll be all the rest of the monsters destroying everything else, watching us, leading the way south, not sure why south, swim south, but maybe it’s as simple and stupid as that’s where everything is green, because south isn’t here, because south is as good or bad as any other place.

  Outside there’s flashing lights, sirens, pounding on the doors, walls, and roof. Dust and chunks of plastic rain down on our heads and we fall and roll into the middle of the room. Julie’s yelling and crying and I brush away hair from her ear with one hand so I can whisper inside her head. Tony’s gun is in my other hand.

  I tell Julie, Shh, baby. Don’t you worry about nothing. Your Mom’s here.

  A.C. Wise

  * * *

  DR. BLOOD AND THE ULTRA

  FABULOUS GLITTER SQUADRON

  A.C. Wise was born and raised in Montreal and currently lives in the Philadelphia area. Her fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Apex, Lightspeed, and the Year’s Best Horror Vol. 4, among others. In addition to her fiction, she co-edits Unlikely Story. Visit the author at www.acwise.ne
t

  Mars Needs Men!

  But the Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron will have to do. At least one of them self-identifies as male. He tucks proudly, and fuck you very much if you don’t like it.

  By night, they work at clubs with names like Diamond Lil’s, the Lil’ Diamond, and Exclusively Lime Green. Every Thursday afternoon, they bowl. In-between, when they’re not bowling, or dancing, or singing on stage, they kick ass harder than you’ve seen ass kicked before. And they do it all in silver lamé and high heels.

  This is Bunny, their leader, born Phillip Howard Craft the Third. At the moment, she is up in the recruiter’s face, waving a poster of Uncle Sam under the aforementioned tagline, a floating head against a backdrop of Martian red. Her nails are manicured perfection; each painted a different metallic shade, all the colors of the rainbow, and then some. Her hair is piled in a frosted bouffant so high it barely fit through the recruiter’s door. Despite the anger written in every line of her body, she doesn’t raise her voice.

  “Your sign says you need volunteers. We’re volunteering, and since I don’t see your waiting room clogged with other candidates, dare I suggest: We’re all you’ve got.”

  “I can’t . . . I won’t . . .” The recruiter turns bright red. He takes a deep breath, faces Bunny, and almost, but not quite, manages to look her in the eye.

  “I can’t just let a bunch of . . .”

  Bunny’s eyes, tinted violet today, shine cold steel. They stop the words in the recruiter’s throat, hard enough that he looks like he might actually choke. Her tone matches her eyes.

  “Think carefully, General. If the next word out of your mouth is anything but ‘civilians’ I will dismember you myself. You won’t live long enough to worry about an invasion from Mars.”

  The General’s jaw tightens. A vein in his forehead bulges.

  “The Glitter Squadron’s record speaks for itself, General.”

  Bunny’s voice is level. She places the poster on his desk.

  “Cleaner than yours, I’ll dare say. And,” Bunny smirks, and points to the General’s medals, “our bling is better.”

  Rage twists the General’s features, but his shoulders slump all the same.

  “Fine,” he says. “The damned mission is yours. Add a little more red to the planet, if you want it so badly.”

  Bunny smiles, teeth gleaming diamond bright. “I promise you, General, the Ultra Fabulous Glitter Squadron is more than up to the task.”

  They are loaded into the rocket by clean-cut scientists with white coats and strong values, men and women who believe glitter is for little girls’ birthday cards as long as they’re under six years old, and leather is for wallets and briefcases.

  “Some people have no imagination,” Starlight stage-whispers as they climb the gangplank. Starlight was born Walter Adams Kennett. Her mirror-ball inspired outfit forces the good, moral scientists to look away as light breaks against her and scatters throughout the room.

  Starlight pauses at the airlock door, looking up at the floodlit rocket, all sleek length, studded with rounded windows, and tipped at the base in fins. “Well, maybe not no imagination.” And she climbs aboard.

  Bunny reads over a brief as they hurtle between the stars.

  “Imagine the outfit I could make from one of those,” Starlight whispers, pointing to the stars pricking the vast dark.

  “Hush.” Esmerelda, born Christine Joanne Layton elbows her.

  “Our target is Doctor Blood,” Bunny says, rolling her eyes.

  She flips a page in the neatly-stapled file, scans, while the twelve other bodies crammed into the rocket lean forward in anticipation.

  “The least they could have done was give us champagne. We are off to save the world, after all. And this seating . . .”

  No one answers Starlight this time.

  For this mission, they’ve chosen strictly retro-future, which means skin-tight silver, boots that come nearer to the knee than their skirts, bubble-barreled ray-guns, frosted white lipstick and, of course, big hair. CeCe the Velvet Underground Drag King called in sick with the flu, so it’s lamé all the way. Each member of the Squadron has added their own touch, as usual. Starlight’s peek-a-boo cutout dress, which is really more skin than fabric, is studded with mirrors. Esmerelda wears a wide belt, studded with faux gems, green to match her name. Bunny is wearing her namesake animal’s ears, peeking out from her enormous coif.

  M is the only exception to all the brightness and dazzle. M wears leather, head-to-toe. Think Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman—erratic, angry stitches joining found leather so close to the body there’s no chance for the flesh underneath to breathe. Only it isn’t like that at all. There is a whip hanging from M’s hip though, and plenty of other toys beside. Only eyes and lips show through M’s mask, and their gender is indeterminate. No one knows M’s birth name, and it will stay that way.

  Bunny clears her throat. “Doctor Blood, born Richard Carnacki Utley, is a brilliant scientist. He was working on splicing human and animal DNA as a way to cure cancer, or building better rocket fuel using radioactive spiders and black holes. Blah, blah, blah, the usual. We’ve all seen the movies, right?”

  Esmerelda giggles approval. Bunny goes on.

  “He caught his wife cheating with his lab partner, or his brother, or his best friend. He tried to burn them to death, or blow them up, or turn them into evil monkey robots, and horribly disfigured himself in the process. So he did the only sensible thing, and shot himself into space where he built a gigantic impenetrable fortress on Mars. Now, he’s threatening to invade earth, or shoot it to pieces with a space laser if the United Nations doesn’t surrender all of earth’s gold.”

  “Can they do that?” Esmerelda asks.

  Starlight mutters, “No imagination at all,” and shakes her head, sending bits of light whirling around the rocket.

  “That’s where we come in,” Bunny says. “We take down Doctor Blood, easy peasy lemon squeezy, and we’re home in time for tea.”

  “Ooh, make mine with brandy!” Starlight says.

  Bunny rolls her eyes again. “Look sharp, we’re almost there.”

  Penny is the weapons expert. Born Penelope Jean Hartraub, she is the only member of the Glitter Squadron who has actually seen war. Her mini dress has a faint coppery sheen, befitting her name. She stands at the bottom of the gangplank, distributing extra ammo and back-up weapons as twelve pairs of chunky heels kick up the red dirt of Mars.

  She keeps the best gun for herself, not just a laser pistol, but an honest to goodness Big Fucking Gun. It has rings that light up and it makes a woo-woo sound when it’s fired and everything. Fashion-wise, it may be so last year, but it’ll get the job done. As they leave the rocket behind, heading towards the ridiculously over-sized fortress, all done up in phallic towers and bubble domes, Penny takes the lead.

  They encounter guards, dressed oh-so-predictably in uniforms purchased from the discount bin at Nazis-R-Us.

  “Boring.” Starlight buffs her nails to a high shine against a rare patch of fabric on her dress.

  She delivers a high kick, catching the first guard in the throat with the bruising force of her extra-chunky, mirror-studded heel, not even bothering to draw her gun. Esmerelda uses her belt instead of the gun hanging from it, because it’s more fun. She wraps it around the second guard’s throat and neatly throttles him, before returning it to her waist.

  The second wave of guards approaches with more caution. Penny singles out a man with a nasty grin, the one most likely to cause trouble. He reaches for her. She surprises him with her speed, and uses his momentum to bring him crashing down. He springs up.

  “I won’t make this easy on you, girly,” he says, or something equally cliché.

  Penny ignores him and goes in for a blow to the ribs. But it doesn’t land. This time he’s the one to surprise her with his speed. He catches her and spins her around, pinning her. She swear
s he tries to cop a feel, and his breath stinks of alcohol when he speaks close to her ear.

  “You like that? You want a real man to show you how it’s done?”

  No imagination, she imagines Starlight saying, and smashes her head back against his, hoping it will break his nose. At very least it breaks his concentration. She slips free. The BFG is too good for this one.

  He comes at her fast and hard, excitement clear in his eyes. She can see from their shine just what he thinks he’ll do to her when he bests her, how he thinks he’ll make her beg, and how he thinks she’ll like it. She sweeps his legs out from under him; there’s a satisfying crack as his head hits the floor. Even dazed, he grins up at her, blood between his teeth as she stands over him. She knows exactly what he’s thinking: So, you like it rough, girly? Me, too. I like a girl who knows how to play.

  Disgusting.

  Fashion be damned. She pulls out a battered old 9mm pistol.

  “Fetishize this, asshole.” And she puts a single bullet in his brain.

  There are gorilla men—of course there are—all spliced DNA, dragging knuckles and swinging hairy arms. Bunny makes short work of them. There are radioactive zombies, slavering, pawing, glowing green and dropping chunks of unnamable rot in their wake.

  Esmerelda handles them with grace and aplomb. There are even spiders, which sends Starlight into a fit of giggling, before she takes them out, singing Bowie at the top of her lungs.

  There are two female guards in the whole sprawling expanse of the base, both wearing bikinis, chests heaving before they’ve even thought to pick a fight.

  “Oh, how progressive!” Starlight claps her hands in mock rapture.

  “I suppose there’s a mud pit just behind that door?”