He was scared shitless. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision. His exhausted legs trembled, threatening to cave from fatigue. But he couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now. Not when concentration and that final bullet were all that stood between him and . . .

The infected barreled into sight, and Richard found himself staring down a giant. Decked in combat boots, urban camouflage, and utility webbing, the thing was clearly a member of the U.S. military.

Strike that
, Richard thought.
Former U.S. military.

Gore caked its maw, chest and shoulders, while drool sprayed past its bared teeth like streamers. Its left leg was a jumble of savaged flesh and fractured bone. Its right arm had been severed at the elbow. The bloody stump hemorrhaged freely, a macabre Jackson Pollock spraying the asphalt in its wake.

There was no hesitation, no stutter in the thing’s gait . . . and why would there be? The son of a bitch knew Richard had bumbled down this passageway. It charged forward, devouring the distance at a lope.

Richard fought to steady the gun. He forced his breathing to slow down, narrowing his eyes at its approach. Mere yards separated him from death, but he had to be patient. He had to delay pulling the trigger until the last possible second.

The infected’s hunched posture made a headshot problematic. Its awkward stride made such a shot even more difficult. The fact the fucking thing was sprinting made the task all but impossible.

However, Richard had anticipated all of this.

He inhaled deeply.

Closed his eyes.

Thought of mother.

Bit down on the cold steel of the barrel and pulled the trigger.

The gun jammed.

Jon Erbar
lives in Oklahoma City. He is currently a senior at the University of Oklahoma, working toward a bachelor’s degree in professional writing. When not writing horror stories he enjoys reading, going to the movies, and playing with his dachshund, Pubba.

STRANGLERS IN THE NIGHT

JEFF CARTER

I hate hospitals. I’ve been waiting amongst a herd of coughing, vomiting, bleeding people at County General for two hours. The stab wounds, burned flesh and bullet holes . . . it’s the mess that really gets to me.

A pair of cops roll in and out, chatting with E.M.Ts, flirting with nurses. If they find out who I am, a heart attack will be the least of my problems. I keep my head down and wait.

Finally, a nurse waves me into a small room. A junkie writhes in the other bed, babbling nonsense, twisting in his restraints. The nurse loops a blood pressure cuff around my arm, glancing curiously at the thick braids of veins and muscle in my forearms. She sets up a heart monitor then slides out of the room.

I watch my heartbeat flailing around on the monitor while the junkie struggles. He’s emaciated, yellow, arms cratered with track marks. Just the thought of sticking a needle into one of my beautifully sculpted arms makes the heart monitor yelp.

The doctor strides into the room and plucks up my chart.

He peers over the clipboard, focuses on my muscular arms. Extending a hand, he looks into my eyes, shakes my hand with bone crushing pressure.

“So, you must be the St. Louis Strangler.” My heart rate spikes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m the
Atlanta
Strangler.”

“Never heard of no Atlanta Strangler,”

The Doctor chuckles. “Of course not. People die in hospitals all the time. It’s very tidy. I transferred here last week.”

“But . . . but there can’t be two Stranglers in one city . . . it’s against the code!”

The doctor raises his hands in deference. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me the code. Nobody wants a repeat of that Hillside Strangler business.”

The junkie starts screaming. “Nurse! Help! They crazy! They gonna get me!”

“I got it,” says the doctor. He snatches the blue privacy curtain, slicing the room in half. I hear the familiar sounds of spit gurgling and cartilage crunching on the other side.

The doctor continues: “Headquarters says one of us has to relocate. Unless you’d be willing to commute.”

“No way,” I wheeze. “The nearest place worth strangling is two hours away. I know this city. Where to find people, where to dump them.”

The doctor grabs the junkie’s chart and glances at his watch. “Time of death: 1:47 a.m. Look, you’re a great strangler, everyone says so. But you’ve got a heart condition. What if you had a heart attack during a strangle and the victim got away? They get the cops, the cops get you; you roll over on the organization. It’s too risky.”

“I love my job, and I ain’t quitting. You know Stranglers don’t retire.”

“Yes . . .” says the doctor.

He switches off my heart monitor and flexes his powerful hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

Jeff C. Carter
lives in Venice, CA with two cats, a dog and a human. He is a writer of science fiction, horror and graphic novels. He is currently developing a steampunk RPG called “Mecha West” for Heroic Journey Publishing. To find more of his stories head to http://jeffccarter.wordpress.com/.

THE DEAL

MIKE WILSON

Tim sat at his desk and shook his head in disbelief.

Drastic action was needed. The pile of bills on his desk demanded that.

“What do I do now?” he said.

“There is a solution, Tim,” a voice replied.

Tim looked around wildly, thinking he must really be losing it.

“I’m down here, dummy.”

Tim looked down.

“What are you?”

“I’m real, for starters.”

“Okay, I see that. Are you a genie?”

The creature chuckled. “I’m what you call a demon.”

Tim absorbed this, and rubbed his eyes. The creature was still there.

“So, about your little financial problem . . .”

“I can handle it myself,” Tim said.

“Yeah, like you have so far?”

“Okay, so what do you propose?”

“My price is not your soul, or any such malarkey. I’m not very expensive—and, I can wipe your debt clean.”

“So what do I have to give, then?”

“All you have to give up is something precious, like say, a friend, or a prized possession. It has to be something whose existence has gotten you through rough times just by thinking about it. It could be a cherished book, or a lover.”

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