No Way Out - And Other Scary Short Stories Page 2

  "How was I to know the girls would end up visiting female patients and we’d have to entertain some old geezer?"

  We gently knocked on Mr. Fitch's door. "Could be worse. Least we got assigned an interesting old guy," I added.

  "Maybe we can get him to tell us another war story." Jake opened the door.

  The walls of his room were littered with old black & white photos. On his dresser he had a small case with military medals. Unlike the rest of the center, his room smelled like menthol and cigarettes.

  Mr. Fitch was some sort of war hero. That is, before he turned into an old grumpy dude. He once complained the hospital wouldn't let him hang his M1 Garand on the wall.

  "Hey Mr. Fitch," we both said in unison.

  Slowly, he turned from the window. "You're late!" he pounded his cane with a loud thud.

  If you could just get past his rude, angry exterior, he wasn't half-bad.

  "Got any good war stories for us today?" Jake said.

  "War stories. I'm not going to fill your little heads with stuff like that. It'll give you nightmares, that's what it'll do."

  I hadn't said anything to Jake, but the last time we were here he told us a story, about the Battle of the Bulge, that really did give me nightmares. He was captured by the Germans and, well I don't want to give you nightmares, but they did some pretty awful things.

  "You two lunkheads going to sit down or just stand there looking like Mormons?"

  "I think you mean morons," Jake said.

  "No, I mean Mormons. They're always coming around here being all nice, passing out those Mormon Bibles."

  "This is my math book."

  "Hmm, maybe you are a moron." He shook his head.

  Well, today's visit was going well. I hoped Shelby was giving her granny a foot massage--it'd serve her right for tricking me into this.

  "Did I tell you boys I had a boil removed last week?"

  "Umm, no," I said, shooting a look of horror at Jake.

  "Let me show you-" He turned around and grabbed his trousers.

  "No, please! That's okay." He stopped, turned and glared at me. I quickly added, "It's just stuff like that makes me a little queasy."

  "You mean blood? Why, you should have seen it on D-day the whole shore turned red."

  "No, it's more sores on old guys' rears that make me want to puke," I whispered to Jake.

  The three of us sat and talked about nothing in particular. Mostly we just listened to Fitch tell us how lazy kids are today. Jake kept checking his watch. He claimed it was a Rolex, I think it was a fake. Either way, it never left his wrist.

  "So, what are you two dressing up as for Halloween?" he asked. "Let me guess, pimps or gangbangers. Isn't that what you kids are into today?"

  "I'm going as Iron Man," Jake said.

  "You mean a guy in an iron lung?" Mr. Fitch looked Jake in the eye. "That's just sick."

  "I know, isn't it!" Jake said, bouncing up in his chair.

  It looked like Mr. Fitch was thinking about taking a whack at him, so I cut in. "I'm going as a monster."

  "What sort of monster? Not one of those comic book villains, I hope."

  "No one reads comics anymore," Jake said.

  I didn't mention that I still picked up the latest Punisher when I had enough spare cash. Jake just couldn't read well enough to get into them.

  "No, just your standard evil monster. Going to paint my face green, get some fake scars, and lots of blood. It should gross the girls out."

  "Sounds like a goblin. Did I ever tell you about the time I fought off a goblin?"

  Oh, we had to hear this. "You mean an actual goblin?" Mr. Fitch sometimes made up inappropriate names to refer to Germans, Japanese, and anyone else that had fought against, or in his eyes, somehow offended the U.S.

  "Well, a hobgoblin. Don't think there's no real goblins left. But don’t be fooled by their size; a hobgoblin's one fierce creature."

  "Do tell." Jake was already on the edge of his seat, hands folded in his lap, like some sort of preacher's pet listening eagerly in Sunday school.

  "It was right around Operation Market Garden. Montgomery had just about everyone tied up in the offensive. Those of us in Eastern France were spread thin and under supplied. A buddy and I, Smith, Second lieutenant Daryl Smith was his name. We were stationed way back in the hills outside the nearest city. The brass was worried the Krauts might cause trouble up there. "He stood up. "Did I ever tell you about the Werwolfs?"

  "No, but I want to hear about the goblin, not about people turning into dogs," Steve scowled.

  "The Werwolfs were dogs all right, but I'll tell you about them another time." Fitch scanned down the hall, then closed his door. He sat by the open window, got out a little flat pouch of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette.

  "Smith and I had leave, just a day off really, but it took a whole day to get into town. So we decided to go look for some spoils of war."

  "What are spoils of war?" I asked.

  "To the victor goes the spoils. In war, the winner gets to take whatever they want. We just had to fill out a form and we could take just about anything back home. Some of the guys even brought back wives—poor fools."

  "You mean you could walk up to someone and just take whatever they had?" Jake asked.

  "No, no. Least not from the French. Though I once saw a GI, just a private too, rip an Iron Cross right off an SS officer's neck. Made me smile." He reached down under his mattress, pulled out a metal lighter, lit up his cigarette, and as he put it to his lips, his mouth turned up in a twisted, weather-beaten smirk.

  We sat quietly while he took a couple deep puffs.

  "When they retreated, the Germans tried to carry off as much as they could. But they ended up ditching a lot of the stuff. They'd burn it, or dump it in the bushes off the side of a road."

  Jake and I sat there looking into his leathery wrinkled face like he was some sort of mad god. He'd seen more in his life than everyone else I knew put together.

  "We were way back in the hills. I was a little worried myself. You never knew when you'd run into some trouble. We hadn't found a thing and I wanted to head back, so we could make it in time to grab a few pints."

  Mr. Fitch broke into a nasty coughing spell. Jake looked over at me. These things were violent. Each time it was like rolling dice to see if he'd just fall over dead. I hoped I wouldn't be around the day he finally rolled craps.

  "Maybe you should give up smoking," I said.

  He looked at me, then down to his cane, and back into my eyes. Sure, he was like 100 or something, but he was a tough old fart. If he ever came at me with that cane, no question: I'd run.

  "Smith wouldn't leave." He flicked the ash of his cigarette onto the floor. "Always listen to your gut -you kids remember that. Smith kept saying, 'I've got this feeling; something's out there, just waiting for me to find it.' It's just too bad…" Mr. Fitch took a long drag, then put his cigarette out. "Turned out he was right." He looked at his pouch like he was considering rolling another, but folded it up and put it away.

  "Sure enough, a little way off the main path, we saw something sparkling. Smith ran over and snatched it up; a gold ring. 'See, I told you,' Smith bragged as he started walking back into the bushes." Fitch leaned in towards us and his face darkened.

  "Now I had a feeling in my gut too. I said, 'come on let's go'. What if we run into some Jerries out here? He ignored me and disappeared into the brush.

  “I was about to head back without him, when I heard a scream. It was a blood-curdling, begging scream. The kind a man only makes when he's dying. It's something that you'll never forget once you hear." He closed his eyes like he was trying to block out the sound.

  "I ran through the brush as quickly as I could. When I got to the clearing, my heart stopped. Blood littered the ground and there was this little monster, at most maybe three and a half feet high. He had a small wooden spear, with a long metal tip, sharp as a razor. I don't even know how to describe what he
did to Smith. Ribbons, just a pile of ribbons, like discarded bows on Christmas morning.

  "I got out my sidearm and shot at him. But the little bugger was fast. He ducked and I just winged him. I tried to fire again, but my gun stove-piped."

  "What's that?" Jake asked.

  "It jammed. It only took a second to clear, but he was gone."

  "No, way. I don't believe it," I said.

  "Neither did I, at first. Kept telling myself I'd imagined it, that Smith'd gone AWOL. But you see hobgoblins hold a grudge. They'll stalk a man just for catching a glimpse of them. You can imagine how ticked this little toad was at being shot at."

  "Did you kill it?" Jake asked.

  "Heck no. Hobgoblins are magic. That's why no one ever sees one, or at least no one lives to tell about it."

  "That's a great story Mr. Fitch. I think you might be getting a little senile, but still a great story," I said.

  "If you were a year older I'd whup your butt."

  "You'd beat me up if I was fifteen?"

  He didn't take his eyes off me, but reached into his pocket, pulled out his tobacco pouch and started rolling another cigarette.

  "You know, for a little turd, you're okay."

  Coming from him, that was almost a complement.

  "But that's not the end of the story. Lord, I wish it were. That mini-monster followed me all the way back to Kansas. Kept trying to get me alone. That's how they do it. They get you alone and then rip you to shreds."

  "Couldn't you have killed it? I mean, when you were younger?"

  "Not a chance, not by myself. These things are quick enough to dodge a bullet and vicious. Plus they use magic. Maybe with a few buddies we could have taken him, never by myself." He shuffled his feet nervously.

  "But I never had any buddies. Anytime I'd get to know someone, he'd take them out." He looked down and for a second, I thought I saw something other than anger in those eyes.

  "But you're always alone when we come to visit. Why doesn't he just get you in your sleep?"

  "He's not going to come waltzing in here. No, goblins are afraid of civilization. Sure, they'll wait just off a lonely stretch of road, or the edge of a park. But they're too terrified of being seen or caught. That's why you don't catch me out taking walks with the others."

  "I figured they just didn't like being berated."

  Mr. Fitch puffed away, ignoring me.

  "Sixty-two years I've stayed one step ahead of him. Occasionally, I've spotted him out of the corner of my eye. But you want me to tell yeah how I really know he's still after me?"

  We both nodded. "He leaves bits and pieces of Smith for me to find."

  "Gross, like body parts?" Jake yelled.

  "No, nothing like that, not anymore. Usually just a piece of his uniform some fabric, a pin, maybe a button. I haven't heard from him in a of couple years. Maybe he's given up and is looking for someone else to torment." He stared out the window silently before tossing the butt of his cigarette, right as a nurse came in. "Just can't chance it."

  She sniffed the air. "Mr. Fitch, have you been smoking again?" She put a hand on her hip as she sat down a stack of sheets.

  "Me, no. It was these two hooligans. I told them it wasn't allowed. It was reefer, I think." Jake and I looked at each other, speechless.

  "Don't worry, boys. We know all about Mr. Fitch's imagination." She walked over and closed the window. "It's probably time for you two to be going, though."

  We both jumped out of our chairs. "Can you sign our volunteer card?"

  "Sure," she said, taking our papers.

  "Be sure to put on there that they were high on the pot."

  The nurse rolled her eyes. "Come on, Mr. Fitch. It's time for dinner."

  We walked out.

  "What about my sponge bath?" we heard him say as we walked away.

  "You believe that old fool thought we'd buy that rubbish?" Jake said, kicking a rock as we walked along the dirt path next to the road. We had a good mile hike back to my house.

  "Just some story he made up to explain why he doesn't have any friends."

  We'd only been walking a few minutes, when Jake suddenly plopped down on the ground.

  "What the heck?" I said.

  "It's a fiver. I found a five-dollar bill."

  "Cool," I said, thinking how it could have easily been me who spotted it. "Come on, I bet we're late. What time is it?"

  "Wait just a sec." Jake walked over to the bushes along the side of the road. "Look, a twenty -finders keepers," he sang.

  "No way."

  "Hey, there's a path back here. I wonder if there's any more."

  Something wasn't right. My stomach started knotting up like a pretzel. I remembered what Fitch had told us about trusting your gut. "I don't think this is such a good idea. Let's get going."

  "What? There could be a whole stash back there."

  "Remember what Mr. Fitch said."

  Jake laughed at me. "That old coot? You believe that bull? Come on. I'll share anything else we find."

  He disappeared into a thick wall of bushes. "Jake, come on-"

  A scream pierced the air. Instantly, I knew it was the same sound Smith had made all those years ago. I fought the urge to throw up.

  I wanted to run, get away. But another desperate scream rang out and I knew I couldn't leave Jake. I grabbed a huge dead tree branch and plowed through the bushes.

  He was already fleeing but I caught a glimpse: small, pale green, misshapen. Looking down, I saw this huge patch of ivy all covered in red, gooey blood, Jake wasn't anywhere to be seen. I threw up.

  "Jake!" I yelled as I started walking backwards.

  I walked to the edge of the road. It took me a minute, but I found my voice and hollered for him several more times. My whole body shook as I waited for a reply. Nothing.

  I felt bad leaving, but Jake wasn't there anymore. He probably wasn't anywhere anymore.

  I walked home in the middle of the street, only moving to the edge when cars came by.

  I wasn't sure what to tell my parents. I was still shaking; they'd know something was wrong.

  Turned out no one was home. I'd have to go around back to get the spare key.

  I started around and hesitated. Our house backed to a greenbelt, overgrown and wild, just the sort of place a hobgoblin would find homey. I thought about waiting on the porch for Mom and Dad, but the light was fading and they'd probably be out for hours.

  I kept my eyes down as I ran around back. I reached into the flowerpot for the spare key, but something else was there too. I took it out. Instantly, I knew what it was.

  I dropped it and gasped in horror.

  Jake's wristwatch, and like I said, it never left his wrist.

  * * * * *

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  Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb – Extended Preview

  Chapter 1 – Blizzards, Bites, and Zombies

  Ever have a really bad day? I'm not talking miss the bus, caught cheating on a test, bike gets stolen bad. I mean people dying and coming back from the dead to eat your brains bad.

  This whole mess started one night when my best friend Misty messaged me, "DQ run now!"

  I'm as down with Butterfinger Blizzards as anybody, but it was almost eleven p.m. Somehow, she talked me into it—I can never say no to her. I mean, I can say it once or twice, but after eight or nine times, I give in.

  You might have guessed, we didn't exactly ask permission. Misty snuck out by climbing down a window above her garage and jumping into an overgrown bush. Maybe it was the three waffle sundaes she'd eaten, but to get back up it looked like she was going to need a boost.

  "Ready?" I whispered, clasping my hands over my knee.

  "I don't think so, Nate. I'm wearing a skirt." Even in the dim glow of the neighbor's porch light, I could see the wrinkles in her brow.
<
br />   "Then how you going to get back up?"

  "I can climb."

  "In your skirt?" I stood back, folding my arms. Misty had always been more t-shirt and cutoff jeans. "Why'd you wear a skirt, anyway? Who sneaks out in a skirt?"

  She ignored me and started pulling herself up the rain gutter. By the third try, I knew, skirt or not, I was going to have to help.

  I stepped forward when from behind me came a deep grunt, like a yeti clearing its throat.

  Turning around, Misty's dad towered over us, arms crossed, naked except for knit socks and shorts; his huge, hairy muffin-top forcing the band of his briefs into submission.

  Even in his skivvies, he was an imposing figure. Picture Atlas, if all he ever held up were jelly donuts. I didn't know if I should laugh or run.

  Normally Misty's dad is too nice, one of those big guys with an even bigger soft spot—especially when it came to his only daughter—but that night, boy, did he holler.

  He grounded Misty for the whole summer. Not from her girlfriends, just from me—even canceled our camping trip. Our families go every year, so that made it a tradition or something.

  Almost three weeks passed before I heard a peep from Misty. I wasn't sure if her dad really came down on her or if she was just too busy to bother with me.

  Finally, she called. "Guess I should feel honored."

  "Hey, Nate, ready to go camping?"

  "Who's this? I think you may have dialed the wrong number."

  "Nathan!" she screamed. "Dad's keeping me under house arrest. Even confiscated my cell. It's so humiliating." The echo told me she was probably hiding out in her dad's workshop. "So, you up for camping or not?"

  Apparently, no one had bothered to tell her the trip was off. I tried to break the news gently. "Where've you been? Your dad put the smackdown on camping."

  There wasn't much to do in our tiny mountain town, so this trip was the highlight of our summer: fishing, ghost stories, eating s'mores until you puke.

  "Just because our parents are being stupid doesn't mean we can't go."

  I don't normally do crazy things like run away from home. Which is probably why we weren’t prepared. We lasted all of one night. Who knew a jumbo box of Little Betty Brownie Bites could go so fast?

  On our way back, we knew we were in trouble, but had no idea just how much.

  "Maybe running away wasn't such a good idea," I said, scanning the lifeless town. The sun crawled over the horizon, casting long shadows like bony fingers reaching down to clutch the empty streets.