November 2008

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DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

Good Boys
by Shaun Ryan

There's something about crows that I've distrusted ever since I was a boy. They've always seemed so ghoulish to me, calling to mind visions of bodies lying broken and bloated upon a battlefield. Or iron cages hanging from seaside cliffs, skeletal occupants swooning in puddles of filth, their screams of horror and madness carried out to sea on the salty wind.

Believed to foretell death by medieval peasants, rumored to pay a tribute of their midnight feathers to the devil himself, they represent our most primitive fears, feathered demons forever lurking at the fringes of human suffering, waiting eagerly to fatten themselves upon our woe.

It was a crow that took my grandfather's eye as he lay wounded and delirious between the hedgerows of Normandy. It was a crow that killed my hamster, Mr. Peebles, when he escaped from the play area I had constructed for him on my bedroom window sill. And, inevitably it seems, it was a crow that made me think of Glenna.

Fat and black and iridescent, it sat perched upon a dead branch, swaddled in bad omens. It regarded me with a gimlet eye, boring into my psyche, knowing me somehow. Drawn helplessly back through dusky curtains of time, I stood mesmerized, staring through that tiny, feather framed window into my own soul. The memory bubbled up from the dark depths to which it had sunk, bringing with it the coppery odor of blood, the dusty-wet tang of rain, and the cawing of crows.

The day dimmed, obscured at the edges by the fluttering of dark wings and I saw her there as we had left her, frail body bruised and contorted, her brown eyes staring up at the summer sky, clouded by death. The crows, interrupted from feasting upon some dead thing and circling aimlessly overhead, swam in those eyes.

We stood speechless for a long time, a fraternity of the unpopular. Three casualties of the eternal war waged upon those who are different, fresh from the front and still bleeding from our latest wounds. We stared down at Glenna in shock and horror and the realization of what we had done. The merciless July sun pressed down upon us with a weight that was tangible while the raucous cries of the crows mocked us.

She looked so innocent in death, her bland features transformed somehow into those of a fallen angel, despite the blood and grime. I can't decide whether it was disbelief or denial that made me step back, a hand over my mouth lest a scream burst forth and alert the world to our sin.

The others looked to me then, eyes imploring. What was it they sought? Guidance? Comfort? Absolution? I had none to offer, only confusion and regret, horror and shame. And pity--for myself or for Glenna I don't know. This was outside my experience. Murder--Was it murder, or something even uglier?--wasn't a concept my quivering mind could grasp. We were good kids. The worst thing any of us had done was pull a harmless Halloween prank or two.

I shivered there in the sun, staring at a dead girl. Dead by our hands and lying in the dust and gravel at the bottom of an abandoned quarry, oblivious now to the injustices meted out by an uncaring world. Wisps of her blonde hair, matted with blood over her right ear, fluttered in the breeze.

The filthy doll, a decades old Raggedy Ann that she carried everywhere she went, lay a few feet from her outstretched hand, a sad parody of her fallen mistress.

What had she been doing out here? Why had she come? I would never know.

She had appeared like a wraith, stepping from the woods behind us in silence. Steven was the first to notice her, timid little Steven, so shy and introverted. He peered at her in confusion from behind the cascade of silky black hair that was always falling over his eyes. His elbow dug into my ribs, drawing my attention away from the crows gathered around the corpse of a dog and directing it at the girl regarding us from the edge of the trees.

I knew her at once of course. Everyone did. The sight of her shambling along the sidewalk, mumbling to herself and cooing to the decrepit doll cradled in her arms, was a familiar one.

She just stood there looking at us. Her lips moved slightly, but no sound was audible. The wind stirred her hair and ruffled the fabric of her yellow sun dress, from beneath which her scabbed knees occasionally peeked.

I was angry. This was our place, our refuge, the place we went to escape harassment by the popular kids, the jocks and such, who took pleasure in tormenting us. A place we could relax our guard for while, debate whether R2-D2 was cooler than Chewbacca, develop plots for our role playing adventure, just be ourselves without fearing attack. The quarry was our sanctuary, and Glenna had violated it.

We stood, the crows we had been lobbing rocks at forgotten.

Steven was intrigued--everything intrigued Steven--wanting to open a dialogue with the crazy girl, offering his hand in tentative friendship, naive as always.

Freddy, eternally hiding his insecurity behind a mask of defiant bravado, was outraged by her intrusion. His freckled features contorted with anger, flushing a scarlet brighter than his flaming hair, setting things in motion.

He stepped forward, challenging her, demanding an explanation of her presence. She cowered away from him, which only made him bolder.

Steven implored him to stop, to leave her alone, earning himself a glare of contempt from Freddie.

I just stood there at the top of the steep embankment that dropped down into the quarry, immobilized by Freddie's display of rage and my own irritation. We were all on the ragged edge of hysteria. The fresh bruises and scrapes from our latest encounter with Tony Blanton and his goon squad still stung and throbbed, feeding our resentment.

Freddy ripped the doll from her grasp, mocking her. She was a few years older than us, and taller than Freddy, who was the tallest, by an inch. Though her face was plain featured, her body was lithe, full breasts filling out her dress in an unmistakable display of blossoming womanhood. They jiggled and bounced as she stumbled among us, grasping vainly at the doll as it sailed through the air above her head. Freddy tossed it to me, I to him. Steven joined the game, giggling as he caught the doll and taunted her with it. Back and forth it flew, its blank features hidden by a mask of grime.

I stared at those bouncing breasts all the while, mesmerized as only a pimple-faced thirteen year old can be by such a sight. I had never realized that Glenna had such great tits, never noticed her in that way at all. But now that I had, I couldn't stop wondering how they would look exposed. How they would feel in my hands.

She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees--I could see those wonderful breasts dangling enticingly through the top of her dress--in the center of the triangle formed by the three of us. Freddy stepped forward and whacked her in the back of the head with the doll. She lurched to her feet then, fear and anger turning bland features into a twisted mask. She stumbled again, her body falling full length against Freddy's. He caught her, held her at arm's length for a moment, and then shoved her towards me.

I arrested her momentum by grabbing a double handful of her quivering flesh and squeezed. It was the first time I had ever touched a breast and I marveled at the firm suppleness, the feel of her nipples against my palms. I was immediately aroused, pants tightening around me almost painfully. I squeezed some more, then spun her around and grabbed her from behind while I pumped my crotch against her ass in a parody of sex. Freddy and Steven giggled. I stepped back and spanked her firm buttocks hard, once, twice, again. Then I shoved her back at Freddy, who repeated my performance almost exactly, the only variation a hard tweaking of her nipples in lieu of the spanking.

She was crying now, great sobs and blubbers issuing from her like grunts from a pregnant sow. She tripped toward Steven, who grabbed her waist and planted a noisy kiss on her quivering lips. He too sampled her chest, grasping at it like a drowning man for a life preserver, giggling all the while. She jerked back violently, tripping on a stone as she did, and the front of her dress, still firmly gripped in Steven's feverish hands, tore away from her with a soft ripping sound. She landed on her backside, her pale flesh exposed to the merciless sun, jiggling invitingly.

Glenna wailed and made a vain attempt to cover her nakedness. We laughed, mocking the sounds of her terror and shame. Freddy stepped forward and ripped the dress from her with a few savage tugs, something ugly in his eyes. She didn't resist, only flopped and jerked loosely, like seaweed tossing in the waves. The dress was flung aside and Freddy stood over her, panting hard. He bent and took a breast in each hand, savoring the feel of her naked flesh, an evil grin on his face.

I knew what was coming then, the throbbing in my loins belying my horror. But it never came. Glenna suddenly shrieked and lurched to her feet, the doll she had somehow managed to retrieve clutched in one hand. She pushed Freddy violently away and turned to flee. She took two long strides before he seized her wrist and spun her back like an olympic athlete executing a hammer throw. She stumbled between Steven and me, towards the drop off. I reached for her, seeing what was about to happen and unable to prevent it.

Her delicate, tiny-fingered hand-- I had never noticed that she had such beautiful hands--reached out for mine and fell short. Her doe eyes met mine as she went over the edge, filled not with accusation or fear, but pity and a profound calm, as if she were relieved somehow.

Then she was gone.

The three of us stood frozen by shock for an instant, and then we were crowding each other in a mad rush to the edge. We gazed down at her sprawled form when we reached it. Glenna lay in the dirt and gravel at the bottom of the almost vertical slope.

The only movement was the cloud of dust raised by her passage as it drifted away on the breeze.

I vaguely recall scrambling down the dusty trail, falling and scraping my hands and knees in the process, to where she lay broken at the bottom of the steep bank. The others nearly collided with me as I skidded to a halt ten feet from Glenna's nearly naked form. I realized that she wore yellow panties, cut high on her hips. They were sexy in an innocent way. Too sexy for a crazy girl, I thought.

My quivering mind seized upon those panties. They seemed such a flimsy barrier to be guarding that most precious of secrets. I could see the dark outline of her pubic hair beneath the filmy cotton. That angered me for some reason, I'm still not sure why. Perhaps my adolescent sensibilities were horrified by the indignity of that beautiful mound of flesh, which I had longed for most of my life to see, lying exposed to the baking sun at the bottom of a ragged hole gouged out of the woods, shielded only by thin yellow cotton. It defied logic.

Then I saw the doll, face down in the dust as if it were crawling away from Glenna's outstretched hand, and I shuddered with fear and disgust. Her beautiful hand seemed to reach for it, imploring.

The silence was broken only by the crows, which seemed to be laughing.

I didn't know what to do. Glenna's pale skin shone in the bright sunlight, demanding my attention. She lay on her back, one arm stretched out shoulder high, towards the doll. The other rested at her side, palm to the sky. Her long legs were splayed, one knee bent slightly, as if in invitation. Her smooth white skin was flawless, except for the scrapes and scratches caused by her fall.

Those gorgeous breasts pointed at the heavens, firm and full, barely flattening from the pull of gravity. She could have been asleep there in the sun, just another naughty teenage girl tanning herself, like the cheerleaders often did on the rocks at the edge of the lake when they thought themselves unobserved. It was the odd angle of her head that belied the illusion, resting on her shoulder as if its mooring lines had been cut, that and the stillness of her bosom, which showed no rise and fall of respiration. She was dead, and we knew it.

Steven began to cry, little snuffling sobs that caught in his throat. I barely heard him. Somewhere to the west, thunder rumbled threateningly. The breeze stiffened, becoming a wind. Then, to my utter amazement, Glenna's flower printed dress came fluttering down like a deflated angel falling from heaven to settle over her face, an impromptu shroud.

The thunder rumbled again, closer now, and the sun was suddenly blotted out by a wall of dark clouds that loomed above the trees. The wind stiffened, raising dust and grit from the quarry floor to sting our faces. I squinted at Steven and Freddy, unable to answer the questions in their eyes.

The full import of what had happened hit me then like a freight train. I staggered from the blow, the realization that we had become like those we despised, mean spirited tormentors taking comfort and satisfaction from the fear of another. In our anger and frustration, we had turned upon one weaker than ourselves, driving her to her death. Worse, we would have gone farther if she hadn't fallen, I had seen it in Freddy's fevered eyes. Felt it in my own swollen flesh. I shuddered again.

The first fat drops of rain plopped among us, raising little puffs of dust like miniature explosions, splatting onto our heads and shoulders with increasing frequency.

We fled then, rushing blindly up the trail and through the woods as the rain intensified. Behind us, the cawing of the crows announced our guilt to the world.

The storm lashed the earth for three days while I shunned human company, sulking in my own world, doing battle with my own conscience. In the end, self preservation won out and I remained silent, as did the others, as did Glenna.

All those years later, drawn by unconscious guilt or the restless spirit of a crazy dead girl, I'm not sure which, I found myself wandering through the hills near my home. As I walked, the years seemed to fall away like shed skin, until I regarded the world around me through the eyes of a frightened thirteen year old boy once more.

I had no particular destination in mind, but wandered aimlessly through the woods until the trees thinned and I found myself staring across a pasture at a huge, lightning-killed oak. And there, perched on the uppermost branch, was the crow. I don't know how long I stood there, the past crashing down upon me. When I again became aware of my surroundings, tears were streaming from my eyes, for myself or for Glenna I'm not sure, for both of us perhaps.

For all of us.

As the light began to wane, I turned and retraced my steps, Glenna's ghost haunting me. I can still see her hands, reaching for mine as she fell. Those lovely, delicate hands. I pray that the memory and the guilt will sink slowly back to the depths from which they have risen, to lie half buried in the silt of my subconscious mind once more.

But it's harder to forget these days, as my own mortality settles upon my shoulders with an ever increasing weight, harder to hide the truth from myself.

I keep seeing those hands.

And hearing the crows.