Idle Hands

Milosh wiped his hands on the rag, the blood already dried under his nails and up his wrists. He glanced at the broken body tied to the chair. For a little guy, he’d held on for a long time. Milosh tossed the rag to the side and stepped across the concrete floor of the basement, ducking as he passed under a particularly low rafter. The location wasn’t ideal, but it was convenient, and he didn’t think the old couple upstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Cottingham, would care. Not that they would care for anything much anymore. He regretted having to kill them. It would have been easier if he had been able to snatch up Parker in an industrial park, or the warehouse district, but you worked with what you could.

Regardless, he didn’t think anyone would notice. The house smelled like mothballs and Ben-Gay, and the furniture glistened with plastic covers that held barely a wrinkle. Milosh guessed they hadn’t had a visitor in some time. Now, they sat side by side on the couch, a small entry wound behind their ears. Boris had always made fun of him for the .22 he carried, but get close enough and it would pierce a skull as well as a .45, and with less mess. He grabbed Parker’s hair and lifted, the head lolling on a soft neck. The man’s eyes were still closed. He’d shut them when Milosh had brought the pistol out. There was no breath. Satisfied, Milosh dropped the man’s head and went upstairs, his boots thudding against the wooden steps.

He surveyed the kitchen, his stomach rumbling. Work always got his appetite up. The furniture was as old as the homeowners. Everything, including the table, was laminate and chrome. Two plates sat in the sink with congealing bacon grease and a fat fly buzzing around them. A fat fly circled a fork stained with egg yolk. A pan sat on the oven, a crust of egg white around the edges. He’d caught them just after breakfast.

Milosh opened the fridge and rummaged around, coming up with a carton of orange juice and half a chicken salad sandwich. He sat at the table and ate, the chicken salad crunchy with bits of celery and a pickle that sent a sour tang through his tongue. The taste of the pickle reminded him of solyanka, and he wished he had some vodka to wash it down. A sound echoed up from the basement, and Milosh paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. He set it down, a frown rippling his brow, and walked to the head of the stairs, head turned to hear better. It came again, rasping, like wood on wood. He drew his pistol and stepped down, slow.

The basement was as it had been, dim and quiet. Milosh looked around, checked the corners. Nothing moved, and the sound didn’t repeat. Probably just a rat, then. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The city was full of them. He holstered the pistol and walked back up to the kitchen. Everything was as he’d left it, a quarter of sandwich on the plate, open carton of orange juice. He took a breath, and his stomach rumbled. Trouble in paradise.

After a minute or two of wandering the house, he found a toilet on the first floor. He sat, his stomach still rumbling. The sound came again, drifting up though the vent in the floor. A rasping like before, and Milosh bore down, trying to clear his bowels. He hoped it was and wasn’t a rat. He’d read about them, coming up the sewer pipes, biting people on the ass. His mind conjured a picture of a fat rodent, gray, with its bare tail whipsawing behind it, narrow face and sharp teeth leading the way as it forced itself through pipe and foul water to be free of its prison. His bowels emptied and he wiped, practically leaping off the toilet when he was done. He flushed, the sound almost comforting in the near-silence, washing away his fears. He finished up, washing his hands, picking the blood from his fingernails, and then walked back to the kitchen.

He stood in the white and yellow linoleum nightmare and stared at the sandwich. With a frown, he picked it up and heaved it into the trash, plate and all. That sound came from the basement again, and he heaved a sigh. Rat or no, he had to finish. He needed to be in Baltimore by tomorrow. He took the stairs one at a time, pistol out again. No reason not to be cautious. At the bottom, the room was silent. Parker stared at the ceiling. Milosh’s skin crawled and he walked over to the corpse, shutting its eyes and tipping the head forward again.

That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it? He’d been around plenty of dead bodies – a hazard of the work – and yes, sometimes they sat up. Sometimes they belched or farted or moaned, but they didn’t usually move. Did they? Boris could have told him. The man seemed to know everything about death. Regardless, it was errata. Milosh had a job to do. He holstered the pistol and grabbed a knife from the workbench built into the wall, then turned to the body.

“If only I had been a butcher, eh tovarich?”

Parker didn’t reply. Milosh had hoped he wouldn’t. He rounded the body and began cutting the ties holding it in place. The wrists and ankles were worn pretty hard – Parker had really struggled – deep bands of red cut in to the flesh. When he was done, he hefted Parker and dragged him to a tarp in the center of the floor, laying him spread-eagled. Milosh stepped back to make sure the body was centered – in order to catch as much of the gore as possible – and nodded when he was satisfied. He laid the knife back on the workbench and began to pull tools from his duffel bag, chattering as he did. Milosh liked to talk to the dead. He felt it eased their way out. Boris thought it eased his conscience, but Milosh wasn’t sure he had one after this long.

“You know, back in the old country, we would have just buried you somewhere. For this I am sorry. Cities – someone’s always finding a body. But, you dump them in the water, and poof. No one sees. Upstairs, that’s a home invasion. But add you…more suspicious.”

He pulled out a hacksaw. “I was eager to meet you , you know. Boris told me you were into weird shit.” He shook his head. “Tattoos. Not so weird. I have tattoos!” He rolled up a sleeve, showing a double-headed eagle clutching a hammer and sickle. Parker seemed unimpressed.

“Ah, here’s the thing. I feel bad. Every time. You guys, you get in some debt, maybe you flaunt the money we give you. No big deal. But when you start doing really stupid things – you slept with Ivanna, are you mad? Then, we have to do things like this. Then I get messy, and you get hurt. If only you could have kept the pecker in your pants, eh?” Milosh shook his head. “Vek zhivi, vek uchis. Live and learn, friend.”

He walked to the tarp and knelt, pressing the saw against Parker’s wrist. After a moment, he began to draw it back and forth, ripping at the flesh. It parted easily, as did the muscle. The bone was harder going, and it took Milosh a couple of minutes to get through, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath coming in small grunts. With a pop, the hand separated, blood seeping from the stump. He repeated the process – elbow, shoulder, then started on the other. After an hour, he had dismantled the man’s arms. Milosh stood and wiped an arm across his forehead. The blade was dull.

He walked back to the workbench and started to pull the saw apart, rummaging in the bag for a blade. Behind him, the tarp’s plastic crinkled. Milosh turned, squinting to keep the sweat from his eyes. A hand was missing. His heart sped up. Was there a rat in here after all? He sat the saw down and pulled the pistol free. Shelves stood in one corner, paint cans and solvents weighing down the shelves. He walked over, his guard up, and moved a few of the cans with the barrel of the gun. Nothing leapt out at him. He breathed a sigh of relief, and turned. Something tugged at his pant leg, and he jumped, letting out a curse.

Ty che blyad?!”

Milosh spun, the pistol leveled at the floor. He hated rats. His mind conjured up another image, of his grandmother after the famine, her stomach bloated. He and Boris had found her – they had been only six – round and rotting in her cottage. He remembered her stomach moving, squirming, crawling, and the thing that had come out of her, the size of a terrier, covered in gore and viscera.

Something grabbed the back of his thigh, and he squealed, firing off a shot. The bullet pinged off the concrete and lodged in the rafters. He brushed at his pants, but it was too slow, and the thing was crawling up him, on his back, his shoulder, his neck. He grasped for it, but it was too fast, and already grabbing his mouth. He could see it now, Parker’s hand, squeezing his chin, the severed stump oozing blood. Milosh staggered back and slapped at the fingers, but they felt nothing. He fired a shot into it, but it again, felt nothing. He smashed his head against the shelves and a paint can came down heavy, knocking him senseless. The lights went out.

*

The world faded back in, the dim gray of the basement trickling into his retinas like poison. He sat up and rubbed his head and his jaw, then looked over at the tarp. The hands were missing. He stood and picked up his pistol, then grabbed the hacksaw. He had less time now. The hands were missing. His stomach rumbled, and pain shot through his abdomen. Ice crawled up his spine.

Milosh lifted his shirt and saw the skin of his stomach, distended as though someone were pushing on it from the inside. The hands were missing. His stomach rippled like a bowl of Jell-O, and he vomited from the pain. The hands were missing. He dropped the saw and drew his pistol, and thought of his grandmother.

The hands were missing. There was a bullet in the chamber.

 

Dog Days

Mad was going to be sick.  It was gonna come up, hot and wretched – he could already feel his stomach knotting and threatening to fling its contents up onto the concrete like the world’s worst catapult.   He was gonna vomit, and it was gonna be Bluto’s fault.  Not that would stop the big bastard and his equally wall-like brother, Brick, from taking the piss out of him for it.

He could hear the saw, digging into flesh, wet and thick, like someone trying to cut through a ham shank with one of those old electric knives.  He could hear the sound of blood hitting the floor, and Bluto, cursing occasionally as the saw got hung up on a bit of bone or an extra tough tendon.   The funny thing was, it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever seen.  He’d done wetwork before – every now and then someone needed to get dead, and Mad had never shied away from that.  But this – it just seemed like butchery.

There was a thud-squelch, and Mad’s stomach jumped.  It was the sound of a couple pounds of flesh hitting the floor and rolling a few inches.  He peeked around the big man’s back, and saw toes, still pink, pointing into the air like a fucked-up weathervane.  He leaned back and tried to breathe through his nose.

“You done yet?” he called out.

Bluto turned his head, the folds on his neck piling up like Oscar Meyer wieners.  His dark brow beetled, and he waved the gloved hand holding the saw in the air.

“This shit takes time.” he said.  “You want the cops to find her?”

Mad watched the saw drip gore on the floor and considered his answer.  He dug a cigarette out and lit it, blowing smoke into the air, and praying it would settle his stomach.

“Given the choice, I wish she’d never walked in.”

Bluto had turned back to his work; the saw digging away at what Mad could only guess was a thigh.  He shrugged.

“Shit happens, man.  What the hell was she doing this far south?  Nice clothes, pedicure -”

“Probably looking to score.”

“Yeah.  Maybe.  Maybe she was looking for something else.”

“Like?”

“Little rough trade?  Little strange.  Lots of tough men and swingin’ dicks down here.”

Mad grunted and reached under his chair, to where he’d tossed the girl’s purse.  He unsnapped the clasp and started digging things out.  Tampons, lipstick, compact.  Phone – he tinkered with it for a minute or two, flipping through texts and photos.  Damn shame.  She was pretty.  Sociable, too.  Someone was gonna miss her.  He dropped the phone in his pocket and kept digging.

Receipts, ticket stubs – he shook his head – purses were goddamn black holes.  He tossed things to the side as he found them, hoping to find something interesting.  Wallet – here we go, he thought. He opened it and found the usual credit cards and reward cards and ID cards.  Inside the middle flap, he found a grand in cash, which he took as well, and pocketed, then tossed the wallet to the side.

The purse was almost empty.  Mad shook it and heard something rattle around in the bottom.  He stuck a hand in and came out with two things – a bottle of some pill with no label, and a plastic baggie.  The baggie had a little bit of white residue in the corners – Columbian marching powder – he never touched the shit.  He tossed the baggie to the side and popped the top on the pill bottle.  Inside were two or three small yellow pills, embossed with a symbol he’d never seen before.  Probably some sort of Molly.  He threw it back in the bag and tossed the purse into the pile he’d made, and then added his cigarette butt.

Brick wandered in from the front hallway, Glock in his hand.  He’d earned the name for being wide as a wall and thick as his namesake.  Mad took a look at the pistol and shook his head.

“You had that out the whole time?”

Brick looked down at it, as if he were surprised it was there.  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“What was your plan?”

Brick frowned.

“You know, if the cops showed up?”

Brick frowned again.

“Were you planning on shooting all of them?”

“Why?”

“Because they will start shooting when they see you with that.”

“Oh.”  He tucked the pistol into his waistband and trudged over to his brother, where he watched him work in silence for a bit.

Mad’s stomach finally settled.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t hearing the sounds of the saw or smelling the charnel-house stench anymore, it was just that some things you could get used to if you were around them long enough.  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.  He could hear the saw, rhythmic, steady.  He drifted off.

***

He woke when something soft and heavy landed in his lap with a crinkle of plastic.  Still bleary, he looked down and saw a face staring back at him through the plastic, slightly distorted, like a drowning victim.  He screamed and tossed it off, and the room was filled with the booming sound of Bluto’s laughter.

“How – how -” the big man wheezed between laughs and sucked in a breath.  “How about a little head?”  He collapsed, laughing.

Mad stood, disgusted, and stalked to the far end of the room.  He thought of the pistol in its holster under his arm and thought maybe he should just blow the big dumb bastard’s brains out now.  Instead, he took a breath, counted to the requisite ten, and lit a smoke.  He let the nicotine calm him while Bluto recovered.  When the big man had quit laughing, he turned back to him and gestured to the bag.

“That the last of her?”  Mad asked.

“Yeah,”  Bluto said, wiping tears from his eyes.  “Brick’s out back tossing the rest in the dumpster.”

“Good.”

Mad dropped back into the chair, while Bluto went to find a hose to rinse the floor off.  For a while, there was only the sound of water against concrete and gurgling down the drain.  Mad looked at his watch.  He frowned.

“How far away is the dumpster?”

Bluto turned off the water.  “What?”

“Your brother’s been gone a while.  Did he get lost?”

Bluto shrugged, and pulled the apron and gloves off and stuffed them into another bag.  He tied it shut, and flicked off the light in that room.

“Got to get rid of these.  I’ll check on him.  Dumbass probably fell in the bin.”

He lumbered off toward the back hall that led to the alley, leaving Mad alone.  Water dripped from somewhere in the dark.  Mad checked his watch again after the sound of dripping water had driven him to near distraction.  Bluto had been gone a while.  Still no sign of Brick, either.  His stomach tightened, and he took a deep breath.

They’d probably just knocked off and took the car back to Shanahan’s.  It wasn’t unlike them, to leave him sitting.  Then again, they were supposed to do this job together.  They didn’t think they were gonna do it and take the commission themselves, did they?  He shook his head.  Nah.  They needed him to get past the alarms.  Then what?  He looked at the darkened room Bluto had left behind.  Probably sneaking up, pulling another bullshit prank.

He got up and snapped the light on.  It flooded the room in harsh fluorescence, lighting up pink puddles of water and cracked cream colored tiles.  The room was empty.  He turned back to the chair and sat.  Maybe they’d been nicked.  Cops could be sitting outside right now, waiting for him.  He pulled out his pistol and tapped it against his leg, trying to think.

They didn’t have anything on him.  Just a guy sitting in an old butcher plant with a mess on the floor.  He could probably walk right out after a few hours in the station.  Then again, if they looked in the dumpster, and they might – cops weren’t blind or stupid – he might just be seven different kinds of fucked.  He stood and started to pace.  He wondered if he could just stay in here and hide.  If Bluto and Brick were smart enough they wouldn’t mention him.  He rolled his eyes and knew that wasn’t going to fly.  If those two put their brains in one basket, they still wouldn’t be able to tie a shoe.

“You should totally turn yourself in.”

The voice was high and female, and Mad thought, a little pissy, which was a strange thing to think about a disembodied voice, but he was too busy trying not to piss himself when he heard it to worry about normal.

He snapped the gun down and level, and looked around.  “Who’s there?”

“Down here, dipshit.”

He looked.  The brothers had forgotten one bag – of course they had – the one with the head in it.  As Mad watched, the plastic writhed.

“Hey, fuck all for brains.  Pick me up.”

Mad screamed and fired a shot at the bag.  It went wide, digging a furrow in the concrete, and ricocheting down the hall.

“Really?”  The voice was acerbic, with a touch of Valley Girl.  “Already dead, you moron.  Put the gun away.”

Mad stood for a minute, trying to make sense of what was happening.  He thought maybe Bluto had pulled another prank – slipped him a funny cigarette – or, shit.  He’d touched those pills the girl had in her purse.  He put the pistol away and scrubbed his palms against his pants, then sat down heavily in the chair.  He was just gonna have to ride it out.

“Hello?”  It came out Hell-O.

“Shut up,”  Mad said.

“As if,” the head said.

God, stuck here with Tiffani from Omega Bitchy Theta.  He briefly considered sticking his pistol in his mouth.

“Pick me up.  I can’t see a fucking thing in this bag.”

Mad thought about punting the bag across the room.  A morbid part of him wondered instead what it might be like to talk to a severed head.  He wrestled with himself for a moment, and the morbid part won out.  He picked up the bag and tore open the plastic.  A trickle of gore slipped out, staining his pants, and he cursed.  The head rolled its eyes.

“It’s not like they were Boss.”

He sat down and set the head in his lap.  They stared at each other for a minute.  She had been blonde, though that was stained now with blood and spinal fluid, and matted down.  Mascara ran in rivulets from pretty blue eyes, and lipstick was smudged across one cheek from her lips, like tire tracks from a runaway car.  Her neck ended in a ragged stump that was black at the edges.  She was probably stunning before their unfortunate run-in.  Her lips curled into a smirk.

“Nice, at least you’re a DILF.”

Mad frowned.  “I should cut your tongue out.”

“Like I need it to talk.  Not even a voice box, genius, and yet words.  Totes amazing, right?”

“This is a guilt complex, right?  Some sort of goddamn subconscious reaction to touching those drugs.  This is what I get for not setting a watch on the door.  Could’ve avoided this entirely.”

“Oh my God.  Whine much?”

“Jesus, you’re a bitch.”

“And you’re a murderer.  Most people wouldn’t react this well to being killed.”

Mad opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by a bang in the back of the building.  He thought it sounded like the door slamming shut, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  Brick or Bluto must finally be done.

“Waiting on your bros, your brahs, your bromigos?” she asked, contempt in her voice.

“Something like that.”

There was a low wet sound from the back hallway, and something squished against the floor.  Mad put the girl’s head down and pulled his pistol.

“Brick?” he called.  “Bluto?”  No answer.

“Like OMG, what if it’s totes a monster?”

He turned to her, a scowl on his face.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

She opened her eyes wide, and her mouth made an O.  “OOOH, scary monster, don’t eat me!”  She giggled, like she had just seen something filthy on her phone.

Something squished-slid across the tile floor behind him, and he turned.  His stomach lurched when he saw the thing shambling toward him.  It was an amalgamation, some sort of hodgepodge of life that had crawled its way from the gutter of the world.  All of its parts were human, though bloody and ragged, and in the wrong order.  Block fleshy ropes grew from where the body parts ended in their ragged incisions and held the thing together in an angry, pulsating mass.

As he watched, it lurched forward with a plorp, and black tentacles quested out from a raw stump, searching.  He screamed and emptied the pistol’s clip into the thing, but it had as much effect as setting a fire on fire.

“See, you dumb sonovabitch?  Scary monster.”

The tentacles found the girl’s head and pulled it to its mass, wrapping around it and attaching as still more black ropes grew from the stump of her neck and sutured her to the flesh.  When it was done, it crawled toward him, its motion surer now that it was guided by the gift of vision.

Mad backed into a corner, tears welling in his eyes as it came on.   He threw the pistol at it and uttered a dismayed groan when it just bounced off.  He saw the blue of the girl’s eyes were black and deep and cold.  She opened her mouth.

“You are so. Totally. Fucked.”

Mad screamed until she stuffed black ropes down his throat, and though he wanted to retch, it was far too late.