Free Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror by Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, Jeyn Roberts, Post Mortem Press, Gary Braunbeck, Michael Arnzen, Lawrence Connolly

it out of the wall. He threw the radio hard on the stateroom floor. He picked up the box of ashes, stormed across the room and put it roughly in the suitcase, then put the suitcase in the little closet.
    He walked over to the bed and kicked his shoes off. He felt awfully tired and figured he’d try to go to sleep. Tomorrow or the next day ( he couldn’t honestly remember ), he’d be in the Caribbean. Frank fell onto the bed, still in his clothes and fell fast asleep.
    In the early afternoon two days later, Frank walked off the ship--the SS Celeste from Happytime Cruise Lines--in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, some flip flops and a back pack. The air was warm and smelled like sunscreen and tourists. The sky was a deep blue and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He put on his sunglasses and looked for the nearest beach.
    He found a bar, instead.
    After about an hour, he’d managed to have three Pina Coladas. He was directed by a young islander to a small beach about a mile away from the bar. Somewhere where there weren’t a lot of people was what he’d wanted and after about 45 minutes of walking, he saw the beach the young man had told him about.
    It was perfect.
    He walked on the sand about half way to the shore line and took his back pack off. He opened it up and pulled out a very small blue kid’s shovel.
    Then he pulled out Candace’s box of ashes and dropped the back pack.
    He dropped to his knees and began to dig a hole. Not a very deep hole, but one just deep enough.
    Frank had been tempted to bring a small portable radio so he could hear Candy scream and yell, but he’d decided he’d had enough. He picked up the box and rested it in the hole--it was about two feet deep.
    "Bye, Candy," was all he said and covered up the hole. Somewhere in his head, he could almost hear her yelling at him.
    He stood up and looked at the small grave. Bending down to grab his bag, Frank stuffed the small blue shovel inside. He turned and walked away. Maybe he’d go back to the bar. The drinks were great and inexpensive.
    He thought about Candace one more time and hoped that someone with a radio didn’t lay their blanket anywhere near the box.
    He smiled.
     
     

THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL YOU
    Matt Moore
     
     
    Matt Moore is an Aurora Award nominee with short fiction in several print, electronic and audio markets such as On Spec, AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, Torn Realities, Cast Macabre and the Tesseracts anthologies. His novelette Silverman's Game was published in 2010. When not writing, he is the Communications Director for ChiZine Publications. He can be reached at mattmoorewrites.com.
     
     
    When Fynn stepped out of the shadow s , duffel bag in hand and surgical apron over her fatigues, Teller's junkie heart quickened. And he hated himself for it—mouth going dry, craving the graceful oblivion she'd deliver.
    Teller yanked the gurney to a halt, wheels groaning. Watching up and down the dimly lit basement hallways, he pressed his thumb against the door's scanner, trying to hide the shakes.
    "Relax," Fynn commanded. "There's nothing wrong here."
    "Right," he replied, craving the bitter taste on his tongue. Hoping anyone who saw them would believe a surgeon had a reason to accompany a corpsman disposing of limbs removed during surgery.
    The scanner beeped. The door popped open, releasing the dry, sterile smell into the dank hallway. Teller wheeled in the gurney, piled high with black medical waste bags headed for the incinerator. Not that it was a true incinerator. The name had stuck, but this nasty piece of technology used microwaves to reduce almost anything to ash in moments. If the military could shrink it to something they could mount on exoarmor, the war would be over.
    Fynn followed him in and pulled the door shut. The room, empty except for the chute to the incinerator, its controls, and a buzzing overhead light, was barely big enough for the two of them and the gurney. While Fynn snapped on gloves, Teller