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pain
filled howl cut through the air as the silver crucifix found his
heart. He pitched forward, landing on his face and slowly crumbled
to dust.
    “ You did it,” Ross shouted.
“You destroyed Von Rohm.”
    The Pulptress fell to her
knees. “Yeah, we won. Is there an emergency room
nearby?”
     
    ***
     
    “ How are you feeling?” Ross
asked, as they drove back to Arkansas three days later.
    “ I’m better.” Emily nodded,
her face covered in blue and yellow bruises. “Betty and Gloria will
have a great home when they get everything finished. You might
consider moving nearby” She smiled. “I know Gloria would enjoy your
company.”
    “ Don’t worry about that.
She’ll be in Arkansas next month.” Ross returned her smile. “We’re
going to spend a lot of time together.”
     
     
    THE END
     

 
     
BUTCHER’S FESTIVAL
     
    by Ron Fortier
     
     
    The Sixth Street bus
arrived with a belch of exhaust fumes and the four people huddled
under the corner depot roof did their best to stay out of the rain.
Heavy winds coming off the bay were sending the fat raindrops
sideways and there was little protection in the flimsy tin shack.
The quartet, consisting of an old man, a heavy set woman, a hotel
maid and a thin, nervous fellow, lined up along the vehicles dented
yellow side as the driver opened the door and disgorged several
passengers.
    One of the exiting citizens
was a short fellow with thick glasses who looked around nervously
upon stepping onto the slick sidewalk.
    The four waiting passengers
hurried aboard and shuffled down the aisle of the nearly full bus
to find an empty seat. The thin man, named Irving Wilkens, spotted
an empty seat at the rear and made for it as the driver shifted
into gear and stepped on the gas.
    Dropping into the seat, he
looked over and eyed a small package crudely wrapped with brown
butcher’s paper. He started to reach for it when it blew
up.
    Outside, back at the at the
bus stop, the small man with the glasses watched the big bus
explode with a powerful boom, its frame leaping off the road before
dissolving into millions of tiny pieces, among them steel, rubber,
and human tissue and bone.
    The little man took off his
glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief and strolled off into the
rain, a dark, sadistic smile on his face. He loved blowing things
up.
     
    ***
     
    Less than an hour later, in
a dingy, darkened room a figure stirs in the worn upholstered chair
facing a rain washed window. Night is descending quickly and with
it the shadows that invade his tiny, square domain. On the bureau
to the left of the window a single candle suddenly sputters to
life, its solitary flame casting an eerie glow. The dweller rises
from his seat and approaches the fire as a face begins to
materialize in the flickering orange fingers. It is of a long dead
girl, robbed of her life by a sadistic, soulless gunman; one who
now does her bidding.
    “ Violence and death have
come once more,” she utters in a sweet, lilting voice. The thing
standing before her merely listens, acknowledging her words only by
his grave like silence. “You are needed once more. Justice will be
meted out by your hands.”
    The undead avenger nods as
he reaches for a milk-white porcelain mask laying next to the
dancing candle. Brother Bones affixes the skull-like visage to the
horror that is his true face, his dark eyes blinking through the
twin holes.
    “ Where?”
     
    ***
     
    Standing in front of the
big warehouse steel door under the single overhead light bulb, Cody
Randall reflected for the hundredth time on how much she despised
Cape Noire. All around her was nothing but a stygian blackness and
a damp, cold breeze leftover from the day’s downpour. At least it
wasn’t raining now-- that was a small consolation to be grateful
for. Still, here she was, decked out in her cowboy jeans, hat and
black felt domino mask standing in front of a massive door about to
once again battle the forces of evil.
    Damn, but a smart