The Possession at Upton Centre Mall, by Dan Dillard

The Possession at Upton Centre Mall, by Dan Dillard

They’d never seen a dead body before, much less someone murdered in such a brutal fashion. And not in the mall.
“Dude, I told you Abercrombie and Fitch was evil,” Huff said.
His name was Dwayne, but Huff had become his nickname when he got addicted to fumes in the sixth grade. His long, greasy blonde hair suited his duh expression. He looked like the bass player from a 1980’s metal band. He was way old to dress or act that way.
“Did you see that dude’s neck?” Chad said.
Chad was Huff’s one and only friend, but a good enough friend that it didn’t matter. He had black hair, piercings, and was the brains of the operation.
“Yeah, that was awesome.”
“No shit, bro. I knew those cheerleader chicks were demons too, I just always thought it was more of a figurative thing,” Chad said.
“What’s figurative?”
“Never mind.”
“Yeah. I’m way too high to process right now anyway.”
Chad giggled. “Yep. Me too.”
They sat on a bench in the center of the Upton Centre Mall and shared a giant pretzel. Screams filled the giant corridors and shops closed their gates, locking them at the floor. The PA system droned above the sounds of panic.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” it said, “We’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience. There seems to be some sort of terrorist attack. Please take your final purchases to the registers at this time, then proceed to the central exit next to TGI Fridays. As always, thanks for shopping Upton Centre!”
Chad spoke through a mouth full of salty dough. “Man, that security guard was badass. I mean right after he puked, he tazer’d the shit outta that girl.”
“Yep. Too bad she’s a psycho, she had nice boobs.”

“Psycho?” a voice said from behind them.
When they turned, a young woman stood in a revealing tank top and short skirt. She was barefoot, holding a human head in her left hand and wiping blood from her mouth with her right. Her nametag said Amanda. Chad and Huff screamed in unison and stumbled from the bench.
“I’m too high for this. I’m too high for this. I’m too high for this,” Huff chanted as he ran.
Chad followed close behind him, not letting go of what was left of his pretzel. The girl cackled as she stalked them, rolling the security guard’s head like a bowling ball and knocking Chad to the ground in a tangled mess.
“Dude!” Chad screamed.
Huff skidded to a halt, then grabbed his buddy’s hand and dragged him back to standing and then into a clumsy run. Amanda floated, inches above the hard-tiled flooring, down a short flight of steps and past the fountain, then up a handicapped ramp.
“I’m going to eat you. I’m going to tear you apart,” she said, her voice switching from a young girl’s to a deep, menacing manly voice.
Her eye’s glowed red. Her hair wild in its long, dark curls. The few remaining patrons screamed as they ran the other direction, headed for the exit. She killed on with a powerful swipe of her tiny arm across their throat, and then licked the blood from her fingers.
“Eram quod es; eris quod sum,” she said in a chorus of voices.
Huff looked back over his shoulder. “Chad, dude. I think she’s possessed.”
“What?”
“Saw it in a movie. Well, several movies. Normal bitches don’t act like that.”
The girl cackled behind them, killing another passerby with a gleaming grin of her blood-stained teeth.
“Ego sum obscurum,” she growled.
“What is she saying?” Chad said.
“I don’t know, I flunked Spanish.”
“Dude, you flunked everything.”
They kept running, trying each gate, and each door. All were apparently locked by some central electronic security system. All except for the Sears which anchored the end of the corridor they were on.
“Dude!” Huff shouted. “Look.”
They saw a young man in a blue polo shirt and khaki pants pulling the giant gate down. He was trembling as the three approached. Two stoners and a hovering, crazed monster. What used to be Amanda screamed as Huff and Chad slid underneath and the door slammed shut. She cursed at them in different voices, different languages.
“Wow. What did we smoke?” Huff asked.
“Same shit we always smoke.”
The Sears employee stared at them, still trembling. “You got anymore?”
“Shit, you mean you see her too?” Huff said.
Then Amanda shrieked again, smashing her now-clawed fists into the gate. It rattled, shaking the walls. Her skin had turned a sickening green, and her teeth and tongue shades of gray and black respectively. She shredded her clothes with those claws, busting out of them as if they were constricting. Her skin was pruned like fingers after a long, hot bath, belying her youthful body.
“Dude,” Huff said, “There those are, look at those tits! I told you, man. That’s so hot, man. I can see her…”
Chad smacked him hard on the face.
“What the fuck, man?”
They scooted backwards and then stood up. Chad took off toward the exit doors, but the little Sears employee was outside, applying the locks with his ring of keys.
“Weak, dude,” Huff said.
He grabbed a pre-packaged toolkit from the shelf and hurled it at the window. It bounced back. He threw it again and again it bounced. Amanda rattled the gate once more and the sheetrock around the entrance cracked a little.
“We need holy water,” Chad said.
“Screw that, we need a chainsaw.”
Huff grabbed one from the shelf, and wielded it like a knight of old.
“Dude, put that down,” Chad demanded.
“No way, dude. I’m gonna carve that bitch up.”
“First of all, that saw is electric.”
Huff dropped his shoulders in defeat, then started to laugh.
“That’s pretty funny, man. It’s electric and I thought…”
Chad was already gone, looking in the lawn and garden area. In the distance, Amanda’s screaming and smashing at the gate could be heard. Huff turned the corner to find his friend.
“What are you doing?”
“Help me run this hose to the bathroom.”
“Weird, man. What’s the plan?”
Chad untwisted the ties that held the hose coils and looked around in desperation. He found a high-pressure hose nozzle and screwed it on one end. Huff took the other end and walked down the aisle.
“Man, you ever smoked through one of these?”
“Huff, focus.”
“Right, man. Sorry.”
Chad dropped the business end of the hose on the main aisle as Amanda cracked through one side of the gate, sending large pieces of the gypsum board crashing to the floor.
“Hurry, dude,” Chad said, grabbing the hose end from Huff.
He kicked open the door to the women’s restroom and looked around. Then he rushed across to the men’s room, but saw a janitor’s closet on the right. It was locked.
“Huff, I need something to break in this door.”
“Why don’t we just break the window and get the fu…”
Chad dropped the hose and grabbed a large pry-bar from another shelf of tools. He popped the door handle loose with ease, and then pried the door open to reveal what he needed. A deep sink with a hose connection.
Amanda wailed an ear piercing sound and crashed against the door again. Another piece of sheet rock fell, and the linked bars started to give way, leaving openings she could reach her arm though. She smashed again and again.
Chad threaded the hose onto the faucet. He grabbed Huff by the t-shirt and gave him a no-shit look. “I need you to go grab the nozzle and point it at that freak.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Pray. If you know any prayers, you’ll do the same. We need to bless the water.”
“Dude, I don’t think God listens to guys like me.”
“Just pray, Huff.”
Huff stumbled back to the center aisle and grabbed the hose nozzle. Chad knelt in front of the sink and pulled his silver necklace from under his Misfit’s t-shirt. He kissed the crucifix on the end and prayed for forgiveness, asked for the Lord’s blessing on the water that flowed.
Huff shook, giggling nervously. He crossed his heart. Not like a cross, but like an X, as if he was making a promise and hoping to die.
“God, forgive me cause I’ve done a lot of bad shit. I’m sorry about the drugs and the sex. And I’m sorry about driving dad’s car through the garage door in 2007.”
Amanda crashed, one last time, into the gate, sending the frame crashing to the ground in an intense moment of sound and dust. Then she screamed for her victory.
“Chad, I just shit my pants,” Huff yelled.
“Just pray!” came from the janitor’s closet where Chad continued to kneel.
Huff took a deep breath and said the only semi-religious thing he could think of.
“Jesus loves me this I know, cause the bible tells me so. God please help us kill this crazy bitch,” he said as the water splashed forth in a powerful stream, it hit Amanda in the chest.
She looked surprised at first, then her shock turned into an evil smirk, then her laugh echoed throughout the immense building.
“I’m going to enjoy eating you,” she hissed.
“Oh shit, Chad! She’s gonna eat me!”
He stepped back, keeping the stream of water on her.
In the closet, Chad concentrated his efforts, holding his crucifix tightly in one hand, the faucet in the other. The metal started to heat up, then the hose grew warm, bulging as the heat crawled along its length. It moved faster and faster until it reached the other end, blowing the nozzle off of the end of the hose and ripping a hole through the Amanda-demon’s chest. The shock wave blew Huff backwards, knocking him out.

*******

When Huff woke, Chad was smacking him in the face.
“Dude, I thought we were going to the mall. You’re passed out.”
Huff sat up and looked around, recognizing his own apartment. He started laughing, an infectious sound that spread to Chad.
“That was some extreme shit, man. Like, I’ve already been to the mall,” Huff said.
“You need help, man.”
The doorbell rang and Chad hurried to answer it. Huff stood up and straightened his shirt, blinking off the sleep. Chad turned and an attractive girl entered.
“Dude, this is the girl I was telling you about. I’d like you to meet my new girlfriend, Amanda.”
Amanda smiled, her teeth and eyes were normal, her skin beautiful, but there was something wrong in the smile, something lying underneath.

"Filthy" by Dan Dillard

Filthy
Free Friday Flash Fiction by Dan Dillard

Randy was a portrait of self control. He typed furiously to keep his mind off of his bursting bladder. His left leg quaked and sweat beaded on his brow. He brushed a damp clump of hair back into place and looked nervously out of his cubicle. He typed some more.
It wasn’t a deadline he feared. It wasn’t a tyrannical boss with plans to keep him late or work him over the weekend. It wasn’t even a woman he’d slept with from another department, one who might swing by to make his life miserable. He swabbed the counter with a wet wipe and tossed it in the trash.
“You okay, buddy?”
It was a co-worker. Randy looked into a joke, rear-view mirror that was taped to the top of his monitor to see to who it was. People in the mirror may be more annoying than they seem, was printed along the bottom. He recognized the face as Sam. They’d worked together for several years.
“Fine, just busy.”
“You sure? You’re sweating, dude.”
Randy checked his face in the little mirror and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. The pain in his full bladder twinged again.
“Fine. Lots to do is all.”
Sam shrugged and left him there. He said, “Lunch at twelve, don’t be late,” as he walked away. “Yeah,” Randy muttered under his breath.
He looked at the clock to see lunch was still two hours away. Then he looked at his coffee mug and regretted the second cup. He couldn’t stand it anymore. His chair rocked up on two wheels, almost falling over as he shot from his cube. Stray papers slid off the desk and floated, like autumn leaves, to the floor.
Randy cringed, focusing all of his energy on the ice-pick in his crotch. He felt the moisture on his temples start to drip down the sides of his face. The noise of the office, droning on as usual with phone calls and clacking keys and Xerox machines, seemed to grow in volume.
“Morning, Randy,” a chipper voice said.
He didn’t compute who it belonged to, but nodded. He could feel the eyes on his back, the concerned look on the face as he passed by, sweating, walking in a stilted, gotta-go manner. Then he reached the break room, feeling like he might explode, wetting himself in a moment of embarrassment he would never live down. His feet drug the carpeted floor with a scrubbing sound, and then he stamped them as if they were asleep. It helped briefly with the pressure before making it worse.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered with each subsequent step until he reached the bathroom door. His hand wouldn’t reach for the handle. He stood staring at it, biting his lower lip and without realizing, grabbing his penis with his other hand. The flow had released from his bladder, and was only damned up by a finger-and-thumb tourniquet.
His eyes lingered on that brass knob, sparkling in the fluorescent light. He gritted his teeth. The knob pulsed along with the capillaries in his eyes. He could see things swimming on the handle, tiny things with legs. Globular things with cilia or flagella that slid across the metal as if they were taunting him. Randy increased the grip on himself. His stomach turned at the thought of touching the handle, boiling bile to the top of his esophagus. He was going to vomit or he was going to piss himself.

Voices from around the corner distracted him from the handle. They were walking toward him, they would see him holding himself and perspiring like some schoolyard pervert. The footsteps tapped on the linoleum of the break room floor. In a moment they would hit the carpet and it would be too late. Randy grabbed the handle with a grunt, bursting into the bathroom and rushing to one of the three stalls. The door swung mostly shut behind him.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
The bathroom was empty, but he didn’t notice. He was busy unzipping his fly around his gripping fingers, rolling his boxers down to reveal himself to the porcelain receptacle.
“Thank God,” he repeated.
Then he let loose, spraying urine on the wall and the toilet seat before gaining control and letting the painful relief consume him. His sweat-covered body shuddered in the air conditioning. When he was finished, finally empty, he leaned against the wall of the stall, from one cubicle to another, and closed his eyes.
Someone else came in. The creak of the self closing arm on the door caught Randy’s ear. There were two voices, some he didn’t recognize.
“Catch the game?” one said.
Randy relaxed at the dull banter. They weren’t checking on him and that was all that mattered. He would be able to plan his exit. How not to touch anything before getting back. His mind cranked out ideas, but all of them stopped at the bathroom door. He could get out of the stall and wash his hands in the sink, even leave the water running, but then what? He had to touch the door handle. It was crawling with bugs… just like everything else.
He could wait until one of the others, the bacteria infested, came in and the door would be open long enough to escape.
He waited for the other two men to leave. They laughed and washed their hands without a care, but Randy knew better. When the door closer creaked again, he let the stall open again, and pulled the door in with his shoe.
He scanned the room, even bent down to look under the other two stalls. They were empty, but his face was only a foot from the floor and he caught a whiff of stale urine. He straightened slowly, watching the floor crawl with life. Cold shot up his spine causing goose bumps on his arms. Randy rushed to the sink, seeing the same things swirling and rolling across the hot and cold handles. He scowled at the soapy fingerprints on the mirror, the mysterious, brownish drip marks in the sink, the wadded up paper towels on the counter and on the floor. He twisted the handle for the hot water and waited to put his hands underneath it.
The water wasn’t pure. Randy could sense it. The soap dispenser had a button to push, but it was caked with liquid soap, crawling with life—demonic, microscopic death that was just waiting to engulf him and eat him molecule by molecule. Waiting to get inside his body and rot him from the inside.
He detected a hint of color to the water and his paranoid eyes grew wider as he stooped for a closer look. They were there, little monsters, swimming in the stream amongst the aerated bubbles. Then Randy lost his balance.
His shoe slid, just a bit, on the wet ceramic tile and a purely involuntary action sent him into fits. His hand touched the floor to keep him from falling. He mouthed a scream, but nothing came out. His body jerked to stand, rigid as a piece of dehydrated spaghetti. Holding his hand up in dramatic fashion, he stared in horror. Millions of crushed organisms coated the skin of his palm, millions of others swarmed the tiny carcasses and began to devour them. It was only a matter of time before they would multiply and start eating him.
He looked at the water. Swimming. The soap, completely engulfed. The mirror, covered in spatters of miscellaneous liquid and fingerprints of the uneducated. Back to his hand. Had they doubled already?
Tripled?
He backed into the corner praying the door would open. He could rush to his desk and sanitize his hands, then go home to his pristine shower. No one came in.
The creatures ate, growing larger, then dividing. So many he could feel them dancing across his skin, moving up his wrist to the flesh of his forearm, headed for center mass.
“No,” Randy whispered.
He started to shake, rubbing one hand over the other in an attempt to slough them off like an old skin. They just grabbed his other hand, splitting and multiplying, covering both hands.
“No,” he said, his voice wavering like a goat.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to scrape them off. Then into his forearms, digging curls of skin loose. The scratch marks filled slowly with blood, then dripped onto the floor. He watched the floor bubble with microbial excitement, closing in on the red drops. Then, like tiny, vampiric ants, the mass crawled toward him, covering his shoes, then up under his pants legs to his socks, and onto the skin of his shins and calves. Randy screamed.
“Get them off of me!”
He clawed at the flesh of his arms, then his legs, pulling his pant legs up and scraping meat loose from his lower legs. He shrieked with fear, oblivious to the damage he had caused to his own body, blind to the blood and chunks of himself that he held in his own hands. He pulled at his cheeks, clawing at his eyeballs and penetrating one. One fingernail came off in a vicious yank. Terror was his anesthetic.
Sam entered the room in a rush just as Randy’s shrieks were dying down. His skin was pale, bluish. He glared at Sam with the eye that still worked.
“Jesus, Randy, what happened? What’s going on?”
Randy continued to dig hunks from his body.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, croaking the words out like a bullfrog. “They’ll get on you. Don’t touch me.”
Sam shouted for help, bringing others to the office restroom. He dialed his phone, calling for help.
“Don’t touch me,” Randy said again. “Filthy.”
He kept repeating the word, filthy, as the blood drained.

Knight of the Dead- A Token Slasher Film

Knight of the Dead- A Token Slasher Film
Flash Fiction by Dan Dillard

The rusty van drove down the obvious two lane street. Inside sat five friends, giggling from the effects of marijuana. Each appeared ten years older than the typical high school kid, but claimed to be on spring break.
“Uncle No-Name’s cabin is just up here on the left. I’m sure there used to be a sign, probably next to some gravel road that hasn’t been traveled in two or three years, but is well manicured anyway,” Repressed Sexuality guy said.
Slut sat up in the back, wiping her chin. “You sure it’s cool to use your uncle’s cabin?”
Studly guy smacked her in the arm. “Get back to work. Your only purpose on this trip is cleavage.”
She glared at him, then smiled and disappeared behind the seat. Prude rolled her eyes and pushed up her glasses before looking out the window.
“I don’t know why I came on this trip. I don’t fit in with you freaks at all,” she said.
Stoner looked at her and chuckled, the type of laugh that bursts forth from within, only nothing was funny. “Voice of reason, baby. You are the voice of reason.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Comic relief.”
The crew continued on until they came upon a gas station, the old rickety kind with the wooden decking for a porch and only one pump.
“Let’s stop for some supplies,” Repressed said.
Slut sat up in the back again, “Yeah, and I gotta pee in a grungy bathroom.”
The van rolled to a stop in front of the pump and Repressed got out, looking around and giving a good stretch. Stoner got out on the other side and commenced to relieve himself on the rear tire. Slut stumbled from the car, then adjusted her pants, and her tank top, making sure her implants sat correctly. Studly popped open a beer and made eyes at Prude.
“In your dreams,” she said.
He laughed, but continued staring at her. Behind the pony tail and glasses, she was obviously attractive, but he’s the only one who noticed.
Outside, Repressed walked into the store, past a sign that read, “The Last Place You’ll Ever Need To Stop!” and up to the counter. No one was there. He banged on the counter. “Hello?”

Some rustling in the back room got his attention and when he turned his head, he saw an old man in mechanic’s coveralls shuffle out, wiping his brow with a dirty rag.
“Y’ain’t from round here is ya?” Old Man said.
Repressed smiled, “No, sir. Can I get a fill up?”
“Sure thing. Where ya headed?”
He rubbed the white stubble on his tan chin, then stuffed the rag into his back pocket. “My uncle has a cabin up the road. Do you know No Name?”
The old man’s eyes grew wide in their sockets and he frowned. “You don’t wanna go up there. Bad things happen up there.”
Repressed raised an eyebrow. “Whatever. How about that gas?”
Old man walked outside, seeing the group around the van and shook his head.
“You’re all gonna die if you go up there,” he said.
They ignored him as if he wasn’t there and one by one loaded back into the van. Slut was last, bending over in front of the elderly attendant for no apparent reason. He took a good look and then shut off the pump.
“How much I owe ya?” Repressed said.
“Ten dollars and fifteen cents,” Old Man replied.
“What?”
“You heard me. Nothin’s changed around here since 1979, including the price o’ gas.”
Repressed handed him a few bills and told him to keep the change. Then they drove off, spitting gravel and dust from under the tires. Old Man watched, disgusted.
“Stupid kids, all doomed, just like the last ones, and the ones before that, and the ones before that, and …”

*****

The cabin had a familiar look, weathered wooden plank and a covered porch with a wooden swing. The woods hugged it on three sides, leaving no discernable escape other than the way they’d driven in. Repressed stopped the vehicle and within seconds the entire group was carrying luggage, coolers and a grill up to the house to the tune of Popular Song.
Once everything was inside, Prude started bitching.
“This place is nasty. There’s no cell reception. Why am I here?”
Stoner puffed on a joint and handed it to her. “Hey, relax. Take a hit.”
“I don’t smoke, thanks,” she said, dripping with attitude.
“That might be the problem. Lighten up, enjoy.”
He offered it again, smiling wide with his eyes half-mast. She took it reluctantly and puffed. Then Prude coughed violently while the rest laughed. Studly opened a can of beer and handed it to her.
“This will cool the burn,” he said.
She gulped and then caught her breath. “Thanks.”
Then she took another hit from the joint. They passed it around, opening beer after beer until it was all gone. Everyone giggled, making incoherent jokes and sexual innuendo until they realized the beer was gone. Studly pulled a bottle out of his bag, brown liquor with a black label. Then he pulled out its twin and unscrewed the cap, taking a swig. Slut grabbed his hand, taking the whiskey and setting it on the table.
“Come on, baby. When you get too drunk, he doesn’t work.”
She pulled him back to the only bedroom and disappeared behind the door. Repressed watched the door close with jealous longing, and then he took a drink from the whiskey bottle. Stoner and Prude sang silly songs, sharing more weed.
“I like you,” Prude said.
Her glasses were off, and her hair was down. The top button of her shirt was undone, revealing more than she’d ever shown to the public in her life. Stoner smiled, oblivious to the fact that she was talking to him. He took another drag.
Repressed stopped staring at the door and Prude caught his eye. Amongst the smoke and the light from the single lamp, she was beautiful to him. She caught him staring at her and smiled. Loud moans and screams came from the bedroom, along with creaking and pounding noises. Stoner laughed, the louder the moans, the louder he laughed.

****

Inside the bedroom, Studly did his business, pounding away while Slut screamed unnecessarily. What they didn’t see was the shadowy figure watching in the corner of the room. It stepped out from the shadows, holding a two-handed sword and wearing a wife-beater and jeans. It’s head was covered by a knight’s helmet. It swung the sword, connecting perfectly and severing Studly’s head from his humping body. Blood spilled from the wound like a fountain, coating Slut’s plastic boobs and causing her to open her eyes. Her screams of pleasure turned to screams of terror until the sword cleaved her head into two equal halves, her eyes crossed and staring at the blade.

****

Repressed looked away from Prude for a moment, startled by the sudden silence. “Guess they’re done,” he said.
“That means it’s our turn.”
He looked at her with shock as she stood up, unbuttoning her shirt the rest of the way to reveal a purple, lacy bra. Stoner lay on the floor, passed out, but still smiling. Prude slinked toward the door, with her back to it, and motioned for Repressed to join her. He leapt at the opportunity, grabbing her and kissing her against the door as she opened it.
“Our turn,” she sang as they entered.
Their eyes were closed, entangled in a passionate kiss as they backed into the room. The knight-killer watched as they slipped in the blood on the floor, landing on top of dead Slut. Studly’s head bounced from the crusty mattress to the floor with a thud. Before they could scream, or fully appreciate what was happening, the long sword pinned them together, and to slut, in a ghoulish shish-kebab of people that wouldn’t have killed the normal person right away, but for purposes of this story, it killed both of them instantly.
Knight-killer nodded at his work of art, then walked out into the main room of the cabin. Stoner still lay on the floor. A roach smoldered in the ashtray that was on the table. A baggie with one remaining cigarette in it sat next to the ashtray. He opened the bag and took the spliff between his lips, lighting it with the roach and pulling an impossible amount of smoke into his lungs. Then he looked back at Stoner, walked over, and crushed his head with three vicious stomps of his boot before exhaling.
Checking his handiwork, Knight-killer sat on the couch and continued to smoke. He took off his helmet, revealing the familiar face of the old man from the gas station.
“Told you,” he said.
Roll credits and prepare for a dozen sequels.