Seven Deadly Tales of Terror (3 page)

John sat bolt upright and probed at the object with a little less delicacy. This resulted in additional jabs of pain, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something sticking out of his neck that didn’t belong there, an alarming development to say the least. Any pain he was feeling from the stings that resulted from each poke of the object was overridden by other concerns, primary among them being a single basic question—
what the fuck is this fucking thing sticking out of my fucking neck
!?

It did not feel like a natural object.

This impression was a good thing in the sense that, if accurate, it ruled out the sudden protrusion of a long-developing malignant tumor. The measure of relief this insight afforded him was not insignificant, but it was swept aside by the lingering mystery of what the clearly foreign object embedded in his neck actually was.

He was able to discern the basic shape of the thing with a bit more gentle probing. It was an almost perfectly round knob and felt like it was about half the size of his thumb. He tried pulling at it slightly, but this resulted in a jolt of pain sharper than any of the previous jabs.

He was breathing heavily and his heart was beating faster as he tossed aside the blanket covering his body, got out of bed, and hurried out to the bathroom down the hall. The bathroom door had a tendency to stick in the frame. After shouldering it open, he traipsed across the small space on legs turning more rubbery by the moment. He stopped at the sink and peered at his reflection in the mirror above it.

John knew what he had to do.

But he was reluctant.

There was something in his neck that shouldn’t be there. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone to bed. That he knew for a fact. He’d gone to bed stone sober, just as he had every night for the last five years, following his fifth (and final) DUI arrest. He’d been in full possession of his senses until lights out, no question about it.

So, again…
what the fuck
?

He lingered there in frozen terror a moment longer, knowing he needed to visually appraise whatever it was. Until he did that, he couldn’t even begin to figure out what the thing in his neck really was or how to remove it. And yet a very frightened part of him didn’t want to see it, was, in fact,
terrified
at the very idea. Whatever this thing was, someone else had put it there.

Or some
thing
else.

Aliens, maybe.

The idea was ridiculous on the surface. He’d always scoffed at tales of alien abductions and experiments, treating the stories with the same disdain he felt for kooky conspiracy theories. Only now, with this goddamn thing stuck in his neck, it was hard to discount any of the wild possibilities he’d once treated with such contempt.

“I’ve got to do this,” he muttered, his voice too loud in the otherwise empty room. “I’ve got no choice.”

He turned to his side, craned his neck around, and lifted up the little scraggle of dark hair at the nape of his neck. The object protruding from his neck was pretty much as he’d envisioned it from his initial tactile examination, except that the hard knob was a shade of light blue rather than the dark brown or black he’d expected.

Leaning over the sink, he put his head as close as he could to the mirror, his eyes swiveling and straining in their sockets as he tried hard to get the best possible view of the thing. He still couldn’t tell whether it was made of metal or some other hard material. With the fingers of his other hand, he pressed down as hard as he could on a patch of flesh adjacent to the protrusion, hoping for a glimpse of the part of the object that was actually inside his flesh. This resulted in a series of minor stings that were bearable and nothing compared to the sharper jabs that came when he applied direct pressure to the object.

By doing this, he was able to catch a brief glimpse of something silver attached to the bottom of the blue knob. He was only able to observe it for a few seconds before the stinging sensations became more than he could tolerate. Though minor at first, they became steadily more intense the longer he pressed down on the flesh adjacent to the object.

He took his hand away from his neck and let out a breath.

A rod or bolt of some sort, apparently made of metal, had been inserted in his neck while he slept. How this had been accomplished without waking him or causing excruciating pain, he did not know. He stared at his reflection and wondered what to do.

Get it out. Now
.

Well, that was easier said than done, wasn’t it?

The object was deeply and firmly embedded in his flesh. Removing it would require a significant amount of force. Judging by the jabs of pain triggered by simple prods of the exterior knob, any attempt at removal would likely result in waves of mind-bending agony. There was also the issue of the placement of the object to consider. It was lodged dangerously close to critical areas such as his brain stem and spine. By trying to forcibly extract it, he might inadvertently cause some kind of debilitating and irreversible damage.

John nodded, still staring at his reflection.

What he needed was the help of medical professionals.

On the other hand, what if his wildest imaginings were true and the object in his neck was some weird piece of alien technology? Once this was determined to be the case, he might be taken into custody by the military and shipped off to fucking Area 51 or some other secret place from which he might never return. Where once he might have dismissed such a notion as paranoid and absurd, it now seemed all too plausible.

John Stark
really
didn’t want to spend the rest of his life locked away in a secret underground laboratory. He also didn’t much relish the prospect of doing nothing and leaving himself at the mercy of whoever had implanted the object, regardless of whether those responsible were actual creatures from somewhere beyond earth or some sinister and equally mysterious earthbound organization.

Several more minutes of thinking it over resulted in no revelatory insights, but he did come to a conclusion about what he needed to do next. He shuffled back to his bedroom, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and called Mike Carter.

Mike was his oldest and most trusted friend. They’d known each other since elementary school. They’d been through thick and thin together. John had been best man at both of Mike’s weddings. Mike had bailed him out of jail a couple times back when he was still drinking and getting into trouble. His old friend might not have a solution for him, but he might be able to steer him in the right direction as far as what course of action to take.

That initial conversation was brief. John didn’t want to tell the full story over the phone because it would make him sound crazy. Mike would think he’d suddenly started drinking again, which would be a logical enough deduction to make minus the visual evidence. Instead, John kept it simple, effectively imparting a sense of urgency and direness in just a few terse sentences.

Mike said he’d be right over.

He got to John’s house inside of fifteen minutes.

At first he expressed the expected skepticism when John told him what had happened and his suspicions about it. The skepticism faded, however, when John showed his friend the object embedded in his neck and invited him to press down on the flesh adjacent to it in order to glimpse the silver bolt.

They were in John’s living room at that point. The morning light spilling in from the sliding glass doors overlooking the patio and large, leaf-scattered back yard was muted, the day overcast and drizzly. Only a single lamp was on in the living room. The semi-gloom imbued the moment with a disquieting sense of the funereal.

Mike drew a hand across his mouth and scratched at his jaw. “Maybe you’re not paranoid, after all.”

John let out a shuddery breath and nodded in an emphatic way. “Damn right, I’m not. That thing is there. It’s weird, but it’s real. And I want it the fuck out of me. What the hell do I do?”

Mike took his hand away from his mouth. “There’s only thing you
can
do.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “And what would that be?”

Mike smiled.

For the first time, John experienced a mild tingle of trepidation where Mike was concerned. There was something in that tight little smile that was not at all friendly. But surely that was just more paranoia, right?

Mike reached inside his jacket and took out an automatic pistol. “What you need to do, John, is put this gun in your mouth and wedge the sight up against your soft palette. Once it is firmly in place, squeeze the trigger.”

John laughed, albeit nervously.

This
had
to be a joke.

Only it didn’t seem like a joke. And that gun was very real. “This isn’t funny.”

Mike nodded. “Unfortunately for you, John, I’m not attempting to elicit a humorous reaction.”

John flinched but did not retreat as Mike approached him and pressed the gun into his right hand, forcing him to curl his fingers around the grip of the pistol. Once the gun was securely within John’s grip, Mike moved back several steps, glanced briefly at the smart watch strapped around his hairy wrist, and shifted his gaze back to John.

His tone was stern and devoid of even the slightest trace of mirth as he said, “Put the gun in your mouth, John.”

John glanced at the gun. He tried willing his fingers to uncurl and allow the ugly weapon to fall to the floor. Instead the gun came to his mouth. Then it went inside his mouth and in another moment the sight was wedged painfully against his soft palette. He trembled and whimpered and longed to yank the gun away, but he just stood there, powerless, no longer in control of his own actions.

Mike’s expression remained mostly emotionless, but there was a small hint of smug satisfaction at the corners of his mouth. “You’re probably wondering how this is happening. And you’re probably wondering why you’re best friend since childhood is compelling you to do this.”

John could not nod. He just whimpered some more. His bladder loosened and a flood of piss stained the crotch of his briefs.

Mike’s nose crinkled slightly in distaste. “The answer is simple. I’m
not
your best friend. In fact, before I walked through your front door a few minutes ago, you’d never met me before. Everything you know about our history together is a fiction. It is an elaborate tale woven into the code of the implant in your neck, which was not put there by little green men. Since you’re about to die and take the secret to your grave, there’s no harm in telling you that it’s an experimental mind control device developed by rogue elements of your own government, for whom I work, albeit in a necessarily secret capacity.” Now he smiled again, more broadly than before. “Your tax dollars at work.”

John couldn’t believe any of this. It was crazy. He’d shared so much of his life with this guy, countless things that were an integral part of the fabric of his existence. No way could those things all be products of computer code.

Mike sighed. “You don’t believe me.”

John managed to mutter the word “no”, though it was muffled by the barrel of the gun.

“Device,” Mike said, his tone turning more precise as he pitched his voice louder. “Cycle red, directive one, wipe.”

The moment the word “wipe” was spoken, John knew he was staring at a stranger. Everything the man had said was true. The truth about his life came back in an instant. He was a lonely, broken-down alcoholic. He had no friends. None that were still alive, anyway.

Tears spilled down his face.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest.

Mike cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and said, “I’ll take the device with me when I leave. The angle of the shot about to split your head wide open should erase any evidence of its insertion. The gun is registered in your name. Yes, I know you’ve never owned a gun before. We’ve arranged everything, all the paperwork and the suicide note you were compelled to write before device insertion last night.”

“Please,” John managed, the tears spilling faster and hotter down his face. “Don’t.”

Mike ignored this plea and said, “Your country thanks you for your service and your contribution to our ongoing mind control studies.”

John screamed. He glared at his hand, tried again to regain control over his body and pull out the gun.

To no avail.

“Device,” Mike said, again speaking in that loud, clear tone. “End program.”

John’s forefinger began to squeeze the trigger.

He managed one last muffled scream.

The last thing he saw before the bullet blew out the back of his head were the unforgiving, soulless eyes of the stranger, which were faultlessly observant and appraising to the end.

HIGHWAY STOP

The family trip to Myrtle Beach felt like it was cursed from the beginning. It was a journey marred by setback after setback, a relentless series of unfortunate incidents and countless moments of sheer bad luck. The first thing that happened was a flat tire. The Gruber clan had been on the road maybe five minutes, the rented minivan they were traveling in having just merged into highway traffic.

At that point, John Gruber unleashed an impressive storm of profanities, slamming the heels of his hands against the steering wheel again and again as his puffy face turned red. Mary Gruber, John’s wife of thirteen years, became instantly alarmed. John had heart problems. He also had severe anger issues. He took pills for his heart and years of counseling had helped him learn how to better channel his frustrations. A lot of time had passed since either of these things had last truly concerned Mary, so the outburst came as quite a shock. He looked like an overheated human pressure cooker, on the verge of explosion.

To his credit, John seemed embarrassed by his overreaction. He apologized profusely as he pulled the minivan over, smiling and cracking jokes as he took a few moments to reassure his family. Mary and the two Gruber children—Beth and Hunter—all breathed audible sighs of relief.