Death by InjectionHorror for October

Serial Killer William Burke (1792–1829)

I've not done one of these every year, but several of the last few years I've written an October fiction horror story, which somehow end up usually being a comedy or similar. Go figure. But this year, this isn't your author's standard comedic horror story. I'd say this is at least a PG-13 rating, maybe edging into an R rating due to one scene of violence, that while not graphic, you'll probably fill in the details in your head.

But don't let that scare you. (Ha!) What might really scare you is I'm attempting to infuse life into an overused horror trope: the serial killer. One way I'm doing that is I've got two mysteries going on for you to solve from this 997 word flash fiction: what is the way the killer multiplies and what is this story an allegory about? Figure that last one out and it will make perfect sense why I chose a serial killer story despite its overuse.

So, without further delay, here is "Death by Injection."

-----------------------

A man stood in my living room. I jumped in my chair and gasped. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He smiled under the brim of a hat and reached into his trench coat. “I’m The Injector.” He pulled out a syringe.

I froze in shock. The mass serial killer stood in my house? Why me? Why now?

The number of his victims defied description: over 5000 a year. No one knew how the killer brought down so many; impossible for one man.

But his MO was consistent—chemical injection. It didn’t drain life quickly, but extracted it over months or years. One didn’t merely die, but adopted death as a companion. This man had put many in hospital and hospice alike.

Yet people rarely thought about it. The news no longer covered his victims. The sheer volume had numbed society’s conscious. That is, until the killer attacked them or someone they loved.

Likewise, I didn’t think it would ever happen to me. I knew better, but that’s the truth. Now reality felt so unreal. This couldn’t be happening, but there he was.

He stepped forward extending the needle toward me. “What is your astrological sign?”

That seemed an odd question considering his motive. Best to humor him. The more he talked, the more time I had. “Gemini.”

He shook his head. “To bad, and so young too.”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s right. And I have two kids who need their mother. Their dad died last year in an automobile accident. Please don’t do this. Have mercy!”

He continued to make his way toward me. I knew the killer had no moral compass. He’d killed many in worse situations than mine—an equal-opportunity killer.

I held out a hand. “Wait! At least tell me one thing before you sentence me to death.”

He paused and cocked his head to one side. “An unusual request. Most simply scream at this point and try to get away.” He nodded. “Go ahead and ask.”

“How can you kill so many people everyday? You’re just one person.”

He laughed, and haunted echoes filled the room. Death dripped from his words. “You’ve got it wrong, my dear. I am many. I multiply and infest this world with fear.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “You’ve been cloned?”

He shook his head. “My birth occurred in July.” He proceeded to move my way again.

What did his birthday have to do with anything?

Contemplating the answer to that question would have to wait. How to escape his death wish was paramount. One fact I’d read suggested the earlier one fought back, the better the chance of escaping him or getting a small enough dose that the doctors could heal one. Now was the time to act, but what to do?

I leaped up and dashed to the kitchen. He followed at a quickened pace. I opened a drawer and pulled out a large carving knife. Despite holding it in a threatening position, he failed to stop. His eyes glowed with the greed of power as he thrust the syringe toward my chest.

I held my arm up to block his attack and swung the knife into his gut. He grunted and for a moment his face lost its smile, and his eyes their glow. But instead of falling to the floor in a pool of blood, he stood taller and the grin returned to his face, followed by a mind-numbing laughter that chilled my soul—taunting me with thoughts of giving up.

He pushed harder against my arm, shoving me against a wall. My arm trembled under his forceful muscles, the needle inched toward my chest. Months and years of pain and grief filled my future, replacing dreams and goals that I’d hoped to achieve, and family to grow old with. I couldn’t lose that. I had to do something.

A sideways glanced caught the microwave next to us. It was a long shot, but there was nothing for it but to try. I swung my free hand to the appliance, popped the door open, and held down the door sensor with one finger while my thumb hit the automatic one-minute button. The microwave sprung to life.

His grin vanished. His eyes drooped. The needle stopped its advance, quivered, then slowly started to move toward him. It was working!

Encouraged by my success, I shoved back at him harder. He stumbled backwards while his mouth opened to wail in pain. I grabbed the knife from his gut and swung it at his neck. It buried itself deep into his jugular vein. My stomach retched at the sight of blood careening over his body, but if I were to survive, I couldn’t stop. I sawed with the knife, digging in deeper, until his head hit the floor with a thud and his body collapsed with it.

I sank to the floor, trembling, I still held the knife in my blood-soaked hand. In disgust I threw it onto the floor. I’d never killed anyone, and it didn’t lessen the blow knowing he’d been a serial killer, knowing if I hadn’t, he’d killed me. I struggled to catch my breath.

“Mommy?” My five-year-old son Vince stood in the entryway. His wide eyes soaked in the scene.

I attempted to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Son, go back to bed. You’re dreaming. Everything will be fine in the morning.”

He nodded. “The man who gave me a shot was a dream? Okay, but he was still scary.” He turned to head back to his room.

My mouth dropped open. “Oh God, no!” And Vince’s birthday was in July. But what did that mean? My eyes opened wide. He had said, “too bad,” when I had told him I was a Gemini. If being born in July is why there are many of him, that means the injection doesn’t kill them, but . . .

I wanted to weep, but instead shook with fear.

The Light, The Dark, and the Gritty

I'll admit it up front. I don't thing most of my stories, save for a handful of short stories, are gritty. There are dark parts here and there, but few have accused me of writing horror. I can count on one hand how many dark horror short stories I've written. Most of what I've written is a lighter, funner, and punctured with humor. Even my one zombie story, "Confessions of a Zombie's Wife," is more funny than scary.

So I've begun to think about what makes a story dark or gritty. Honestly, dark is easier to get. It is a story that highlight's evil in its fullness. Whether through a creepy monster or a deranged mad man, evil is brought to life. For the writer who is a Christian, with the hope of contrasting it to the light, and ultimately overcome by the Light.

But gritty is a little harder for me to define. Judging by what some Christian authors have said, gritty is any story where the characters cuss or have sex. The more graphic, the grittier the story is.

But I'm not so sure. Another definition of gritty is making the story more realistic, which for some seems to again center around adding cussing and sex. Sure, realistic is also getting your facts correct, avoiding plot holes, and believable dialog, but few would contend those things necessarily make a story gritty. Yet it would seem many would equate gritty as being more true to life.

But I'm still not so sure. Seems something else is missing from the definition.

Being gritty appears to be a good thing. When a reviewer says a story is gritty, that is usually a compliment. Often gritty is followed by words like "compelling" and "raw emotion." Therein probably lies the root of it.

One of the objectives of a good novelist is to engage the reader in experiencing those raw emotions. The more the reader feels their power, the more real the story becomes for them, and the grittier it will feel. That would be true whether we are talking about death or sex.

But wait. There's more! You can't take a happy moment and infuse it with gritty raw emotions without muting the joy of that emotion. Likewise, interjecting joy into a mother grieving over the loss of her son would lessen the impact and believability of that moment emotionally.

So it isn't merely a raw emotion, but gritty is experiencing the raw emotions of darkness. Much as bliss or joy is experiencing the raw emotions of light. Both are realistic within their domains.

The astute reader may have picked up on my title's play on another well known title. A movie called, "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly." One of my favorites. You can see the link there as well. The Ugly is the result of the Bad, not the Good. Likewise, the gritty is a result of the dark, not the light.

In short, anything that portrays graphically the dark is gritty. Take for example the movie "Saving Private Ryan." I didn't watch it, mainly because of what other people said about it's graphicness of war. From what I've been told, that is gritty.

A more nuanced comparison would be the Star Trek series and the most recent version of Battlestar Galactica. The former, as conceived by Gene Roddenberry, was an optimistic view of human evolution. People tended to get along better, and man had grown past emotions like greed and bigotry. So much so, man no longer worked for money as in a capitalistic system, but exhibited the epitome of a communist society where everyone works for their own betterment while all needs are covered by the society.

Meanwhile, in Battlestar Galactica's universe, people are operating with all sorts of pure and impure motives, trying to get the best of each other. Oh sure, Star Trek had some of that. Especially in the later series. They discovered you had to have some conflict to have a good story. But those were usually considered to be an aberration. Not the norm.

So by and large, Star Trek has been criticized for not being gritty enough. That is, not conveying a compelling emotional sense of man's depravity, and therefore not as "realistic" feeling.

They say that a writer is the worst judge of his own work. So what say you, those who have read my stories? Do you consider any of them gritty? Or lighter fare? What is your definition of gritty?

Hallow Fright

Decided to offer a free Halloween story this year to my fans. It's around 1300 words, so not long. Enjoy!

--------------

"Ouch! Mom, that hurt."

"You can thank me later." She yanked again on Tulek's rough hair. "Now hold still like a good little orc, and I'll give you some more."

Tulek smiled. He'd not messed up his hair for nothing. After all, he had to look good for Halloween. "Ouch!"

She put the brush down and wiped her finger-claws on her apron. "That's enough. Don't want to make you look primed and proper, like those vampires."

Tulek frowned and hopped off the stool. He sat at the table next to his little brother, Jukel, already chewing his bat innards. But he turned his attention to his plan for the night.

His mother's thoughts appeared to be there as well. "Tulek, you remember what your dad said about tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am." But he knew she'd tell him again anyway. She never believed he remembered anything. Well, sometimes he had to admit, he forgot things, but really?

"For your coming of fright day, he's signed you up for a bed. Did he go over with you what to do under that bed?"

Tulek nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Once the lights are out and the parents have left, I make growling noises and shake the bed."

She stared at him. "You should appreciate this opportunity. Your father worked hard to get you an easy shot like that. Do you want to get your fright by jumping in front of a car or eating someone?"

Tulek grimaced at the thought of eating a human. They tasted horrible. "No, ma'am."

She nodded as she pulled her apron off and set it on the counter. "I should hope so. Now finish your bat and go enjoy your last Halloween as a little orc. I've got to help your father with his lunar array project." She walked down the hallway of the cave. "Can't let those werewolves get a jump on getting to the moon's energy."

Jukel let his bat skin fall to the plate. "Are we going to go now? Huh? I want some candy."

Tulek swallowed. "Right after I get my first fright."

"But Mom said that was tomorrow, not tonight."

"I know."

"And you can't get a fright on Halloween."

"So they say." Tulek ripped the last of the intestines from the bat and gulped it down with some poison ivy juice.

Jukel shook his head. "Dad will not like this. No, no, no."

Tulek swung his head around. "You didn't tell Dad, did you? Or Mom?"

Jukel's long nose flared. "No, of course not. I'm not ready to lose any limbs."

Tulek relaxed, but pointed a finger at Jukel. "And don't you forget it, either."

Jukel dropped from his stool. "I still think it is a waste of time."

"That is precisely why I'm doing it."

"What? To waste time?"

"No, silly. To prove it can be done."

Jukel grabbed his bag and slid his feet into his shoes. "My life goals are so much more practical. Candy."

Tulek laughed. "You don't understand. But that's okay. Keep it simple, until you no longer can." He breathed deep before grabbing his own bag and heading for the door.

# # #

Tulek scanned the horde of children accompanied by their parents. Halloween, the one night an orc could mingle freely with humans and not scare them. Many of his kind, as well as vampires, werewolves, and other monsters, joined the kids for trick or treating. But it also was the night hardest to get one's first fright. A day off for most monsters, but not him. Not tonight. Tonight, he was set on becoming a man-orc.

Jukel pulled on Tulek's coat. "Come on. If we wait much longer, all the candy will be gone."

"Just a minute. First things first."

"We've been waiting for several minutes."

Tulek huffed. "Okay, okay." He scanned the area for a good target. He saw a small group of girls, unattended by any adults. He smiled. They would be the best bet. "Stay here. Watch and learn."

Jukel frowned, but nodded, and then sat on a small tree stump.

Tulek followed the girls and caught up to them. One dressed as a witch, typical pointy hat, broom, and black dress. Another girl arrayed as a fairy princess Please! One of them wore a pirate outfit, eye patch and broad-flat hat. The girls, looked to be around eleven or twelve, giggled among themselves as they gawked at other costumes and discussed their candy hauls.

Tulek leaped in from of them, extended his claws, and yelled out a big, "Aaaaaaarrrrrrrgggg!"

The girls screamed and ran away. Tulek grinned. He knew he could do it. Then his smile sank into a frown. "They're laughing!"

Jukel had walked to where he stood. "Of course. That's why it's hard to scare anyone on Halloween. They don't take you seriously."

"I know that." Tulek growled. "But I just thought I could be different. Though I could prove to Dad that I don't need an easy job. That I'm as good as anyone."

"Don't take it hard. At least you have tomorrow. It'll be like taking candy from a baby."

Tulek stared into the stars. He blinked. "What did you say?"

"You have tomorrow."

Tulek smiled. "No, after that."

"What? Like taking candy from a baby?"

He snapped his fingers. "That's it. You're a genius, little brother."

"Can I get that written in blood?"

"I'll write it with my decomposed flesh if this works. Wait here."

Jukel shook his head. "Here we go again."

Tulek spotted a child dressed as a dragon. He'd just hopped out of a car. The perfect target. Tulek crossed the street and approached the child.

The kid's eyes peered from behind the dragon mask and he paused, watching Tulek.

As Tulek drew close, he stopped. "Have some good candy, kid?"

The child clutched his bag to his chest. "Uh hu."

Tulek bared his teeth and flexed his claws. The kid shrank back, his feet shaking. Hard to see his facial expression behind the mask, but he looked scared. Tulek had his fright!

The child stepped back. "Don't take my candy!"

Tulek lunged forward and grabbed the bag from the child's hands, ripping the paper. Two pieces of candy fell to the sidewalk. Tulek grinned at the fake dragon snout. "Boo!"

The kid's fake dragon mouth opened. Tulek knew it was to scream.

A whoosh of fire engulfed Tulek's face. The smell of burning flesh flooded his nose. Heat seared his head. Pain soared through his skull. He dropped the bag and fell backward, screaming.

As Tulek lay on the ground, writhing, he heard the kid running to the car screaming, "Mommy, I got my first scare, on Halloween!"

# # #

Tulek spit in the urn by the side of his bed. They'd taken him to an orc hospital. He had to spend a few days recovering, which meant he'd miss his appointment for an easy scare. Now he'd be seen as a total failure instead of the hero he wanted to be.

His dad and Jukel entered the room. His dad smiled. "Heard you tried to take candy from a dragon."

Tulek growled. "I didn't know he was a real dragon. Could have sworn he wore a costume."

Jukel giggled. "He did wear a costume. A dragon wearing a dragon costume. How cool is that?"

"Not very." Tulek stared out the window. "Sorry for ruining your Halloween."

Jukel pulled closer to his brother. "But have you seen your face yet?"

Tulek raised his hairless eyebrow. "No."

Jukel grinned and grabbed a mirror laying on a stand next to the bed. "Look!"

Tulek took the mirror and placed it in front of him. A horrid mess of charred flesh stared back at him. If he'd been human, it would have made him throw up.

Tulek's widened his eyes and turned to Jukel. "With this face, I can scare anyone!"

Jukel nodded his head. "Isn't it cool?"

His dad patted Tulek's chest. "Good job, son. You should have no problem getting your first fright now. Thanks to some dragon-based plastic surgery."

Tulek turned back to the mirror and caressed his face. "This is so cool." Yes. Now he would stand out and be the hero after all.