Fire Boomers

by Doug Murano

What a cluster-fuck, thought Officer Hammond as he crossed the threshold of the doorway into the machine shed. A drive out into the country to find an old man who'd worked himself to death in the July heat was one thing. But the smell coming in waves from inside the metal structure suggested a wild animal problem, and that was quite another thing entirely. He drew his pistol and moved forward.

Hammond couldn't call for backup. In a town the size of Cherry, he was the sheriff, the deputy, and the goddamn dog catcher. Besides, most of the town was already half-cocked at the Independence Day street dance. That meant yet another busy night, another holiday he'd have to miss.

The day's last light filtered through the small, rectangular windows spaced along the tin shed's long walls. Hammond's flashlight cut an alley of daylight through the spacious blackness that didn't reveal much--just some dusty cardboard boxes, broken lawn mowers and a few moldy straw bales.

A flash of green and red seared through the windows, followed a few seconds later by a loud crackling sound. The sun wasn't even down yet, but the good people of Cherry didn't waste any time when it came to celebrating the nation's birthday.

Before he left town, Hammond promised his son that this year would be different, that he'd be there this time to watch "the fire boomers." If he didn't get himself in gear, Davie would be crushed. Again. He decided to perform a quick sweep of the shed and then scoot his boots down the road. The heat in there had started to choke him out. And then there was that smell--the sickening sweet-and-sour of death and something underneath, like the lion cages at the zoo.

He stopped when he saw a human form on the floor a dozen feet in front of him.

"Well, shit," said Hammond as he approached the old man's corpse, which lay facedown in the dirt. Pools of blood flanked his midsection like like obscene wings. Kneeling down, he grabbed the body by the shoulder and wrenched it onto its back. What was left of Miles Brody's abdominal cavity reminded Hammond of the cattle mutilations he'd seen over the past few weeks. It was a growing problem nobody in Cherry wanted to acknowledge with more than threats toward the local coyote population. Whatever had disemboweled the old guy had also plucked his eyes out of the sockets and sliced off his nose, leaving only his mouth intact, which hung open in mute protest. Red and blue lights blossomed outside and glinted off the old man's teeth. Soft reports followed.

That monkey-house smell grew stronger still. Ragged breaths filled the air behind Hammond.

He barely had time to turn around before it was on him, ripping into his insides just the way it had done to Miles Brody. His only shot went wide before the thing reached one of its malformed limbs to knock the pistol away. Then the other hand fell to the ground, still clutching its flashlight. Thus disarmed, Hammond screamed and battered the creature's moist skin with his gushing stumps as the creature continued its deadly work. Wet sounds, like a serving spoon moving through his wife's famous macaroni salad (which she brought to the pot luck earlier in the afternoon), echoed off the shed's thin walls.

More colorful blossoms filled the shed's windows when the thing pinned him to the dry ground and brought its smooth, broad face up close to Hammond's. As he faded into oblivion, Hammond watched little stars--blue, green, red and yellow--cavort and dance deep within the thing's vast black eyes. I made it to the fire boomers, Davie, he thought. I made it this year.

__________

Doug Murano lives somewhere in the wide-open spaces of the Great Plains. Before beginning work on his M.A. in English, he promised himself that he would make his living with the written word upon graduation. So far, so good. When he's not on the job, he composes dark little stories. During the last two years, he's even sold a few. Find a complete listing of his publications, and keep up with his latest shenanigans, at http://muranofiction.blogspot.com.

New Woman

by Doug Murano

She catches him by surprise when she opens the door for him. She says it’s a new century and she’s a “new woman.”

Later, at their table, the way she stares at him makes him shift in his chair like he’s sitting on one of those big rubber exercise balls and can’t find his balance. This is nothing like I’d planned, he thinks. He asks her to tell him about what she does. She looks down at her plate and says he wouldn’t be interested in hearing about it. After so many years, it feels like more of the same. She says she wouldn’t even know how to talk about it anymore.

“I want to know you,” she says. The way she leans forward makes him consider every definition of “know.”

He’s used to asking the questions, to making reservations, to setting the tone of the evening. That’s how the game works. His game. But this restaurant—her choice—he never could have gotten a reservation here. The script evaporates. The only thing on his mind tumbles out of his mouth. “I love the way you’re looking at me. Nobody’s ever…”

“Keep talking and I promise I won’t look away,” she says and runs her delicate fingers along the top of her left ear. She keeps her promise, even when he’s ordering lobster tortellini and his second glass of pinot grigio.

He talks about his job writing patient education brochures at one of the big hospitals in town. He waits a few beats for her to break her expression of awe. When she doesn’t, he lies and tells her that some days he comes home knowing more about human anatomy than he ever wanted to learn. She rolls her eyes in sympathy and smiles. He rambles on about his dreams for a little too long, but she listens.

The only moment of disappointment comes when she doesn’t order much; just a glass of merlot and a dinner salad. Just once he’d like to see a woman tear through a big, rare cut of red meat. The thought of it alone makes him a little hard. “New woman or not, some things never change,” he chuckles, wondering what she would taste like grilled in olive oil with asparagus.

“You go ahead,” she says after the food arrives, and she watches him eat. He wonders why so many beautiful women feel the need to starve themselves.

When the food is gone and the conversation slows, she says “I’ll take care of this,” and asks for the bill.

He follows her out of the restaurant into the cool night air. She says she better drive them home and guides them to a new, black BMW. He thinks nothing of leaving the ten-year-old Pontiac in which he arrived sitting on the street overnight. The registration in the glove box doesn’t match the name on the I.D. in his wallet, anyway. That could cause trouble if they hit a sobriety checkpoint.

He gives her directions and guides her to his modest two- bedroom ranch home. The two of them sit in silence while the engine idles. He wonders if now’s the right time to lean in.

“I know what you want,” she says before he can make up his mind. “But the things I want to do…well, the car really isn’t the place for them.”

“So…you want to come inside then?” he asks with astonishment. He wonders just for a moment whether he might not want to go through with it after all. Nothing else has gone according to plan. Why should this? He decides to play it by ear. Perhaps they’ve made a real connection. Perhaps the knives can wait.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says, opening her door, flashing a playful grin and swinging her long legs out of the car. As she follows him up the concrete walk, she thumbs the sharpened edges of the needle-nosed pliers resting inside her jacket pocket and smiles at all the wonderful things they’ll share.

__________


Doug Murano lives somewhere in the wide-open spaces of the Great Plains. Armed with only his blazing speed, charming good looks, a box of red pencils and the masochistic streak that is prerequisite for all writers, he recently embarked upon a career that has (so far) included journalism, public relations, marketing, freelance writing, and regular attempts at writing short fiction. In addition to Fifty-two Stitches, his stories appear at the pulp fiction podcast Well Told Tales (www.welltoldtales.com), in Deadlines: An Anthology of Horror and Dark Fiction, (www.cometpress.us) and are forthcoming in the spring 2009 issue of The Rose & Thorn (www.theroseandthornezine.com) and the July 2009 issue of Necrotic Tissue.