Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 3) (2 page)

On the other
side, Terry is smacking at his head like he's trying to shake
something loose.

Elena eyes the
gun and lifts an eyebrow. “Right. Because that worked so well last
time.”

“What the fuck
just happened?” Marc says.

“You tried to
kill me. It didn't work. Or, to be more precise, it didn't work for
long.”

In the silence
that follows, Dom's mind flashes to Kelton, what he'd been like
when Dom had found him, kneeling on the stained floorboards and
rambling like a madman. Dom had thought he was praying, at first.
Maybe he had been.

“Immortal
Death,” he says.

Elena nods and
gives him a pleased smile. “Yes. Exactly.”

Marc doesn't
look pleased. Marc looks like he wants to rip her heart out and eat
it. Hers or anyone else's, come to that. Dom shifts backwards a
half-step.

“Exactly?”
Marc says. “Exactly, what? What the fuck is that supposed to
mean?”

“Immortal,”
Elena says. “Definition: not mortal. Undying. Not subject to death
or decay. Unkillable.”

“Fuck you,”
Marc says, and empties the gun into her. He covers all the bases
this time--gut, chest, neck, head.

After a couple
of seconds, Terry joins in. The noise is very loud.

Dom looks at
the gun in his own hand, then puts it down on one of the crates.
Marc gives him a look of fury and Terry one of contempt, but what
good do they think more bullets are going to do? Do they think Marc
missed, the first time?

Terry carries
on pulling the trigger, click click, long after the gun is empty.
Then there's just smoke and echoes and fast, panting breaths.
What's left of Elena is splattered over half the warehouse.

“Right,” Marc
says. “That's that sorted out. Dom, you--”

And then it
happens again. The weird, hollow Zing in his ears, in his stomach.
In his bones. He's back by the crates again, next to Marc, and his
gun is in his holster. He whips his head around and yes, there she
is. She doesn't speak this time.

Marc roars
with rage and grabs his gun.

“Really?”
Elena says. “You just want to keep going with this?”

Terry throws
himself flat against the blockwork wall. His gaze roams over the
floor, the walls, the crates. It's all clean. Dom can still see the
red shapes himself, but only when he shuts his eyes.

Marc keeps
hold of his gun, but he doesn't fire. “How are you doing this?” he
says.

“Remember that
definition of immortal?”

Marc shakes
his head rapidly. “It's not possible. It's not fucking
possible.”

“Oh, sure it
is. Don't tell me you never heard of a deal with the devil.”

Terry moans
and crosses himself. Marc throws him a look of disgust.

“I was after
the grand prize,” Elena says. “The fountain of youth. To never grow
old, never die.” Her voice is soft, almost nostalgic. Dom's mother
used to talk like that, about fur coats and fancy cruises. He and
Marc bought her plenty of both, but it never took the longing out
of her voice.

“I got my
chance,” Elena continues, “but you know how it is. You're supposed
to be very, very careful about what you wish for. Watch the small
print, as it were. Because they'll fuck with you, demons, if they
can. That's what happens, see, if you hang around long enough. You
develop a taste for fucking with people. Because what else are you
going to do with yourself, right?”

Terry's edging
along the wall, his mouth hanging open and his eyes bulging. She
looks at him, and he breaks for the door. It's thick steel and
fucking heavy, but he throws it open as if it's made of cardboard.
It clangs shut after him.

“Fucker,” Marc
says.

Elena smiles.
“I feel confident saying he'll be back soon enough. Now, where was
I? Oh, yes. Getting fucked over. Because I specified living
forever, but I didn't say anything about never dying. So the
amusing loophole is that I can still be killed. Just not, you know,
for very long.”

“What does
that mean?” Marc says. “What does any of this mean?”

Elena spreads
her hands. “You saw what it means. I die, I rewind. We all rewind.
Back to the start of the sequence, just like a great, cosmic DVD
player.” She laughs. “It gives us a chance to reconsider the wisdom
of our actions. Choose a different path.”

“Fuck this,”
Marc says. “This is absolute fucking bollocks.”

He fires
again.

Zing

“That's
three,” Elena says. “I know the whole demons, immortality, time
loop thing is a bit of a shock to the system, but come on. Try to
get with the programme. I might be technically immortal, but
getting shot in the face still stings.”

Terry fumbles
his crate again, then drops onto all fours and throws up. Marc
pulls out his gun once more. This time, it shakes.

“Marc,” Dom
says, holding up his hand. “Let's take a minute. Let's think about
this.”

Marc glares at
him, but he puts the piece away.

Dom faces
Elena. “What do you want?”

“Finally,” she
says. “Progress. Well, I fancy being the bad guy for a while.
Change of scenery, you know? So I'm going to take over.”

“What?”

“Your gang,
your operation, whatever you call it. It's mine, now. You work for
me.”

Marc shakes
his head. “Are you taking the fucking piss?”

“See, I love
that. Such colourful turns of phrase, you have here. Are you taking
the fuckin' piss?” It comes out strange, in her weird accent.
“You'll have to teach me all of these.”

“You're
mental. You're absolutely fucking mental.”

She considers
this. “Very probably, by now. But hey, a girl's got to have a
hobby, right? Eternity is a long time, my friend. And there's only
so much sudoku you can do.”

Marc lifts his
chin. “This is mine. This is all mine.”

“I'm sure we
can come to a mutually suitable arrangement. There will always be a
place for highly motivated employees in my organisation.”

“Employees?
You think I'm going to work for you? Fuck that.”

Dom starts
forward. “Marc, wait. Don't--”

Zing

“Fuck,” Terry
says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Elena smiles.
“Take four,” she says brightly.

“Marc, enough
with the gun,” Dom says. He feels rough, now, sick and exhausted
like he's got a two-bottle hangover. “No more. It's not doing any
good, keep bringing us back to here.”

“Smart boy,”
Elena says. “There's always a place for the intelligent ones,
too.”

High spots of
colour are burning in Marc's cheeks. His eyes look sunken and
yellow. His fingers twitch, but he doesn't draw the gun. “All
right. All right.”

There's a
pause. Dom and Terry both look at Elena.

“Don't look at
her,” Marc says. “She's not in charge here.”

Terry starts
edging towards the door. “Fucking stay where you are,” Marc says.
Terry freezes.

“Time for
negotiations?” Elena says.

Marc's head
drops for a second, then he lifts it again. “I will not have this.
I will not fucking have it.” He cracks his knuckles. “All right, we
can't kill her. Okay. But it doesn't mean we can't fuck her
up.”

He nods
towards one of the metal chairs. “Tie her up there.”

Dom doesn't
move. Nor does Terry.

“Didn't you
hear me? I said, tie her up.”

Terry takes a
step, one step, then stops.

“Well? What's
the fucking matter with you?”

Elena smiles.
“I think he's worried about what else I might be able to do. Isn't
that right, sugar?”

Terry doesn't
speak, but he swallows hard.

“After all, if
this is real--and I think we're all finally in agreement on that
point now--then what else might be?” She runs her tongue along the
edge of her teeth. “Vampires? Werewolves? What if all those
monsters under the bed are real? What if I can rip your throat out,
break your neck with my bare hands? What if I can set you on fire
with the power of my mind? Boil your brains in your skull with a
single thought? Is that what's worrying you, Terry dear?”

She flings her
hand out towards him, fingers stiff and splayed. “Scorchio!”

Terry
flinches, half-ducks, and his feet tangle together. He goes down,
hard.

Elena throws
back her head and laughs. “Damn, but that one never gets old.”

Marc grabs
hold of Terry's arm and hauls him to his feet. “You stupid fucker,”
he says. “What's wrong with you? This isn't Harry fucking Potter.
Now get her.”

Elena grins
and holds her arms out as if inviting a hug. “Want to take the
chance, Terry?”

Terry backs
away. Dom stays where he is.

Marc snarls at
them. His lips draw back from his teeth and he looks more than half
werewolf himself. He darts forward, seizes hold of Elena's arm and
yanks her around, throws her into the chair.

Dom holds his
breath, and it looks like Terry's doing the same. Maybe Marc,
too.

Nothing
happens.

Elena shrugs.
“Oh, well. A lot of the time, that works. But there's always the
odd psychopath with no imagination.”

A grin of
triumph spreads across Marc's face. “See? What did I tell you?” He
backhands her, putting his shoulders into it. The sound is meaty,
solid. Her head rocks back and blood blooms at the corner of her
mouth.

She licks it
clean. “You learn to manage pain,” she says. “Over the years. It's
like those guys you see on the telly sometimes. Yogis, fakirs.
Stick needles in them, tie bricks to their cocks, whatever. They
don't blink an eyelid. Work at it long enough, you get control. The
nerves, the breath, the heart. And I've had a very, very long time
to work at it.”

She places a
hand on her chest. “There are techniques that let you take charge
of the nervous system. You can hold your breath, say, or slow your
heartbeat. Slow it down, or even stop it. Course, most people
wouldn't want to go that far. But then, as you might have noticed,
I'm not most people.”

She smiles,
and her eyes roll back.

“Oh, fuck,”
Dom says, “that means--”

Zing

“Hi guys,”
Elena says from behind him. “Are we having fun yet?”

Terry goes
down on his knees and begins to cry.

She pulls a
bag of peanuts out of her pocket, rips it open and throws one into
her mouth. “Want to test me? To see how many times we can go round?
I'm happy to play that game if you are. As I'm sure you can
imagine, I have a great deal of patience.”

“Boss,” Terry
says. “Boss, please.”

Marc rounds on
him. “What? What are you saying to me? Give in, let her take
everything? You want to work for her? Is that it? You'd rather work
for her than me? You think she's going to look after you? She's a
fucking monster.”

Elena munches
on another handful of nuts. “It's always interesting, to see whose
mind cracks first, and how long it takes. Want to know what the
world record is?”

“Marc,” Dom
says. “Marc, we've got to--”

He doesn't see
the fist coming until it's too late to get out of the way. Pain
flares in his jaw and his knees unlock. As he goes down he sees
Marc's hands, the knuckles bleeding, close around Elena's
throat.

Zing

His vision
starts to grey out, but then he's back on his feet again. Terry's
yelling--or maybe screaming would be a more accurate word. There
are more gunshots.

Zing

Everything
hurts. He's seeing double. He throws up, can't clear his throat,
feels like he's choking.

Zing

Noise. Pain.
Shouting. Elena, laughing.

Zing

“Okay,” Elena
says. “Well, this is more like it.”

Dom swallows,
spits. His throat feels raw. Terry is standing next to her, Marc's
gun in his hand. He hands it to her. She gives him a wide, proud
smile. “Thank you, Terry.”

Marc's
kneeling on the floor. Dom goes up behind him and pulls his arms
behind his back, keeping him down.

Elena has a
knife. It has a black handle and a curved blade. It shines.

She brings it
to Marc's throat. Dom makes a sound.

She stills,
and looks at him. “Is there a problem, Dominic? Something you want
to say?”

Dom looks down
at his brother for a long time. Then he says,. “No, Boss.”

Elena smiles
and rests her hand on his shoulder. It's very warm.

“Good,” she
says, and they go back to work.

END

Michelle Ann King
writes SF, dark
fantasy and horror from her kitchen table in Essex, England. She
has worked as a mortgage underwriter, supermarket cashier, makeup
artist, tarot reader and insurance claims handler before having the
good fortune to be able to write full-time. She loves Las Vegas,
vampire films and good Scotch whisky. Find details of her stories
and books at
www.transientcactus.co.uk
and find her on twitter
@MichelleAnnKing
.

David
Annandale

Memory plays a
crucial role in many a horror narrative. In memory can lie, for
instance, the key to defeating the evil. “You will remember what
your father forgot” (King 422), Danny is told in Stephen King’s
The Shining
. And he does: in the nick of time he remembers
the boiler (which, untended, will explode) and thus deflects his
possessed father’s murderous rampage. Often, memory’s unlocking of
a mystery leads only to further danger (to Jessica Harper’s dismay,
as she discovers the witches’ secret lair in Dario Argento’s
Suspiria
), or the resolution arrives too late to do any good
(and so David Hemmings realizes who the murderer is in the split
second before she attacks him in Argento’s
Deep Red
). In
Session 9
, written by Steve Gevedon and Brad Anderson, and
directed by Anderson, memory is itself the horror, and so it is
repressed. The effects of that repression, however, are still more
horror. This is the despairing dynamic of the film: false dreams
are lethal, but to wake up from them is to confront a reality no
less destructive. The diagnosis, however, leaves the viewers with
the responsibility to defang that terrible reality.