Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant (17 page)

Francis knew he was going to die. He tried getting up, throwing his fist into the thing that was Vermis, aiming for the face. It felt like he hit solid metal, his fingers cracking and locking.

Smiling, Vermis sent an iron fist into Francis’ stomach with the same force as a hammer. Then, without giving him a chance, Vermis picked him up and threw him at the door. Through the door. It shattered and he skidded across the foyer floor.

Survival instincts kicking in, Francis scrambled up the main stairs, ignoring the pain raging through him. Upon reaching the landing, he was forced to stop, not knowing where to go.

He heard another roar, even more monstrous. Turning around, he saw a laughing Vermis stride into the foyer. Vermis held out his arms and blew out a deep breath. Strangely, as he did this, his body seemed to inflate and expand … then the scientist in Francis understood. The expelling of heavier oxygen and carbon dioxide allowed the natural internal methane and hydrogen to …

A push of his feet sent Vermis shooting straight up the stairs as if flying. He landed in front of Francis, still laughing, only to seize him and throw him into the wall.

Francis hit with so much force that his entire spine shattered. He barely felt it when Vermis picked him up again.

“What are you?” he wanted to ask, even if it had been in only a whimper, even if he didn’t already know.

His benefactor answered him anyway. “We are the past, and we are the future.”

As Vermis inhaled again, the sides of his throat swelled. His mouth opened wide. In his dripping saliva, Francis thought he glimpsed the faint sheen of metal. Fumes of hydrogen, oxygen, methane and platinum washed over him.

In his last second of life, Francis found it ironic that his death would come in the same way as his greatest find.

Then the raging fire rushed out, engulfing him.

*     *     *

George Vermis returned to his office, licking his lips and fingers, leaving only bones and scorched bloodstains upstairs. As he went, he reached up to his face and peeled off the faux eyebrows held on by a sticky side. Next he tugged off the wig, revealing a flawless head of smooth, hairless skin, and the very apparent conelike shape of his skull.

Throwing away the props, he went to his phone and dialled a number. It only took a moment for the call to be picked up, but it was Vermis who started speaking.

“Master, it was as you feared,” he said. “The site in Italy was one of our ancestors’ lairs, where they worked in creating the new generations ... Yes, Master, I have dealt with him and destroyed his evidence. Just before he arrived, I informed my hunters and sent them to keep an eye on the rest of the team. I shall now contact them with the order to kill ... Yes, Master, thank you … No sir, they didn’t find the second cave and the evidence that we evolved first.”

He hung up the phone, then grasped his lips and pulled. His skin wrenched from him, pulling and stretching. Not one rip appeared; the skin was unbreakable after years of improvement. However, they still were not able to have a kill and feast without needing to shed it afterwards. Although strong, it started to sag and detach.

Widening the gap that had once been his mouth, he worked his face and head through. The new skin beneath was covered in a slick, viscous, almost amniotic, fluid. Next came his shoulders, then his arms, one at a time. His torso and hips followed, then his legs. Finally, he was able to step outside his old skin.

It was already drying out and turning to ash. Vermis kicked it away and went to his desk. He was wiping away his wet birthing fluid with tissues when he became aware of the butler standing in the shattered doorway.

“I shall inform the builders and cleaners tomorrow morning, sir,” said the butler, in a droll voice. “I assume you will not be needing supper tonight, after all?”

“No, thank you, Manfred.”

“Shall I return it to the pantry?”

“Take her to the guest bedroom,” Vermis said. “Let her be treated like a princess for the night. Then, when I wake up in the morning, I will have a nice dose of breakfast in bed.”

“Very good, sir.”

As the butler departed, Vermis began readying himself to play the part of the prince … before ending the fairy tale, and dealing with the princess, as he saw fit.

NAT POOPCONE VS. THE BEAST OF FOSSIL LAKE

Jerrod Balzer

It was another busy Friday night at the Romeo Diner. Carry was finishing her fried mushrooms and diet soda at the counter when a short, greasy man with long hair and a goatee approached her.

“Hi, I’m Nat Poopcone,” he said. “Can we date?”

She stifled a laugh, then nearly vomited when his stench reached her nose.
What is that? Broccoli?

“I’m serious!” His spittle struck the exposed skin around her skimpy, black outfit, which caused her to flinch and inch her food farther away from him, but he continued to talk. “I’m a publisher looking for models. You might be perfect for my next issue of
Ethel’s Real Gazette
.”

This caught her interest.
That explains it,
she thought.
He’s the eccentric, creative type!

“Well, you know,” she said, and offered her usual lie: “I happen to be a very popular model, but I do have some free time coming up. What qualifications do you require?”

The little man looked up at her with bright eyes as a grin crept across his face. “Only two things. First, I need enough money to buy a beer.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Now!”

“Oh!” Carry fished in her purse and handed him a five dollar bill.

He accepted it, ordered his beverage, and then took a few swigs before continuing. “Okay, next I only need to know your age.”

“That’s easy! I’m eighteen.”

Nat spit a cloud of beer at her. “Fuck off, then, cunt! You’re too old.”

Astounded, she reacted with what would have normally been a kick to the groin, but it struck his chest thanks to his abnormal height. There was no problem punching him in the nose, however, and he was quite the bleeder.

He pinched his nostrils closed and yelled as he ran out the door, “You’re a horror target now, bitch! I’m hardcore!”

*     *     *

Nat scurried next door, past a long line of fans waiting for The Brass Hole to open for that night’s live heavy metal show. He walked straight to the front and began to explain who he was, but, being downwind, the bouncers already knew and let him inside.

They often agreed to allow him to set up a book signing table during shows. It served two purposes: it made him feel important, imagining all the people outside were waiting to see him rather than the band, My Dying Fart; and it offered everyone else some comedy relief. The gothic club down the street had a guy who practiced humiliation with his wife by showing up each night in teddy lingerie and standing near the dance floor with a big smile. The regulars looked forward to him as a humorous addition to the scene. The same went for Nat. Though no one ever said it to his face, Nat was the infamous “Brass Hole Asshole.”

Nat rushed to his foldout table and began going through his trade paperbacks.

Someone noticed the coagulating mess covering his hands and face. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “I can’t waste this blood.” He proceeded to stick his finger up his nose like a quill to an ink well and smeared his name on the first page of the books. As he began to run dry, he pressed his entire face into books.

Curious, the guitarist of My Dying Fart picked up a copy of
Tabloid Porpoises IV.
He opened it, then flinched. “Dude, there are boogers in this!”

Nat grinned. “Nah, that’s my pulp! I should probably charge extra, huh? Well, it’s mostly my blood, but other fluids might make it on the page, especially when I’m signing at home. It’s all part of what makes me so hardcore. Other people are afraid of me because I’m too dark. I’m surprised you can even see me right now because I’m so dark
and
hardcore like Lovecraft, Poe, Matheson, Berenstain, and
The Twilight Zone
. I’m also dark… and hardcore. That’s my blood.”

The guitarist’s eyes began to cross, but then he caught sight of something shining under Nat’s black ball cap. “Is that… aluminum foil under your hat?”

Nat nodded. “I have to wear it at signings so I won’t shit my pants. Damn faggots think they’ll ruin my career with brown rays but I’m always one step ahead. And, hey, speaking of careers, I can help yours! I’ll mention your band in my next story so everyone will know how cool I – er, you are. You’d be in great company because I’ve done the same for Metallica, Obituary, Cannibal Corpse, Entombed, Nelson, Grave, Cradle of Filth, Wilson Phillips, Ozzy Osbourne, Rammstein, Hanson, Corrosion of Conformity, and Megadeth. I cuss a lot, too. Check this out: fuuuck. I bet you don’t hear that from many Christians, which I am. I also drink beer on YouTube. I’m hardcore. That’s my blood.”

The guitarist needed some hard liquor to wash this all away before the show started. “Cool, whatever. I–”

“I’ll remember you said that!” Nat blurted. “I’ll tell everyone how much you love my work. Thank you for your support. All the faggots will be so jealous now! I’ll tell those cunts, and you’ll be right up there with Trivium, Opeth, Napalm Death, Bee Gees, and Bathory.”

“Yeah, um…” The guitarist opened the book in his hand and turned around so that his rear end was against it. “Here, this is my way of offering good luck.” He passed wind on the pages before replacing it on the table and leaving.

It ended up being a busy night for Nat. Despite the laughs and finger pointing, he sold several books. No one had the heart to tell him this was because the club had a strict rule on no re-entry and the bathrooms were out of both toilet paper and paper towels. If someone was to leave to clean up and come back, they would have to pay another twenty dollars, or they could pay ten dollars for one of his books and share it with their friends – all but the first few pages.

As he left the club at closing time, he counted his money. He’d made enough for the bus trip home and another special one that he had been planning for a while now. This weekend, he finally had the funds for both the trip and a six-pack of beer, so he had to strike while the time was right. He would leave first thing in the morning.

His destination was the dreaded Fossil Lake, a place that carried the same name as his company, Fossil Lake Press. Even though the lake had been around for centuries, it just wasn’t right for that fucker to have the same name. He hadn’t known of it when he created his company, but when it showed up on a Google search, and above his own website to boot… well, that lake was clearly trying to ruin his career. It was time to confront it once and for all.

By the time he stepped off the bus just before noon, he had finished off the six-pack and filled two cans with urine, which had spilled under the seats. So, thanks to being dropped off a tad early, he had to walk a few miles to reach the lake. By then, he had been rushed to the hospital three times for exhaustion and dumped back on the side of the road. The third time took longer because the EMTs had accidentally picked up a dead opossum, instead.

So he reached Fossil Lake the following day.

It was a gorgeous site. The clean, blue water sparkled and, if one was patient enough, a unicorn could be spotted emerging from the lush woods surrounding it for a drink.
Funny,
Nat thought,
there don’t seem to be any dark, indescribable secrets here. What’s so scary about it?

As he walked closer, he saw something that made his blood boil. “I should have known you assholes would have some part in this!”

In front of him was what appeared to be a makeshift lemonade stand, but the board nailed above read “Skullvines Bate ‘n’ Tackle.” Behind it stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a dark beard, and next to him was a John Lennon clone with tinted glasses and a mischievous smile.

Nat barked at them. “Jerrod Balzer and S.D. Hintz … You faggots call yourselves editors and you can’t even spell your sign right.”

“Hey, Nat!” Jerrod said. “What brings you here? Could we interest you in a unicorn ride?”

“Yeah!” S.D. said. “You’d look totally goth.”

“Fuck you! I just want to know what’s so mysterious about this lake so I can deal with it. Why is it called ‘Fossil Lake’ like my press?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Jerrod said. “It’s because of the big bone.”

“Where?”

S.D. pinched one of his own nipples while Nat stared. “You have to row a boat to the center if you want to see it. Give us ten dollars.”

Fortunately, Nat had the money. He took out his wallet and began digging through the lint.

“And,” Jerrod said, “if you want the added Bate ‘n’ Tackle, it’s an extra five dollars.”

Nat wrinkled his nose and mumbled, “Yeah, whatever.” He paid them and suddenly S.D. disappeared.

“Hey! Look up here!” Hintz was sitting on top of the stand with his pants dangling around his ankles while he masturbated furiously. Nat couldn’t help but gaze, so he was caught unaware when Jerrod tackled him to the ground and gave him a wet smooch on the cheek.

Nat squealed like a pig until Jerrod let him stand up. Then he screamed at them, “What the fuck? How does that help me find the bone in Fossil Lake?”

S.D. was dressed again and back behind the stand. “I don’t know, but it was awesome!”

“Aargh! Where’s the fucking boat?”

Jerrod pointed toward the nearest edge of the lake. “It’s right there, but grab it while the old man who owns it is still asleep or he’ll be pissed.”

“What did I give you ten dollars for?”

“I don’t know, but I sure as shit hope it wasn’t for a blowjob.”

Nat stormed away and hurried to the boat, where he got in and rowed to the middle of the lake, then collapsed from exhaustion for four hours. After he was roused by bird droppings, he found an old cupcake under one of the seats and was energized soon enough.

He looked around but saw nothing.

“Hey!” he called. “Wherever you are, I’m here to tell you that the name ‘Fossil Lake’ belongs to me and my press! Stay away from it or I’ll make you a horror target!”

Large bubbles rose to the lake’s surface directly in front of him, which he took as a response.

“That’s right. I’m hardcore like Lovecraft, Poe, Matheson,
Twilight Zone
, and
Blue’s Clues
. If you want to fuck with me, you’ll need to take it to YouTube and show me what you’ve got. I’ll always beat you, though, because I drink beer when I record and sometimes I use sound. Just fucking remember that!”

More bubbles rose, enough to push the boat back.

Nat steadied himself and continued. “That’s right, bitch! It’s on now, huh? This is for pink slips! Get up here so we can talk face-to-face!”

With a low rumble, the water foamed and churned until the massive beast of the lake rose high above him. He looked up in awe at first, and then his face turned beet red. His teeth gnashed and his eyes bulged.

The creature consisted mostly of a long, thick neck with pulsing veins running throughout, and its mushroom-shaped head lacked eyes or a nose, but had a large mouth on the top.

“No!
No!
” Nat shouted. “This is
my
story! I will
not
have giant cocks in my story or anywhere
near
something called Fossil Lake!”

In response, the monster spit something gooey in his face.

Nat cried. This was all too much for him. But then he remembered all the happy faces at the recent book signing. He had to keep going for his fans. They needed him to keep writing and being hardcore. He had to do it for Lovecraft, for Poe, for Metallica, for
The
Twilight Zone
, for
Kissyfur
, and especially for My Dying Fart.

He picked up an oar and smacked the monster with it. It flinched and moaned, so he hit it again and again. He could hear Jerrod and S.D. cheering from the banks, “That’s it, Poopcone, beat it harder!
Harder!
”

Ignoring them, Nat continued his assault until his arms could hold the oar no longer. “All right,” he said between gasps. “Give me your best shot.”

The monster shifted to one side and a giant scrotum emerged from the depths. A testicle reared up and knocked him to the other side of the boat. During the fall, Nat’s pants dropped to his knees, making it all the more difficult to stand back up.

At the sight of his nudity, the monster suddenly shuddered and went limp.

Well, shit,
Nat thought,
whatever works!

He left his pants down and took a few more swings at the weakened creature with his oar. All was almost lost but it still had a lot of spunk left. It spun around to build momentum and smacked Nat hard, slamming him to the bottom of the boat and nearly capsizing it. However, something else happened – something unexpected. The force of the blow caused an object to be pushed from Nat’s anus, an old toy that had been stored there for years. The original 80s Tranny-former toy oozed at first, then shot out as the pressure was released with geyser force. Pent-up gas and feces from his high school years were finally seeing the light of day in what could only be described as a shitty ghost tornado.