Wilde Stories 2011 by Steve Berman

Author:Steve Berman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, gay, anthology, queer, paranormal, short stories, speculative fiction, science fiction, spec fic
Publisher: Lethe Press

13.

I put the pedal to the metal and Glenn made the calls as we hurtled down the logging road in the dark. The authorities were waiting at the campgrounds. Victor recovered from his stupor as they strapped him to a gurney. He cursed and snarled and thrashed until the paramedics tranquilized him. Dane, Glenn, and I were escorted to the local sheriff’s office and where the uniforms asked a lot of questions.

The smartest move would’ve been to fudge the details. That’s the movies, though. None of us were coherent enough to concoct a cover story to logically explain the hole in Victor’s leg, or the monster, or the bad acid trip phantasmagoria of the pool. We just spilled the tale, drew an X on a topographical map and invited the Sheriff and his boys to go see for themselves. It didn’t help our credibility that the cops found Victor’s weed stash and several hundred empty beer cans in the truck.

Ultimately, they let us walk. The fight at the tavern wasn’t mentioned, despite our mashed faces and missing teeth, which surprised the hell out of me. Victor’s wound was presumed an accident; the investigators decided he harpooned himself on a branch while we were drunkenly wandering the mountainside. Personally, I preferred that version as well—the reality was too frightening. Victor’s deranged state was obviously a hysterical reaction to the near-death incident. Our statements were taken and we were shown the door. Once the cops put two and two together that the four of us were queer, they couldn’t end the conversation fast enough. Someone would be in touch, thank you for your cooperation, etcetera, etcetera.

Dane went to stay with Victor at Harborview Hospital while Glenn and I returned home. Neither of us was in any shape to linger by Victor’s bedside. I’d tried to talk Dane into crashing at the house, to no avail—he hadn’t even acknowledged the offer. His face was blank and prematurely lined. I’d seen refugees from shelled villages wearing the exact same look. In his own way, he was as removed from reality as Victor.

Glenn fared a little better—he was a wreck too, but we had each other. I dreaded his reaction when the shock dissipated and the magnitude of the tragedy sank in. He’d lost one friend, possibly forever, and the jury was out on the other. God help me, a bit of my heart savored the notion I finally had him all to myself. Another, even more bitter and shriveled bit slightly gloated over the fact it was finally his turn to suffer. I’d done all the crying in our relationship.

Daulton meowed when we came in and turned on the lights and circled our ankles. The house, our comfy furniture and family pictures, all of it, seemed artificial, props from someone else’s life. I showered for the first time in several days, spent an hour with my forehead pressed against the stall tiles. I saw the wound in Victor’s leg, his mouth chanting soundlessly, saw the stars thicken into a stream that poured into that black hole.

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