The Endlands (vol 1) Read online

  THE ENDLANDS

  VINCENT HOBBES

  Presents

  THE ENDLANDS

  Includes Stories by

  Jordan Benoit - Jennifer Chapman - Christina Estabrook - Janelle Garcia

  Patrick Greene - Cristin Martin - Nathan Palmer - Jairus Reddy

  David Stubblefield - Craig Wessel - Tamara Wilhite

  Copyright 2010 Hobbes End Entertainment, LLC

  Published by Hobbes End Publishing, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Introduction Nathan Palmer

  1 Room 422 Patrick Greene

  2 A Night in Polidoria Cristin Martin

  3 Flying Fish David Stubblefield

  4 Limbo, Population 458 Vincent Hobbes

  5 Finders Keepers Janelle Garcia

  6 Loose Ends Craig Wessel

  7 To Read or Not to Read Vincent Hobbes

  8 Phases of Normal Tamara Wilhite

  9 Propaganda Nathan Palmer

  10 King of the Jungle Jordan Benoit

  11 The Hour of the Time Vincent Hobbes

  12 Thanksgiving Jairus Reddy

  13 Into the Small Hours Patrick Greene

  14 The Dragon of Delinar Vincent Hobbes

  15 The Best BBQ on the Interstate Jennifer Chapman

  16 Glass Prison Christina Estabrook

  17 THEY Vincent Hobbes

  I would like to thank the following:

  My family and friends for their continued support--especially my Mother, who always encouraged me to be creative.

  Jordan Benoit for his wonderful design work and late night editorial madness.

  My publisher, Jairus Reddy. Without him, my work would remain unpublished. I am eternally grateful.

  Nathan Palmer, for sticking by my side, and for making my writing better.

  I'd also like to thank my best friend, Chad--because being friends with him is always an adventure.

  I would especially like to thank the writers who made this project possible. I am honored to be published alongside them.

  And finally, to my beautiful wife, for so delicately handling my insanity. Thank you for everything.

  - Vincent

  This book is dedicated to Rod Serling

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  Over the course of human history, short stories have always been told. Even cave drawings of our earliest ancestors show signs of ancient tales. The Vikings told sagas, speaking of mythical creatures that lurk in the unknown. Ancient mythology gave us stories of heroes and villains, and great tragedies. Over time, as human imagination progressed, tales and fables, myths and legends became more common, and were recorded, recounted over generations. Every culture has its own version of a story, and anything that can breed imagination is susceptible to becoming one. And that tale must be told.

  The unknown pulls at our innermost thoughts and feelings. Without the unknown, these tales, these sagas, would never have come to light. People fear the unknown, and yet it is a place of endless possibilities. It is a place deep within us all; it speaks to us at night, and although you may not be able to hear the words, it is always there--creeping, crawling, slithering. The unknown lets us know just how small we are, and we remain far from the shadows because of it. It causes us to fear what could be around the corner, or down in the basement. Without these feelings, we would be void of emotion, because fear is learned, and if we had never heard stories that scared us, we wouldn't know what fear is.

  Once upon a time long since forgotten, the world knew true fear. It was a genre known as horror, and for a long time it captivated us. Great literary works came from this genre. Yet, as time went on, and as society changed, the human mind became numb to the shriek in the night--the classic short story.

  We crave more. We yearn for the most shocking things we can find. The more bodies, the better. The more blood, the better. Sadly, this is where we've arrived.

  In this project, the short story reigns. There is no map, there is no way out. The Endlands is not just a book, but also a place within us all. A place that brings us back to our childhood fears. It's the clicking in the night and the scratching at your door. It's the unknown, and although we think we know it all as we grow older, truth is, we know nothing. We still try to ignore those sounds we cannot explain. We still tuck our heads under the sheets for safety. We're trapped here, lost in another dimension. So embrace your fear, and hope you will be allowed to return.

  I know for a fact, that Mr. Hobbes' greatest influence for this project is the late Rod Serling. He's told me many times he hopes to pay homage to one of the greatest creative minds of modern fiction. The imagination of Mr. Serling, and the creativity of The Twilight Zone, should be an inspiration to us all. Mr. Serling could have gone a different way, but didn't. He didn't count on gore or high body counts. He realized that is not true horror. Not true fear. Not reality.

  This book reminds me of The Twilight Zone, and it has been a great honor working alongside Mr. Hobbes for this project. Personally, I see the same qualities in Vincent as Rod Serling possessed. He is dedicated to the 'strange tale', and he has an odd humor about him that I enjoy. I have had the honor of reading other works of his, some which perhaps will never see the light of day. That said, I can say without a doubt, Mr. Hobbes has a love for storytelling--a love for fear--and he has turned it into something to which we can all relate, and embrace.

  I am beyond happy to be part of this project, and I'm proud of all the authors included. Each story has its own twist and turn, all weird and kooky in their own right.

  Dear reader, embrace these short stories, because each is a piece of that author's imagination--a piece of the fear they have each embraced--all with their own place in The Endlands.

  - Nathan Palmer

  Do you believe

  in the

  unbelievable?

  Are you ready to

  face the darkest

  Corners or your

  imagination?

  Then turn on a light,

  Just enough to see.

  And . . .

  Welcome to

  THE ENDLANDS

  Room 422

  by Patrick Greene

  National Finance, the magazine Phillip Troyer held, might as well have been written in Ancient Hebrew.

  Upon learning of his wife's pregnancy, Phillip had made a resolution to become more financially savvy. Sitting in the hospital waiting room, alone but for his regrets and ponderings, Phillip reached the conclusion that he had neither the patience nor intelligence to venture into that mundane territory. He dropped the magazine on the table beside him and perused the other choices. Sports Illustrated, U.S. News & World Report, Reader's Digest, Craft Showcase. S.I. featured pitifully little coverage of boxing these days, and the others promised only boredom.

  Four nurses wearing expressions of the same incapacitating boredom joked among themselves in the nurse's station nearby.

  He checked his watch: 2:14 A.M. The impetus to pay an obligatory visit to Charlotte in the delivery room weighed upon him, but the presence of his mother-in-law, Regina, surely listing his shortcomings even at this moment, gave him a reason to put it off a while longer.

  On the muted television that hung from the wall nearby, a news network continued its unending broadcast vigil. The prim and pretty Asian reporter recited a story about a series of high school murders in Virginia.

  An odd rhythm, like someone walking in fishing waders, caught his at
tention. It belonged to a well-dressed, balding man, forty or so, who approached the waiting area at a brisk pace. The man walked with an awkward gait, allowing his smooth-soled shoes to drag on the carpet. He wore a distant, blissful expression, which Phillip suddenly felt obliged to wear as well. The man turned into the waiting area and deposited himself across from Phillip, but quickly rose again, extending his hand.

  "Name's Conagher."

  Though Conagher was a little too close to his personal space, Phillip shook the man's hand and returned the greeting.

  "You gonna be a daddy?" Conagher asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Same here! Congratulations!"

  This apparently called for another lively handshake. Phillip's hand, still sore from working the heavy bag earlier, felt small within the folds of Conagher's long-fingered, spidery grasp.

  "Thanks, same to you."

  Conagher rocked back on his heels comically. "Yep. Just waiting on Doctor Borland. Who's your doc, Phillip?"

  "Pope. Doctor Pope."

  "Good man, I hear." Conagher plopped into the chair once more. "You look nervous if you don't mind me saying so."

  "Yeah, a little. This was kind of a surprise. We . . . thought we were, you know, covered."

  Conagher waved a dismissive hand. "You'll love it. Got another one at home." Conagher could have been talking about a jet ski or foosball table.

  "Sure. It's just . . ." Phillip laughed uncomfortably before finishing, ". . . money's a little tight."

  "Oh? What do you do?"

  Phillip always hated that simple question. "I'm a boxer. But I work part-time in a print shop."

  "Boxer, huh? Like a fighter? You good?"

  "I do all right." Phillip hoped he had ridden the wispy line between modest and confident. But there was none of the expected judgment in Conagher's eyes.

  "Hm. I'm in accounting. Do pretty good, if I say so myself. You go to church, Phillip?"

  "No. Not in years."

  "The wife and I, we coach young couples in our church. Maybe you can come out sometime."

  Phillip offered no response, though he was sure that Conagher would not allow any awkward silence in the conversation. The loud man was indeed about to speak again, when Doctor Pope appeared, regarding Phillip with earnest, alert eyes set within youthful features. Phillip rose to shake hands.

  "Phillip," Doctor Pope nodded to Conagher but deftly returned his attention to Phillip before Conagher could initiate a conversation. "I'm on my way in. You joining us?"

  "No, I don't think so," Phillip responded, a bit miffed that Pope had brought it up. He had made his feelings clear repeatedly.

  Conagher interjected. "Not gonna watch? Why not?"

  "I just don't think I could handle seeing Charlotte go through that."

  Conagher found this eminently amusing. "Squeamish, huh? I was like that the first time. Everything will be fine. I was hearing on the news the other day that the percentage of pregnancies successfully reaching full term has come way up in the last few months. The baby will be just fine."

  Doctor Pope turned to Phillip with trademark earnestness. "Your friend is right. You sure you don't want to be there? It's quite a moment."

  Phillip wasn't sure he was comfortable having Conagher referred to as his friend.

  "I'm just not good with blood and stuff."

  Conagher could not resist an observation: "Hey, that's something. A boxer who's squeamish."

  Pope nodded. "Tell the nurse if you change your mind."

  "I will."

  Doctor Pope's pretty nurse, known to Phillip only as Jeanette, turned the corner and offered a polite smile. A pang of guilt surfaced, as Phillip remembered the intense sexual attraction he had felt toward her when they first met at Doctor Pope's office. Jeanette touched Doctor Pope's arm in a way that made Phillip feel a bit jealous, or at least envious.

  Turning to Phillip, she said, "Mister Troyer, I thought I'd let you know, your wife has decided to go with an epidural."

  "Oh . . . I thought she wanted to go natural."

  "She's changed her mind."

  Phillip was not surprised to see Conagher staring directly at Jeanette's ass with no attempt at discretion whatsoever.

  "Well, alright. Thanks."

  Doctor Pope said goodbye and walked away with Jeanette, leaving Phillip uncomfortable in the presence of Conagher.

  "You look worried," Conagher offered.

  Phillip rubbed his stubbly chin, deciding whether to share any more of his personal life. "The expenses just keep adding up."

  "Better get used to it. Doesn't get any cheaper, buddy."

  For the next few minutes, Phillip listened intermittently as Conagher discoursed about tax deductions, annuities, savings bonds and the like, all of which sounded something like static to Phillip. Catching Conagher between breaths, Phillip excused himself to check on Charlotte.

  The hallway was a never ending circle. Each door varied from the others only by its decorations; a variety of balloons and cards taped around the entrance. Phillip walked through the open door to Room 422.

  Charlotte breathed deeply, wearing a determined expression. Charlotte's mother, Regina, held her left hand. Charlotte offered Phillip an optimistic smile in sharp contrast to Regina's judgmental and disappointed glower. Charlotte was also attended by the fine Nurse Jeanette and another, neither of which appeared to have been converted to anti-Phillipism by Regina.

  "Hi Cutie," Phillip said, avoiding eye contact with the elder woman.

  "Hey Baby."

  "How ya feeling?"

  "Ready to have a baby. Contractions are coming every two minutes now. You?"

  "Guess I'm nervous . . . So you decided to take the drug?" he ventured.

  Not surprisingly, it was Regina who answered. "I felt it was for the best. Surely you don't want her to suffer needlessly."

  Phillip studied her. Every bit of the accusation and contempt he heard in her voice was evident in her face. "Sure, that's good, yeah." Turning back to Charlotte: "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

  Charlotte smiled again. "You're sweet, as always." Phillip knew that this statement was primarily aimed at her mother, and that was just fine. Regina wasn't going to become president of his fan club any time soon, but his stock would surely rise, once she saw what a good father and husband he became. And while he told himself he held little regard for how Regina felt about him, it would be nice to have her let up just a little.

  "Not to be rude, Phillip dear. If you're not going to stay for the birth, perhaps you should leave now." Regina sang politely, letting her intended condescension show in her expression.

  Charlotte turned to her, face flushed with embarrassment.

  "Mother!"

  "It's disruptive. You need . . . stability now."

  Phillip felt tense. "She's probably right, Charlotte. I'll check back in a while."

  "Okay. Love you."

  "Love you back."

  In the hall, Phillip slowed to listen a moment, wondering if they would talk about him. Regina did not disappoint. "Have you spoken to him about getting a better job?" She asked, to which Charlotte replied, "We'll be fine, Mom. Please don't do this right now."

  Regina pressed on. "This prize fighting thing is fine for twenty year-olds. He's thirty-three. It's time to move on."

  "No more Mother, please. This is what's disruptive."

  "I'm sorry. You'd like it better if I didn't care, I suppose."

  Phillip didn't stay to hear more.

  The package of crackers created a thunderous echo as it fell to the vending machine's paid zone. Phillip removed it and strained against the plastic. It was not giving up its protective duties easily, but Phillip would not use his teeth to rip the package. For him, this was a point of pride. He would grapple with the packaging and beat it cleanly.

  The wrapper held firm. Phillip searched it for a weak spot, a place where his fingers could penetrate. No, he would not use his teeth. He would succeed the hard way. He
had once hoped this philosophy would bring him the World's Cruiserweight Championship, but that aspiration was becoming vaguer by the day, and the tiny package represented a vestige of that dream.

  Absently continuing his steady assault on the plastic, he turned his attention to the emergency room next to the vending area. There, sat several small pockets of misery. Bleeding, bandaged, or suffering in some way not visible to Phillip, they all shared a certain resignation, disturbing in its uniformity.

  The sound of a diesel engine and a steady beeping caught Phillip's notice. He looked out the window to see an ambulance backing toward the ER's receiving area. The rubbernecker in him demanded an investigation, so he found himself walking outside to see just what would emerge.

  Phillip fiddled overtly with the package, painting himself as just a guy taking a snack break in the fresh air that was, in fact, not so fresh, thanks to the heavy diesel fumes. The back doors swung open, and several EMTs and a policeman gathered around, as the gurney wheels dropped. Its passenger was a young woman, around twenty though it was difficult to tell, what with all the heavy bruises and contusions. Her right eye was swollen nearly shut; a tennis ball-sized knot had grown all around it. Her lips were similarly bloated, with a fresh black scab caked around a split near the center of her upper lip.

  As her good eye found Phillip's gaze, a tear streamed down the side of her face, disappearing into her black hair. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Phillip turned away and took a seat at the scarred bench against the wall. The gurney and its entourage disappeared into the swinging doors, and Phillip regarded the cracker package for a while, absolved for the moment, of his hunger.