A Mixed Bag of Blood

A Mixed Bag of Blood

David Bernstein

Sinister Grin Press

MMXVI

Austin, Texas

Sinister Grin Press

Austin, TX

www.sinistergrinpress.com

February 2016

“A Mixed Bag of Blood” © 2015 David Bernstein

This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

Cover Art by Jim Agpalza

Book Design by Frank Walls

Introduction

David Bernstein and I came into the publishing world around the same time. I had this angel-possession novel out and he had a zombie novel about to hit. He emailed me to introduce himself and we began a back and forth conversation online that has not stopped four years later. Not only have we become great friends, we’ve co-written a book together and have two sequels to write alongside Shane McKenzie and Adam Cesare. The funny thing is, when we wrote
Jackpot
back in 2012 (I believe that was the year), we had yet to meet face to face. That was finally rectified last summer in Virginia at Scares That Care 2. We shared a panel together, talked a lot about writing, and he (with his wonderful girlfriend, Sandy) joined Ron Malfi’s attempt at throwing together a little birthday get-together for yours truly.

Dave is a wonderful human being. I could spend countless pages of this introduction proving this. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk about what Dave does: He’s a writer. And a very talented one. I realized this when I read
Amongst the Dead,
and he continues to prove this fact over and over with each book he writes.

He’s written quite a few in a short amount of time. People like to comment on how many I’ve managed to crank out, but I can’t keep up with Dave. Honestly, I don’t even try to. I’d go insane.

The crazy thing about Dave’s writing, and the output he manages to produce, is he writes all his first drafts longhand. For those of you who don’t quite grasp what I’m saying, he does it the way our writing ancestors did it: A pen, paper, and his imagination.

And what an imagination he has.

Each book is completely different than the other. Nothing is repetitive. Written with such a unique style and undeniable skill that it can’t be imitated. Dave’s words are his own and nobody can take them, or rival them.

From crazed cops and their psychopathic families, to haunted briefcases that may or may not award you your heart’s desires, to a vengeful shit-demon, to an elderly lady in a gruesome battle with a spouse-abusing neighbor. Nothing, or
no on
e, is safe in Dave’s worlds.

I like that.

Dave writes without a safety net, the way—
I believe
—good horror fiction
should
be written. Where’s the fun in reading a book you know from the first moment you meet the character that they’re going to be alive when the book is over? To me, all sense of adventure has been robbed. There’s no guarantee in Dave’s stories that anybody will live, one of many aspects that makes his writing so intense. Although he can’t promise the reader these people we’ll be rooting for will survive, we can still rest assured in the love he has for them.

As I’ve already indicated, Dave goes from one side of the spectrum to the other with each story. In this collection, you’ll find a vast array of what I’m talking about. The title,
A Mixed Bag of Blood,
is more than appropriate for what you’re about to read. Each story gives you a peek at just what my good friend is capable of, the kinds of worlds he can create, and the lack of security for the characters involved.

Just remember, he does all of this longhand!

There’s a little bit of something for any kind of reader in this mixed bag.

Me? I devoured it all.

And I can’t wait for another mixed bag, so I can have seconds.

--Kristopher Rufty

January, 2016

The Trojan Plushy

The courtroom was silent, the air thick with anticipation, as the foreman stood. The elderly man looked at the judge who was peering over his spectacles awaiting a verdict. All eyes of the room rested on the foreman. He cleared his throat, breaking the room’s silence like a sad drum roll before a dangerous act.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty.” Brad Raling closed his eyes, putting his head to the table. He heard none of the reactions from his side or the defendant’s. He’d gone to another place, a place only he could reach, deep in his mind. He felt his attorney pat his arm, bringing him back to reality. Brad shrugged the man off. “Leave me be,” he grumbled.

Brad thought he had the man who murdered his family. The police arrested him; all the evidence pointing a guilty finger at the man, but an unthinkable act swooped in and ruined it all. A fucking recall. The damn breathalyzer—a new model, recalled due to failed meter readings. The man who killed his wife and daughter--Brad’s reasons for living, was free.

Brad lay in bed for the next few weeks, drinking, throwing up and then drinking some more. He had vacation time and cashed it all in. With the bereavement leave, he totaled a little over a month of time off from his job.

People came to his house, dropped off food, cards, and gave their apologies. He hated looking at them, their sorry faces. What did they care, they simply got to return to their wonderful lives, grateful they weren’t him.

One visitor, his neighbor Marcy Conrad, proved different. The woman hardly left her house. She was a hermit, a recluse. The neighborhood kids thought her to be a witch. She wasn’t a witch, but she certainly knew one.

“Oh, Miss Conrad,” Brad said startled, as he opened the door to retrieve the morning paper.

“Morning, Bradley,” she said, her voice scratchy as if damaged from years of smoking. “I baked you a pie, apple.” She held out a plastic bag, revealing yellow-stained teeth as she smiled.

“Thank you,” Brad said, accepting the gift. His mouth began watering as the sweet aroma of baked apples and cinnamon entered his nostrils. The pie smelled delicious, but there was no way in hell he’d eat anything from that woman.

“Good day,” she said before turning around and walking away.

Brad had always thought the woman strange, but at least she had a caring heart.

Inside, Brad went over to the trash-can, opened the lid and was about to toss the bag with the pie into it, when he noticed a card inside the bag. He removed the card, placing the pie on the counter. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he read the card.

Neighbor,

I can only imagine how you’re feeling. Your sweet, sweet, tender daughter and loving wife were savagely mauled by a monster. There are more paths to finding justice and avenging the dead than the means of which our flawed legal system allows. I know how you’re feeling. You want justice! Vengeance! I know of someone who might be able to help you. Go to 105 Cremlock Wood Lane and ask for the righteousness you and your dead loved ones deserve.

The old bat was crazy; a smirk breeching his face as he tossed the letter into the trash along with the pie. Grabbing a bottle of gin, he meandered over to the couch and flicked on the television. He began gulping the liquor until he nearly choked at the image he saw--Martin Biggs, the man who slaughtered his family. He turned the volume up. Each word the man spoke sent shivers of ice down Brad’s spine.

Martin was smiling, happy. He had his arms wrapped around his wife’s and daughter’s shoulders as they stood proudly at his sides. He spoke about the legal system and its just ways.

“I’m indeed sorry for Mr. Raling’s loss, but my family and I just want to move on. We’re looking forward to our lives returning to normal. Thank you.” He took no questions, turning away from the cameras, got his family into a car and drove off.

Brad’s fists were clenched, his right hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck. His face had become a deep shade of burgundy, saliva dripping from his mouth, like that of a wild, mongrel dog. He stood; the image of a content Martin Biggs—family man, the person responsible for his family’s demise, branded into his mind forever. Brad reached back, muscles tensed, and threw the gin bottle across the room. The glass shattered as it collided with the wall, knocking a picture of his family to the floor.

He walked over to the picture--the glass in the frame cracked--stepping on fragments of broken gin bottle, unaware and feeling no pain. Picking up the picture, he stared at it, tears welling in his eyes. He brought a finger to his daughter’s face, caressing it, then his wife’s. “I shall avenge you both,” he whispered. He walked to his bedroom, hugging the picture to his chest, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind.

Two days later, Brad found himself knocking at the door of 105 Cremlock Wood Lane.

* * *

Martin left his office shortly after six p.m., coming down from the high-rise on 23
^rd
Street and 5
^th
Avenue. His week had been filled with catch-up work, his own court case having taken up much of his valuable time.

It was his daughter’s birthday and he hadn’t personally gotten her a thing. His secretary purchased the card, his wife bought the bicycle, but he felt he needed to get her something, something from him to her.

As he turned left to walk up the sidewalk, he saw an elderly woman standing behind a small cart filled with plush animals. He’d never seen her or her cart before and thought himself in luck--his daughter, like all children, loved stuffed animals.

As he approached the cart, the old woman’s features presented themselves with clarity. Her skin was weathered like rough leather, and she had large sunken bags under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept soundly in months, but it was the grotesquely hairy mole on the end of her nose that attracted the most attention. If Martin didn’t know better, he’d thought she was a witch. Shaking the crude thought from his mind, he stopped within a foot of the cart.

“Hello,” the old woman said.

“Hi,” Martin replied quickly, his eyes on the merchandise.

“Shopping for your daughter?”

Martin paused, looking at the old woman. “Yes, how’d you know?”

The woman cackled. “Why else would a handsome young man such as yourself be looking at stuffed animals?”

Martin smiled. “Got me there.” He saw tigers, dogs, cats, bears, zebras, lions, turtles, rabbits, and dolphins. “Quite an assortment you have here.” The old woman grinned.

As Martin continued to search, his face scrunched in indecision, the old woman spoke.

“Here,” she said, holding out what appeared to be a cute little dog. “Girls love stuffed animals, they should all have one.”

Martin hadn’t a clue as to what kinds of stuffed animals his daughter liked or had, but a doggy seemed like a safe bet--and essential to a young girl’s collection. “I’ll take it,” he told the woman, reaching into his pocket and handing her a ten dollar bill, as the sign indicated the price.

Later that night, Martin and his wife presented their daughter Mindy, with her gifts--the card, the bike, and the plush doggy. The young girl was excited, jumping up and down and telling her parents how much she loved them.

“So you like the doggy?” Martin asked.

“It’s not a doggy, Daddy. It’s a wolf.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly having had no idea what type of animal he’d purchased. “Well, do you like your wolf?”

She smiled up at him, her face bright with joy. “Yes, I love him very much.”

* * *

Brad sat on his sofa; his .45 resting next to him. He flipped through the channels looking for, and not finding, a certain news story. It had been two weeks since he’d paid--dearly--for the witch’s services. He wanted results. Angered and half in the bag, he dialed the old hag’s phone number.