Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 26 | March 2024: Dark Horses Magazine, #26

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

BAD DAY AT SORALLIO 6 CANTEEN
Gavin Turner

DEAD THINGS
Vincent Endwell

DEAD MAN'S HAND
Dale T. Phillips

FALLING SUNWARD
Mikel J. Wisler

A REIGN OF THUNDER (PART TWO)
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

I AM NOT BERTHA
Seán McNicholl

TRINKETS
Freddie Kölsch

MY MOON, OH MY MOON
Angus Stewart

SAY HELLO TO ALPHA CENTAURI
Scott Coon

THE INSIDE OUT MAN
Lamont A. Turner

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224821433

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CONTENTS

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BAD DAY AT SORALLIO 6 CANTEEN

Gavin Turner

DEAD THINGS

Vincent Endwell

DEAD MAN’S HAND

Dale T. Phillips

FALLING SUNWARD

Mikel J. Wisler

A REIGN OF THUNDER (PART TWO)

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

I AM NOT BERTHA

Seán McNicholl

TRINKETS

Freddie Kölsch

MY MOON, OH MY MOON

Angus Stewart

SAY HELLO TO ALPHA CENTAURI

Scott Coon

THE INSIDE OUT MAN

Lamont A. Turner

BAD DAY AT SORALLIO 6 CANTEEN

Gavin Turner

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Albeit carefully chugged his vessel into one of the empty parking bays outside Sorallio 6 Canteen. The rations he had on board were tolerable, for a while, but their plasticised monotony had left him feeling grey and washed out, lacking in that vital spark he would need to tolerate the long return journey.

Sorallio 6 canteen was a nice enough place. Not too far off the main spacestream passes. It had always been popular with the cargo shifters like himself, even in the old days of hopping between systems one by one when the direct routes were closed. Lugging fuel cells back and forth all day could be tiresome for some folk but he enjoyed the work and the solitude. It was only once in a while he felt the need for some company, it energised him just as much as the food. He liked this place in particular because they played music from the really old days on an original jukebox, a rare item from his favourite era and a passion he shared with Bobcat the owner. He loved human music - it was just the humans themselves he couldn’t be around anymore.

Stepping inside he was greeted with the familiar aroma of baked goods and cargo luggers. Long trips between systems gave a guy a dusty kind of aroma. It was like an Identity badge of sorts. You knew what work they did just from the smell. He perused the menu on Bobcats board, looking for something tasty and greasy for the onward journey. He decided on a special, Bobcats gooey goodness burger and a Pint of char brew. If that didn’t do the trick, there was always Maisie’s homemade crumble pie for dessert. He placed his order and sat in one of the booths. He really loved the fact that you didn’t really have to speak to Bobcat directly, he just knew what you wanted, kind of picked it up on the brainwaves. It was a skill of his. Bobcat was busy making the burgers and Ricky Nelson was heading down to lonesome town on the jukebox. This could well have been the perfectly chosen pitstop.

The char brew arrived, and it was thick, cold and sweet, just how he liked it. Man, he couldn’t wait to get hold of that burger. The hunger was under control, he thought but, it was the taste and the flavour that he was after. He scanned the room. There was a real mellow vibe in here. He would speak to some of the other guys later on, maybe shoot some plinkers, but he just wanted to get his meal down first. Most of the guys were like this. Eat first, talk later.

Through the thick framed transparencies, he could see them loitering, eating and laughing. The humans. Separated from the others mainly because of the diseases they spread with their spitty mouths and constant desire to lay their digits on everything. Some folk despised them, saw them as arrogant and unpredictable. Albeit felt they were just different and had their own ways. He didn’t hate them, he just couldn’t be near them. For this reason, he was mighty glad that Sorallio 6 was a multi folk restaurant, with separate entrances and infection proof barriers which kept everyone safe. The clear transparencies made it feel like everyone was still in the same restaurant and gave it a light and airy appearance even though it wasn’t such a big space. He felt safe here.

He watched Maisie bring over the delicious burger, fully loaded, dripping sauce from every edge. She laid it on the table in front of him. It had been a scarily long time since he had something so unctuous. He held it up in front of his face and sank his mouth round its delicious, hot loveliness. It was at that exact moment when he heard Billy Glibb for the first time.

Yo yo yoo! Billy yelled, flinging himself through the doorway and trying to hold himself up on the Cigarillo machine. Everyone chose to ignore him. What’s the problem with you people, huh? he slurred, you don’t like me or summink?"

Maybe it was all the time on his own, or how drunk Billy was, but it did not immediately occur to Albeit as to the nature of Billy’s species. He had always been taught to get to know the individual without making reference to where they were from, it was only polite. Plus, his language was kind of mangled which added to the confusion.

Wrong entrance, didn’t you see all the signs? A huge red flag warning flashed across Albeit’s brain. It hit everyone at the same time. So powerful was the force of this thought flash from Bobcat a couple of the guys by the plinkers table staggered for a second and held their heads.

Bobcat was sweating more than usual, not used to having to get his words out loud. He gripped the counter and shouted Get out you damn fool, you’ll get us all killed! Green spittle flew from his seldom used mouth and his face was turning purple in anger.

Billy spun his head slowly as if trying to refocus on the source of the noise but ignored his pleas. He seemed to be the only one oblivious to the warnings. 

Heeeeyyy, Bobcat! You gotta get me some dirty fries man!

Get out! Bobcat screamed at him. Get out, get out!

It was inevitably too late. If Billy hadn’t been so drunk, he would have realised that he had inadvertently entered via the Schum species door, rather than the subhuman door. There had to be two entrances. Bobcat knew that, everyone in Sorallio 6 Canteen knew that. Even Billy knew that, but he was so drunk he was oblivious.

Albeit slowly placed his burger in its basket, all his senses reeling. His eyes narrowed as they caught the scent of humans and began to stream. He tried to control the initial reaction, reaching in his bag for a Schum Pen and jabbing it swiftly into his thigh.

I can’t have him here, he said. "He can’t be here, Bobcat, you know what will happen. It’s not my fault, it was his fault, get out, get out!’ He screamed the words in-between fits and sneezes. The whole restaurant caught the sense of danger in the air and joined in with the sense of panic. Albeit felt his cells begin to twizzle. This was going to go badly wrong. The hunger that was until recently so under control was already filling his mind, squeezing every other thought till it popped out of his head, making him dizzy with greed. He tried to keep his eyes focussed on the table in front of him. He felt his splodge of an arm reach out as if to grab the kosher salt from the table, only to see the salt cellar, the vinaigrette and even the napkin holder sink deep into his jellying skin.

‘Get out! Bobcat continued. He’s human intolerant, get as far away as you can."

Billy stood wobbling near the doorway a little less sure of himself, but still maintaining that same silly grin on his face.

Hey, stop shouting, get me some fries, man! he hollered as customers piled past him to get out through the doors. For most of them it was patently too late. Albeit’s cellular structure had begun to react, expanding and absorbing at a terrific pace. His legs were already seeping along the checkerboard tiles, seeking out nutrition of any kind. Tiny stick fronds leached out over the tables they passed, suckering burgers, shakes and coolers and flicking them expertly into Albeit’s liquifying gullet.

His melting face with its ever-expanding mouth rose high into the ceiling of the canteen, launching in a flying tsunami towards the hot plate, sizzling the folds of skin in a desperate effort to fill every cell of his being with any calories that it could get hold of. The hot plate counter was gluttonously devoured in seconds. Bobcat could only stare in shock at the mighty hole in his beautifully tiled floor where Albeit had munched deeper in an effort to fill every part of his body with stuff. His torso, purple and gelatinous became an all-encompassing wall of destruction. Bobcat thought he heard a wretched echo of apology as he and the rest of the kitchen dropped deep into the gaping hole of Albeit’s mouth. 

His bubbling and frothing flesh expanded even further as his skin leached out across the surface of the canteen. He mopped up the bar and the jukebox like they were the last slice of garlic bread, descending into his being to the haunting tones of A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash. Arms and legs wriggled like tentacles, gluing themselves to the rafters and walls, pulling with incredible force till the whole building collapsed in on itself and sank into the deep void that Albeit had become. 

Finally satiated, Albeit flattened out like a melted jelly over a building-shaped crater that had suddenly appeared where once had stood the canteen. He would admit to himself later that he enjoyed consuming Billy very much, like a high-quality top-shelf shot after a good meal. It was a bad thought, but he reasoned it was kind of Billy’s fault. After a couple of minutes, he was able to gather his fluid torso into a sense of being, drag himself slickly into the back of the ship, and slink away as if the whole thing was really nothing to do with him. The view behind him was devastating. He had only popped in for lunch. All that remained were several crumbly cargo vessels whose owners would never return to claim them, and the recycling bins.

Damn those allergies, he thought, and damn those humans, they make me so itchy.  They should know by now they cause these reactions in me, they know damn well I’m intolerant. They are tasty, he added as a horrific afterthought, but would never say that out loud. Especially when he was still digesting them. Maybe they would hear him.

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Two days later, Braden Blick swung the hunter ship Mesopotamia down towards one of his favourite stop off joints only to find that most of it was no longer there. All that had been left behind were the insoluble elements, piled into ashes. He knew Albeit was responsible and he knew why. He glanced over at the one picture he had of his shipmate from the old days, unsure if there was anything left of the friend he once knew.

He pictured his former colleague, embarrassed by his unbridled gluttony departing from this devastating scene. It made him so sad to think of Albeit, slowly dragging his lumbering sorry carcass out of the crater and into the cargo bay of his vessel, the same way he did at Dark Brews on the stellar way. If only he would take his meds, perhaps he could resume his normal existence, perhaps they might even become friends again. Braden reset the nav, jolting the hunter ship onto its next destination. How he hoped this could end.

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Albeit was just about able to reset the auto-pilot before sinking into the most abhorrent food coma any species was likely to experience. It would be a good six months before his soluble cells would shrink back to their original size—the contents of the canteen being slowly digested and expelled over a similar period. He always felt guilty when these things happened. It was not ever intentional, not completely. There were no dark thoughts behind it. Just simply nature, and an overly complex relationship with food. The same way a galaxy might casually find itself being absorbed by a black hole and spat out the other side, unformed, a body it did not recognise.

Eventually he would return to his more mobile form. He looked forward to being able to converse again, socialise, maybe visit a canteen. He knew Braden would be chasing him down again, trying to get him back on the meds but he was always a couple of steps ahead. It was just handy that he did not require any other fuel. His whole ship would be powered by the pulsing of gaseous carbon from one of his main orifices. The ship and its Captain, wending their merry way in a symbiotic state of equal motion and catatonia. Onwards, deeper into a toothless universe, the next galaxy, or the next diner, it didn’t matter. Damn those humans, he thought, as he drifted into sleep.  Pulsing masses of gluttony and greed, drawn in from the darkness by the greasy heat of a good canteen and a real fine burger.

DEAD THINGS

Vincent Endwell

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The new door hung red as flesh in the side of the house. 

My first thought, obvious as it might be, was that there was no need for another door. When I was young, we had always come in the side, but there was an entrance in the front as well, one that worked perfectly fine. But I don’t know why I latched onto that thought, because the new red door was not strange because it was unnecessary.

It was strange because its frame had been hacked through the wall of the house.

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It had been a long homecoming.

At the start, I dreamed of returning home, hiding away in our mountain village like a field mouse from the thresher. At the end, after receiving that horrible news, I could not bear the thought of returning, and now I had to. When I was finally allowed to leave the city, I took a train and then a cab from town. When I arrived, I was exhausted, wanting nothing more than some water and food and sleep, but I stopped at the red door.

Why was there a door?

The gap in which it hung was rough-hewn, quickly made. Wood splintered around the sides like it had been carved with a hatchet: driven through the pine and insulation and drywall by many frantic blows. The door was hinged but poorly, its weight barely supported by the metal brackets.

It felt unreal. It felt like a hallucination after an exhausted trip and an interminable winter, and yet