Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

“ That is why,” he gasped as his navel opened up and gushed forth the nutrients meant for a mother he no longer had.

The sheets covering him turned a dark, sticky crimson with his love.

He clawed at his neck, unable to get his tie off fast enough, threw it on the passenger seat and struggled with the top two buttons of his shirt. He turned the key, cranked up the air conditioner and pressed on the gas. The rusting brown Corolla responded like a lion prodded out of sleep with a spear.

Come on, Steve-o. Keep it together. Keep it together.

The sky was overcast, dirty gray clouds pregnant with the threat of snow. The passing traffic wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t give him an inch to squeeze into. His breath escaped in quick white bursts. He rolled open the window; let the freezing air spill in. He turned the air conditioner up another notch and sat facing the stream of traffic. No one would let him in. He honked the horn. Pounded the steering wheel. Screamed. Finally there was a break. A small break, but it was enough.

He stepped on the gas, threw the Corolla into first gear, and squealed out into the line of cars. They inched along, all segments of the same worm. His hands squeezed the steering wheel until his fingers turned white.

Keep it together.

He loved his wife. His son. There was nothing more he wanted than for his family to be together again. He knew that now. He knew it.

He felt like a volcano trapped in a piece of Tupperware.

The videotape had appeared on Steve’s desk sometime between 4:30 and 4:45 PM. That was all the time it took for him to enter the bathroom, sit on the john, look over a stock portfolio and wash his hands. When he came back to his office, there was the video tape, no box, no labels, resting on top of his desk.

He looked at it a moment and smiled. Locked the office door. Turned on the television and stuck the tape in the VCR. He knew what it would be. A nice little peep show from Linda. He’d been thinking about her all day. He walked over to the window shades and pulled them tight. What would it look like to his wife, to his business colleagues for Christ sake, if someone were to snap a picture of him jacking off to a video of Linda Janson doing an erotic strip tease meant only for him?

He sat back in his leather chair. Loosened his tie. Unbuckled his pants. It was good to be the boss. He lifted the remote and pressed play. There was static, and then a fuzzy image.

His affair with Linda Janson started less than a year ago. God, was she wild. The way she’d come to his office on a whim and attack him in his chair, at times not even bothering to lock the door. She’d parade around his desk and coyly lift her skirt displaying the absence of undergarments, then yank his chair out from under his desk and straddle him. Sometimes she’d grind and jerk so hard the chair would jump back on its wheels six inches at a time until it thudded against the large windows overlooking the city streets below. And she’d keep bouncing on him, the chair’s leather knocking firmly against the office window. Steve often imagined a crack forming at the top of the window slowly splintering its way down until it touched the floor. Then more cracks appearing as she continued to bang him into the window, and the sound of the glass giving way and the rush of air pouring in and the feel of nothingness below as they fell twenty-five stories locked together, still humping like mad until they came at the moment of impact.

That was what he liked most about Linda. The danger she brought when she entered the room. The fantasies of youth finally coming true in this tornado of black hair and smooth, taut skin. It was something he couldn’t get anywhere else. Something he couldn’t get at home.

And she’d do things like this. Videotape herself and leave the tape for him at odd places, dangerous places, where a colleague might see the video cassette laying there and ask him what it was.

Passion. Danger. Something he couldn’t get with an eight year old child at home, with a wife who invited women over for gin rummy on Saturday nights.

He watched the static disappear into darkness as the tape played. He heard the breathing of the person operating the camera. A flashlight was turned on, spotlighting a woman sitting in the corner of a dark room, the dull brick walls spotted with black mold. She was tied to a simple wooden chair, the rope tight around her torso, her arms pinned to her sides. A cloth gag circled her head, pulling her lips back to reveal her teeth.

Steve sat up. That wasn’t Linda.

It wasn’t Linda’s hair for one thing. Linda’s hair was wild and black, the kind that a strong wind made sexier with each haphazard pass. But this woman’s hair was short and brown. Her head was turned away, but that profile…

Her head lolled drearily on her shoulders in slow-motion until she faced the camera. There was blood on her cheek.

Steve couldn’t breath. The room started a slow nauseating spin. He stood up shakily and walked around the desk not feeling his feet touch the floor, his limbs numb, his eyes unable to focus on anything at all except her face. He reached up and touched the screen as the camera zoomed in.

“My God,” Steve said, the words like thumbtacks in his throat. “Elaine.”

Funny how the simple press of a button could change one’s frame of mind in such a quick, violent way. From the anticipation of the illicit and erotic, to a reality of pure horror.

He’d never before imagined a day when the shine in his wife’s eyes would be gone, her contented smile unable to surface, her shoulders sagging with such dismal resignation. It was as if death was the one breathing behind the video camera while Elaine waited patiently for its arrival.

He shifted into second gear. Traffic barely moved. Office buildings rose too close on either side of him. He felt like getting out and walking. It would be faster. Just leave the goddamn car in the middle of traffic, get out and walk. But he had too far to go.

He made sure all the vents were open, aimed them all at his face and hands. It felt so goddamn hot, so hard to breath. Beyond was a gauntlet of traffic lights. He honked the horn twice out of frustration. A middle-aged woman in a power suit gave him the finger.

Keep it together.

He stepped on the clutch. Shifted into third gear.

He loved his wife.

He knew that now.

After the camera had zoomed in on Elaine’s face, the videotape went blank. Just a snowy void. He pressed rewind, and as the tape spun backward, he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone in his office. He spun around. A large man dressed in black trousers, a black sweater, a black ski mask stood behind him. He held a small black gun.

Steve scrambled away from the television set. He wondered for a moment where the man had come from, then saw that the file cabinets in the back corner of the room had been pushed slightly to the side. Had he been there the whole time?

The man spoke softly. Carefully. “Bee-tee-ex, three-three-oh.”

“What do you want?” Steve asked, not comprehending.

“Bee-tee-ex, three-three-oh,” the man repeated, emphasizing each letter and number.

“I don’t understand.”

“Memorize it,” the man said.

“What are you — “

“Shut the fuck up! I’ll say it one more time. It’s simple. Bee-tee-ex, three-three-oh. Got it?”

Steve nodded, although he was not sure if he got it at all.

“Now open your safe and give me the sixty thousand dollars you have stashed in there.”

Steve tried not to show his disbelief. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”