By Holden Arquilevich
“Look at them…I can smell the pre-cum from here.”
“God, they’re beautiful though, aren’t they?”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
“Shut the fuck up. You’re just saying that because I’m in uniform.”
“You’re a vision of power.”
“Thank you, Horsefly.”
“Are you ready for my real name?”
“No. It’s more professional this way. And it makes the sex better, not knowing. Especially when you have the mask on.”
“I can keep it professional.”
“Did you notice Fishhook is late?”
“He probably spent the morning scattering fish parts around their Airbnb. He loves ill omens.”
“What ill omens would Horsefly leave?”
Horsefly thinks on it. He rotates his baling hook. It looks pink in the evening light. The overlarge fly mask he wears sags over his face, and he readjusts it. They don’t make fly masks for humans.
“I’d leave horse dung. Piles of it. Or maybe horsehair in their beds! I don’t know, I’m still new at this…I’m glad I found you to show me how to do it better…”
“God, if you weren’t wearing that mask I’d be biting your face off right now.”
“And if you weren’t wearing that raincoat…actually, what the fuck do I care? C’mere.”
“Mmmmm…You wanna know why my raincoat is see-through?”
“Mmmhmm…”
“It’s because the Raincoat Killer was already taken. Had to put my own spin on it. Makes it hard to blend in though.”
“Mmmm…poor Raincoat Killer Junior can’t think of her own name…”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. GET OFF!”
She strikes. Horsefly make some noises between scoffs and coughs.
“I know! Why don’t we call you Fishhook?”
“What?”
“You take Fishhook’s name.”
“What about Fishhook? That’s stealing.”
“The guy’s not careful enough, remember? He’s not gonna last anyway. Just take it.”
She scoots over and leans on Horsefly’s shoulder.
“God, I love Spring Break with you.”
“I know. Now c’mere, I want him to find us in the final throes.”
* * *
“I’m totally gonna fuck Casey tonight.”
“She’s practically been in heat since we got here.”
“I think it’s gotta be here, in the master. So much room. There’s even a walk-in closet.”
“And that’s where you want me, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll try to angle her right, but make sure you have a good shot.”
Will walks over to the walk-in closet and studies the shutters.
“Might be too thin for me to get any shot, my dude. But I’ll try, maybe I can adjust it from the inside—”
“FUCK!”
Sitting on the floor just inside the door of the closet is a pile of fish guts. Flies swarm and fish blood soaks into carpet. It may have been one fish, or many, it’s hard to say, but a single intact fish head sits atop the pile like the figurehead on an old ship, giving them both the side-eye. The bones spiral around the pile, jutting out in a pattern that reeks of purpose.
The boys pinch their noses.
“Don’t these fucking people have the place cleaned between guests?”
“Maybe it was a squatter. That happens sometimes, you know.”
“Well help me clean this shit up. And grab some cologne from my bag. Casey will never fuck me with the place smelling like this.”
* * *
Fishhook walks up the hill from a busy morning.
He crests the top of the hill and finds his new partners in crime partnering.
He stops before they can notice him, and watches. Yesterday he would have enjoyed something like this. He would have pulled out his dick and taken his fill of satisfaction from the lewdscape. Then he would have interrupted them, relishing their embarrassment. Or he would have let them finish, enjoying the show and the afterglow.
But he’s not that man anymore.
What he knows now is it’s all bullshit. His dick doesn’t so much as twitch at the sight of the girl’s body sweating inside the little greenhouse of the raincoat, or the man’s abs tight and triceps taut as they work. And knowing it’s bullshit, he finishes his journey and stands behind them, quieter than they expected.
“I’m finished decorating. We move at nightfall.”
“OH SHIT!” they scream in unison. They wanted to be discovered, not surprised. They leap up, collecting themselves.
“Don’t scare us like that man! Fuck!” yells Horsefly.
“You are such a creepy fuck!” yells Raincoat Killer Junior.
Fishhook ignores the sentiment, passing between them, and lowers himself to the ground with a straight back, crossing his legs into lotus position. He watches the Airbnb from the hilltop.
They don’t speak to him for a moment. A moment too long after they’ve recovered from their games. It’s not a sound on the ear, but Fishhook hears RKJ give Horsefly a look, clear as day. He hears her nodding in his direction, towards his back, and Horsefly nodding in return. He hears the soft movement of Horsefly picking his wool sweater off the ground.
“Hey, sorry man. Our bad. We just get excited before playtime, you know? It’s how we pregame. Hey, aren’t you cold in that tank top? Didn’t you bring anything warmer? It’s going to be below forty by the time we head down. Why don’t you take my sweater?”
Fishhook looks down at himself. He forgot what he was wearing. He hasn’t been aware of having a body at all since last night. He becomes reacquainted with the white tank top, the leather pants, the curb-stomping combat boots. His skin is paler than it used to be. He reeks of sea water and rot. He loves it. He wishes he had a mirror.
“I’m alright. But thanks.”
Fishhook hears the crunch of dirt behind him.
“I insist,” says Horsefly, as he wraps the sweater around Fishhook’s face and pulls the baling hook into his throat from behind.
And pulls. And pulls.
Horsefly places his own curb-stomping boot on Fishhook’s back, and pulls on the hook with both hands, letting the sweater fall into Fishhook’s lap. It is at this point Horsefly realizes something is terribly wrong.
He tilts his masked face backwards.
“HEY! HELP ME WITH THIS!”
But RKJ can only stare in amazement as the voice gurgles out. Louder than it should be.
“Definitely not the right move, kid. I coulda told you that.”
Fishhook reaches behind his right shoulder and breaks every bone in Horsefly’s hand with a quick squeeze. Horsefly falls back, too shocked to scream, as Fishhook’s legs corkscrew from lotus to standing in one motion.
He turns slowly, the baling hook dangling from his neck. A thick mixture of sad slime and watered-down blood leaks from the wound. It runs even faster when he tears the hook from his own throat, paying no mind to the damage.
Even RKJ gasps at this.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” screams Horsefly, clutching his broken hand.
Fishhook examines the baling hook. Turning it over in the dying light.
“You know, I like it,” he trickles pleasantly. “It even looks like a fishing hook. Just a real big one.”
His shadow slithers over Horsefly as he approaches, and he uses the hook on him, tearing up his mask. Letting the flies in.
RKJ finally gathers herself enough to scream and draw her knife. It’s another big bastard. A fifteen-inch hunting knife she bought at a gun show in her home state.
She leaps at Fishhook, driving the knife down toward his chest. Fishhook allows this.
RKJ has felt the knife make impact eight times on six different kills. She’s an artist, and not a woman of excess. She knows how it’s supposed to feel when it goes in. She knows the familiar thump and scrape of bone, the drag of the serrated edge making space. But when it goes into Fishhook, it goes in like she’s stabbed a ball of seaweed. There’s a wet, audible, squish, and more of him leaks down his chest.
“I’m gonna run out of blood at this rate,” says Fishhook. “I hope I can’t run out of this new stuff. I’m not entirely sure of the rules yet, but I’m sure it’s not good to run out of the new stuff.”
Before RKJ can process what’s been said, or think of cutting words in response, or think of something more vital than the man’s heart to stab, Fishhook reaches out and sets her head on a new axis.
She crumples. Fishhook removes the combat knife, and it greedily takes more of himself with it.
He was hoping to pass for human a little longer. You never know when it may come in handy. But with his esophagus torn open and a crevice in his chest, he’ll have to start leaning into being a monster.
Fishhook resumes his watch, placing the baling hook and combat knife on the ground in front of him like a dining arrangement.
He’ll move at nightfall.
* * *
“Mmm, I’ve been waiting for this all day. Are you sure no one can hear us?”
“MMMmmm, don’t worry, they’ve all crashed. There was plenty of booze. Besides, I locked the door. It’s just you, me, and Rodney filming us in the closet.”
She slaps his chest.
“Don’t be gross!”
He pulls her in for more, and she gives it to him.
She parts from his lips and gasps, smirking at him.
“Let me go to the bathroom.” She taps his chest with her index finger. “You stay right here.”
She leaves, taking the perfume and pheromones with her. In their absence, Will catches a whiff of dead fish and rot on the sea breeze.
He leaps from the bed and tiptoes over to the closet.
“Rodney?” he hisses. “What the fuck, man? I thought we cleaned this shit up. It’s gonna be a total fucking bonerkill if Casey smells this shit.”
Rodney reeks in response but hisses nothing back.
“C’mon man,” he says, opening the closet a crack, “isn’t there something you can do? I can get more cologne, but she’ll be out any minute—”
Rodney stares at Will. The tops of his feet brush against the carpet, his body weight slump-suspended, hoisted in a weblike array of fishing wire hitched around the hanging rod in the closet. He hangs on a multitude of fishing hooks that stick to him like a swarm of flies.
Outside, the rain begins.
“Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck… CASEY!”
Will hears the bathroom door swing open behind him.
“Definitely not Casey, kid,” a wet voice says. “Sorry to disappoint.”
* * *
Something more comes up the hill. It comes in its own way, from its own place, and then a second thing comes. Then there are two things on the hill. The two things smell the sex and murder on the two corpses on the hill. They briefly haggle over such well-invested bodies, but it is a short contest. Having decided, they make their inquiries, smelling potential bargains. If they could, the corpses would smile.
Then they can.
So they do.
After collecting themselves, the corpses get moving.
* * *
Will vaults down the stairs.
“EVERYONE GET OUT NOW!”
He lands on the ground floor, stomping into something slimy and slips, the back of his head meeting the last step of the staircase.
Something squishes grimy between his bare toes. He lifts his aching head up.
On the floor beside his befouled foot is a fish head watching him with empty eyes and sagging mouth. Beyond, scattered around, are more sculptures of guts, blood, and bone. Fish heads crown each little putrid work of art.
Will tries to remember how to breathe, when the fish beat him to it.
The piles of guts begin to wheeze and pop and pulse with animation. The fish heads flex their jaws wordlessly, gasp-squelch-sucking at air.
A flash of lightning, and the rain collapses against the glass sliding door. For a moment, Will is positive that he is underwater, and that he is also in Hell.
“I’ll be honest,” the wet voice says from the stairs. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time. Thank you both.”
* * *
The two corpses watch from the bushes as Will comes crashing through the glass sliding door like a doll. He lands badly and doesn’t get up, the rain working through new nooks and crannies.
The two corpses watch from the bushes as Fishhook emerges through the shattered remains. He retrieves his baling hook from the fresh corpse and speaks out to the other two.
“I know you’ve come back, so why don’t you come out?”
The two corpses stumble out from the bushes, taking steps with newborn precision.
“You think you’re so fucking special?” rasps RKJ, moving like a rusty marionette. “Well, we got deals too! You kill enough people and die as well as we did, anyone can get a fucking deal!”
“Yeah!” shouts Horsefly, pointing at Fishhook with his mangled hand. “Now give me back my hook! That thing is my signature! An heirloom!”
Fishhook makes no move. He lets the rain work him over.
“These are my tools now. You both lost your right when you tried to kill me.”
“You sore fucking winner!” rails RKJ. “You were already dead! What the fuck do you care—”
“YOU TRIED TO TAKE MY NAME!” Fishhook roars.
The corpses flinch. They can see Fishhook’s chest rising and falling in great heaves, his tank top soaked through. RKJ and Horsefly wait for his rhythm to slow, and the rage to subside, unwilling to test him just yet.
“How do you know that?” asks RKJ, more curious than afraid now. “You weren’t there.”
“Our people talk,” Fishhook says. “Who’d you get, anyway?”
They look at each other, then look back.
“I got some Victorian ghost,” says Horsefly. “A kid, actually. Little rage monster who died not too far from here. He’s a brat, but the gifts are good.”
“And I got a demon from fucking Hell,” RKJ says, puffing up her chest under the raincoat. “I would have liked a duke or a prince, but my guy says he has connections. He told me he was responsible for the Hindenburg.”
They wait, but Fishhook makes no move.
“Well? Who’d you get you slimy fish rotball goo fuckface?”
Fishhook closes his eyes. He waits till he sees her and tries to do his best.
“She is old. Her seat of power is a lake at the bottom of the ocean. And she is the lake. And it’s not our ocean. And I know that she is our mother. The mother of all things like us.”
They let it settle in, and they let the rain fall.
“Well what the fuck do we do now, huh?” asks RKJ finally.
Fishhook thinks about it, turning the baling hook over in the rain. Horsefly watches it wistfully from beneath his tattered mask.
“Well,” Fishhook says, “I suppose we keep doing what we’re good at, and we just try our best to get along.”
They make it a point to meet eyes, all three of them. No handshakes necessary where they’re going.
“You got a deal,” someone says.
* * *
Holden Arquilevich is an aspiring horror writer, aspiring librarian, and aspiring bookseller. His work has been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine, Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. He is from Ojai, California. He loves karaoke, and don’t even get him started on Char Man. For updates on his publications follow his Instagram: @harquilevich