Note: This is the second part of a two-part entry for Cud Flashes in the Pan. It commemorates the release of the rock album Bat Out of Hell. I’m splitting it between September and October as the September issue of The Cud will be up from September through October, and also because the entire thing would be far too long for one month.

An important event in the history of rock music occurred on October 21, 1977 when the album Bat Out of Hell was released. It was the brainchild of musician Jim Steinman, who was influenced by the likes of The Who, Bruce Springsteen, Phil Spector, and Richard Wagner (yeah, that guy—Der Ring des Nibelungen and such). And it showcased the overpowering vocals of a man once called Marvin Lee Aday but forever after known as Meat Loaf. Bat smashed records and even spent 471 weeks on the UK national charts and is currently the fifth highest-selling album in history, behind Michael Jackson's Thriller, AC/DC's Back in Black, Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, and Whitney Houston's The Bodyguard. (Relax—Whitney's album is at 44 million and Bat is at 43 million. BOOH still sells 200,000 copies per year, and I'm guessing Whitney isn't moving that many of The Bodyguard.) But whether you like Bat’s brand of rock opera or not, you have to appreciate the iconic cover art: a musclebound motorcyclist blasting out of a grave, while a giant bat perched atop the headstone spreads its wings in observance. To commemorate the album's release 35 years ago this October, we’ll honor it, Meat, and Steinman with seven shorts inspired by the titles of the seven tracks. And in honor of Halloween and the very cool Bat cover art, those seven will be in the horror vein.

Last month, we had “Brat Out Of Hell,” “You Took The Worms Right Out Of My Mouth,” and “Hell Can’t Wait.”

“All Wrecked Up And A Placenta To Go”
By David M. Fitzpatrick

When Callie started dating Jim, he was a stickler for her to be on the pill. He always said that one day it would fail and she’d get pregnant, and that would be destiny telling them it was the right time.

Two years later, they married, and she asked if he was ready for children. Jim still believed she should stay on the pill, and let fate and failure decide when the time was right.

For three years, they were happy, but she wanted children and often suggested it. He always stuck to his guns: They were waiting for pill failure. Eventually, her maternal instincts kicked in, and she secretly skipped the pill for several weeks. Then she skipped a period, and the home pregnancy test confirmed things.

“It finally failed,” she told him that night over dinner.

He looked at her over his pot roast with a confused expression. “What failed?”

She was annoyed that he missed the reference. “The pill. I’m pregnant.”

He looked expectedly shocked. He composed himself, congratulated her, and they began planning for the baby.

***

He was incredibly supportive through her pregnancy: waiting on her hand and foot, going to the doctor with her, and excitedly talking about the baby to anyone who would listen. He was the perfect husband and expectant father.

She was eight months along when he took her for a ride to a scenic mountain overlook that they’d visited before. The remote lot, on a little-used road, had a metal guardrail as a barrier to the steep rock slope that dropped beneath them. They sat on the front of the car, her feet on the guardrail and his arm around her, drinking Pepsis and admiring the valley.

“I know you stopped taking the pill,” he suddenly said.

She froze.

“I always checked,” he said. “I knew right away that you’d lied.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, fighting back tears. “I just couldn’t wait anymore.”

“I never wanted kids,” he said. “I was playing the game. I think you knew.”

She was furious at his deceit, but deep down, she knew he was right.

“Now I’m stuck with a baby I don’t want,” he said, “and a liar for a wife. I can’t stand for either.”

Like lightning, he wrenched her arm painfully up behind her back. She screamed and struggled, but he held her fast.

And then he shoved her forward until her knees banged against the guardrail. The steep rock slope sloped away; a hundred feet below, a boulder field looked like wreckage from an avalanche. She realized he was going to kill her—and her baby.

“So long, sweetheart,” he said, planted a hand on her neck, and shoved her hard.

As he did, he released her twisted arm, and she whirled as she went over the rail, clawing desperately at him—and found his shirt. She grabbed it as she went over, and, off balance, he followed, screaming in terror.

***

She came to. She didn’t hurt, but there was so much blood.

Jim was dead next to her, his head split open like a melon. It was satisfying to see his brains everywhere.

She felt the baby kick, hard. She looked up the steep slope. The car waited a hundred feet above. She had to make it.

She couldn’t feel her legs—she was paralyzed. But her broken, bloody arms worked. She began crawling, grabbing outcroppings and cracks. She ignored the pain that screamed in every bone and muscle. It was difficult moving, because her big, pregnant belly was in the way. She had to get to the top. Even if she died, her baby—the one that that murderous bastard didn’t want—had to survive.

The baby kicked madly through the eternal climb, but that only fueled her desire to save the child’s life. She dragged herself up entirely with her arms, and the dead weight of her dead legs never slowed her.

Finally, she crawled beneath the guardrail, dragged herself through the dirt to the car. She strained to reach the door handle, popped it open. She pulled herself up over the seat, hit the OnStar button, and collapsed.

***

The paramedics found her still alive, but they had no idea how. She died after they arrived, and they’d cut her open to save the baby.

They couldn’t explain it. It was clear she’d climbed the rocky slope, with the trail of blood and bloody handprints. It was clear she’d gone over the edge with a man, who had died.

What they couldn’t explain was how she possibly climbed, or lived more than a few minutes.

She was on the ground next to the car, her exposed uterus sliced open. But there was nothing beneath her uterus; it bulged where her pelvis used to be.

The rest of her body, from the waist down, was a hundred feet down the slope, where she’d been ripped in half on impact.

“One Out Of Ten Ain’t Good”
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“Bring me a fresh brain,” the scientist said.

“Can I eat first?” said his assistant. “I’m starving.”

“No—I need the brain right away.”

The assistant was gone all night, but returned with a brain in a big jar. The exasperated scientist demanded to know what took so long.

“It was challenging, especially as I was starving,” the assistant said. “At the cemetery, I dug up a fresh body, but the tombstone toppled over and crushed its head.”

“Fine,” the scientist said. “Then what?”

“The second one was in the funeral home. The embalming was done, so they wouldn’t miss the brain. But someone showed up, so I had to flee. At the hospital morgue, the only fresh body was a car-accident victim with a smashed skull. His brain was unusable.”

“Sensible.”

“I found the fourth at the bio-research lab, but the brain had already been extracted for research. The fifth was there too, preserved in a jar, but it was labeled ‘CHIMPANZEE.’ I figured you wouldn’t want that.”

“Correct,” the scientist fumed.

“By then, I was hungry and frustrated, and knew I had to kill someone. I went to the bad part of town and found a homeless drunk, but he told me he drank to kill the pain from a brain tumor. He was out, so I sought a prostitute—and found a pair of bisexual whores. First I paid them to have great sex.”

“And killed one?” the scientist said, brightening.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t; they were absolutely incredible, so I needed them alive for more sex later..”

“Hard to argue that, I suppose.”

“So with eight chances blown, and my frustration and raging appetite growing, I found a house with a married couple screaming at each other. Through the window, I saw him beat her until she died. It was a great chance.”

“So that’s her brain in the jar?” said the hopeful scientist.

“Oh, no… that’s the husband’s brain. I followed him to where he dumped her body, and killed him, and got both of their brains.”

The scientist looked puzzled. “Then why do you have just one?”

“Well, it had been a long night. And, as I told you, I was very hungry.”

“Three Pair of Dice by the Dashboard Light”
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Matt had his hand up Gina’s shirt, groping a breast through her bra, as they kissed in the car. It was dark, and she was turned on. He just knew she’d finally put out. But she pushed him away and pulled her shirt back down.

“Come on!” he cried, breathing heavily. “You’ve teased me for months!”

“I’m just not ready,” she said, adjusting her hair. “Remember, ‘no’ means ‘no.’”

He’d listened to that for months. But he was ready for it this time. He dug into his pocket and pulled out six dice. He flipped on the dash light and she looked at them in his hand.

“Dice,” she said. “So what?”

“You roll them,” he said. “They’ll total from six to thirty-six. If you roll anything under, say, eighteen, you give it up for me.”

She scoffed. “No!”

“Okay, lower. Just give me some kind of chance. Be fair.”

She thought for a minute, licking her glossed lips. “Okay—but only if you roll a six.”

Just as he’d expected. He feigned being stunned. “That’s insane! There’s almost no chance that would ever happen. Like a thousandth of a percent!”

“Take it or leave it,” she said.

He took it. They got out of the car and he gave her the dice, and she shook them, a big grin on her face in the moonlight. She let them drop on the car’s hood. They clattered with metallic dins and came to a stop—all of them ones.

He whooped and jumped into the air while Gina looked stunned. Of course, they were loaded dice that only rolled ones, but she didn’t know that. He got as far as getting her out of the car, rolling a condom on his erection, and bending her over the hood before she said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“You lost, fair and square,” he said, and shoved her forward.

“No!” she hollered. “No means no!”

She shoved back against him, but he wasn’t giving up. He shoved her forward with all his strength and he heard her head bounce off the metal. She toppled sideways, screaming, and rolled off the front of the car.

Her head smacked a sizable rock on the way down, and her scream abruptly stopped.

“Gina!” he cried, dropping to his knees.

Her head was twisted unnaturally, blank eyes wide. He found no pulse. Matt stood up, staggered back. What had he done?

His mind raced. He could explain it. She gave in, and they were having rough sex, and she hit her head. They’d believe that. Of course, they hadn’t actually had sex…

He had to screw her for his alibi. At least she couldn’t say “No.”

He hauled her warm body back up and flopped her over the hood. Some hand work, a new condom, and soon he was ready. He tugged her panties down, yanked her skirt up, and did the deed. It was nearly as good as he’d imagined, what with her being unresponsive, but he grunted his way to filling the rubber. He waited to catch his breath before pulling out and stepping back. She toppled once again to the ground. He peeled off the condom and immediately went for his cell phone. He had to report this quickly, before she cooled too much and they figured it out…

From behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of her clambering to her feet, and his blood cooled. She was alive. And he’d just raped her. Which meant… he’d have to kill her. He took a deep breath, shut off his phone, and turned.

She stood there, her head leaning sideways on her shoulder, he neck bones threatening to jut through her skin. She was still dead, even as she staggered toward him.

“No means no,” she gurgled, and she grabbed his package with an iron grip.

He screamed until she tore it off.

“Crying Out Loud”
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Jack awoke in the middle of the night, again, to crying in the darkness.

His skin chilled at the sound, even though he’d been hearing the crying for many nights. He struggled to get out of bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He listened, and heard a woman, sobbing, somewhere in his house. Someone was in his house… or the place was haunted.

It had never been haunted. Hell, he didn’t believe in ghosts and all that paranormal bullshit. Jack pulled the bedroom door open on a squeaky hinge. Beyond, faint light from downstairs slightly illuminated the hallway. He crept out, straining to hear. The crying was coming from downstairs.

He moved down the hallway to the stairs, started down. His heart pounded with every careful step of his bare feet on soft carpet. By the time he reached the downstairs hallway, the sobbing was louder and more distinct. No doubt it was a woman. Was it coming from the living room? He could see, down the hall, that the light was on in there.

Jack crept down the hallway, his breathing shallow and fast. He thought he was going to have a heart attack.

He rounded the corner to the living room. It was empty.

But he heard the sobbing, loud and clear, as if the woman were in there. It was if she were invisible. What could that be other than a ghost? He felt his skin crawl, felt all his body hair bristle.

He edged into the room, right to the middle, under the overhead light. The television was on, but the sound was muted. Forced hot air from the floor grate rippled the drapes along the picture window. There was no doubt the room was empty. Yet the loud crying continued.

He closed his eyes tightly. It was a dream. He was imagining it. The house was no haunted. He refused to believe it.

Jack opened his eyes to a room just as empty as before—but the sound of the sobbing woman remained. She was right in front of him, on the couch—at least, that’s what his ears told him. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly turned away from the couch—ever so slowly, like a gliding second hand making its way around the clock face. He kept his eyes locked forward as he rotated, and when he was nearly ninety degrees from the couch, it happened.

A flicker, out of the corner of his eye.

He stopped, breathing faster. He moved his eyes slightly, until the flickering began to become distinct.

At his periphery, he could see her. She was sitting on the couch, balled up with her feet under her, crying. Makeup streaked down her red face, and she was drying her eyes with a tissue. She was beautiful, a brunette with dark eyes and full lips, but right then she seemed utterly miserable.

He felt his knees weaken. He’d tried to convince himself that ghosts were impossible… but how could he ignore what he was seeing?

Jack tried to turn, to look at her more clearly, to get a better view, but every time he shifted his eyes toward her even a fraction of a degree, she flickered out of existence, leaving only her pitiful sobbing. If he held his head at the right angle, turned almost completely away, and looked ahead, she’d appear, almost out of sight to the side.

“Who are you?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this to me?”

She sobbed on.

He spun suddenly about, as if moving quickly would help, but she vanished.

He was angry and scared. He spun on his heel—she flickered briefly into view and vanished in the same moment—and hurried out of the living room. He rushed down the hallway to the stairs. He had to get someone there to help. But who wouldn’t think he was crazy?

He hurried up the stairs, his shoes thumping on the carpet, and when he reached the top he wondered when he’d put on shoes. And why he’d been sleeping in his best suit.

***

Karen cried on the couch.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she said through her tears. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

The newspaper on the coffee table displayed its prominent headline: WOMAN SHOOTS HUSBAND WHO TRIED TO STRANGLE HER.

She wanted to believe he was still with her, and sorry for all the pain he’d ever inflicted on her, but she didn’t believe in ghosts.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short-stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.