Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

Staring at one another from opposite ends of the torture chamber, Ian and Caleb began another experiment in human nature.

The Burgers of Calais GRAHAM MASTERTON

“The Burgers of Calais” was first published in Dark Terrors 6, The Gollancz Book of Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton, 2002.

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Graham Masterton was a young newspaper reporter when he wrote his first novel Rules of Duel with the encouragement of his friend William Burroughs, author of The Naked Lunch. He went on to become editor of Penthouse and Penthouse Forum magazines before penning his first horror novel The Manitou which was filmed with Tony Curtis playing the lead role. Since then he has published over a hundred horror novels, thrillers, historical sagas, short stories and best-selling sex instruction manuals. He lived in Cork, Ireland, for several years, and has written a new crime novel about a female Irish detective, Katie Maguire. He now lives in England. His wife and agent Wiescka established his name as the leading horror novelist in Poland, but passed away in April, 2011. He dedicates this story to her memory. Website: www.grahammasterton.co.uk.

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“The Burgers of Calais” is both a pun and a metaphor on the suffering of the people of Calais who were almost starved to death in a siege by the English in 1347, and had to eat rats to survive. They were saved only by the self-sacrifice of six eminent burghers who agreed to surrender themselves and hand over the keys of the city. But it was mostly inspired by Eric Schlosser’s book Fast Food Nation which describes how foul the ingredients of most American fast food actually is. Not rats, but pretty close.

I never cared for northern parts and I never much cared for eastern parts neither, because I hate the cold and I don’t have any time for those bluff, ruddy-faced people who live there, with their rugged plaid coats and their Timberland boots and their way of whacking you on the back when you least expect it, like whacking you on the back is supposed to be some kind of friendly gesture or something.

I don’t like what goes on there, neither. Everybody behaves so cheerful and folksy but believe me that folksiness hides some real grisly secrets that would turn your blood to iced gazpacho.

You can guess, then, that I was distinctly unamused when I was driving back home early last October from Presque Isle, Maine, and my beloved ’71 Mercury Marquis dropped her entire engine on the highway like a cow giving birth.

The only reason I had driven all the way to Presque Isle, Maine, was to lay to rest my old Army buddy Dean Brunswick III (may God forgive him for what he did in Colonel Wrightman’s cigar-box). I couldn’t wait to get back south, but now I found myself stuck a half-mile away from Calais, Maine, population 4,003 and one of the most northernmost, easternmost, back-whackingest towns you could ever have waking nightmares about.

Calais is locally pronounced “CAL-us” and believe me a callous is exactly what it is — a hard, corny little spot on the right elbow of America. Especially when you have an engineless uninsured automobile and a maxed-out Visa card and only $226 in your billfold and no friends or relations back home who can afford to send you more than a cheery hello.

I left my beloved Mercury tilted up on the leafy embankment by the side of US Route 1 South and walked into town. I never cared a whole lot for walking, mainly because my weight has kind of edged up a little since I left the Army in ’86, due to a pathological lack of restraint when it comes to file gumbo and Cajun spiced chicken with lots of crunchy bits and mustard-barbecued spare ribs and Key lime pies. My landlady Rita Personage says that when she first saw me she thought that Orson Welles had risen from the dead, and I must say I do have quite a line in flappy white double-breasted sport coats, not to mention a few wide-brimmed white hats, though not all in prime condition since I lost my job with the Louisiana Restaurant Association which was a heinous political fix involving some of the shadier elements in the East Baton Rouge catering community and also possibly the fact that I was on the less balletic side of 289 pounds.

It was a piercing bright day. The sky was blue like ink and the trees were all turning gold and red and crispy brown. Calais is one of those neat New England towns with white clapboard houses and churches with spires and cheery people waving to each other as they drive up and down the streets at 2 1/2 mph.

By the time I reached North and Main I was sweating like a cheese and severely in need of a beer. There was a whip, whip, whoop behind me and it was a police patrol car. I stopped and the officer put down his window. He had mirror sunglasses and a sandy moustache that looked as if he kept his nailbrush on his upper lip. And freckles. You know the type.

“Wasn’t speeding, was I, officer?”

He took off his sunglasses. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He said, “You look like a man with a problem, sir.”

“I know. I’ve been on Redu-Quick for over six months now and I haven’t lost a pound.”

That really cracked him up, not. “You in need of some assistance?” he asked me.

“Well, my car suffered a minor mechanical fault a ways back there and I was going into town to see if I could get anybody to fix it.”

“That your clapped-out saddle-bronze Marquis out on Route One?”

“That’s the one. Nothing that a few minutes in the crusher couldn’t solve.”

“Want to show me some ID?”

“Sure.” I handed him my driver’s license and my identity card from the restaurant association. He peered at them, and for some reason actually sniffed them.

“John Henry Dauphin, Choctaw Drive, East Baton Rouge. You’re a long way from home, Mr. Dauphin.”

“I’ve just buried one of my old Army buddies up in Presque Isle.”

“And you drove all the way up here?”

“Sure, it’s only two thousand three hundred and seven miles. It’s a pretty fascinating drive, if you don’t have any drying paint that needs watching.”

“Louisiana Restaurant Association … that’s who you work for?”

“That’s right,” I lied. Well, he didn’t have to know that I was out of a job. “I’m a restaurant hygiene consultant. Hey — bet you never guessed that I was in the food business.”

“Okay … the best thing you can do is call into Lyle’s Autos down at the other end of Main Street, get your vehicle towed off the highway as soon as possible. If you require a place to stay I can recommend the Calais Motor Inn.”

“Thank you. I may stay for a while. Looks like a nice town. Very … well-swept.”

“It is,” he said, as if he were warning me to make sure that it stayed that way. He handed back my ID and drove off at the mandatory snail’s pace.

Lyle’s Autos was actually run by a stocky man called Nils Guttormsen. He had a gray crewcut and a permanently surprised face like a chipmunk going through the sound barrier backward. He charged me a mere $65 for towing my car into his workshop, which was only slightly more than a quarter of everything I had in the world, and he estimated that he could put the engine back into it for less than $785, which was about $784 more than it was actually worth.

“How long will it take, Nils?”

“Well, John, you need it urgent?”

“Not really, Nils … I thought I might stick around town for a while. So — you know — why don’t you take your own sweet time?”

“Okay, John. I have to get transmission parts from Bangor. I could have it ready, say Tuesday?”