Horror - Flash

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Well-Circulated Cash Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

WELL-CIRCULATED CASH

33 years behind bars, 33 years pining and waiting and imagining what he’d do with all that dough once he got free. Now, finally, today was the day Malcom Bridges would be let out of Kent Institution—the maximum-security penitentiary for most of Western Canada. He could eat and drink and piss and shit and sleep and exercise whenever the hell he wanted, especially because he never gave up where he and his partner had stashed the 2.1 million in well-circulated cash.

“Oh, Tracy,” he said, thinking of his old partner’s deep green eyes, and then of his screw up that left a catalog of evidence against him on her body after he’d murdered her. “Note to self, poke holes in the lungs when dumping a corpse or it’ll float.” He laughed at this, could laugh now, though it hadn’t been funny until he walked through that gate for a final time, his back to the big grey walls that had entombed him so long.

Malcolm stepped off the bus to the street. He had $23 in his pocket, probably only enough to cover a cab out to the old farm—he’d chatted up enough newbies when they came in and read enough online to know the buck didn’t go very far these days.

Flagging them down wasn’t working—not without an app—so Malcolm planted himself in the middle of the street, waving both arms over his head when he saw another car with that telltale yellow paint. “Will twenty bucks get me out to Red Bridge Road?” he said to the little brown man behind the wheel.

“Barely.”

Malcolm sat back and watched the world beyond the window. Everything had changed so much, at least until they hit the outskirts of town. Red Bridge Road looked almost identical to what it had looked like in 1990. The bridge was a little less red, more a rust brown now, and the dusty gravel of the road seemed less traveled.

Malcolm was so excited, he had to keep himself from jogging the three miles from the highway where the cabbie let him out to the farm where he’d stashed all that beautiful cash.

To his surprise and delight, there was a for sale sign at the end of the lane, the ditches overgrown with eye-high weeds, the mailbox smashed inutile. He couldn’t help it any longer. It would be dark soon and he guessed the power was off in the ancient barn.

In twilight’s orange glow, Malcolm rushed into the basement of the barn. At some point in his time away, someone had whitewashed the stone walls. Likely that even did him a favor and help keep that one particular stone a secret. He found it and began slamming his palms against it to wiggle it loose, making his hands dusty white with cheap, powdery paint.

Not five minutes passed before the watermelon-sized rock dropped from the wall to reveal the hiding place and the Saturday canvas duffle bag hidden within. The bag was packed with denominations from $10 to $100.

“Come. On,” he grunted, yanking.

Pap-pap-pap.

Malcolm jerked his head around at the noise. He saw nothing in the dim barn basement, though did note that it was getting dark quickly. He returned his attention to the bag, thinking perhaps he should wait until tomorrow.

Pap-pap-pap-pap.

Malcom let go of the bag and spun fully around with his dukes up. Again, there was nobody there. “Tomorrow,” he whispered and bent to pick up the rock he’d wiggled out.

Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap.

This time he didn’t have to turn, looking up in time to see the rear end of a llama fly through one of the big doors. He began howling with laughter, knowing he could safely grab the bag.

“Might get spit on,” he said as he pulled at the duffle, finally getting it to rise.

Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap.

The sounds seemed doubled up, and much closer. They weren’t worth his attention however because the bag was coming.

Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap.

The huge duffle flopped down into the ancient, scentless manure on the floor. Malcolm unzipped the bag.

Pap-pap!

Like an army stamping in unison. He looked up from his work. Ten llamas stood in a row, chewing their cud, looking at him with glowing green eyes.

Pap!

“Git!” he shouted and swatted his arms at the animals.

Pap-pap-pap!

“I don’t have any food for you.”

Synchronized, the llamas looked at the open bag.

“You wish,” Malcolm said, bending to zip the bag back up.

He didn’t get it a quarter of the way closed before a parade of paps rushed him and head butted at his prone state. He flew against the wall, looking up in time to see four of the animals blast him with their hard heads positioned like battering rams.

It hurt like hell, but he skittered into the corner. One llama followed him: pap-pap-pap went its hooves against the soft, dusty manure. Behind this animal, the other llamas were nosing into the duffle bag.

“No!” Malcolm shouted and tried to rise, only to be slammed against the wall by the tremendous strike of the dough-eyed beast. “Git!” he shouted and tried to rise again, and again, and again, after the fifth time, he remained on the floor, cowering in the fetal position, trying to protect himself from the green-eyed bastards. He could hear his fortune being eaten. Could hear his future being ground into papier mâché between the llama’s jaws. Could hear the whiny voice of the teenaged manager he’d have at whichever fast-food joint was willing to take a chance on a felon. Could hear—

“Green eyes, just like Tracy,” he said and then peeked from behind a protective elbow.

The llama guarding him winked and then spat into his face.

XX