Reception

by Kenzie Jennings

  She and I pin Nathan underneath us. Somehow in the scuffle, I’ve dropped the mallet, and Nathan tries to twist out from underneath us to grab it with his other hand. Shay shoves at his face, her palm pushing him forcefully back, flattening his cheek and mouth. She grabs a fistful of his hair and then slams the back of his head down hard against the linoleum, unfortunately just not quite hard enough to knock him out. He twists his body, thrashing this way and that, his jaws snapping at me, at Shay. He’s laughing like a maniac as the two of us attempt to subdue him. I manage to wrench myself around to the side and stretch my arm out, reaching out for and then snatching up the mallet. I then lock down his flailing arm under my knee. Shay lets go of his damaged hand and then wiggles up to a kneeling position, trapping his other with her shins.

  “Pretty girl, you shouldn’t do this,” he hisses at Shay. “We’re married, sweetheart. Husband and wife. Better or worse.”

  The sour stench of urine soaking and heating up the front of his trousers and the metallic tang of blood in the air makes my head feel runny, like I’m losing focus once more in the here and now. All I want to do is rip out his guts and shove them in his open mouth, watch him eat himself alive.

  Obviously, I haven’t had a lot of time to take my benzo crumb.

  These things, hopeless. These things.

  Pointless.

  (Remember what I said...

  When you’re feeling like everything is sucking all the air from you, you find something solid.)

  The mallet feels good in my grip.

  “Richer or poorer?” he says and do I detect a pleading tone there? Guilt maybe?

  Shay and I exchange a look of disgust.

  I hold out the mallet for her.

  “In sickness and in health?” he whines.

  She takes the tenderizer from me in her clean hand.

  “C’mon now, sweetheart,” he says, and I swear, are those honest to God tears forming in his eyes? “Sugar’n spice, right?”

  He tries wiggling away, but we have him locked down.

  Shay has that sort of peculiar, blank expression she used to reserve for all the boyfriends in her life she didn’t know what to do with. It’s a spacey cross between glazed over with boredom and contemplating something inexplicable, for Shay anyway.

  Nathan foolishly takes it upon himself to break the silence on her end. “Til death do us part! That’s how it goes, right, darlin’?”

  “You talk too much,” says Shay before she smashes the mallet down squarely in the center of his handsome mug. The force of her swing is so hard, so vicious, as physically absurd as it sounds, the center of his face pretty much explodes, sending bits of gristle and blood flying, spattering us and everything nearby.

  It takes me a moment to remind myself it’s okay to breathe. I think I have some Nathan facial matter in my hair, all over the front of my disgusting mess of a dress.

  “Goddamn, Shay,” I manage to say after swallowing and clearing back the bitter bile forming in my throat and mouth. There’s something acrid burbling inside of me, deep and warm, like whatever it is has made a stringy-sticky cocoon and is nesting, waiting for something to happen before it can emerge. It’s kind of like that feeling you get when you know you’re either going to have a heart attack or vomit at some point, and you’re hoping—no, really, you’re silently praying, it’s the latter. What happens as an end result, though, often catches you by surprise.

  Shay doesn’t make matters any better to ease that feeling away. She slams down the meat tenderizer again and again, cracking the skull and cartilage, pulverizing whatever was left of Nathan’s head that was still possibly in working condition. Whatever is triggering my sister to keep at it, it has her unrecognizable. Pre-wedding Shay would’ve retched at just the sight of a broken nose; post-wedding Shay, however, isn’t even with me right now. This version of Shay has dropped the mask, revealing a gore-cloaked monster with its mouth stretched into a wide, obscene rictus, spittle foaming at the corners, its nostrils flared, its eyes wet and gleaming.

  Monster Shay, she’s terrifying.

  And dare I admit, I may love her all the more, even when we can’t stand each other. Sister, slay.

  That said, it’s now at the point where Shay’s just hammering over and over at freshly juiced, red pulp. An onlooker wouldn’t have any idea that what remains is even human until he or she saw the lean, angular body in the bloody mess of a tuxedo shirt and black trousers, the grimy dress shoes.

  “Shay,” I say softly.

  She keeps at it, but she’s starting to slow down with a splattery thunk, thunk-a, thunk…thunk…

  I put a hand to her cheek like she’d done with me, drawing her face up, moving her focus to me. “I think he’s pretty much good and gone,” I tell her. “I’ll take that.”

  Shay scowls at me. “What?”

  “The mallet. Give it.”

  It doesn’t take much from me to pry the thing out of her hand. She’s gone all slack and funny, slumping backwards on the floor, a pitiful wretch in what used to be a wedding dress. Couldn’t tell by now, that’s for sure.

  Just before I stagger to my feet and help Shay up, I spot it laying there near Nathan’s side, so I swipe it up and stuff yet another thing down my bra while Shay’s still in her fugue state. She’d be useless with it now anyway. I don’t know if she’s about to pass out or what, but she’s wavery when standing, so I clasp her arm, steadying her.

  “Shay…”

  She keeps gaping at the mess she’s left on the floor, the mess of what was once a man, I suppose. Some kind of man anyway. Are they even human?

  I snap my fingers at her face, trying to get her attention. “Shay. Shay, look at me here.”

  Shay doesn’t, and that’s understandable. And, well, she’s not passed out at least. That would make things difficult for us both, me especially since I’d be even more responsible for her than I should allowed to be considering the obvious. As my parents would’ve undoubtedly reminded anyone interested, I’m not cut out to be a caregiver; I’m better at being cared for. Even then, it’s complicated.

  It’s all complicated.

  “Shay, we have to go.” I turn her head to me, a finger on the side of her chin. “They’re gonna come back for Nathan and see all this. We can’t be here when they come.”

  Her eyes flicker back to the here and now, where I want her to be. She meets my gaze and lets out an audible shiver.

  “I need you to be with me, hear?”

  Shay slowly nods. She’s about to look back down at the sight of her husband’s body, but I jerk her head up, keeping her eyes trained back on me, my hand firmly cupping her chin as I do.

  “Now, Shay. You ready to go? I need you to be ready.”

  She sniffs, nods again, says, “I’m ready.”

  I then pull her by the hand and guide her out of the bathroom with me.

  Fuck this noise. All of it.

  #

  By the time we’re outside and making our way quickly, silently around the guest casitas, the power goes out all over the resort, and we’re nothing but hazy shapes in the moonlight. I don’t know if it’s a deliberate move on the part of the monsters out there, but I wouldn’t doubt it in the slightest. They know the terrain. We don’t. Game, set, match.

  My face burns. Arm throbs. Everything’s shredded, what’s still left of me. No matter. Got to press on.

  I’ve armed Shay with one of the heavier candlesticks from the suite while I brandish the gore-coated meat tenderizer for a change. I figure the candlestick’s just fresh enough in that it won’t remind Shay of what she left behind in the bridal suite’s bathroom. My free hand clasps her own, our fingers interlocking once again as we break into an awkward jog, darting down the narrow dirt path in the dark, only the sliver of moonlight guiding us.

  The smoky-sweet scent of basted barbequed meat is fragrant in the humid air, and my stomach rumble-groans its dismay at my thought of running from the smell rather than towards it. The shrill so
und of someone screaming pierces the night, halting us. We’re both panting, and I didn’t realize how fast we’d actually been going until now. The screams are then overpowered by whistling and hollering, then the sound of clapping and cheering. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The vast expanse of the dark terrain makes it difficult to pinpoint noise. The last time we’d heard something like this out in the open, our mother was being spit-roasted, and Nathan had chased us.

  At least we know now if we’re being chased, it won’t be Nathan running after us. That’s a plus in a way, until, of course, his body’s discovered in the bathroom. I shudder to think what the Card elders will do as soon as they find him. Rex and Delia will inevitably make sure Shay and I are both quartered, trussed and served as low country as they’d have us figured.

  The morbid bit of me lingering there wonders what “low country” would authentically entail for the two of us.

  We’ve reached the dumpster near the rear parking lot where everyone who isn’t a wedding guest had parked their cars earlier. A lone parking lot lamp there seems to be working, and while it’s good to be able to see what’s in front of us, there are some sights that are best left unseen.

  There are several packs of eaters in the side parking lot by the murky pool, each pack consisting of anywhere from three to four resort employees in gore-spattered uniforms, each pack crouching around their catch, tearing into their fresh meat. The shrill, wispy song of the cicadas still isn’t quite stereo-quality enough to mask the whuffling grunts and noisy chewing punctuated by the occasional blissful groan or sigh signaling their content.

  I sneak a peek around our hiding spot behind the dumpster. I’ve automatically taken on the role of lookout mainly because Shay seems likely to break any minute. She’s jittery, fidgety, sensitive of everything around us, and the combination of that with the fact she’s ready to pulverize the Card party to mush has me on edge, too, now that I know what she’s fully capable of doing.

  There’s movement coming from beside Delia’s SUV not far from Shay’s, a dark form, someone there. It’s close to the pack, but they’re only interested in the meal in front of them. A white, spidery hand reaches around and clamps over a little face that suddenly emerges from the shadow and out in the moonlight. A mouth. A pert little nose. Wide eyes blinking rapidly.

  Jesus H. It’s Bryceson. Poor kid is gaping at the remnants of what looks like Emma at the back of the car, there on the ground. I can only tell it’s Emma because no one else at the wedding had been gutsy enough to wear those canary yellow slingbacks, a slip of color in the dusky light. Members of the pack around the other side of Delia’s car are eating her ropy entrails. Someone else has apparently taken charge of the kid, keeping him from crying out for his mother, giving away their hiding place. The hand that’s clamped over his mouth is connected to a long, white-sleeved arm. That much I can see from where we are. At least the kid is being protected for the time being.

  “See anything?” whispers Shay. Her hand has grown cold and clammy in mine, but it can just as easily be my hand that’s sweaty. Even on a summer night, one could go numb all over with shock. This. This is happening. I’ve been repeating it again and again that This. Is. Happening.

  I keep my gaze steady, focusing on the pack on the other side of the SUV underneath the glow of the single light of the lot. They all have their backs to the car, to Bryceson and whomever it is who’s keeping him quiet.

  How the hell had they got there? What are they thinking?

  “It’s Bryceson,” I whisper back. “He’s near Delia’s car. He’s with someone.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it Emma?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know? How do you know it’s not Emma?”

  “I just do.”

  “It could be Emma.”

  “It’s not Emma, Shay.”

  “Who is it then? Who else could it be?”

  “I’ll let you know when the freaks who are eating Emma have left the parking lot.”

  That shuts her up instantly. And then—

  “We need to get him out of there, Ans. We need to do something. They’ll see him,” she says in my ear. She’s starting to hyperventilate. Her breathing comes in light, rapid hitches. “They’re gonna see him, or they’re gonna smell him. Either way, they’re gonna find him.”

  “Stop it, Shay. We need to keep a clear head,” I whisper, keeping my tone soothing and easy. “Listen. Breathe in four seconds, hold for seven, then release for eight. You hear me? Old trick Leon taught me, and I know you do this when you meditate. Four. Seven. Eight. Squeeze if you’re doing it.”

  I hear her suck in her breath. She squeezes and then releases my hand. I feel the blood rush back into my joints, flooding my hand with prickly warmth.

  “Stay here,” I say.

  Before I can make a move to leave her, Shay tightly grasps my hand again, pulling at me. “No. No, you can’t. They’ll see you.”

  I turn to look at her outline. She had rid herself of the veil, the train and slip, thank God, but I can’t believe she still has those goddamned shoes on. She’d been barely able to walk down the cobblestone “aisle” in those clunkers.

  I squeeze back. “That’s the general idea,” I whisper. “I have to get them away from Delia’s car. It’ll give Bryceson and his friend time to move, but you have to be ready to run, too.”

  “What? Are you serious? I can’t—”

  I pull her to me, have her look me in the eye. “Get Bryceson and whoever’s with him, and you go as fast as you can to your car. I figure it’s anywhere from fifty to sixty feet from Delia’s. Don’t take the main drive though. Follow the drainage ditch at the lot, and just hide in the shadows where you can. Then get in your car and take the back entrance out.”

  “But you’re just going to—”

  I dig down the front of my dress, under one tight corner of a bra cup, and pull out the thing that had been digging into my breast. The other cup still holds the skeleton key we found in the Dopp kit, and I’m more aware now than I had been that it’s much more painful in its own resting spot. I hold up the keychain holding the car fob for Shay to see, letting it dangle there in front of her line of sight. Her eyes widen at the sight of it. Then I place it in Shay’s palm and close her fingers around it. “You dropped it in the bathroom while you were—Fuck it. Wait for me,” I say. “If I don’t show soon after you guys are at the rear entrance, no more than ten minutes, you know what to do.”

  Before she can protest, I’m already off and running.

  EIGHTTEEN

  How did it come to this? I mean, who could have imagined anything like this was going to happen? By the way, I’m not a runner by any stretch of the imagination, so it didn’t take long for the sharp pain to rip through my sides. As much as adrenaline has been my buddy throughout the whole ordeal, it doesn’t do shit to keep from reminding me I Don’t Run.

  Back in the pre-panic days when I hadn’t been prescribed anything, I attempted the whole running thing every morning, just before work. Just a mile or two, which turned into five or six or seven, and by then, I’d just reached the point where the pain threshold had turned into that “high” exercise fanatics crow about. That was when Simon stopped talking to me, ignoring my calls, texts, emails, cutting me off completely like the coward he was and probably still is. After that came the surprise of his baby, his marriage, you get the picture.

  My shrink later on kept suggesting I get back into exercising, but by then, every time I attempted to run or go to the gym, or even try some incredibly stupid exercise trend like zumba or swinging around stripper poles, it felt as if my lungs were shriveling up to the size and consistency of raisins, like my ability to breathe was rapidly dying, I was dying. Once, while on the elliptical at the gym near my workplace, I even fainted. I’d never fainted before. It’s not like in the movies where everything is all in soft-focus, and there’s some ridiculous piece of
period furniture like a fainting couch where the heroine comes to after the handsome devil wafts some smelling salts under her nose. It’s the least glamorous “accident” next to farting, really. I’d just slipped and fallen off the elliptical machine and sprained both ankles somehow in the process.

  Anyway, I don’t run.

  Unless, of course, I’ve cannibalistic maniacs in hot pursuit of me. I don’t know if it’s the fear of being caught and eaten or the anger at the thought of being stupidly caught and eaten, but whatever it is, adrenaline-fueled or not, I’m finding that running is a heck of a lot easier than it’s ever been post-Simon. Granted, I don’t know what I’m running on right now, and I’d love to be able to stop and take a few breaths, but I’ve a feeling our batshit pursuers aren’t in the frame of mind or mood or appetite for breaks.

  I don’t even know where I’m leading them. I’d shouted something that, in hindsight, wasn’t particularly bright or inventive—something like “Hey! Steak tartare, everybody! Come and get some, motherfuckers!” If Dad were still around to see all of this, he would’ve been both terribly impressed that I’d mentioned his favorite dish, ever, next to brisket sandwiches, and horrified I’d done something that, now that I think about it, was so idiotic. Then I remind myself that Dad had been on the impromptu menu earlier as his favorite dish, minus the egg yolk, and I get depressed all over again. This isn’t what I’d wanted.

  This isn’t what any of us wanted. This isn’t what any of us had rightly and logically anticipated. This is absurd. What the hell am I doing anyway? Where am I going? I don’t know where I am right now. Let’s see. I’d followed the path around the front of the casitas with some goal in mind, some crazy-stupid end goal. What did I say? What did I tell Shay again? My thoughts, my memory, everything’s sort of a jumbled mess in my head. And that noise, that constant keening in my ears won’t go away. It could be the withdrawals, tinnitus; it could be the obvious trauma-induced stress. I just can’t remember, fuck it all. I think I’m to circle back around at some point from the rear end of the resort, making a wide loop.