Melt

by Christopher Motz

  The clerk that had been working behind the counter was nothing more than a wet outline; his skin bubbled and hissed as it ran sluggishly down the display case.

  "There's no one out there," Brandon said as he navigated the sea of clothing and peeked into the street. "No one at all."

  "What did you expect?" Greg asked. "A military parade? A marching band?"

  "I don't know," Brandon said, confused. "Something. Anything. Where'd all the soldiers go? Did they just give up and go home?"

  "If we're lucky..."

  "No! Why is no one fighting this? Did everyone just lay down and die?"

  Brandon opened the front door and craned his neck to see up and down the street in either direction. Nearby, the news van they'd seen on television was still burning. The blockade was still in place, but the Wildflower van was gone. Empty shoes and clothing were scattered up and down Block Street along with discarded personal items and vehicles riddled with bullet holes. Fires raged in buildings all over town and thick smoke blotted out the sky.

  Brandon quickly pulled his head inside as the first drops of rain pattered to the bloody asphalt.

  "It's raining," he said.

  Greg turned and kicked the wall with a shout as his foot punched through the drywall.

  "We're trapped here," he said. "Trapped inside with all these dead bodies."

  "No bodies," Brandon said, "just goop... like Silly Putty."

  "Well, that makes it much better," Greg shouted. "What the hell do we do now?"

  "I guess we wait it out."

  Brandon stared through the glass doors as the rain fell harder, washing what was left of Ditchburn's citizens into the gutters and down into the sewers. When movement caught his eye, he moaned and started pounding on the glass.

  "Get out of there," he yelled. "Get out of the rain."

  "Is there someone out there?" Greg asked.

  "A dog. A stupid, goddamn dog."

  He watched as the rain pelted the animal's thick coat. It trotted across the sidewalk, bent its head, and lapped at the gutter. Brandon closed his eyes to block out what he knew was coming... but when he opened them, the dog was still there, unharmed.

  "He's fine," Brandon said, astonished. "He's not melting."

  Greg ran up beside him and plastered his face against the glass. The dog noticed him and backed away with a growl, but other than being a wet, scraggly mess, it looked perfectly healthy.

  "It's not in the rain," Brandon said, laughing. "Those monsters aren't in the rainwater."

  "That's about the best news I've heard tonight," Greg said. "Not even the runoff seems to be contaminated."

  The dog sniffed at a pair of pants, burying his nose in the jellied remains of their owner. Nothing happened.

  "They just kill and move on," Brandon said. "They melt us down like scrap and go find another victim."

  "Under the circumstances," Greg said, "I'd say it's a blessing in disguise. If we had to watch out for every slimy patch along the way, we'd never get out of here."

  "But what's left?" Brandon asked. "A ring? Fillings? How is there any way to know who these people were?"

  He imagined a large statue in the park with hundreds of names etched into bronze - 'For Those Who Lost Their Lives In The Great Blob War.' He wanted to laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. Someday, when this was all over, someone would scoop up what was left of the town and dump it in a mass grave where tourists could lay flowers and buy Brown Blob Monster key chains from the gift shop. What a way to honor the dead.

  "Do you think we should go?" Greg asked. "Risk it?"

  Brandon watched the dog sniff at a few other items before sauntering up the street and disappearing behind the blockade.

  "I think it's safe," he said, "but could we stay here for a few minutes? Rest? I'm exhausted."

  Greg was too, partly from dragging Brandon around by the arm, and partly from the adrenaline dump that left him feeling tired and slow. The theater had an unpleasant smell and was splashed with the remains of the building's final customers, but it appeared safe for the moment.

  As safe as anywhere in Ditchburn that night.

  Just as they let their guard down and thought they could relax before continuing their trek across town, they heard a loud thump overhead. Brandon reached behind him and pulled the 9mm before he had any clear target. The sound wasn't repeated, but it had been clear as day.

  They weren't alone.

  ***

  Greg and Brandon cocked their heads and listened for any other signs of unwanted company. Brandon held the gun pointed at the floor as he crossed the lobby and checked inside a small broom closet. They both knew the smartest move was to leave the theater behind and get to the forest, but their curiosity got the best of them. If there was someone else here, someone they could help, they felt an obligation to do so.

  "Is there anything upstairs?" Brandon whispered.

  "Yeah, I guess," Greg said. "The projection room, maybe?"

  He nodded and checked another closet, looking specifically for stairs that led to the second floor. When he found them, he urged Greg to follow.

  "Shouldn't this door be locked?" Brandon said. "What if someone is setting a trap?"

  "What if someone's hurt?" Greg said. "We should at least check."

  Brandon sighed and climbed the narrow stairway. It was so dark, they couldn't see the top. When the stairs lit with a crack, Brandon stopped and turned. Greg held the pack of matches he'd taken from the market; one burned brightly in his hand before he tossed it to the floor and struck another.

  "I thought they'd be useful," he said. Brandon let out his breath and frowned.

  "You scared the hell out of me."

  "Would you rather not see where we're going?" Greg asked.

  "You could've warned me," he replied, but he was already climbing ahead.

  At the landing, they stopped at a closed door and waited. Greg let the match burn down and dropped it without lighting another. If someone was up here, it was best to stay hidden in the shadows. Brandon reached out a shaking hand and lightly pressed on the door; it opened smoothly and without hesitation.

  The projector room was small and neat; a desk sat against the far wall with someone's uneaten dinner laid out on fast food wrappers. A single candle burned brightly and cast wavering shadows on the walls. One of those shadows put up its hands and spoke.

  "Get out of here, goddammit," someone shouted. "I don't want any trouble."

  "Stay right there," Brandon ordered, raising the gun. "What are you doing here?"

  "I work here," a man said. "It's you that don't belong."

  "Then why the hell didn't you lock the door?"

  "I lost my keys three years ago... never had them replaced."

  Greg walked to Brandon's side and pushed his arm down so the gun was pointing at the projector.

  "You're the projectionist," Greg said.

  "Have been since 1968," the man replied. "It was called the Palace Theater back then."

  "We're not here for a history lesson," Brandon said. "What are you still doing up here? You know what's happening outside?"

  "Course I know," he said. "I saw what happened from right here." He pointed to a small tinted window next to the projector. "Had a bird's-eye view of the whole damn thing. I heard some shooting and thought it best to keep my ass out of harm's way... but I can see trouble found me anyway."

  "We're not going to hurt you," Greg said. "Brandon, put the damn gun away."

  "How do we know he isn't tricking us?"

  "He's seventy years old," Greg said. "I don't think he's going to be a problem."

  "Seventy-three," the man said. "Seventy-four in October if I make it that long."

  Brandon slowly tucked the gun in his pants, but his hand lingered just in case the old man made any sudden moves. When the man walked out of the shadows, Brandon relaxed at the squat, hunched figure and rested his hand at his side. It looked like any sudden movement was more than a few years in his past.<
br />
  "Name's Sam," the old man said. "What are you two doing here?"

  "We're trying to get out of town," Greg said. "We got turned around."

  "Turned around, you say? What's it like out there?"

  "You don't want to know," Brandon said. "There are soldiers killing people in the street..."

  "I heard them," Sam interrupted. "Sounded like the AKs we had in Vietnam."

  "Why didn't you try to escape?" Greg asked. "This isn't exactly the safest place in the world."

  "Safer than it is outside," Sam said. "I have a bum leg, don't move as fast as I used to. It would've taken me five minutes just to get to my car."

  Outside, another explosion broke the silence. From the projection room, it sounded like thunder... if they hadn't known any better.

  "Christ, there's not going to be anything left," Brandon said.

  "Sounds like a damned mortar shell," Sam said. "What the hell are they doing out there?"

  "You don't understand," Greg said. "Those men, soldiers, whatever you want to call them... they're not ours. They're not working for the government."

  Sam sat in a small wooden chair with a grunt and watched Greg with squinted eyes.

  "Then who the hell are they?"

  "We don't know," Brandon said, "but they're armed to the teeth and they don't seem to care what they're shooting at."

  "What about those... things? They still out there?"

  "We haven't seen any for the last half-hour or so, but we're not taking any chances," Brandon said. "You can still hear people screaming."

  Sam shook his head and looked at the floor. Suddenly he looked every bit of his seventy-three years.

  "This was once a nice town," he said before biting into his hamburger. "We didn't have all this crime. I blame it on the movies you kids watch these days: blood, sex, violence, monsters... there's no end to it."

  "Yeah," Brandon said sarcastically. "Because there was none of that in Vietnam."

  "I'm not going to talk to you about that," he said, taking another bite. He grimaced, spit something in his hand, and dropped it on the desk. "I mean, look at this." He held the hamburger out to them and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I've been getting the same damn burger for ten years and they can't seem to understand what I mean when I tell them 'no pickles.' Do I have to curse at them? Jump up and down and cause a scene? Is that what works for you kids these days?"

  "Listen..." Brandon said before Sam waved a hand and cut him off.

  "Look at those dumb movies with that wrestler guy... Rock or whatever. All guns blazing... kill, kill, kill. Rock Hudson... now he was an actor. These new guys can't hold a candle to the greats."

  "Rock Hudson was gay and died of AIDS," Brandon said.

  Sam chewed, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Well, maybe so, but what a guy does behind closed doors is his own damn business."

  Brandon knew this was getting them nowhere. He watched Sam and raised his hands in defeat.

  "What are you going to do?" Greg asked. "You can't stay here."

  "That's exactly what I'm going to do," Sam said. "How far do you think I'd make it out there? A couple blocks? I'm no fool."

  Greg thought it would be best if they gave the gun to Sam, but then they would have no protection against madmen like Jim Belter. From what he'd seen, weapons don't work against the blobs, and if armed gunmen stormed in and started shooting, the 9mm wouldn't do Sam any good anyway.

  "Where are you two going to go?" Sam asked. "Is there a safe zone?"

  "Not that we know of," Brandon said. "I don't think anywhere is safe."

  "We're heading to Thorpe's Woods," Greg added. "If we can get over the mountain, we should reach Parkland before daybreak... tell them what's happening."

  Sam nodded and took another bite. The conversation seemed no more important than discussing the score of a Phillies game.

  "What happens if you get there and it's just more of the same?" Sam asked. "What if this is happening all over the state? The country?"

  Greg exhaled and closed his eyes. After all they'd been through in a few short hours, he never once thought that what was happening in Ditchburn could very well be happening globally. Where would that leave them? What chance would they have for survival if this really was the end of the world?

  "Then we keep going," Brandon said. "There has to be someone out there."

  Sam shrugged and continued with his dinner.

  "So you're just going to keep walking, hoping that someone saves you? That's a dangerous plan."

  "No more dangerous than sitting in here and waiting to be eaten by one of those damn things," Brandon shouted. "At least we're trying to do something about it."

  "All you're doing is putting a target on your back. I've lived a good life. If it's my time, then it's my time."

  "And what about your loved ones?" Greg said. "Wife? Kids? You don't care what's happening to them?"

  "My wife died in 1994," Sam said. "My son lives in Wichita, Nebraska and hasn't called me in months. He can take care of himself."

  "So you're just giving up?" Brandon said. "Is that it?"

  Sam dumped French fries onto a napkin and stuffed several into his mouth.

  "Right now, I'm just trying to enjoy my dinner. If this is my last meal, I want to eat it in peace. Except for these damn pickles. You want them?"

  "No, we don't want your stupid pickles," Brandon said. He turned to Greg and said, "Let's go. If he wants to die up here, we're not going to change his mind."

  Brandon was out the door before Greg could register his absence. He felt bad for the old man, but who was he to decide what was best for another human being? If Sam wanted to stay, that was his choice to make. Greg wasn't about to force him to do something against his will.

  "Take care of yourself, okay?" Greg said. "Don't do anything stupid."

  Sam laughed and wiped his greasy fingers on his pants.

  "I have as much a chance of dying from fast food as I do going out there. It's you and your friend that need to be careful. You still have long lives ahead of you. All I have is the rest of this hamburger, a bad leg, and my memories. Seventy-three years old... I don't have much to complain about."

  "Seventy-four in October," Greg said.

  Sam laughed and said, "Go get your friend. Stick together and you'll be just fine."

  Greg nodded and opened the door, pausing briefly to turn and offer a quick wave.

  "Goodbye, Sam."

  "If we meet again, lunch is on me." He raised his half-eaten burger in salute and turned away.

  Greg swallowed hard and closed the door behind him.

  ***

  When Greg opened the door to the lobby, he saw Brandon munching on a handful of buttered popcorn. An open bottle of Sprite sat next to the sticky remains of the Silver's concession clerk.

  "What were you two doing?" Brandon asked. "Sharing war stories?"

  "Just saying goodbye," Greg said. "It doesn't feel right leaving him alone up there."

  Brandon shrugged and stuffed more popcorn into his mouth. Greg was more than a little surprised by his behavior, but he didn't say anything.

  "I think I'm ready to go," Brandon said.

  "Didn't you want to rest?" Greg asked. "We don't have to rush."

  "I feel better now," he said. "You should have some of this popcorn. It's pretty damn good."

  "I don't want any popcorn. What I want is for you to drop the tough guy routine. It's not you."

  "Tough guy? All I'm doing is eating some fucking popcorn," Brandon said.

  "The way you talked to Sam," Greg said. "The way you're behaving. It's just not like you."

  "I don't know how you want me to behave. I watched my sister die, my house burn down, and my father take off with Rambler into a town overrun by SYFY Channel monsters. You remember that, right?"

  "Of course, I remember..."

  "Then don't tell me how to act. I think I deserve to blow off a little steam."

  "It doesn't give you the right to be a
n asshole," Greg said. "We have a long way to go before we can get out of here, and I don't need you pulling that damn gun at every shadow. You're going to hurt someone."

  "Hurt someone?" Brandon asked. "You mean like Jim Belter? What would have happened to us if I didn't have the gun? We'd be sitting in that freak's dining room in our underwear waiting for him to slice our throats."

  "Goddammit, you know what I mean," Greg shouted. "You're standing there eating popcorn like you're waiting for the movie to start. This isn't a game."

  "Is that what you think? That I don't know what's happening out there? I know better than most what we're up against, and I don't need you telling me about my fucking etiquette." Brandon tossed a handful of popcorn on the floor, wiped his mouth, and came around the counter. Greg was worried what his friend might do, but as Brandon approached, his features softened.

  "I just want to know that you're okay," Greg said.

  "I'm sorry. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

  "I know... I didn't mean anything by it."

  "Do you want it?" Brandon asked, pulling the gun from his waist and holding it out to Greg. "If you think I'm dangerous, maybe it's better if you keep it for now."

  Greg thought about it before crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head.

  "No. You keep it. At least you know how to use it."

  Brandon nodded and tucked it back into his pants. He considered Greg his best friend and felt terrible for yelling at him. If there was anyone Brandon wanted to spend the apocalypse with, it was Greg.

  "I'm not ready to go," Brandon said. "We should rest, even if it's only for an hour." He looked into the rainy street and frowned. "I don't want to go out there."

  "I know," Greg said, "but we don't have a choice, do we? We can't stay here. It might be quiet now, but I don't think for a second this is over."

  Brandon walked up the hall, opened the broom closet door, and motioned Greg to follow.

  "It's better than being out in the open," Brandon said.

  They walked inside, closed the door behind them, and sat on the floor. The enclosed space smelled of chemicals and the musty funk of old rinse water in a plastic mop bucket. After sitting in silence for a few minutes, Brandon began laughing to himself.