Melt

by Christopher Motz

  Once again, Brandon patted the gun before continuing on.

  When they turned the corner, they stopped and stared in awe.

  The Grace Evangelical Church was a sea of light in the darkness. The stained glass windows glowed brightly, painting the street a myriad of colors and shapes. Greg saw the shadows of Ditchburn's devout swaying inside to the cadence of the lyrics. Once they stopped singing, they started again. Greg still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, but the comfort of knowing they weren't alone gave him hope that there'd be a way out of this mess.

  "We have to talk to them," Greg said.

  "Talk to them? Are you crazy?"

  "Safety in numbers. If there are people here, there has to be others."

  "A bunch of holy rollers and Bible thumpers," Brandon said. "Are they going to pray us out of here?"

  "Is it any more ridiculous than you shooting our way out?"

  "I'd take that chance. At least I can touch this," Brandon said, patting the gun again. "I'd rather have something concrete than leaving my fate up to the chance that we'll be saved by an invisible man."

  "Were you always like this?" Greg asked. "How didn't I see it before?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just... this. You being so close-minded and angry. How far do you think we're going to get if you just give up?"

  "I'm not giving up, but I'm also not trusting in something I can't see."

  The singing stopped and started again.

  The front door opened as a man stepped out, silhouetted by the church's light. He looked directly at them and smiled.

  "Inside," he said with open arms. "No rain inside."

  "I'm going," Greg said.

  "No! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Brandon asked.

  "I'm cold and I'm tired and I just want to sit down and rest. Just for a couple minutes."

  "We can find somewhere else. This doesn't feel right."

  "Come," the man said. "Warm inside. Nice."

  "Are you coming or not?" Greg said.

  "I can't believe I'm doing this. Five minutes. Do you hear me? Five minutes and we keep going."

  "Five minutes," Greg repeated. "I promise."

  "Yes," the man said. "Inside. Sing songs. No rain."

  As the sky flickered, they slowly crossed the street and climbed the stairs. Heat radiated from within. Brandon took a deep breath and followed Greg inside.

  "That's right," the man said with a grin. "Rest."

  The door to Grace Evangelical closed behind them.

  ***

  For a minute, the light was so bright they had to shield their eyes. When their vision returned, they saw the church was full of people, ones they both recognized. They filled every pew and bench; some sat in the aisles swaying in time with the hymn. The pastor stood on the pulpit, singing along and watching his parishioners as he led them in song.

  "What's going on here?" Greg asked the man. "Why is everyone here and not trying to escape?"

  "No escape," he replied. "Stay. Sing. Pray."

  The man was in his sixties, tall but hunched at the shoulders. He wore a straggly gray beard and a crucifix around his neck.

  "How'd you know we were out there?" Brandon asked.

  "I watch," the man said. "Through the window. More will be coming."

  "More? How do you know that?" Greg said.

  "More always come," the man said as he ushered them forward. When he felt the hard steel tucked into Brandon's pants, he backed away. "No gun," he said. "Not in here."

  "I'm not giving it up," Brandon said, turning quickly.

  The man put his hands up, smiled, and said, "No worries. You won't need weapons."

  "I'll be the judge of that," Brandon muttered.

  "Only one judge here," he replied, pointing to the ceiling.

  "I'm Greg," the boy said, "and this is Brandon."

  "Richard," the man said. "I clean. Broom. Dust. I live downstairs."

  "You're not from around here," Greg said.

  "No," Richard replied, but didn't bother elaborating. "Food. Drink. Over there," he pointed.

  Along the wall stood a folding table with cups of water and trays of cookies. Greg and Brandon looked at one another and shook their heads. Eating was the furthest thing from their minds.

  "Drink. Eat," Richard repeated. "More coming."

  The man walked away and opened the door as he called to someone in the street. Brandon looked at Greg curiously and then to those sitting nearby as they stared ahead without emotion.

  A woman entered the church with a wide-eyed child, followed by a teenage boy that Brandon recognized from school.

  "That's Walter Thomas," Brandon whispered. "He's in Algebra with me."

  Greg nodded. "How did Richard know they were out there? He wasn't watching for them. It's like he just knew."

  Walter's eyes lit up as he saw them. He walked over quickly and held out his hand.

  "Hi guys," he said. "Do you believe this shit?" He looked around to make sure no one heard him cuss before continuing. "We thought we were the only ones left."

  "Us too," Greg said as he shook the boy's hand.

  "Do you know what's going on?" he asked. "Did anyone say anything?"

  "Not really," Brandon said. He wasn't about to repeat what the soldier had told them.

  "I'm so glad to see other people," Walter said. "This is crazy."

  Richard closed the door and approached the group.

  "Eat. Drink," he said. "No rain in here."

  He grabbed a cup of water, finished it in one swallow, and walked up the aisle. He stood by the first row of pews with his arms folded over his chest, watching the pastor adoringly.

  The hymn stopped, but this time silence crept over those assembled.

  "Friends," the pastor shouted.

  "FRIENDS," the congregation repeated.

  "Time is on our side," he said, followed by the crowd's monotone refrain. His voice was watery as if he was fighting a cold. He spoke in the same broken English as Richard.

  "Eat. Drink. Become," he said.

  "BECOME!"

  "Become what?" Walter said. "Is this a church or the Branch Davidian?" He giggled as he stuffed a cookie in his mouth and offered one to his little sister and mother.

  The congregation sat completely still.

  The pastor crept forward, walking like an old man without his cane. He stood unsteadily on his feet and tried a smile that made his face look uneven. He never blinked.

  "Water is life. Friends, drink," he said. He watched Greg, Brandon, and the others while waiting for them to follow his demand. Walter picked up a cup and put it to his lips as Brandon grabbed his arm, forcing him to spill most of it on the floor. The pastor's eye twitched.

  "What the hell?" Walter said. "Knock it off." He looked into his half-empty cup, raised it, and drank. When nothing happened, he raised his eyebrows at Brandon and grabbed another.

  "Something's not right," he whispered to Greg.

  "Not safe outside," the pastor said. "Safe in here. No cold. No wet."

  Thunder rumbled overhead as if to help prove his point.

  "No wet," Walter's sister laughed. "That's silly."

  Walter rubbed his stomach and burped quietly.

  As if commanded, the congregation stood at once. It was then Greg saw his mother near the front of the room.

  "Mom," Greg shouted. "Mom is that you?"

  The woman turned her head slowly and smiled.

  Four rows behind her, another woman, the same woman, turned and smiled in unison.

  Then three others.

  "Mother," they all said as one. "I am Mother."

  They were identical, but also different.

  "Jesus Christ," Greg gasped. "What the fuck..."

  "Mother. Hug. Become," they said as a group.

  When they held out their arms, Greg shrieked and jumped back. It wasn't like his mother was having a bad day... it was far more disturbing than that. The closest 'mother' smi
led as her upper lip deformed and melted, sliding down over a set of yellow teeth. Her shoulders slumped as her fingers dripped thick viscous jelly. Her teeth chattered and crumbled as she babbled something that sounded like 'son.'

  Her hair slid off her skull and draped over her shoulder.

  Brandon ran for the door without looking back.

  "I don't feel so good," Walter said as he clutched his gut. He bent over and vomited blood on the floor as his sister screamed and covered her eyes.

  "Don't run," the pastor shouted. "Walk... in an order... an orderly fashion... to the exit."

  Greg joined Brandon at the door, still reeling from seeing his mother's face come apart at the seams.

  "Where's Walter?" Brandon shouted.

  "He's dying," Greg replied. "The water... they poisoned all the water."

  The congregation began moving in an unorganized line, tripping over each other and fighting to get to the aisle. Greg froze as two of his mothers joined forces to push another man out of the way.

  "Child," they said. "Mother will help you."

  "Get away from me," Greg whined. "GET AWAY!"

  "It's not her," Brandon said. "It's them. They're doing this."

  He reached for the door and opened it before stopping with a grunt.

  His father, mother, and sister broke through the crowd and called his name in an eerie harmony. Denice tripped and fell to the floor as her head split open and ran over the carpet in a brown stain. When she stood, her neck bubbled and hissed as the puddle on the floor climbed her legs to reform a facsimile of her face. A little brown blob rested on her shoulder and slowly became a staring eye, climbing up her cheek to rejoin the fractured section of Denice's face.

  Brandon screamed as he flung the door open and ran outside, realizing a second later that Greg wasn't following. When he climbed back up the steps, he saw Greg's blob-mother closing the gap, reaching out for him and sighing his name through twisted lips.

  "Get away from him," Brandon shouted, pulling the gun from his pants and aiming. His 'family' was close behind, staggering forward like zombies. P-21 slopped from their shoes like liquid shit. Everyone in the room was melting and coming apart like mannequins in a department store fire.

  "That's not my Mom," Greg blubbered.

  His words were cut off by the report from Brandon's 9mm.

  The first bullet tore off the side of Greg's mother's head; the second nearly cut Brandon's father in half. The slime splattered and oozed before sliding back in place to regenerate what had been destroyed. Brandon kept firing, removing arms and legs and faces that quickly reformed and joined their host bodies. The room erupted in wet screams as Brandon backed up and continued firing into the crowd, realizing too late that his father's S&W was empty... and that it hadn't done a bit of damage to the slimy, shambling replicas.

  Walter broke through the ranks and ran toward them as his ankle disintegrated, dropping him to the floor, nothing more than a skinless, sizzling skeleton. His jaws worked soundlessly as his eyes rolled back in his head and popped like infected blisters.

  "RUN!" Brandon shouted, pulling Greg through the door. They tripped and tumbled down the front steps, regaining their footing once they hit the sidewalk. Brandon cried out and grabbed his ankle, looking over his shoulder as the church doors filled with bodies. The empty gun fell from his hand and clattered to the pavement as he limped off the curb and into the street.

  "Can you walk?" Greg said.

  "Anywhere but here," he shouted, but as soon as he tried, he fell to the wet street and groaned. "I think my ankle is broken."

  "For fuck's sake, get up!"

  "I CAN'T!"

  Greg reached for him as a man ran out of the dark, picked Brandon up, and hung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  "Get the fuck away from him!" Greg screamed.

  "I'm trying to help, you ungrateful shit," the man replied.

  When he started running, Greg stared after him, stunned. People squeezed through the church doors and tumbled down the concrete stairs, breaking open like pinatas full of salsa. His mother was one of them.

  "Bad son," she blubbered. "No good."

  If she had more to say, it was cut off when her jaw came unhinged and fell into the gutter. She crawled across the sidewalk with her tongue dragging on the ground.

  Greg gasped and turned defensively as a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  "Are you coming or what?" Brandon still hung from the man's shoulder, crying out in pain from his dangling ankle. "If not, I'm going without you."

  He didn't wait for Greg's reply before bounding down the street.

  The lights in the church flickered and went out. The stained glass windows shattered as bodies fell to the grass and exploded on impact like water balloons. Greg had seen enough. As he turned to run, something grabbed his shoe, causing him to fall to his knees. He quickly rolled over and looked into his not-mother's eyes as she grabbed his sneaker and tried to pull him away. She slid closer as her tongue lolled from her jawless mouth and licked the wet rubber of his shoe. A sound escaped her throat like boiling water as he pushed himself away and stood over her.

  He almost fell for it. In the dark, it looked just like her. She was hurt and she needed help.

  "But it's not you," he whined. "It's not you, Mom."

  "This is your last fucking warning," a voice shouted. The man had returned again, still carrying an unconscious Brandon in his arms. He raised a booted foot and brought it down on the woman's head where it broke open and splashed across the road like a mud puddle. "That's not whoever you think it is," he said. "That person is dead."

  "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?" Greg shouted.

  "Follow me," he ordered. "I'm not telling you again."

  When the man started running, Greg followed him into the night.

  ***

  The man stopped at a large metal gate, pushed it open, and slipped through. He waited for Greg to enter before pushing it closed and rattling a thick chain to make sure the gate remained locked.

  "Who are you?" Greg said. "Where are we?"

  "Shut up before you draw the whole lot of them to us," he barked.

  They pushed through thick tufts of overgrown grass and disappeared beneath tall, mangy trees. Greg couldn't see anything, following the man by sound alone. When they stopped, Greg listened as he opened a creaky door and stepped inside. Broken glass crackled beneath their feet as the door was closed.

  "Put your hand on my back," the man said.

  Greg did as he was told, grabbing a handful of the man's shirt and holding on for dear life. He had no idea where they were, but he knew if he got lost here, there was no way he'd find his way out. Their footfalls echoed under low ceilings. Greg reached out and felt a smooth wall on his right.

  "Where are we?" he asked.

  The man mumbled under his breath and picked up the pace. After several turns, they stopped.

  "Stairs," the man said. "Two flights."

  Greg wanted to know where he was being led, but he knew asking would get no reply. It smelled musty. The hand railing was covered in a thick layer of dust and crusty patches that could have been almost anything.

  It reminded Greg of a game his mother used to play with him around Halloween. Mystery Box. His Mom would blindfold him and tell him to reach into the box and tell her what he thought was inside. Cold spaghetti, skinned grapes, and baby carrots became entrails, eyeballs, and severed fingers. He knew it wasn't real, but he always played along as his mother giggled behind her hand. He knew as he got older, it was just as much fun for her as it was for him. Her little brother had died when she was only twelve. The years of pranks and sibling rivalry ended on the interstate when her father and brother were struck by a drunk driver. Her father walked away with bumps and bruises; her brother was carried away in pieces.

  Greg shuddered and choked back a sob. His Mom had gone to join her brother... wherever he was.

  "One more floor," the man said, panting.

&nb
sp; When they reached the landing, they walked cautiously into another hallway, one that felt bigger and less confined. When Greg squinted, he could almost make out the shapes of doors on either side. When they stopped, he heard the sound of a doorknob rattle. They entered a large room and Greg let go of the man's shirt. He waggled his sore fingers, only now realizing how tightly he'd been holding on.

  "Now will you tell me where the fuck we are?"

  His words died on his lips as the man struck him across the face with an open hand. Greg stumbled back and held his jaw as tears sprang to his eyes.

  "What the fuck, man? If you do that again..."

  "Keep your goddamn voice down," he said. "That was your warning. Next time it won't be a love tap."

  "You could've just told me..."

  "I'm not here to wipe your ass, kid."

  He walked to the corner of the room and set Brandon's motionless body on the floor. He bent over him for a good thirty seconds before standing and walking away.

  "Is... he..."

  "He's alive," the man said. "Feels like his ankle's broken."

  "He passed out?"

  "Yeah, he passed out. You kids get a fucking splinter and cry like someone cut your finger off."

  "A broken ankle isn't a splinter..."

  "Shut. Your. Face. We're not going to talk, we're not going to be buddies and share stories about our first blowjobs and broken hearts."

  "At least tell me where the hell we are," Greg said. His eyes had adjusted enough to see parts of the room, but he couldn't distinguish any features.

  "The Slater House," he replied.

  "Slater House? The old school?"

  "No, the other Slater House. Are you soft in the head?"

  "I always wanted to see inside here," Greg said, ignoring the man's rude reply. "Under different circumstances, of course.."

  "Thanks for the sad tale," the man said as he returned to Brandon and unzipped something.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I have to wrap his ankle or he's going to wake up screaming. Just let me do what I have to do and stop talking."

  "Do you have a name?" Greg asked.

  "No. I was born and my mother dropped me in a cave with a pack of wolves."

  "You act like it," Greg muttered.

  "Keep smart-mouthing me," he warned. "I'll kick you both outside."