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Melt

Page 12

by Christopher Motz


  It was one warning Greg heeded. The only thing out there was death.

  He walked along the edge of the wall to get his bearings as several old desks and chairs came into focus. It was all still here. Greg had heard stories about Slater House for years, from ghosts of long-dead teachers to tales of losing one's virginity. It was like all other abandoned buildings in town... empty. The kids broke in to smash the windows, get drunk, and spray paint colorful vulgarities over the peeling paint. It was once a private school but closed its doors in the late 1970s when funding fell through. Greg always wondered who the hell in Ditchburn could afford to go to private school anyway.

  "Heath," the man said, standing and zippering his bag.

  "What?"

  "My name is Heath, you brain dead moron. Heath. Like the candy bar. Get it?"

  "Never had one," Greg said.

  He watched the man raise his hand and rub his temple as if he had a headache.

  "You okay... Heath?"

  "I will be just as soon as I dump you somewhere. What the hell was I thinking?"

  "Hey, no one asked you to come to the rescue!"

  "That's right, no one did. So maybe just a tiny bit of gratitude, huh?"

  Greg walked closer, suddenly feeling like he was being scolded by a pissed off teacher. Heath had a point, though. If it wasn't for him, he and Brandon could be dead by now.

  "I'm sorry," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Greg."

  Heath swatted his hand aside. "I don't fucking care who you are. The sooner you're out of my hair, the better."

  "Listen, man, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, or maybe you really are an asshole, but if you saved us just so you can berate us to death over every fucking little thing, I'll just take my chances outside."

  Heath walked away and sat on the floor close to Brandon.

  "What? Now you're worried about him?" Greg asked.

  "No, I'm worried about him waking up and hollering like an auctioneer."

  This made Greg laugh.

  "Come on," Heath said. "Sit down and take a load off. You never know when you're going to have to run again."

  "If you hit me again I'm going to kick you in the balls."

  "Sit," he said. It was still an order, but at least his voice had softened and lost some of its hostility.

  Greg sat nearby and played with the cuff of his jeans. He didn't want to break the tenuous civility between them. The minutes seemed to stretch out for hours, and just as Greg closed his eyes, Heath spoke up.

  "They're trying to become us," he said.

  "Hmm? What?"

  "Those cursed things out there... they're becoming us. They're trying to imitate us, trying to speak like us."

  "I saw my mother," Greg said, pouting. "Only it wasn't her. It was like a bad wax doll too close to the fireplace."

  "P-21 is learning," Heath added. "It's getting smarter. It's digesting us and... taking our faces. Taking our speech patterns. Trying to fit in."

  "You know something, don't you? Spill it."

  After a few seconds of silence, Heath said, "Assimilation. Propagation. Extermination."

  "What?"

  "They take us over, become us, multiply, and destroy. It's a perfect organism."

  "Wait a second," Greg said, coming fully awake. "You think those blobs are smart enough to take on human form?"

  "What did you see at the church?" he asked. "Those weren't people... it was P-21's attempt to look like us. They're learning from our memory, putting words together and concepts. It's only going to get harder to tell them apart as they keep eating more and more."

  "They're... replacing us?"

  "Sure as hell trying to," Heath said. "And it's only going to get worse. Soon, you won't be able to tell them apart. They'll be using vehicles, perfecting the language. They will be who we were."

  "There were multiples," Greg said. "I saw my Mom four times in there... all the same, but different."

  "When they got to your mother, more than one must have digested her. They're sharing the same prototype to create their replica. Eventually, they'll learn their mistake and they'll form someone else who hasn't yet been doubled."

  Greg didn't hear anything past 'got your mother.' He assumed all along his mother was dead, but this was the final piece of information he needed to finish the puzzle. When he started crying, Heath let him but didn't offer a word of consolation.

  "How do you know so much?" Greg said, wiping tears from his eyes. "You work for that fucking monster, don't you? Gates?"

  "I did," he said plainly, "but not after what I saw tonight. As soon as we got into town, I ran. I'm sure if this ends... if Wildflower can mop up their mess... that they'll hunt me down. Gates forced me to kill when I was behind bars, but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it as a free man."

  "So what are you going to do? How are you getting out of here?"

  "I haven't figured that out yet," Heath said, "but if I know anything about Gates, it's that he'll stop at nothing to cover his ass. He's not going to let anyone go that can repeat what happened here."

  Greg suddenly remembered what the other soldier had told them about the Tree of Mirrors and found it impossible to bite his tongue.

  "What do you know about the Tree of Mirrors?" he asked cautiously.

  At first, Heath was shocked that the boy knew anything about it, but after a few seconds, he nodded and his frown disappeared.

  He took a few seconds to compose himself and told Greg everything he knew.

  Chapter 9

  Heath opened with a question.

  "How do you know about the Tree? Who have you been talking to?"

  "Michael," Greg said. "He was one of you. We ran into him at the theater." He wasn't about to tell Heath that they pried information from him at gunpoint.

  Heath nodded and said, "Mike was a good guy. Even after what we'd been through at Wildflower, he kept his humanity. Is he okay?"

  Kept his humanity? He was seconds away from shooting us, he thought.

  Greg lied. "He was fine when we left him, but before that, he told us about what Gates had done to him... what secrets he heard about the experiments going on up there."

  Heath rumbled deep in his chest like a cornered Pitbull.

  "If I ever see Gates again, I'll put a bullet right between his eyes. He's responsible for all this... and so much more."

  "What do you know?" Greg asked. "Is it all true?"

  Heath nodded in the gloom. "Gates came up with the name. He was fucking proud of it... like he'd just named his firstborn child. That arrogant monster thinks he's going to save the world and be named some new king of humanity. Instead, he's destroying it one failed experiment at a time."

  "Why hasn't someone killed him?" Greg asked. "Surely you've had ample opportunity to put a stop to this."

  "Opportunity? The only time you see him is behind bulletproof glass, or in a room with a dozen of his bodyguards. Gates doesn't take a shit without having armed men standing at the door. He's a scared little man who hides behind others. He never gets too close to anyone that knows his secrets, because at any time he might have to put a bullet in their head."

  "What is this Tree?" Greg asked. "How can that even be possible?"

  "I didn't think it was possible," Heath replied, "but it's true. All of it. They opened a door and they haven't been able to close it. P-21 is just one of the things that came through. I can't imagine what else is on the other side, but God help us if that door can't be closed."

  "Did you see it?"

  "Just once." It took Heath a full minute before he could continue, and when he did, his voice had changed. "I was one of eight men Gates wanted to send through. The Tree was beautiful... horrific. I'd never seen anything like it. Swirling colors of light and shade, branches reaching out to the dark space beyond; every leaf, every vein... a shining portal into another world. I damn near pissed my pants when I saw it."

  "You went through."

  "No, thank God. The mission was scrapped befor
e we had the chance. I was meant to be the leader of an eight-man team, but the other missions hadn't gone so well and Gates pulled the plug at the last minute."

  "Other missions?" Greg said. "You mean others went through? To where? What did they see?"

  "No one knows," Heath said. His voice had grown thick with grief. "Eighteen men went through on two previous missions and only one returned. One. Arthur Hutton. He was barely breathing and his skin had been burned so badly that some of it came off when we moved him. Do you know what it's like to see one of your friends looking like he'd been left in an oven too long? He was blind, but his eyes kept moving around the room as if he was still watching something. Right before he died, he said one thing: 'It's all going to end.'"

  "What's going to end?" Greg asked. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "I don't know. I can only guess that whatever he saw drove him insane. Death was a mercy."

  "This door... this Tree... it's still there? It's still open?"

  "Not only is it still there, it's growing. This is just the beginning. There's no telling what else might come through, and when it does, you better believe I'll save my last bullet for myself. This planet isn't ours anymore, and I'm not willing to share. If we can't fight back, I'm checking out. If there's any balance in the universe, Heaven will still be there when I arrive. Or Hell. Anything is better than watching everything we've worked for come to a bloody end."

  "You still believe in Heaven?" Greg said. "After everything you've seen?"

  "I have to believe this isn't the end. If there's nothing after, what the fuck was the purpose of fighting so hard?"

  The death of hope was a hard pill to swallow.

  Greg laid his head back and closed his eyes as visions of his mother swirled through his mind. It wasn't the mother who had bandaged his skinned knees and played silly Halloween games, it was the mother he'd seen in the church, the shambling, melting monstrosity that reached for him with dripping fingers. He'd been so lost in thought, he didn't hear Heath stand and grab his weapon. The man slowly crossed the room, nothing more than a black shape.

  "What are you doing?" Greg asked.

  "Quiet," Heath whispered. "I heard something."

  Greg strained his ears, and for just a second he thought he heard quiet movement in the hall.

  Please, God, don't let it be one of those things, Greg thought. I can't take it.

  He heard the classroom door open as Heath stepped into the hall.

  Then gunfire.

  ***

  The fight was quick.

  After several seconds of deafening gunfire, the building was quiet again.

  The door banged open and someone entered, stepping loudly across the floor in a crooked line. Greg stayed as still as possible.

  "Son of a bitch!" It was Heath. Out of breath and clearly in pain.

  "What was that?" Greg said. "Are you hurt?"

  Heath collapsed on the floor next to him and groaned. "Shot me in the gut," he said. "Christ, that hurts."

  "Who?" Greg shouted. "Who shot you?"

  "He shot first," Heath said. "It wasn't my fault."

  "Who, goddammit? Who shot you?"

  "He looked about your age... I didn't have a choice. Why was he sneaking around with a gun?" He growled through clenched teeth and pressed a hand to his midsection. In the dark, Greg couldn't see the growing pool of blood on the floor.

  "It wasn't one of them?"

  "He was human. He didn't give me a chance... he just opened fire."

  "Jesus Christ, you killed him?"

  "I didn't fucking know," Heath yelled. "How was I supposed to see him in the dark?"

  "Are you sure he's dead? Did you really kill him?"

  "I saw half of his fucking face explode. What do you think?"

  Greg didn't know why he was so upset. After what they'd done to Michael and Belter, it shouldn't have bothered him, but there was something about killing an innocent man that felt altogether different. But was he innocent? Why was he here in the first place... of all places to run into someone, this is one of the last Greg would have thought of.

  Who shot first - Han or Greedo?

  "What's going on?"

  "Brandon?" Greg said. "Are you okay?"

  "My ankle hurts like hell. Who did this?" he asked as he rubbed a hand over the tight bandage.

  "Don't worry about that now. We have to get out of here. Heath? Can you walk?"

  "Heath?" Brandon said groggily. "Who are you talking to?"

  "The guy who saved your fucking life," Heath grumbled. "And no I can't walk. This is where we part company."

  "What are you talking about? I'm not going to leave you here to bleed to death."

  "Yes, you are... there's no other way. Those things are going to swarm this place if they heard the shots, and you don't want to stick around for that. I'd give you my gun, but it's empty. I'm sorry."

  "All you guys running around and killing everything that moves and not one of you has extra fucking ammo!"

  "All you guys?" Brandon said. "You mean he's one of them?"

  "We don't have time for that," Greg said. "Get up."

  In the dark, Greg heard Brandon shuffle across the floor and get to his feet with a groan.

  "Are you going to be okay?" Greg asked.

  "It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did. I won't be running a marathon any time soon."

  "Keep the bandage on," Heath said. "It's keeping the bones immobile. You take it off and you're in for a world of hurt."

  "What's his problem?" Brandon asked. "Is he hurt or something?"

  "He was shot," Greg said.

  "Probably serves him right."

  "Enough! We don't have time for a pissing contest. If you can walk, we're going. Now."

  "Stay safe," Heath said weakly. "Get out of town, find someone who can help. Tell anyone willing to listen... warn them of what's coming. Do not come back for me, I'm already dead."

  Greg didn't know how to feel. Heath had saved them. It felt wrong leaving him here to die alone, but really, what could they do to return the favor?

  "Where are we?" Brandon asked. "I can't see a fucking thing."

  "It doesn't matter," Greg replied. "Hold on to my shoulder and follow me."

  They crossed the room and stopped at the door. Brandon wasn't nearly as quick as he was before his injury, but he was managing. It was only going to make the trek through Thorpe's Woods even harder.

  "Thank you, Heath," Greg said over his shoulder. "For everything."

  Heath's breath had grown shallow. "Stick it up your ass," he said with a touch of humor. "Get out of here and close the door behind you."

  As soon as the door closed, Brandon asked, "Why are you being so nice to that shitstain? He's part of this."

  "Dude, just be quiet and pay attention to where we're going." Greg stopped and turned on him. "That enemy saved our asses and bandaged your leg, so give him a fucking break, huh? Not everything is as black and white as you want it to be."

  "Jeez, relax! I didn't know you two were friends all of a sudden."

  "I didn't say that. I said he saved our asses because he did. Don't you think that deserves at least some level of respect?"

  "Whatever, I'm not going to argue with you."

  Greg turned and continued down the corridor, trying to remember the path he and Heath had taken to get here. After twenty feet, he stopped as his foot slid in a sticky puddle of fresh blood. Whoever Heath had killed was lying across the hallway in a heap. This close, Greg could see that the guy's head was strangely misshapen from where Heath had shot him. He was thankful for the dark; he didn't want to know who it was. Too many of their friends and neighbors were already dead. Seeing someone else he recognized with half of their skull blown off was something he didn't think he could handle.

  A few feet past the body, Greg found the stairs leading down. Brandon didn't have as easy a time on the steps, but if he was in pain, he was suffering silently.

  When they reached the landin
g, two things happened simultaneously: a single gunshot rang out from above - Heath making good on his promise to save his last bullet for himself - and a steady, hard rattle sounded below them as replicas lined up outside the boarded windows of the building's first floor. The knocking grew louder as others joined and began prying wooden planks from the windows, reaching inside like something from Night of The Living Dead.

  Just like the Coopers from the film, Greg thought the basement was the best place to hide.

  Hopefully, for Greg and Brandon, the outcome wouldn't be the same.

  "Come on," Greg whispered. "They know we're here. We have to get out before they block the exit."

  "Don't leave me behind," Brandon pleaded.

  "I'm not going to leave you. Just be quiet and try to keep up. Once we're clear, you can rest that leg."

  "Fuck rest, just go."

  They descended the next flight of stairs much faster. Brandon grunted at each step and gritted his teeth as the sound of their angry pursuers intensified. Glass shattered. Loose floorboards thumped and groaned as the monsters pulled themselves inside. They babbled nonsense to each other in some form of bastardized English, asking questions and giving answers that made as much sense as listening to infants gurgle nonsense back and forth from their high chairs.

  They couldn't yet be confused as human, but they were certainly making great strides in the right direction.

  "Dive! Dive! Dive!" a man shouted.

  "We've spotted the enemy," a woman replied. "Man the battle stations."

  They're downstairs! Prepare for a fight!

  "Jesus Christ, they are communicating."

  Either that or Greg was reading more into it than he should. As they reached the basement hall, he knew there was more to it than that. He could already hear several pairs of feet thudding down the stairs behind them.

  "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

  "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

  "What we got here is failure to communicate."

  I think you're doing just fine, Greg thought.

  "Round up the usual suspects," a man bellowed.

  "Why the hell are they speaking in movie quotes?" Brandon asked.

  "I'll explain later," Greg said.

 

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