by Shane Staley
He waved them in Wyatt’s face. “See, is nothing.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re looking for?”
“Ten years I own this building, never once have bedbugs.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“Never once.”
“Okay, okay. But what about this?” Wyatt turned his head, wincing at the rash’s itchy tenderness.
“Is summer, bugs come out, bugs bite.”
“No, I did an internet search. It’s—”
“Can’t be.” Chernikov was close enough now for Wyatt to smell his breath, notes of stale cigarettes over the sweet, malty undertone of a lifelong alcoholic. Wyatt knew it well.
“If bedbugs, then we see. Little bodies on ground, eggs along mattress seam. I know bedbugs, they not here.”
“But, I can hear them. You need to call—” Wyatt glanced at the bed, his voice pitched barely above a whisper. “—an exterminator.”
“Show me bedbug first.” Chernikov headed for the door, sandals flapping.
“Mr. Chernikov, please.”
“You no like it here? Then move.”
“Mr. Chern—”
But the landlord was already gone.
There was nothing Wyatt could do. He barely made enough to afford the rent-controlled apartment he’d shared with Momma, and even if he had the money to move, the thought of leaving made his legs feel weak.
Chernikov hadn’t found anything on the mattress—maybe the bugs were only in the bedding? Wyatt hurried to the kitchen, pulling a rumpled streamer of trash bags from the roll under sink. Sheets, pillows, and even momma’s heavy down comforter went into the bags, although Wyatt felt a twinge of guilt at the last.
“I’m sorry. I’ve gotta.”
Sorry is for suckers. The words echoed from Wyatt’s memory. Momma hated apologies.
In his haste to reach the incinerator chute, Wyatt almost ran into the pile of boxes outside 1402. Normally, the appearance of strangers would have unsettled him, but with his mind on the bugs, Wyatt barely stopped.
“What’re you doing?” The boy was small, with spindly arms that poked from the sleeves of his baggy, hand-me-down shirt like the legs of an enormous horsefly. His eyes were large and set far on either side of his crooked nose.
Broken at least once, Wyatt thought.
The boy repeated his question. There was no suspicion in his tone, only thoughtless curiosity.
“Throwing away…stuff,” Wyatt said, eyes fixed firmly on the faded carpet.
“Can I help?”
“No. Done. Thanks.”
Wyatt tried to edge past, but the boy didn’t move.
“I’m Miguel, my mom and I moved in to 1402. Do you live on this floor?”
“Yes.”
“What apartment?”
“1404.”
“We’re neighbors,” Miguel said. “What’s your name?”
“Wyatt.” He grimaced.
“Miguel. Miguel! Get back here right now!” The voice was teeth on a blackboard.
Wyatt took an unconscious step back.
“Sorry, gotta go.” Miguel ran off down the hall.
Wyatt waited until he was gone from sight, then tossed the bags into the incinerator chute. As he passed 1402 he could hear Miguel’s mother scolding him for running off. The words were muffled through the door, but Wyatt recognized the tone. There would be tears soon, although that only ever made things worse.
When Wyatt got back into his apartment he stood for a very long time with his back pressed against the door, shaking.
The stripped mattress was like the roof of a worn tenement building, bowed in the middle and stained a yellowed gray by years of Momma’s sweat. Wyatt went over every seam and stitch, checking for shed exoskeletons and dark brown fecal spots like on the computer images. There was nothing. The bed was clean.
To celebrate, Wyatt ordered a pizza online. He taped the money and a note to the outside of the door, watching through the peephole until the delivery girl came and left. He bought new sheets as he ate, then lost himself in soldering and circuit boards until it was time for bed.
That night was the worst since Momma died.
At first, he slapped at every tickle, fingers desperately searching for bodies no bigger than a grain of rice. He knew better than to reach for the light. The sickly glow might scatter them, but then again it might not. Wyatt dreaded to think what he would do if he switched on the lamp and the bugs didn’t run.
A faint, clicking rose from among the normal night noises, a soft, staccato rapping that reminded Wyatt of the impatient drum of fingernails on a tabletop. The reek of Momma’s perfume filled his nose, sweetness barely masking notes of smoke and rotten sweat.
That was when he felt the first bite.
Tiny legs beat a skittering tattoo on the floor behind him as he staggered to the bathroom and slammed the door. He tore off his clothes, wedging them around the jam to keep the bugs out.
A shrill whine came from outside. High and liquid, it scraped across Wyatt’s ears, stuttering like an old modem as it twisted and writhed into sounds that were almost, but not quite words.
Wyatt sunk down, hands clapped to his ears as the buzzing cadence filled his mind, drowning him in its terrible babble.
When the darkness came, he almost welcomed it.
* * *
Pallid sunlight leaked in through the bathroom window. Wyatt eased the door open. The apartment looked empty, but he knew they were still there. He just needed evidence.
He took a matchbox from the dirty glass bowl Momma kept on the dresser and emptied it into the trash. The floor outside the bathroom was clean, as was the faded rug, the couch, the walls, everything. He knew where to find them, but it still took almost two hours for Wyatt to work up the courage to look under the bed.
Dust bunnies and discarded bits of paper stared back at him from the waiting shadow as he got down on his belly with Momma’s pen light. The frame creaked as Wyatt crawled forward. Although he could see open floor on either side, he felt as if he were in a small, tight cave. Dust filled his nose and mouth, mingled with the syrupy odor from last night, like raspberries left on the counter too long.
Something tickled along his back. Wyatt tried to push himself upright, but only succeeded in smacking his head against the frame. Dust rained down from above. No—not dust.
Segmented bodies rasped across his skin. Hundreds, thousands, tens-of-thousands strong—they climbed over him, mouths extended like noise makers at a children’s party, ready to feed.
Wyatt beat at the floor even as fabric from the box springs draped down on either side, cutting off the light, sealing him in. He’d been wrong. This wasn’t a cave, it was a coffin.
“Please, no.” He moaned as they swarmed over his face. “Not me, anyone but me.”
The crawling stopped.
Tears trickled down Wyatt’s cheeks as he pushed himself from under the bed. Theirs now.
He could feel their hunger, knew it would take more than cold pizza to satisfy them. He pressed chapped hands to his face. It would be dark soon. Not much time, not much time at all.
* * *
The lid of the garbage can thumped as Wyatt dragged it down the hall. He checked to make sure the tape was still secure. It had taken him hours to catch the pigeons, and he didn’t want them getting out.
“More trash already?”
Wyatt spun to see Miguel regarding him from a few steps away.
“No. Umm, it’s electronic parts…for my job.”
“Cool. Need any help?” Miguel grabbed one of the handles, the sleeve of his shirt rolling back to reveal the ink blot spread of a new bruise. Wyatt’s protest tapered into a whimper. He remembered being grabbed like that.
“Your mom—” Wyatt stopped when he saw the cornered animal look that came into Miguel’s eyes.
A few quiet steps put them in front of Wyatt’s door.
“I can handle it from here,” he said.
“Wait one second.” Wyatt dragged the can inside. He fished one of the refurbished Gameboys and a handful of cartridges off the work table.
Miguel just stared at the gifts. “Mom doesn’t like these things.”
“Then don’t tell her you have them.” Wyatt’s chest felt light, almost prickly, like he was getting away with something.
“Sure, thanks.” Miguel’s shy smile was a silent ovation.
Wyatt pushed the door closed, watching through the peephole until the boy went away. He dragged the can over to the bed, turned it upside down on top of the mattress, and slid the lid off. Inside, the pigeons started to flutter again, but that didn’t last long.
That night, he slept well for the first time in months.
* * *
Wyatt jolted awake to the chittering squeal of the bugs. He’d given them three pigeons and a stray cat today—not nearly enough.
“But…it’s dark outside.”
The screech came from everywhere. There was something familiar about the noise, a connection dangling just out of reach.
Wyatt plucked at his clothes, feeling things skitter below the thin fabric. If he left the building, the city would swallow him up, just like Momma had said it swallowed his father. There was nothing hungrier than cities.
A tingling chill crept up his legs. He could barely breathe. The darkness seemed to press down on him. No one would help him, no one could help him.
And like that, Wyatt knew what he had to do.
* * *
“The bed.” Wyatt struggled to keep his voice calm.
Chernikov grunted. The landlord’s patchy hair stuck out in all directions. He looked half-asleep, or half-drunk.
“Is off hours. If I find nothing. This call fifty…no, one-hundred dollars.”
Wyatt gestured to the bed. His muscles tingled with so much adrenaline he could barely keep his teeth from chattering.
“Fah.” Chernikov stumped past, placing one hand on the mattress as he kneeled. “Still nothing.”
“No.” Wyatt stepped up behind him. “You need to look under the bed.”
Chernikov fixed Wyatt with another jaundiced glare, but got down on his stomach. The bed creaked as Chernikov shimmied forward, his paunch fetching up against the metal of the frame.
“I see noth—” The landlord gave a jerk, then started to scrabble backwards.
Wyatt threw himself onto Chernikov’s legs. Muffled curses came from under the bed and Chernikov bucked so hard that Wyatt almost lost his grip. One of Chernikov’s sandals caught Wyatt in the nose. There was a flash of pain and the taste of blood, but Wyatt hung on, holding his breath against the sour reek of sweat and booze that poured off the struggling man.
It seemed like hours before Chernikov’s flailing legs lost the coordination of conscious direction and his frenzied kicks became irregular spasms.
Wyatt collapsed on the mattress, feeling as if he were the one who’d been drained. The bugs crawled all over him, tickling, caressing, but nothing else.
He’d earned his rest.
* * *
“What’s that? Give it to Momma.”
“Don’t,” Wyatt murmered as he stood outside the door of 1402. Chernikov’s desiccated remains were divided into two plastic bags. It’d taken the bedbugs four days to drain the landlord dry—four silent, restful days. Wyatt had planned to dispose of the body in the incinerator, but the voice from 1402 brought him up short.
“Give it here.”
There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then a yelp, sharp and breathy.
“Don’t cry,” Wyatt whispered into the door. “It’ll only make things worse.”
“Who gave this to you?”
“I found it,” Miguel said between gasping hitches.
“You stole it. How could you do something like that? You don’t even care, do you?” The voice rose in pitch and volume, the last few words almost a scream.
“Don’t say anything,” Wyatt said.
“I didn’t steal it. Wyatt gave it to me.”
“Gave it to you? Why? Who’s Wyatt? Did he touch you?” The questions came hot and hard, too fast for answers.
Wyatt rocked back from the door. He had to get away, before she found out about him, before she came for him. Chernikov’s body parts bumped against Wyatt’s legs as the voice chased him back to his apartment.
He could hear them moving around in the lumpy old mattress, the same mattress he and mom had shared since he was little. Near the end, when she’d gotten too fat to move, Wyatt had to crawl in almost on top of her, his head pillowed on her chest, the smell of cigarettes and stale bourbon tainting every breath.
Wyatt’s gaze flitted about the room like a trapped fly, alighting on lampshades, stacks of yellowing romance novels, little porcelain statues of children playing in the snow. Thousands of red-brown bugs scuttled over everything, shrieking.
They were everywhere, she was everywhere.
“No, you’re dead.” Wyatt gripped the mattress, his face twitching in time with the snare drum rattle of his heart.
The mattress was a living thing in his hands. It writhed and twisted even has he dragged it out into the hall. Electric prickles swarmed up his arms, turning his flesh cold and unresponsive as plastic.
The door to apartment 1404 broke free of its rusty deadbolt on the first kick. Wyatt walked through the doorway as if into a strong wind—head low, body angled forward.
She stood in the center of the room, bulky, but still able to stand. Wyatt remembered her like this when they had first come here, before the gout left her to wallow on the bed like a bloated tick. She was holding a little boy, fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of his bicep.
“Get the hell out of my apartment!” It was her voice.
“It’s my apartment!” Wyatt staggered forward, swinging the heavy mattress like a club. She rebounded from the wall to land sprawled out, her nightgown askew. Dark blood seeped from her head, spreading in runnels down the cracks in the floor.
“You killed her.” Miguel’s eyes were bright as beetle shells as he looked between Wyatt and Momma. “You killed her!”
“Yes, I did.” Wyatt could feel the smile all the way to the tips of his toes. “But she came back.”
The bugs came pouring out of the mattress. Wyatt fought against the rising tide of tiny bodies. He ripped them off, gagging on terrified laughter as he scratched bleeding furrows into his skin.
Wyatt wanted to scream, but couldn’t seem to find the breath. His struggles became weaker as the world narrowed to a tiny pinprick. He stumbled and fell, bouncing once, twice on the familiar cushioning.
“Don’t fret, Momma’s home.” The words assembled themselves from the keening wail of a million tiny voices. Then, with the deliberate care of someone handling a beloved heirloom, the mattress hugged Wyatt tight.
Somewhere, in the distance, a little boy screamed. But it wasn’t Wyatt, not anymore.
Taking it All Away
L. R. Bonehill
“A glass of whiskey would be nice,” said the man in the bed. He sucked weakly on a straw and swallowed with a gulp. Licked dry, chapped lips with a pale tongue. A cough wracked through him, deep and guttural. He spat into a tissue, took another sip of water and let his head fall back against the raised pillows.
“Whiskey? Not a chance, old man,” said Jack as he put the glass of water back on the bedside drawers.
It had been a little over six weeks since he’d come to stay with Dad. Six weeks that felt so much longer. He wasn’t used to life out in the sticks any more. The days were long out here at the best of times, caught in the quiet and the solitude, but now the minutes and the hours stretched almost to the breaking point.
Just him and Dad. Most of the time, just him really. Alone with his thoughts while Dad lay upstairs in a room that always smelled of waste and neglect no matter how much fresh pine air came in through the window. A thick, cloying smell that furred Jack’s tongue, that
tasted of bone and gristle. He thought he would have gotten used to it by now, but it still made him want to retch every time he stepped into the bedroom. Every time he took in a glass of water or a tray of food. Every time he shook out pills and placed them on Dad’s tongue, rubbing his grizzled neck to help him swallow. Every time he helped Dad wash, a bowl of swirling suds sopping onto the floor beside him. Every time he helped Dad to the toilet, when he could help him, that is. Every time he cleaned up after him.
He did all these things and more and none of them had bothered him much after the first couple of days, but the smell. That awful, lingering smell of impending death. Sometimes he thought it was more than he could bear.
He wondered if Dad could smell it too. If he could taste it, poisoning him as surely as the chemo had done, as surely as the insidious cancer flooding through his bloodstream was still doing and would do until the end. Cells splitting, dividing, attacking with a kind of crazed indiscriminate war cry. Festering and growing, leeching and siphoning.
He hoped to God Dad didn’t notice. The thought made him recoil and flush with shame. Did Dad notice? Notice the pause before Jack opened the door, the pause on the threshold as if Jack were stealing himself before entering. Which, of course, he was.
He pushed it all to the back of his mind. He needed sleep, that’s all. A little rest before another long day ahead tomorrow. He was beyond tired. Stress and lack of sleep forging together to pull him into some sort of sluggish inertia.
“Anything else you need? More water, something to eat?”
The old man shook his head and tried to smile, lips pursing together in a thin line. His eyes looked moist in the moonlight. He held out his hand and Jack took it. It felt so cold.
“I did the best I could by you, didn’t I, Jack? The best by both of you. It was so difficult after your mom… I…I always tried my best.”