The Strain

by Guillermo Del Toro

  The other two crawled up around him now, their hands like crabs, touching him, exploring him. Starting to peel off his clothes to reveal the man beneath. Mindy again ran her fingers through his hair, and he pulled away, as if there was something clumsy in her touch. Sherry squealed playfully, undoing the buttons of his fly. He knew the whispers that went around about him, from conquest to conquest, about his prodigious size and skill. She slid her hand across his leather pants and over his crotch, and while there was no groan of disappointment, there was no gasp of astonishment either. Nothing doing down there yet. Which was baffling, even given his illness. He had proven himself in much more adverse conditions, over and over and over again.

  He returned his focus to the girl Cleo’s shoulders, her neck, her throat. Lovely—but it was more than that. He felt a bucking sensation in his mouth. Not a sensation of nausea, but perhaps its opposite: a need somewhere on the continuum between the longing for sex and the necessity of nourishment. But—bigger. A compulsion. A craving. An urge to violate, to ravish, to consume.

  Mindy nibbled on his neck, and Bolivar turned on her finally, pushing her back down against the sheets—first in a fury, but then with a forced tenderness. He eased back her jaw, extending her neck, running his warm fingers over her fine, firm throat. He felt the strength of her young muscles inside—and he wanted them. More than he wanted her breasts, her ass, her loins. The thrumming that obsessed him was coming from her.

  He brought his mouth to her throat. He tried with his lips, kissing, but that didn’t quite do it. He tried nibbling on her, and the instinct seemed correct but the method…something about it was all wrong.

  He wanted—somehow—more.

  The thrumming vibrated throughout his own body now, his skin like that of a drum being pounded in an ancient ceremony. The bed was twirling a bit and his neck and thorax were bucking with need and repulsion. He went away for a little while, mentally. Like the amnesia of great sex, only, when he came back, it was to a woman’s squealing. He had the girl’s neck in his hands and was sucking on it with an intensity that went beyond the realm of the teenage hickey. He was drawing her blood to the surface of her skin, and she was screaming and the other two half-naked girls were trying to pull her away from him.

  Bolivar straightened, first chastened by the sight of the florid bruising along her throat—then, remembering his stature as the maypole of this foursome, he asserted his authority.

  “Get out!” he railed, and they did, clothes clutched to their bodies, the blond Mindy whimpering and sniffling all the way down the stairs.

  Bolivar staggered off the bed and back into his bathroom and his makeup case. He sat down on the leather stool and went through his nightly ministrations. The makeup came off—he knew this because he saw it on the tissues—and yet his flesh looked much the same in the mirror. He rubbed harder, scraping at his cheeks with his fingernail, but nothing more came off. Had the makeup adhered to his skin? Or was he this sick, this gaunt?

  He ripped off his shirt and examined himself: white as marble and crisscrossed with greenish veins and purplish blotches of settled blood.

  He went to his contact lenses, carefully pinching out the cosmetic gels and depositing them in the fluid baths of their holding cases. He blinked a few times in relief, swiping at his eyes with his fingers, then feeling something weird. He leaned closer to the glass, blinking, examining his own eyes.

  The pupils were dead black. Almost as though he still had the lenses in, only more textured now—more real. And—when he blinked, he noticed further activity within the eye. He got right up against the mirror, eyes wide now, almost afraid to close them.

  A nictitating membrane had formed underneath his eyelid, a translucent second eyelid closing beneath the outer eyelid, gliding horizontally across the eyeball. Like a filmy cataract eclipsing his black pupil, closing upon his wild and horrified stare.

  Augustin “Gus” Elizalde sat slumped in the back of the dining area with his pinch-front hat on the seat next to him. It was a narrow storefront eatery, one block east of Times Square. Neon burgers shining in the window, and red-and-white-checkered tablecloths on the tables. Budget eating in Manhattan. You walk in and order at the counter up front—sandwiches, pizza, something on the grill—pay for it, and take it in back, to a windowless room of tables jammed in tight. Wall murals of Venice and gondolas surrounded them. Felix scarfed down a plate of goopy macaroni and cheese. It was all he ate, mac and cheese, the more disgustingly orange the better. Gus looked down at his half-eaten greaseburger, suddenly more interested in his Coke, in the caffeine and sugar, getting some jolt back into him.

  He still didn’t feel right about that van. Gus turned over his hat underneath the table and checked the inside band again. The original five $10 bills he had gotten from that dude, plus the $500 he had earned for driving the van into the city, were still tucked in there. Tempting him. He and Felix could have a hell of a lot of fun on half that amount. Take home half for his madre, money she needed, money she could use.

  Problem was, Gus knew himself. Problem was stopping at half. Problem was walking around with unspent money on his person.

  He should get Felix to run him home right now. Unburden him self of half this haul. Slip it to his madre without his dirtbag brother Crispin knowing. Crackhead could sniff out dollars like a fiend.

  Then again, this was dirty money. He had done something wrong to get it—clearly, though he didn’t know what he’d done—and handing the money over to his madre was like passing on a curse. Best thing to do with dirty money is spend it quick, get rid of it—easy come, easy go.

  Gus was torn. He knew that, once he started drinking, he lost all impulse control. And Felix was the gasoline to his flame. The two of them would burn through $550 before sunup, and then, instead of bringing something beautiful home to his madre, instead of bringing home something good, he would come in dragging his own hungover ass, hat all dented to hell, empty pockets turned inside out.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Gusto,” said Felix.

  Gus shook his head. “I’m my own worst enemy, ’mano. I’m like a fucking mutt sniffing in the street who don’t know what tomorrow means. I got a dark side, amigo, and sometimes it takes me over.”

  Felix sipped his giant-ass Coke. “So what are we doing in this greasy spoon? Let’s get out and meet some young ladies tonight.”

  Gus ran his thumb along the leather rim inside his hat, over the folded cash Felix knew nothing about—so far. Maybe just a hundred. Two hundred, half for each. Pull out exactly that much, that was his limit, no more. “Gotta pay to play, right, ’mano?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  Gus looked away and saw a family next to him, dressed for the theater, rising and leaving with their desserts unfinished. Because of Felix’s language, Gus guessed. By the looks of these Midwestern kids, they had never heard hard talk. Well, fuck them. You come into this town, you keep your kids out past nine o’clock, you risk them seeing the full show.

  Felix finally finished his slop and Gus eased his cash-filled hat onto his head and they sauntered out into the night. They were walking on Forty-fourth Street, Felix sucking on a cigarette, when they heard screams. It didn’t quicken their pace any, hearing screams in Midtown Manhattan. Not until they saw the fat, naked guy shuffling across the street at Seventh and Broadway.

  Felix nearly spit out his cigarette laughing. “Gusto, you see that shit?” He started to jog ahead, like a bystander called by a barker to a show.

  Gus wasn’t into it. He followed slowly after him.

  People in Times Square were making way for this guy and his pasty, floppy ass. Women screamed at the sight, half laughing, covering their eyes or their mouths or both. A young bachelorette party group snapped photos with their phones. Every time the guy turned, a new group got a look at his shriveled, flesh-buried junk, and howled.

  Gus wondered where the cops were. This was America for you: a brown brother couldn’t even duck into a doorway for a d
iscreet piss without getting hassled, yet a white guy can parade naked through the crossroads of the world and get a free pass.

  “Wasted off his ass,” hooted Felix, following the fool, along with a loose bunch of others, many drunk themselves, savoring the street theater. The lights of the brightest intersection in the world—Times Square is a slashing X of avenues, walled with eye-popping advertisements and word crawls, a pinball game run through with never-ending traffic—dazzled the fat man, set him spinning. He lunged about, lurching like a circus bear on the loose.

  Felix’s crowd of carousers laughed and reared back when the man turned and staggered toward them. He was getting bolder now, or a little panicked, like a frightened animal, and more confused and seemingly—sometimes he pressed a hand to his throat, as though choking—more pained. Everything was really lively until the pale, fat man lashed out at a laughing woman, grabbing her by the back of her head. The woman screamed and twisted and a part of her head came off in his hand—for a moment it looked as though he had ripped open her skull—but it was just her frizzy black extensions.

  The attack crossed the line from fun into fright. The fat man stumbled out into traffic with the fistful of fake hair still in his hand, and the crowd followed, pursuing him now, growing angry, yelling. Felix took the lead, crossing to the traffic island after this guy. Gus went along, but away from the crowd, threading through the honking cars. He was calling to Felix to come away, to be done with this. This was not going to end well.

  The fat man was advancing toward a family gathered in the island to take in Times Square at night. He had them backed up against the traffic shooting past, and when the father tried to intervene he got knocked back hard. Gus recognized them as the theatergoing family from the restaurant. The mother seemed more concerned about shielding her kids’ eyes from the sight of the naked man than protecting herself. She got grabbed by the back of the neck, pulled close up against his sagging belly and pendulous man breasts. The crazy man’s mouth opened as though he wanted a kiss. But then it kept opening, like a snake’s mouth—clearly dislocating the jaw with a soft pop.

  Gus had no love for tourists, but he didn’t even think before coming up behind the guy and hook-arming him in a headlock. He choked back on him strong, the guy’s neck surprisingly muscular beneath the loose folds of flesh. Gus had the advantage, though, and the guy released the mother, falling against her husband in front of her screaming kids.

  Now Gus was stuck. He had the naked man locked up, the big bear’s arms pinwheeling. Felix came up in front to help…but then stopped. He was staring at the naked guy’s face as if there was something really wrong there. A few people behind him reacted the same, others turned away in horror, but Gus couldn’t see why. He did feel the guy’s neck undulate under his forearm, very unnaturally—almost as though he were swallowing sideways. Felix’s look of disgust made him think the fat guy was maybe suffocating under his choke hold, so Gus relaxed his grip a bit—

  —just enough for the guy, with the animal strength of the insane, to hurl Gus off with a hairy elbow.

  Gus fell to the sidewalk hard and his hat popped off. He turned in time to see it roll off the curb and into traffic. Gus jumped up and started after his hat and his money—but Felix’s yell spun him back. The guy had Felix wrapped up in some kind of maniacal embrace, the big man’s mouth going at Felix’s neck. Gus saw Felix’s hand pull something from his back pocket, flicking it open with a wrist flip.

  Gus ran toward Felix before Felix could use the knife, dropping a shoulder into the fat man’s side, feeling ribs crack, sending the tub of flesh sprawling. Felix fell too, Gus seeing blood spilling down the front of Felix’s neck, and—more shockingly—a look of outright terror on his compadre’s face. Felix sat up, dropping the knife in order to grip his neck, and Gus had never seen Felix look that way. Gus knew then that something bizarre had happened—was happening—he just didn’t know what. All he knew was that he had to act in order to make his friend right again.

  Gus reached for the knife, taking its burled black grip in his hand as the naked man got to his feet. The guy stood with his hand covering his mouth, almost as though trying to contain something in there. Something squirming. Blood rimmed his fat cheeks and stained his chin—Felix’s blood—as he started toward Gus with his free hand outstretched.

  He came fast—faster than a man of his size should have—shoving Gus down backward, before he could react. Gus’s bare head smacked against the sidewalk—and for a moment everything was silent. He saw the Times Square billboards flashing above him in a kind of liquid slow motion…a young model staring down at him, wearing only a bra and panties…then the big man. Looming over him. Something undulating inside his mouth as he stared at Gus with empty, dark eyes…

  The man dropped to one knee, choking out this thing in his throat. Pinkish and hungry, it shot out at Gus with the greedy speed of a frog’s darting tongue. Gus slashed at the thing with his knife, cutting and stabbing like a dreamer fighting some creature in a nightmare. He didn’t know what it was—only that he wanted it away from him, wanted to kill it. The fat man reeled back, making a noise like squealing. Gus kept up his slashing, cutting the man’s neck, slicing his throat to ribbons.

  Gus kicked away and the guy got to his feet, hands over his mouth and throat. He was bleeding white—not red—a creamy substance thicker and brighter than milk. He stumbled backward off the curb and fell into the moving traffic.

  The truck tried to stop in time. That was the worst of it. After rolling over his face with the front tires, the rear set stopped right on the fat man’s crushed skull.

  Gus staggered to his feet. Still dizzy from his fall, he looked down at the blade of Felix’s knife in his hand. It was stained white.

  He was hit from behind then, his arms wrapped up, his shoulder driven into the pavement. He reacted as though it were the fat man still attacking him, writhing and kicking.

  “Drop the knife! Drop it!”

  He got his head around and saw three red-faced cops on him, two more behind him aiming guns.

  Gus released the knife. He allowed his arms to be wrenched behind him, where they were cuffed. His adrenaline exploded. He said, “Fucking now you’re here?”

  “Stop resisting!” said the cop, cracking Gus’s face into the pavement.

  “He was attacking this family here—ask them!”

  Gus turned.

  The tourists were gone.

  Most of the crowd was gone. Only Felix remained, seated on the edge of the island in a daze, gripping his throat—as a blue-gloved cop shoved him down, dropping a knee into his side.

  Beyond Felix, Gus saw a small black thing rolling farther out into traffic. His hat, with all his dirty money still inside the brim—a slow-rolling taxi crushing it flat, Gus thinking, This was America for you.

  Gary Gilbarton poured himself a whiskey. The family—the extended family, both sides—and friends were all gone finally, leaving behind stacks of take-out food cartons in the refrigerator and wastebaskets full of tissues. Tomorrow they’d be back to their lives, and with a story to tell.

  My twelve-year-old niece was on that plane…

  My twelve-year-old cousin was on that plane…

  My neighbor’s twelve-year-old daughter was on that plane…

  Gary felt like a ghost walking through his nine-room home in the leafy suburb of Freeburg. He touched things—a chair, a wall—and felt nothing. Nothing mattered anymore. Memories could console him, but were more likely to drive him mad.

  He had disconnected all the telephones after reporters started calling, wanting to know about the youngest casualty on board. To humanize the story. Who was she? they asked him. It would take Gary the rest of his life to work on a paragraph about his daughter, Emma. It would be the longest paragraph in history.

  He was more focused on Emma than he was Berwyn, his wife, because children are our second selves. He loved Berwyn, and she was gone. But his mind kept circling around his lost little g
irl like water circling an ever-emptying drain.

  That afternoon, a lawyer friend—a guy Gary hadn’t had over to the house in maybe a year—pulled him aside in the study. He sat Gary down and told him that he was going to be a very rich man. A young victim like Em, with a much longer timeline of life lost, guaranteed a huge settlement payout.

  Gary did not respond. He did not see dollar signs. He did not throw the guy out. He truly did not care. He felt nothing.

  He had spurned all the offers from family and friends to spend the night so that he would not be alone. Gary had convinced one and all that he was fine, though thoughts of suicide had already occurred to him. Not just thoughts: a silent determination; a certainty. But later. Not now. Its inevitability was like a balm. The only sort of “settlement” that would mean anything to him. The only way he was getting through all this now was knowing that there would be an end. After all the formalities. After the memorial playground was erected in Emma’s honor. After the scholarship was funded. But before he sold this now-haunted house.

  He was standing in the middle of the living room when the doorbell rang. It was well after midnight. If it was a reporter, Gary would attack and kill him. It was as simple as that. To violate this time and place? He would tear the interloper apart.

  He whipped open the door…and then all at once the pent-up mania went out of him.

  A girl stood barefoot on the welcome mat. His Emma.

  Gary Gilbarton’s face crumpled in disbelief, and he slipped to his knees in front of her. Her face showed no reaction, no emotion. Gary reached out to his daughter—then hesitated. Would she pop like a soap bubble and disappear again forever?

  He touched her arm, gripping her thin biceps. The fabric of her dress. She was real. She was there. He grasped her and pulled her to him, hugging her, wrapping her up in his arms.

  He pulled back and looked at her again, pushing the stringy hair off her freckled face. How could this be? He looked around outside, scanning his misty front yard to see who had brought her.