Garden : A Dystopian Horror Novel

by Carol James Marshall

  “Madam loves you,” Danny said.

  He paused, aware of what kind of bomb he was about to throw on Dolly’s lap. Could she take it? She was only seven, and seven-year-olds shouldn’t handle such things, but Danny felt a change coming.

  Something was in the air. A stirring within himself that he could no longer ignore. Danny needed to warn his sister, let her prepare herself for what might come, for what might be.

  “Madam isn’t a good person,” he said, watching his sister’s face for more tears. Loud crying would alert Ava the nanny. Ava would call for Madam, and Danny, as usual, would run. And what if Dolly talked? Would she tell Madam what he had said?

  Dolly’s face wasn’t calm, but she wasn’t crying. Her eyes pleaded with Danny to go on, and he did.

  “Our mother invented YUM, and YUM is a terrible thing.” He had to take a deep breath then, as the weight of that truth left his bloodstream like expelled toxins.

  Dolly watched her brother, half-smiling at his sloppy blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. She shifted in her bed to sit on his lap. She held her brother, gripping him as if to assure him he would not be forsaken.

  Danny embraced his sister, and she felt the warm wetness of his tears seep through perfectly curled locks to settle on her scalp.

  “Whatever happens, Dolly, you have to trust me. Okay?” Danny said, breaking the calm of their embrace.

  “What’s going to happen?” Dolly asked looking up at her brother but not letting go.

  “I honestly don’t know, but I think the time has come to do something or Madam will hurt many more people.” Danny paused then said, “I have to stop her.”

  “I will help you, but…” Dolly rested her head on Danny’s chest and said, “…don’t leave me.”

  Danny hugged his sister close. “Never,” he said. “Never.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bun in the Oven

  Lola had sat in the same spot under a tree for more than an hour, frustrated, confused. Her mind was gripped with so much fear, she couldn’t move.

  “What if’s” kept thrashing about in Lola’s thoughts, paralyzing her. She believed any moment Nutri-Corp would come and… What then? What then?

  Visions of Nutri-Corp police armed with Shakies plowing down the Gardeners’ home trampled Lola’s thoughts. Over and over the image of Suzy’s being hit and liquefied played and replayed in Lola’s head.

  She buried her face in her hands, wishing she could pull out her brain, slap it around, tell it to stop, stop, stop, to make it all stop.

  Lola didn’t cry, even as she wondered if she could have done anything different for her sisters. All she’d ever wanted to do was to save them. Was that stupidity or blind love?

  “Hey.”

  Chandler’s voice was soft, and when Lola looked up, she locked eyes with her. Chandler was dressed in all black, hair in a tight bun, but the way her blue eyes looked at Lola made her feel naked both in body and thought.

  Chandler sat beneath the tree, next to Lola and rested her head on Lola’s shoulder. Their hands touched, and Chandler eased her fingers between Lola’s. Thigh to thigh with Chandler, Lola melted a bit, as if she’d found the most comfortable chair in the house.

  “You feel safe,” Chandler admitted to Lola. “I haven’t felt safe in a really long time. With you...” She stopped speaking.

  Lola listened to Chandler’s breathing. In and out smoothly. No rush, no trepidation, only a rhythm that rocked Lola like a child in a crib.

  “I can’t be that for you,” Lola spat. But she didn’t want Chandler to leave. She didn’t even want her to let go of her hand or move her legs, but she had to say it before it was too late. Like it was for others.

  “Be safe?” Chandler said, resting more of her weight on Lola.

  “No...” Lola hesitated again but pushed herself to finish. “Be a girlfriend, lover, whatever you want to call it.”

  Chandler sat up, and Lola gripped her hand, not allowing her to let go. “I wasn’t trying to...” Chandler began. She looked concerned, confused—and hurt.

  Lola pressed on. “I can’t be that for anyone. I’m broken. I don’t feel like that…for anyone. I don’t know why.” Lola squeezed Chandler’s hand even tighter but looked away, shame flushing her cheeks, eyes brimming with tears.

  She hated this part.

  The part where she explained herself, but it never made sense. She loved her sisters and felt the same way about Danny, but when she tried to feel something for someone else nothing happened.

  “When I had my first kiss,” Lola said turning to look at Chandler, “it was a boy I thought I really liked. I mean I really, really did like him but not like that. When he kissed me I felt empty. It felt like nothing.”

  Chandler was still close to Lola, their thighs still touching. Her eyes traveled over Lola’s eyes, mouth, cheeks.

  Lola went on, “Later, when I got older I thought I liked a girl here at camp. She was so funny and sweet, but when we kissed… Again, nothing.” Lola eased her hand from Chandler’s grasp. “I can’t be that for anyone.”

  Chandler straightened, the light within her sparkling as she spoke. “You don’t have to be anything for me. You just have to be.” Chandler stood and held her hand out to Lola, pulling her to her feet. The two women faced each other, and Chandler smoothed Lola’s hair out of her face.

  “You just have to be you,” Chandler said, smiling. “I expect nothing more.”

  Chandler led Lola back to the trailer where Jen and Suzy waited.

  Micah gave his wife Clarissa a wink as a waiter walked by with a tray of champagne flutes. At Micah’s wink, Clarissa giggled and took a glass. She hung on his arm, like a good wife, and gave his arm a squeeze.

  “It’s everything I imagined,” Clarissa gushed, maybe a bit too loudly.

  Smile in place, Micah said, “Lower your voice. You’ll scare the natives.”

  Sir, Madam’s husband, crossed the room, and Micah realized he headed toward them. Micah had discovered Sir liked to sneak over to a small mountain town beyond The Hills, and Madam’s reach, to eat pizza. How did Micah know that? He went there, too. Sir hadn’t seen him, but Micah had smiled when he realized what this tidbit of knowledge that came with the pepperoni and jalapeno pizza meant for him.

  While Sir had focused only on scarfing down pizza—two medium with extra meat--Micah had photo after photo where Sir swilled beer in one hand and pizza slices with the other. And he’d used the photos to secure a place at Madam’s table.

  Sir’s smile was affable if a little guarded when he reached them. “Well, well, welcome Micah, Clarissa. It’s about time you’ve made it to one of our dinner parties.”

  Sir shook hands with both of them. Micah felt a jolt from Clarissa. Her smile broadened, and she opened her mouth to say something Micah knew would be inappropriate. He reached down and squeezed her hand, an aggressive “hush up” signal.

  “Thank you for having us,” Micah replied, smoothly. “We’re having a great time.”

  Micah answered Sir’s smile with his own, and Sir got a wink, too.

  “Wonderful,” said Sir. “Enjoy. I must see to our other guests.”

  As Sir turned to walk away, Micah murmured, “Check’s in the mail.” Sir hesitated, the smile faltering for a moment. After a near-imperceptible nod, he walked away, acknowledging he understood Micah had placed some incriminating photos at the drop spot.

  Micah snatched another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and put a hand on his arm to stop him. Micah downed the contents in two distasteful gulps while the waiter watched.

  After the waiter hurried away, Clarissa whispered… No, whimpered, “Dinner?”

  Micah didn’t answer right away, as he thought about how to respond.

  “I haven’t eaten food in over three years,” said Clarissa. She sounded more frightened than confused.

  “Welcome to privilege,” said Micah, waving his hand to indicate the room full of the “in” people. His non-answe
r was more of a jab at his wife; he knew she coveted the Nutri-Corp elite lifestyle with an obsessive passion.

  Choke on that sweetheart, Micah thought and said no more. It was in his best interest to behave this evening.

  He steered Clarissa towards a group of people standing by a bar where a bartender worked tirelessly, flipping bottles back and forth. He was putting on quite a show. Too bad no one bothered to watch.

  “You haven’t touched your champagne,” Micah said to Clarissa. He made the mistake of looking directly at her, with her delicate hands, beak-like nose, and that brow constantly furrowed with greed or worry. Toss a coin for which. “Would you like something stronger?”

  “I don’t feel like drinking tonight,” Clarissa responded her eyes darting from couple to couple in the room.

  Micah’s eyes followed hers, but all he saw was the almost complete lack of tics. This, thought Micah, is what makes the elite worthy in Madam’s eyes. They could ingest her poison day in and day out with little or no effect. These people were her prizes, proof-positive what she had done was right.

  A bell rang out, and the murmur of polite, social chatter ceased. Clarissa now squeezed Micah’s hand, but he could feel her hand quaking. What? Had she forgotten how to chew? What was she so afraid of?

  Madam and Sir led the way to the large dining room. They looked like a king and queen… Well, Micah thought, they’re acting like what they think a king and queen do. The long table was elegant with pristine, white linen tablecloths, matching dinner service, candelabras, twinkling crystal wine and water glasses, shining silverware. At the top of each plate was an elegant place card, gold script on rich, white paper.

  Clarissa’s grip on his hand grew tighter and tighter, and he was relieved when he spotted the place cards bearing their names, even more relieved when she released his hand for him to pull out her chair.

  Once everyone sat at the appointed places, waiters came placing a small shot glass with a frothy white liquid in front of each person. Nobody touched the shot glasses. Some absentmindedly glanced at them, some ignored them. Clarissa, Micah noticed, clutched her napkin like she’d gripped his hand. She stared at the shot glass, her eyes bulging, sweat beading on her upper lip.

  Madam stood at the helm of the table, the dazzle of her blue dress almost blinding. Madam held up her own shot glass and commanded, “Drink. For your health.” She smiled, raising her shot glass. Everyone did the same.

  Except Clarissa, who looked much like a fly caught in the spider's web.

  “Darling Clarissa,” Madam said, her voice seeming to slink from her mouth and down the table. All eyes were on Clarissa, all ears on Madam. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  Micah knew he should help his wife, maybe say something charming, stupid even, to break the tension at the table. But the smell of the liquid in the shot glass reached his nose, and he found himself trying not to gag. The liquid reeked of nasty medicine. The smell coated his tongue, his throat, and deposited a layer in his gut.

  A tear hit Clarissa’s plate, plopping there to form a miniature puddle next to her undrunk shot glass.

  Madam eyes became slits, her smile faded, and she seemed to grow taller. Micah lay a hand on Clarissa’s shoulder, fingertips digging into her. He wanted to slap her out of whatever stupor this was.

  “I’m pregnant,” announced Clarissa. “I do not want to disrespect you, but I...”

  Micah felt as if Clarissa had slapped him, the way he’d wanted to slap her. But, her uncouth declaration gave him a way out.

  “Madam,” he said, “we wish to birth our child on YUM. I believe my wife is worried that if she drinks this, well, that it might inhibit the YUM in her system. Our apologies. We’ll leave.”

  Micah stood then, anxious to get Clarissa and his child out of Madam’s house. Micah knew what was on the menu that night. Being a Nutri-Corp elite who liked to slum around had its perks. He knew what the prey was during The Hunt.

  Before learning in this sudden way she was pregnant, he would have had no issue gleefully watching Clarissa chow down on course after course, but his child... That was something unexpected. The wrench of emotion he suddenly felt was different, very different, from the usual conniving bastard he normally was.

  Madam’s eyes widened. A smile slowly simmering then spread across her lips. “Ah, that is wonderful news!” She set down her shot glass to applaud, and all followed. “A Nutri-Corp baby born on the brilliance of YUM. Rest assured, Micah and Clarissa, I shall make sure your baby receives everything its little heart could desire. Like my Dolly.”

  The clapping slowly faded, and words of congratulations came from around the room. Clarissa beamed, and Micah felt a sting of fear run up and down his spine.

  “Darling Clarissa,” Madam said, looking at Sir and winking, “You are correct. We must keep our little one pure. Only YUM.” She placed her hand on Sir’s shoulder, her long nails like talons gleaming in the light.

  Micah gulped; those were nails more for shredding than adornment.

  “My dear,” she said to Sir, “would you mind walking them out?”

  Sir stood, a smile of a thousand suns on his face. He looked at Micah, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  Right, Micah thought, the jig is up, as it were; no need to worry about my pesky pictures anymore.

  Sir walked around the table toward Micah and Clarissa. He said, “Micah, we wouldn’t want our little bundle of joy to be marred in any way. It’s best you two head home, take a rest, enjoy the comfort of your Nutri-Corp City luxury condo.”

  Micah noted the threat: Mess with me, and I will hurt your child; mess with us and your safety will be gone; try to play that game again, and you will lose it all.

  “Thank you.”

  The words quaked from Clarissa’s mouth. Micah echoed her and added a hasty goodbye to Madam, but his thoughts were swimming. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he would ruin Madam. That was a given.

  Allen watched Micah and Clarissa leave. No good social climbers. They didn’t belong here to begin with. Madam giving them leave to go was the best for everyone. Looking over at his wife, he smiled. She had been by his side this whole time, working with him to gain their place not only at this table but at the head of Madam’s empire.

  Necessary sacrifices had been made, but Allen had never experienced success until he joined the Nutri-Corp ranks. Before Nutri-Corp he’d spent his life as an office drone with a knack for finances, but he never got a single promotion despite his success. The leaders of his company had ignored him, believed him unworthy of their attention. Once he joined Nutri-Corp, Madam recognized his ability right away.

  He had started with her when she was a struggling single mother with a pill that Madam believed could change everything for the better. Because she believed this, so did Allen. He stood by her side, bringing his wife into the fold as Madam’s personal assistant.

  Now, Allen “the nobody” managed Nutri-Corp’s finances. More importantly, he was the leader of many Hunts, hunts that brought food to Madam’s table.

  After Micah and Clarissa’s departure, everyone had taken their shot of the white liquid in the shot glass. Madam had dubbed it the Stabilizer. Allen was proud of how his wife took every drop of Stabilizer and didn’t gag. It took practice, but he knew Madam would be proud, too.

  Stabilizer was also Madam’s secret recipe. It was supposed to taste of mint, but no one dared complain it didn’t. It was a prophylactic that prevented those at the dinner table from coming down with kuru, the sickness that came from eating human flesh.

  Once everyone had their dose of Stabilizer, Cook entered with a waiter carrying a large soup tureen. Cook would oversee the waiter as he served the soup course. Everyone sat quietly, only the sounds of ladling filling the room and Cook’s quiet murmurs of “Too much” or “A little more.”

  The waiter was nearly at Allen’s side, Cook close behind. She would work her way around the room while the waiter served everyone from the single tureen. Allen braced him
self for whatever the waiter would spoon into his bowl. Cook hated Allen and always made sure he received the dregs of the soup or the least desirable parts of the meat.

  Yes, sacrifices had to be made to stay at the top, and Allen would consume whatever Cook directed the waiter to put into his bowl. He would do whatever it took to help Madam take over the world because he would rise with her and taste glory, finally be the success he had always believed he could be.

  The waiter was now by Allen’s side, but he turned to look at Cook. She smiled at him broadly. He believed he heard a hiss escape her mouth as the soup filled his bowl. Allen did not look down at first. This was his little game with himself. Would tonight offer an eyeball gently bobbing among the noodles and broth? Or would it be a crunch of toenails hidden in the sauce? She had done both to him before.

  When Cook and the waiter left the dining hall, Allen, along with everyone else, picked up his spoon and scooped some broth. Wow, there were carrots this time and something that looked like diced potatoes. Relief washed over Allen. Perhaps this time Cook had skipped her torture of him. This time she might have given him a pass. The broth had a deep, rich flavor, a flavor that had been simmered for a long time. A flavor of a chilly November day.

  “Allen has reported that are revenues are skyrocketing,” Madam said to Sir, but she pitched her voice to all within earshot. “We should,” Madam crooned, “be able to cross the border into Mexico soon.”

  All at the table cheered, including Allen, who had dipped his spoon into the soup once more. As he brought it to his lips, something jiggled. At first, Allen couldn’t make out what he saw. Then, he recognized a chunk of skin. Scarred or knotted? Knotted, thought Allen, it was knotted.

  “Allen, dear is everything all right?” Madam asked, wine glass in hand. She never seemed to eat much at these dinners.

  “Oh, yes, fine, thank you.” Allen popped the spoonful of broth, chunk of carrot, and knotted piece of flesh in his mouth. He chewed while looking at his wife. Belly button, Allen thought. It was the belly button.