Bleed

by Lori Michelle

  “What are you talking about, Malcolm? You don’t . . . you don’t think someone stole him, do you?”

  Malcolm bit his lip. It was a logical conclusion, but he didn’t dare say it out loud. At least not yet. And someone wanting a dog as old and feeble as Mr. Bojangles didn’t make any sense either. He reached out to pick up the dog collar, but jerked his hand back rather quickly.

  There were teeth laying in the muck.

  A moment later he slowly he reached out again, but this time something different caused him rear back. The lushness of the lawn did nothing to protect his tailbone as he sat down hard.

  “What is it, Sonny?”

  Malcolm didn’t answer as he slowly picked himself up off the ground. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then leaned forward again. He reached out, quickly retracting his hand when a tendril of the oily substance seemed to rise a couple of inches out of the ooze.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. His grandmother didn’t reprimand him this time; she’d seen the whole thing.

  The oily substance filled the interior of the dog house, oozing out in a small pool around the perimeter.

  Malcolm stood, extending the tip of his shoe toward the pool.

  When his foot came within about an inch of the substance, a blob bulged out toward him, as if reaching for him. It receded when he pulled back, disappearing back into the body of the pool

  “Good morning, Emma.”

  The booming voice nearly caused Malcolm to fall forward into the gunky mess. He turned, willing his heart back into normal rhythm. It was Harold Haversham, his grandmother’s next door neighbor.

  “Oh, hello, Harold,” Emma said sweetly.

  Harold stepped forward, one hand resting on his cane. Malcolm knew the man really didn’t need it. Probably just gets him more attention from the ladies.

  The old man nodded at Malcolm, opening his mouth to respond, then followed Emma’s gaze down toward the dog house.

  “What in heaven’s name happened here? Looks like someone parked my old Packard V-8 in your yard. That son-of-a-gun leaked oil like Pabst Blue Ribbon beer through a sieve. Or, maybe more appropriately these days, my bladder. Please forgive my forward language, Emma.”

  “Pshaw,” she said. “Not like I don’t know a thing or two about growing old, Harold.”

  “I don’t think this stuff is oil,” Malcolm replied absently, his voice nearly a whisper. “It almost seems . . . ”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. It sounded crazy enough in his head; he wasn’t sure what it would sound like if he spoke the words aloud.

  Harold continued as if Malcolm had not even spoken. “And just look at your lawn, Emma. We’re going to have to patch that up with sod at some point.” His voice grew irritated, as if he were upset that this could happen to a lawn he’d so carefully tended. “I’m not sure we will ever be able to get a precise match in grin and color.”

  “It’s not oil,” Malcolm repeated. “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s definitely not oil.”

  “Sure it is, boy,” the old man insisted. “What else could it be?”

  His grandmother spoke up and said the words that Malcolm had been afraid to utter: “It moved, Harold. Almost as if it were . . . alive. I think it ate Mr. Bojangles . . . ”

  Harold laughed. “Very funny, Emma. Is this your idea of a joke, or did your grandson put you up to it?” The old man stepped forward and, before Malcolm could stop him, poked at the substance with the rubber tip of his cane.

  Malcolm jumped back, reaching for his grandmother, but nothing happened.

  Haversham poked at the substance a couple more times, then lifted his cane, the slimy substance dripping back into the pool. Malcolm found it interesting that not a single drop clung to the rubber. No one else seemed to notice.

  “It even smells like oil,” the old man said, leaning forward for a closer look.

  Malcolm shook his head. “No, it’s different. It reminds me of decaying foliage in some old swamp . . . ”

  “Nonsense,” the old man said, wincing as he knelt down toward the oily pool, which now seemed to glow as it reflected the morning sun. Malcolm reached down, grabbing Haversham’s shoulder. The old man looked up with irritation, pulling away. He then reached down to pinch a drop of the substance between his fingers.

  “Feels like oil,” he said, then his whole body tensed.

  He didn’t scream at first.

  Tendrils from the pool snaked out, wrapping around his hand, pulling him forward. He landed face first in the pool, somehow managing to roll over onto his back as he tried to stand. That’s when the screaming began. It was so high-pitched and intense that it seemed there was no possible way it could have come from a 70-year-old man.

  Malcolm’s grandmother stepped forward, only stopping when her grandson grabbed her arms, pulling her back. Emma’s hands rose to her face as Harold Haversham’s screaming intensified.

  The glistening tendrils curled around the old man’s body as though tenderly caressing a lover. The substance then simply seemed to penetrate and soak into the man’s skin. Flesh blackened, then melted. Malcolm could think of no other way to describe it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the old man’s face.

  Haversham’s features melted like a plastic doll thrown into a fire. His nose lost its form, dripping down around already misshapen lips. A moment later, his eye balls fell from their sockets, hanging like strange, diseased fruit.

  Malcolm felt a twinge of relief (and perhaps a little guilt) when the screaming stopped.

  A moment later, there was nothing left of his grandmother’s neighbor except his clothes, wallet and cane. His flesh had been absorbed by the sludge, the pool expanding on all sides by several inches.

  Malcolm’s grandmother fainted, sinking to the grass. He moved quickly to her side and carried her into the house, far away from the terrifying pool of what was definitely not oil. Or anything else Malcolm had ever seen.

  ***

  The town of Rockbridge, Kansas, was a small town; Main Street just three blocks long, many of the storefronts having remained vacant for years. The police department consisted of a full-time sheriff and one part-time deputy.

  There was no newspaper in Rockbridge, but the town didn’t need one. News traveled so fast that any news published in a local paper would have been stale by the time it was printed.

  Within thirty minutes, Emma Brown’s backyard was crowded with folk, including Sheriff Burt Hawson and his deputy (and nephew), 19-year-old Lennie Flemm.

  Malcolm stood examining the brackish pool of muck along with Burt, Lennie and Mayor Jonas P. Gunderson. The mayor was wobbly on his feet even at 10:15 in the morning, but that was nothing new. His drinking was the only thing that kept the lone bar in Rockbridge open for business. The man had been mayor for nearly a quarter-of-a-century. Of course, there hadn’t been an election in Rockbridge in nearly that long.

  “It’s growing,” Malcolm said to no one in particular.

  “What?” the mayor asked.

  “He said that it’s growing,” Lennie said, his police uniform wrinkled and stained beneath the armpits.

  “Growing?” the mayor sputtered. “It’s just a puddle of oil. How can oil grow?”

  “It already ate a dog . . . and Harold Haversham,” Malcolm replied.

  “Ate?” the mayor asked, caressing the flask in his pocket.

  “Yes, it ate the dog and Harold Haversham.”

  “Poppycock,” the mayor replied, pulling the flask from his pocket and unscrewing the top. “Burt, go get Harold from next door and bring him over.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “He’s not home, Jonas. I already sent Lennie over to check.”

  “Hogwash. Lennie couldn’t find Kansas even he was staring at a map of Kansas,” the mayor grumbled.

  Lennie didn’t feel insulted in the slightest.

  “It’s growing,” Malcolm insisted. “It grew in size when it . . . er . . . absorbed Mr. Haversham, but I think it�
��s still growing, though much more slowly. I think maybe it’s nibbling away at the grass.”

  “Like boll weevils?” Lennie asked. He was a little more efficient when it came to things like farm life and country living than he was with map reading.

  “I don’t think boll weevils eat grass,” the sheriff replied. “I think they prefer cotton. Perhaps crickets or grasshoppers eat grass.”

  “We’re getting off the subject,” Malcolm said, the irritation beginning to sound in his voice. “It’s the gunk. I think it’s eating the lawn because grass is a living organism and it’s the only thing it can feed on at the moment. Until some doddering old fool like Mr. Haversham comes along.”

  “Poppycock,” the mayor said as if that settled it.

  You have to admit, it does look like oil,” Lennie said after a moment of silence. He felt ignored. “What does it feel like?”

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you go ask Harold Haversham, Lennie?”

  “I thought you said he was dead?”

  Malcolm bit his lip.

  “Don’t worry, Lennie,” the sheriff said. “Malcolm here only thinks he’s dead. Ain’t that a hoot? He’s probably shopping over in McKinney or Lansdale.”

  “He ain’t . . . er . . . isn’t shopping anywhere,” Malcolm insisted, the frustration growing in his voice. “He’s dead. Dead as a doornail. Dead as a dodo bird. As dead as the brain cells in Lennie’s head. Don’t you see his clothes and stuff?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Could be part of a yarn that just might get you thrown in jail tonight, boy. Well, that’s if we had a real jail.”

  “Poppycock,” the mayor said, his words slurring as he took another swig from his flask.

  “Does it burn?” the sheriff asked.

  The other three men looked at each other with blank faces. He repeated himself. “The stuff that you don’t think is oil—does it burn?”

  “How should I know?” Malcolm replied. “We only noticed the thing an hour ago, and I’m not about to go experimenting with it. That’s why we called you.”

  “We should find out,” the sheriff said. “Anyone have a match?”

  “I have a lighter,” a woman standing behind them offered. Malcolm recognized Lottie Scruggs from the town diner; a chain-smoker, three packs a day. Of course the woman would have a lighter. Likely three or four, Malcolm mused. It was also the reason he never ate at Lottie’s place. She had a cigarette hanging from her mouth even when she cooked.

  Lottie reached into her battered handbag, pulled out a well-used Zippo lighter and handed it to the sheriff.

  “Is this a good idea?” Malcolm asked. He didn’t believe the stuff was oil, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t react like oil.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” the sheriff asked.

  “How about an out-of-control blaze in a town with a 40-year-old fire truck? Not to mention a mayor whose breath would likely catch fire if he was near an open flame. He’d be spraying fire like a dragon.”

  “Dragons aren’t real,” Mayor Gunderson said with a pronounced hiccup.

  The sheriff looked at Gunderson and shook his head. “Could happen,” he muttered, referring to the possibility of flame spouting from the man’s mouth. “Maybe it’s time we went back to having elections in this town anyway.” He flicked the lighter, watching the flame jump to life before throwing it into the sludge.

  When the lighter hit, the gunk momentarily seemed to recoil, then the flame sputtered and died as Lottie’s lighter sank into the black muck.

  “Well, that answers that,” the sheriff said. “I guess it ain’t oil after all.”

  “Hey,” Lottie screeched. “That lighter used to belong to my husband before he passed away from lung cancer. It was an antique. I oughta sue.”

  Everyone ignored her. The U-Gas-Em at the edge of town had half a dozen identical lighters displayed on their front counter. Before anyone could stop her, she reached forward to retrieve her lighter. The sheriff succeeded in grabbing her, but then lost his own balance and fell forward toward the gunky pool. He managed to extend his arms, his hands hitting the murky liquid first. Somehow he managed to keep his body from tumbling in.

  Malcolm and Lennie both reached out to help him stand. He was able to do so, cursing as he stepped away from the pool. Then he screamed as his hands began to blacken and melt.

  He fell forward again, unable to stop himself this time. Malcolm had seen this grisly display before, but the rest of the crowd stood horrified as the body melted into the sludge. The pool spread again, the crowd quickly stepping back.

  “I’ll be a mummy’s uncle,” Lennie whispered, as he touched the brim of his battered police hat.

  “A monkey’s uncle,” Malcolm said without thinking.

  Before Lennie could comment, Malcolm began motioning the crowd to step away from the mire.

  “If you got any of that yellow crime tape in your car, Lennie, now would be the time to use it. This town’s population is small enough as is . . . ”

  The oily pool (which was definitely not oil) was now the size of the gazebo in the town park. In the middle of the miniature lake was Mr. Bojangles’ dog house, sitting there in the late morning sun as though floating.

  ***

  Less than two weeks later, the gunk covered almost every square inch of Emma Brown’s yard, though it curiously had yet to spread into any of the neighboring properties.

  Malcolm, his grandmother and a dozen other “officials” stood in Mr. Haversham’s backyard surveying the situation from a distance.

  Mayor Gunderson, his flask hidden in his wrinkled suit jacket, listened as a one-star general from Fort Riley and his aide, a young captain, discussed the situation. The aide was jittery, insisting that action needed to be taken immediately. The general lit his pipe, listening patiently until the captain ran out of breath. The captain reminded Malcolm a little of Sheriff Hawson. It was almost as if a clone had appeared to take the sheriff’s place.

  The image of a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers flashed through Malcolm’s head. He attempted to push it to the back of his mind, but without much success.

  The general graciously accepted a fresh apple turnover from Emma, tucking his extinguished pipe into his jacket. “You folks still occupying the residence?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said. “As you can see, the . . . the stuff hasn’t spread beyond the boundaries of the garden. I think that’s partially because there’s nothing to feed on . . . ”

  “Partially?”

  “Yes, sir. Only chain link fence separates most of the adjoining yards, but my grandmother’s lawn is the only one that has been infected.”

  The general nodded. “I’ve heard your opinion on this thing’s feeding habits, son. Live organisms, eh?”

  Malcolm nodded. “Yes, sir; I’ve seen it, and so have several of the other town folk.”

  “Well, I appreciate your insight, son, but you now need to let us do our job and not complicate things. And no more gossip about what this stuff is or isn’t. I must also insist that you and your grandmother leave the house and find somewhere else to stay until this thing is resolved.”

  “Leave my house?” Emma sputtered.

  “Yes, ma’am. The sooner the better.”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve lived here since I got married some forty years ago, young man,” she said to the general who wasn’t much younger than she was. “I’m not leaving this house until they carry my cold, dead body out the front door!”

  The general scowled. “We’ll see about that, Mrs. Brown. In the meantime, our lab at Fort Riley will run some tests to see if we can determine what we’re up against. But I don’t want to hear any more rumors about flesh-eating aliens.”

  Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about aliens, general?” The vision of pod people zipped back to the active part of his brain.

  “Just an expression, son. I just don’t want any rumors running rampant.”

  A second later,
a bushy-tailed squirrel skittered along the top rail of the fence. Startled to find people so close to his usual trail, he leaped into Emma Brown’s backyard. The small body was absorbed by the greedy gunk in a matter of seconds.

  “Well, I’ll be danged,” the captain whispered. “It really did eat the thing.”

  “Pish-posh,” the general said with a wave of his hand. “The critter simply sank into the substance.”

  “But, sir,” the captain insisted. “That liquid can’t be more than an inch deep at any point in the yard.”

  The general ignored him and turned to the mayor. “Mayor Grundy?”

  “Gunderson,” the mayor slurred.

  “Right . . . I think we need to evacuate the town. Think you can get things started? I’ll call for some troops and buses from Fort Riley to help. We can probably accommodate them on base. We should run some tests on everyone anyhow. Just to make sure there’s no . . . contamination.”

  Malcolm spoke before the mayor could utter a word. “That’s going to be tough to do, general. The folks here in Rockbridge are a lot like my grandmother. They won’t leave their homes peacefully. Besides, the substance hasn’t moved beyond the yard.”

  The general scowled. “First of all, the town folk don’t have much say in this. I plan on calling the governor and having him declare martial law. Second, just because this goop seems contained for the moment doesn’t mean it won’t start spreading like wildfire without warning. We can’t take that chance. You could put the whole state, hell, the whole country in danger.”

  “We can always go to Plan B, sir,” the captain said softly.

  “We are not going to Plan B, captain.”

  “I mean, well, we should be prepared. Just in case . . . ”

  “What is it with you and Plan B?” the general asked. “We had a simple influenza outbreak in Manhattan, and Plan B was your very first suggestion.”

  “I’m just saying . . . ”

  “Captain! We are not going to drop a nuke in the middle of Kansas!” His voice was much louder than he’d intended and the small crowd went very quiet. The general wiped sweat from his forehead and cleared his voice. “No need for alarm, folks. Everyone here is perfectly safe. You just need to follow orders and do what you’re told.”