Doomsdays

by Jeffrey Thomas

  It was one of the Haitian men, one of the sanders from upstairs, powdered pale blue with the dust of the dried housings. The man had also come to a halt, and his lips seemed to move as if he meant to apologize, but no sound came forth and they remained slack, loosely parted. The man stared a bit past Ray's eyes as if too shy or uninterested to make contact, and Ray didn't know whether to feel friendly or insulted. The Haitian stepped around Ray to continue on his way, but Ray was still looking at his face in that moment, despite his own shyness with the foreigners, looking at his averted eyes, and he saw that the eyes were not like Nate's eyes, Nate who was also a black man, Nate with the whites of his eyes stained dark like old ivory. This man's eyes were glazed, as if under a membrane, milky like an old dog's eyes. Maybe it was cataracts. Bluish cataracts...

  Dust, Ray realized, even as the man passed him, and now showed Ray his back. Ray spun on his heel, sneaker squeaking. The man had the dust of the sanded plastic computer shells on his eyes...

  As if the worker not only never wore his goggles...but as if he never even blinked.

  * * *

  There was one other non-Haitian on third shift, but perhaps Nate hadn't included Phil because he was their immediate supervisor. A low-key youngish man forever in a baseball cap, he never breathed down Ray's back, never put on the pressure; one of the few redeeming aspects of this job. Though he seemed rather solitary and decidedly unchatty, Ray still felt he could approach Phil about the Haitian men.

  "You have any trouble communicating with these guys, Phil?" Ray asked him in an off-hand tone later that same night he had foamed himself.

  Phil shrugged, wiping his grease-blackened hands on a rag. "Well, not anymore, but when the first group started I had to have Mr. Bokor as a translator." Mr. Bokor was the personnel director. "I explained things to him, and he translated it to them. And they watched the first and second shift molders, too. They picked it up fast; I think maybe some of them did this kind of work before." Again, a shrug.

  "So you do this every time a new one comes in?"

  "No; Mr. Bokor knows enough about it himself, now, that he just briefs them on his own, I guess. They still don't speak any English, none of 'em, so I just point out what I want them to do, sign language, you know. Write down how many parts I need." Shrug.

  "Hm. Well...at least they're not rowdy, huh? But funny guys. Odd."

  "I guess so. They get the job done, that's all I care."

  * * *

  "We're probably all laid off," Nate rumbled, guessing at the reason why Phil had called the entire crew together at the start of their shift. The meeting would be held in the molding area, where the sleek shells of high tech equipment were created in an atmosphere of Industrial Age gloom; in fact, with its chains hanging down from the ceiling and the molds like ominous great iron maidens, the area seemed like some medieval dungeon or torture chamber.

  The last of the sanders from upstairs were shuffling to join the group, and watching them, Nate changed the subject. "You guys gotta be right. Lookit these scabs. Gotta be drugs..."

  Ray drew closer to his co-worker. "I went to the library this afternoon...I found a book about the supernatural and it had a piece on voodoo. They think these witch doctor guys -- hougans, they call them -- drug people so they look like they've died, then later they dig 'em up and use drugs to make them into mindless slaves. People really believe it's the living dead. They say you can't let them ever eat salt, 'cause it makes them realize they're dead and breaks the hougan's spell. I'll bet in reality the salt does something to counteract the drugs..."

  "Bokor must be their witch doctor!" George interrupted.

  "Hougan," Ray corrected.

  "I'll bet these guys don't even get paid at all! Y'know? No benefits. Maybe no vacations. Have you ever noticed one gone on vacation? I haven't."

  Nate switched his intense gaze to Ray. "I thought you were the one who didn't think there was anything wrong with these dudes."

  "I guess I just looked at them closer."

  "Okay, um," Phil began. "Everybody...just wanted to tell you about something that happened this afternoon. Early evening." He cleared his throat, scanned the faces massed before him. "On the way home from work today Mr. Bokor, our human resources manager, got involved in a bad car accident. And, ah, he was killed..."

  "God damn!" Nate breathed.

  Ray traded glances with his two friends, and then began glancing around him at the rigid forms of the Haitians.

  Phil went on, "Mr. Bokor – " he pretended to be turning a car wheel " – crashed his car – " he punched his fists together " – and died." He slashed a finger across his throat. "I know it's gonna be hard for you Haitian guys to, um, communicate with us here for now, but hopefully we can do something about that..."

  Several of the men had shifted their weight, Ray noted. Several swayed. He even thought he saw one rustily turn his head a fraction to look to the comrade immediately next to him. But not a sound from any of them...

  "I know you can't really understand me," Phil continued. "Um..." He shrugged helplessly.

  "They understand," Ray whispered to himself, watching the slight ripple spread through their ranks. More felt than seen, really. And when he saw one of the men – just one – blink, he shivered. Such a normal thing from one of these men seemed so very, very strange.

  * * *

  For the first time since he'd started, Ray saw that the Haitians were late to work.

  Every night they bussed to the small plant crammed into two vans, packed like slaves in a galley ship, he imagined. The idea of two of those unblinking automatons driving any kind of vehicle on the open road nearly gave him shudders. Greasing up his mold for a shot, Ray looked up to watch them come staggering in at last, unaware that his hand motions were gradually slowing, and finally stopped.

  Two of the black men went directly to their stations without punching in. Another Haitian wore his shirt unbuttoned all the way, revealing the bare front of his chest. Another wore no shirt at all. Yes, it was a hot, muggy night...but that didn't explain why the very last man, Ray noted incredulously, had his fly open and his belt hanging undone.

  Ray saw that Nate had taken note; was wagging his head in disgusted awe. And Phil had noticed, too. He headed over to the last man. Ray couldn't hear the supervisor clearly, but saw him gesturing reluctantly at the other man's crotch. Finally Phil pretended to work his own zipper and at last, without looking down, the Haitian zipped his fly. But he left his belt undone, and Phil gave up on him to go speak to the man with no shirt. He had to pass Ray as he went, and paused to say, "I think these guys were out drinking, tonight. I don't know if I should let 'em work. Bokor's accident must've really upset them..."

  "Yeah," Ray agreed.

  He continued staring after the man with no shirt and watched Phil skip after him to catch up, lightly take hold of his arm to turn him around. Now the one with the open shirt stopped at his mold to slowly begin buttoning up, roused by Phil's concern, but with molasses-slow movements. Ray had switched his attention to him, and spotted something he had missed before, the shadow of the shirt having obscured the man's chest previously. Light fell directly on it, now, and Ray saw the terrible raised scar which ran the entire length of the man's bony chest, like a great Y. If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn it still had stitches in it here and there. Stitches of heavy black thread. Was he seeing what he thought he saw? What kind of surgery would...

  Oh, Ray thought. Oh...

  "Hey!" Phil cried out, and Ray whipped his head around in time to see that the shirtless man had picked up one of the iron pikes they used to break away dried plastic overflow. Phil hadn't spun the man to face him – it was not like Phil to do that – but the Haitian must have been startled at being touched, and reacted with uncharacteristic speed as he swung around with the heavy rod and smashed it down squarely onto Phil's baseball cap.

  "Hey!" Ray echoed, and he started forward.

  George was closer, and he lunged at the
Haitian, but he was empty-handed, and when the Haitian swivelled toward him George scampered back, putting a mold between them. He yelled, "Drag Phil out of there! Get him in the caf!" He motioned to the man with the pike. "Come on, come try that on me, scumbag!"

  Ray darted to where Phil had crumpled, scooped him under the armpits. The supervisor lifted his head and moaned; thank God he was still alive. For now, at least. Looking up, Ray saw Nate rushing to lend aid, a wrench in one fist.

  He also saw that all the other Haitians immediately around him had turned in his direction...and were beginning to trudge toward him, dragging shoes with undone laces.

  Nate caught Phil by the shirt front and together they pulled him backwards into the cafeteria. They let Phil down on the floor, then Nate covered the threshold while Ray removed the boss's cap to inspect the damage.

  "How is he, man?" Nate growled.

  "No blood. I dunno about his skull. He's out of it."

  "Come on, George!" Nate bellowed. "Get in here, man!" Then: "Damn, where is he? They got him... I think they got him." Then Ray flinched when Nate roared, "Back off, or I'll split your heads open! You wanna crack skulls? I'll show ya cracked skulls!"

  Ray left Phil to join his friend, and saw that all of the Haitian molders were scuffing toward the cafeteria. Gaping like fish, fish-like eyes unfocused yet unwavering. There was the shirtless man, pike still in his fist. There was the man with the great Y- scar on his chest...

  "They're dead," Ray said. "Nate...they're dead."

  Nate turned his head to glare down at him. "What..."

  A figure flashed into the doorway, and as Nate whirled to bring the wrench up against its head he saw George there, crossing his arms over his face as a shield.

  "God damn, dude!" Nate grabbed him by the shirt collar to haul him in. "Where were you?"

  "Luring them away so you could save Phil!"

  "Did you call the police?"

  "Call?" George blinked. "No...I..."

  "Great. You came back here to keep up company. You go get out of the plant and call the police! Me and Ray'll stay here and guard Phil..."

  "Too late," Ray said.

  The Haitians had made a wall of their bodies as they advanced on the cafeteria. They halted only a few paces from the threshold, and the three men inside gaped just as slack-jawed and glassy-eyed as they at this vision. For one of the men had accidentally "foamed" himself in plastic only minutes before; the hot yellow material oozed on him like candle wax, was even spattered heavily across his face and in his hair. He didn't seem concerned.

  The men from upstairs had joined their fellows. None of the sanders had had time, yet, to coat themselves blue in dust...but one of the men who spray-painted the finished computer housings had somehow sprayed himself pretty thoroughly. Even one of his eyes was painted a nice cream color, still open as if he might be seeing through the heavy layer.

  "Jesus, Nate," George hissed. "Oh dear God..."

  "They are dead," Nate stated matter-of factly.

  As if all of the Haitians shared one communal mind, the wall of them began pressing forward once more. Despite an umwillingness to give up ground, the three inside backed off in equally sympathetic unison. Nate's stentorian expressions of rage did not deter them, and the first of them began filing into the brightness of the caf.

  Ray darted back to Phil, dragged his limp form all the way to the rear of the room. Straightening up, he glanced frantically around him for a weapon. They were trapped; the only hope lay in fighting off the sluggish things as best they could until help arrived. Even if they had to wait until dawn for first shift to arrive.

  There was nothing much in the line of weapons about. A chair, Ray decided, and as he reached out to one his eyes swept across the surface of the table before him. Newspapers. Packets of ketchup left over from someone's fast food lunch. A salt shaker...

  Ray seized the salt shaker and twisted off its lid. He nearly dropped the bottle, fumbled with it, only spilled a little. He had intended to rush back to rejoin George and Nate, but by now the encroaching tide of the dead had driven the two men back to where he stood.

  Ray poured salt into his open, trembling hand. George looked to see what he was doing. Ignoring him, Ray stepped beyond his two friends and began sweeping his hand up...began to fling the mound of salt directly into the face of the foremost of the goggling, shambling cadavers.

  As his hand came up, the Haitian caught his wrist with startling cobra swiftness. Much of the salt fell. Ray made some incoherent sound of fear and surprise.

  Nate came in with the wrench then, his arm a blurred arc. The heavy tool thudded off the side of the black man's neck. Nate then withdrew, afraid that the others close about would grab hold of him as well.

  The corpse seemed not to have noticed the blow, had lifted Ray's hand to its mouth, its grip supernaturally powerful for so emaciated a creature. Ray twisted to be free, spilling more salt. The lips of the dead thing parted, and now it inclined its head to take Ray's fingers into its mouth. At any moment, to clamp its teeth around them. To bite them off, also with superhuman strength, so that it might suck his blood from his fingers as if through four fleshy straws...

  But instead he felt the tongue of the dead man lick his palm. Lick up the remnants of the mound of salt he had poured into his hand.

  And then the zombie let go of his wrist. Lifted its head to meet his eyes. For the first time, one of them actually looked into his eyes and seemed to be really seeing him. The contact lasted only a moment. But Ray understood.

  He stumbled back a step, his mind hissing with the white noise of near madness, and poured more salt into his palm...

  * * *

  Ray poured salt into George's cupped hand. Nate had found his own salt shaker. They stood in a row, a bit apart, with three small groups of the dead queued up to them. George couldn't look into their eyes, and flinched each time one of those cool slug-like tongues probed out to gather up the salt in his hand, but Ray watched their faces avidly. The change in those glassy bulbous eyes was subtle, but it was striking – the difference between the eyes of a dead fish, and those of a live one. Still, none of the men said a word even after they had taken their strange communion. And that was what it was like. Ray felt like a priest. He felt oddly...good.

  Those who had partaken marched wearily out of the room. Then there were no more. The three workers followed the last few men outside and watched them pile into their vans. A moment later, they were watching the dark sheen of the distant vehicles as they whirred off into the night like two June bugs. Afterwards, they went back inside the desolate shop to call an ambulance for Phil...none of them discussing what had transpired while they waited for it to arrive. But Ray felt a kind of pride...as if he had released some potentially dangerous animal from a heinous trap. An animal he had set free to return to its dark and mysterious home.

  * * *

  The three men would follow the story each night in the newpapers, seated at their customary table in the cafeteria. The company had hired some new workers to replace the Haitians. A few Hispanics. Some Cambodians. They all sat apart at their respective tables.

  The papers told how the Haitian workers at the plastics plant had attacked their supervisor, and then fled. The supervisor, now recovered, had speculated that the men had all been drinking heavily, and this was the reason given for the horrible accident the two vans had suffered not far from the plant only minutes after they'd left work. One had plowed at a suicidal speed into a telephone pole, and the other had plowed into the rear of the first. Everyone in the two vans was killed, and a resulting fire had charred the bodies beyond recognition.

  Further, it was found that the men were illegal immigrants, with no families to claim their remains. The owner of the plastics plant was under investigation as to whether he had been aware of the status of the Haitian workers all along...

  "We might be out of jobs soon," Nate observed, folding away his paper. But the tone was oddly calm, for Nate.


  Ray said nothing to that. He had caught one of the Cambodian men glancing over at them shyly. Ray waited for the man to meet his gaze, and when he did, made a point of smiling at him.

  The End

  The Friend of the Children

  My mistake in asking Joan out, I think, was that I followed her outside the building at lunchtime to do so. Perhaps she felt pursued, as I called her name and caught up with her. Maybe she was irked, too, that I’d interrupted her brisk walk to whatever errand she was running at lunchtime. She didn’t seem irked, per se; just nervous, I suppose. She was surprised. It was unexpected. We had only ever said hi before this moment. She may have felt accosted, but I was only trying to spare her the awkwardness of asking her out in the office itself. Spare her, and me.

  I had been preparing myself to ask Joan out for several months. It took several seconds for her to stare at me in brittle discomfort, give a twitchy smile, and decline. I smiled, too, and apologized I think and turned back to the building.

  I didn’t eat my lunch when I got inside. Just a black coffee that tasted like something that coursed through the vending machine to lubricate it. From my table, I glanced over at Sylvia and Suzanne at another table. Customer service reps in their twenties; Sylvia is very slim with very short hair dyed bright blond, and Suzanne is nicely voluptuous with longer hair dyed bright red. Personally I like a full, curvy, Rubenesque body like that. In pagan times Suzanne could have modeled for one of those prehistoric Venus symbols that New Age people wear as pendants. Earth mother. Fertility goddess. A body meant for childbirth. People like Desmond Morris say that’s what men look for, unconsciously, in women; signs that they’d be good, healthy mates to propagate the species with.

  I watched these other women in a deliberate effort to take my mind off Joan. To console myself. While I sipped my coffee, Angie, head of Human Resources, walked by my table, and she’s very tall and wears short skirts; black nylon from the floor up to my seated shoulder. Close enough to touch. I inhaled deeply and surreptitiously as she passed, hoping to steal a whiff of her secret garden that passed at the level of my face, so close, separated only by a few thin veils of fabric. But I caught the scent of nothing more than the cooking cardboard of someone’s microwaved TV dinner. I stole a look over at Suzanne again, but her eyes casually met mine and I looked away quickly.