"Careless, girl,” Mia berated herself, stuffing the money into a pocket. The note she tossed into the dustbin. Thought I'd gotten rid of that. Distracted, she didn't think on it; she had bigger problems. The roof rustled. Mia shot a dark look at the ceiling. It was time to call in the experts.
* * * *
Mia found the experts friendly and eager to help, but unwilling to lower their prices.
"That ... that sounds a bit much,” she mumbled into the phone. She was on her fifth inquiry. The guy on the line sighed. He sounded young, with a more cultured voice.
"Look, lady, this isn't my dream job, you know. I can understand you have a problem, but I'm not Bill Gates. I can't afford to run a charity. Not if I want to get back into college."
Mia closed her eyes, despair heavy on her shoulders. She rubbed her eyes.
"I understand,” she said. “It's just ... they bit my daughter already. Badly. I need to get rid of them."
"Oh.” She could almost imagine him squirming in discomfort on the other end, a faceless, young voice.
Her eyes were wet and sore. It's not fair. What have I done to deserve this? And my baby, what did she do? God, will it never end?
"Hello? Lady, are you still there?” She felt oddly comforted at the note of genuine concern in his voice.
"Yes, I'm here,” she said, voice dull. “They're going to cut my power off end of the month, unless I pay. I can't find a job.” She clamped her mouth shut, horrified. She hadn't meant to say that, but it just popped out. Mia felt like crawling under the table and hiding until doomsday.
They sat and listened to each other breathing over the phone line for a few seconds.
"Okay, tell you what,” he said. “I'll come and take a look this afternoon. You can pay me when you get the money."
Mia couldn't hold back the tears anymore.
* * * *
Mia couldn't decide who was more uncomfortable—she or the handsome young man in the blue overalls standing in her doorway.
She knew she was blushing; her cheeks had flushed warm the instant she'd heard his pick-up roll into the driveway. For a wild moment, when the doorbell had rung, she'd contemplated ducking beneath the table and waiting until he'd left. One look at the pale face of her sleeping daughter and the sound of her heavy breathing had been enough. For Stacy's sake, Mia would have to bear the embarrassment.
"I'm sorry about earlier,” she blurted, before the door was fully open. “It's been a long week, and, well, that's no excuse. This is very kind of you."
He scuffed his feet, clearing his throat. “Erm, yeah. Well, my ma wouldn't be proud if I left a lady high and dry, now would she?"
He grinned and Mia felt her lips respond, curving into a smile. He had an infectious cheer about him.
The moment he took a step over the threshold, a rustle came from the ceiling. He glanced up, nodded.
"Right, let's go take a look at these rodents."
She showed him the access hatch. “Would you like something to drink? Water or coffee?"
"No, thank you. Let me just go get my ladder."
Mia watched him through the kitchen window, admiring his athletic body in motion. Distracted as she was, she had noticed his kind, open face, the clear blue eyes and the light spattering of freckles across his nose. She found it oddly appealing the way the tips of his dark hair curled around his ears. He was a bit younger than her, true. Still, she hadn't failed to take note of the approving once-over he had given her.
Feeling a little absurd, Mia dashed into her bedroom, and quickly ran her brush through her hair. She looked a little pale but that couldn't be helped now. Besides, it fitted well with her short blonde hair and green eyes. She resisted the urge to change clothes. That would be a little too obvious.
In the end, Mia knew it was just a fantasy, nothing more. For a moment, it made her feel vital again.
* * * *
Mia found herself at a loss as to how to start chatting with a guy whose head was stuck up her ceiling.
"So,” she began. “You're saving up for college?"
"Yup.” The ceiling muffled his words a little. “I kind of screwed up the first time around."
"Why?"
He chuckled. “I signed up for biochemistry but found my natural inclinations leaned towards socializing. Too strongly, if you know what I mean."
Mia smiled, admiring the way his bum wiggled beneath his overalls when he moved around. He'd gone up the ladder armed with a flashlight and a bag full of blue cubes. She heard the thunk-thunk of him tossing them around.
"My parents were pissed,” he carried on. “Dad sorta kicked me out of the house."
"Oh, my god, that's terrible!"
"Nah, not really. I still lived there for three years and they only enforced the new ‘you'll pay rent now’ rule in the last six months, when I finally had a steady job."
"Still, I can't imagine parents doing that to their kid."
He was silent for a while, tossing more cubes around.
"We're not a rich family,” he said. “My folks only had enough savings left to get my brother through college. I figured this time around I'll do it myself."
"But surely they would help a little?"
"They would, probably end up taking another loan. I can't let them do that, they spent too many years working off the debt of my first attempt at higher education. I blew it, not them. They gave me a decent shot. What more could I ask for?"
The last three cheques never came.
I just can't right now.
Are you coming to her birthday?
Damn, I forgot.
Mia tucked a curl behind her ear, angry at the unbidden memories.
"That's odd."
Mia frowned, taking a step closer to the ladder. She saw Billy, the exterminator, wiggle around, turning from one side to the other. His name was so mundane; she had been expecting something exotic, like Victor or Juan.
"What is?” she asked.
"I haven't seen any rats yet."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Billy hesitated. “I'm not sure, it's just unusual. I mean, I heard them running up here from the kitchen. But I haven't seen a single one yet."
Mia had to admit, the ceiling had been quiet all this time. Unease crept through her.
"Well, maybe they're hiding. You are flashing a light around up there."
"Yeah, maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “Wait."
Her heart beat faster and her hands trembled. “What?"
"I think I see something."
"A rat?"
"I ... maybe. Let me just get a closer look.” He climbed up to the last step, shoulders and chest disappearing into the darkness. His body tensed. Shook once, twice. Mia found herself pressed up against the wall.
"Billy?"
No answer. She took a tentative step forward, reaching out a hand for his leg. Without warning, his whole body disappeared up through the hatch. Slowly, a thick, dark red glob dripped from above. It splattered on one of the ladder's rungs. Mia knew blood when she saw it. She clamped a hand over her mouth, feeling sick, and ran for Stacy's room.
She stayed there all night, the doors locked and windows closed. Mia left the light on. She had left the room only once, to arm herself. She lay beside Stacy on the bed, skillet and frying pan on the dresser beside her. Every time she was about to drop off to sleep, a rustling from above jerked her awake. Even so, sleep finally claimed her.
* * * *
* * * *
The next morning, armed with her kitchenware, Mia crept through the house. She refused to look at the ladder and the dark splotches dripping off its rungs. In the kitchen, she found a note, neatly folded on top of a roll of money.
IN GRATITUDE FOR SERVICES RENDERED.
PS—FEED US.
Mia sat down, the money and the note in front of her. She felt numb. The phone rang a couple of times. Mia let it. Only once did she get up, to make herself a coffee and dial the school, booking Stacy off for the week.
<
br /> "Don't worry, dear,” the voice at the other end said, “we'll inform her teacher and she'll tell Stacy's friends her birthday party has been cancelled. You just take all the time you need. We'll pray for you. Such horrid little things, those rats."
Mia found herself unable to listen to the sympathetic oozing from the phone any longer. “Yes,” she said, and put the phone down.
Mia sat and drank her coffee, fingering the notes, money and yellowed paper both. Stacy quietly walked in, climbed into her mother's lap. She pulled the scrap of paper over and read it. Mia wanted to protest, take it from her. She let her daughter read, stroking her hair.
Stacy put the note down, rested her head on Mia's shoulder and locked her arms around her neck. “It'll be okay, mommy."
Mia stroked Stacy's hair, staring at the roll of hundreds on the table. “I know, baby. The whispers will take care of us. All we have to do is keep on feeding them.” She looked through the window, and saw the pick-up standing forlornly in the driveway. “Do me a favour, sweetheart? Bring me the phone book. Mommy needs to look up the number of a towing company."
* * * *
David de Beer was born June 14, 1977, and remains fairly confident he's still a member of the living. Residing in Johannesburg, he's been writing for a couple of years and has previously published stories through Flash me, Alienskin and Nocturnal Ooze magazines, as well as current and forthcoming stories in Chizine and Shadowed Realms.
* * * *
This is David's first story for Something Wicked.
[Back to Table of Contents]
DEAD MEAT by Sam Wilson
illustrated by Simon Tamblyn
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
Dan woke up next to a corpse, and the day didn't get any better from there.
He sat up, stretched, looked at the corpse, rubbed his face, and swung his legs off the futon. It was raining outside. He put on a pair of jeans and the button-up shirt he'd thrown on the floor the night before. It was tangled up in the black silk dress the corpse had been wearing. The clothes smelled of smoke. He remembered whiskey and a crowded club and not being able to hear what someone was saying over the noise. Dan looked at the body again. Its face was definitely familiar, but he couldn't place it. The walls swam as he turned his head.
Christ, he thought, I've got the ‘flu.
He went to the bathroom, showered, shaved and gelled his hair. His hands were shaking a bit, but he couldn't remember why. He teased his hair into shape and checked himself out in the mirror. There were hundreds of tiny wrinkles on his forehead. He looked like death.
Dan went through to his cluttered kitchen and put on the kettle for coffee. The milk had expired, too. He remembered the body again. Christ! He threw out the milk and added extra sugar. He'd slept in the same bed as a dead woman. Slight nausea. He should get rid of the corpse. Who knows what she died of? He could drop her off at the hospital. He frowned. It didn't add up. Wasn't the corpse Sasha? His girlfriend? She was short and thin, with short black hair and a mole on her neck, just like the corpse. It was definitely Sasha. Dan was surprised. Shouldn't he have recognized her sooner? It was puzzling.
Well, he thought, it's not Sasha any more. That made him feel slightly better.
He finished his coffee and rinsed out the cup a lot more thoroughly than usual. Then he did the rest of the washing up, dried the plates, put them in the cupboard and wiped the counter. Dan realised he was putting something off, and it took him a while to remember what. He wandered through to the bedroom and saw the body again. He opened the curtains. The corpse rolled over.
He gulped air. After the silent panic subsided, he crept forward and looked closer. No, she was definitely dead. He'd been seeing things.
The ‘flu was messing with his head.
He blew out slowly through pursed lips, and grabbed the body's legs. It started kicking. Dan shot backwards, knocking over the floor lamp. The thing moaned and grunted. Slowly, it sat upright and fixed Dan with a dead stare.
Sasha's body screamed, opening its mouth far too wide in a parody of her face. With incredible speed it reached back, picked up the bedside lamp and threw it at him. The lamp was still plugged in, but the cable snapped in mid-air and the lamp smashed on the wall by his shoulder. Dan stumbled out of the room sideways, and twisted his ankle as the rug in the corridor slid under his misplaced feet. The monster behind him screamed again. He could hear it knocking over the pile of books on the chair by the bed. He scraped his hand along the hallway wall to steady himself, and stumbled to the front door. The latch stuck, as it did in wet weather. He tried to twist it again, hard, but it wouldn't move. The metal cut into the side of his finger. There were footsteps coming out of the bedroom into the hall behind him. He rattled the latch, shaking it with all his might. It clicked and slid open, and Dan fell into the rain.
He found himself running past the corner shops towards the police station. The journey seemed a lot longer on foot, and with a twisted ankle. The clouds were dark and the drizzle made the air taste metallic. Through the shock it took Dan a while to notice how little traffic there was in the street. There was hardly any noise, except for a distant sound, like fireworks.
Sasha drifted back into his memory, and he was hit in the gut by sudden dread. He doubled over. Water seeped into his shoes, and sparks crept in from the corners of his vision. He waited for the world to stop spinning.
He couldn't process what had happened. He was ill, there was no doubt, and hung over, but that wasn't all. His memory was firing randomly. He could remember the coffee this morning, and the latch. He could remember the colour of the bar-top at the club the night before. But when he tried to think of Sasha, or his father, or anyone on television, his memory slid away until it rested on something safe, like Sasha's computer or the animated globe behind the man on the news. He could remember things, but he was having trouble remembering people.
There was a crunch and a scream from the other side of the road.
Between a take-away and a video store, a middle-aged woman with a broken chair leg was beating away a zombie. She had broken one of its arms, but it still tried to claw at her.
Dan watched uncertainly. The zombie lunged at the woman, trying to rake at her face with its fingernails, but she anticipated this. As it fell past she got the opportunity to crack it hard across the back of its neck with the chair leg, and blood splashed from the impact. The zombie flailed around, trying to get its balance, and the woman got in another hit to its ribs. She was brutal. No matter what it did, the zombie couldn't avoid her blows, and it fell to the ground in a twisted heap. The woman hit the zombie again and again, even after its bubbling screams were long over. Then she turned to look at Dan. Her face was twisted, and her eyes were dead. Dan could see every line on her cold skin.
Blood ran off the splintered chair leg as she raised it again. But Dan was running.
* * * *
He raced as fast as he could down the middle of the road. The horror burrowed into his mind, cutting through the confusion. He had to run or fight. There were more of them now, bursting out of a fast-food restaurant, flailing at each other: a boy in a tracksuit and a man with blond hair spiked with blood. And again, further down the road, two broken bodies of young girls, and a third crawling away from them, wailing inhumanly. Dan needed a weapon.
He ran into a side street, and hid in the recess of a garage door until he was sure he was alone.
Across the street and a little way up was a second-hand store with dirty, poster-plastered windows. Dan ran across and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer inside. He couldn't make out much beyond a shelf of rusty meat-grinders.
He checked that he was alone, and then smashed the glass with his elbow.
It was startlingly dark inside, but he could see shelves covered with old kettles, dolls, painted plates and paperweights. He climbed carefully over the remaining shards, and crept into the dark. A bowl full of marbles. Board-games. A parrot c
age. A pile of Time magazines from the early nineties. Everything made him feel sick. His right hand twitched, clasping on an invisible weapon. Anything would do.
Near the back he found an old chest of drawers full of rolls of cloth. He rummaged through it, and found a box of wooden soldiers. He slammed the drawer closed. On top of the drawers was some over-polished glassware and a crocheted doll. Again, he felt a stirring in his stomach, like disillusionment. All these objects unsettled him, as if they ought to have meaning, but it had somehow been ripped away from him. Dan closed his eyes in frustration, then opened them to a print of two zombies standing with stretched arms on the front of a boat.
Dan looked at the poster carefully, leaning over the top of the chest of drawers. As he stared at it, he started to feel the creeping edges of the truth.
"Oh, man.” He thought.
It was a large poster advertising the 1997 movie Titanic. On it, Kate Winslet stood with her feet on the railings of the prow, facing into the ocean breeze with her arms outstretched, and Leonardo DiCaprio stood wrapped around her, holding out her arms. They were both zombies. The actress's cheeks were red, but to Dan that was nothing more than blood beneath the skin. She was calm, but her relaxation was lifeless. She was smiling lightly, but all Dan could see was a rictus. Behind her, the dead Leonardo gripped her with dead hands, as if trying to tear her limb from limb.
* * * *
Dan remembered.
* * * *
They had been watching the news, eating dinner off their laps. Sasha had been telling him about her day, but she'd lost interest in her own conversation half-way through. The animated globe had been spinning behind the announcer, and for some reason it had grabbed Dan's attention.
"...encephalitis, first appeared in Melbourne, but has already spread to several major world capitals, including London, New York and Beijing,” said the announcer in the foreground. An insert of a world map changed to a black-and-white brain-scan. Dan looked at it, but the spreading light blotches didn't mean much to him. “It causes severe damage to the brain, particularly to the limbic system and the inferior frontal gyrus, associated with empathy. The WHO has issued instructions to international health workers..."
Something Wicked SF and Horror Magazine #5 Page 7