by Nina Post
“More than eight short tons.”
Roger gave one last, piercing shriek, launched off the roof, and became a distant speck on the horizon.
“Definitely some kind of iguana-monster,” she said.
“I have to wonder what kind of buildings he’s going to be supervising from now on,” Af said.
“Wait.” She picked up Roger’s watch and key ring. “Who’s going to be manager of Amenity Tower?”
Af sighed and changed back while she watched a monster devour monster mid-flight.
lementine did a double-take at the building entrance from behind the front desk. She set down a binder and put her glasses back on. “Now what the hell is that? I don’t need this kind of day again.”
Kelly was just heading back to the package receiving area, but stopped and looked with Clem as a giant chicken head rolled up into the carport, beak opening and closing. It braked to a stop with an emphatic “Cluck!” from the speaker.
Af came up to the desk with his mail in hand and exchanged nonplussed looks with Kelly and Clementine.
Five man-sized chickens, wearing yellow leggings and big chicken feet, hopped out of the Cluck Snack mobile street van in unison and ran to the revolving door.
The first one got a chicken foot stuck in the door, and had trouble maneuvering his comb. The two behind him learned from his mistakes, but still had trouble moving through.
Clementine put her hands on her hips. “If this is some kind of heist, they’re not gettin’ through me.”
“Cluck snack cluck snack cluck snack cluck!” the chickens yelled as they spilled into the lobby. One went up to Clem with as much of a businesslike attitude as was possible in a chicken costume, while the others ran loose by the seating area and fireplace.
“Your manager will be happy to receive us,” the chicken said. “He has been inviting us to his studio every week for many months.”
Clem shook her head. “Uh-uh. Well, your friends better not be initiating courting over there. We just had those carpets cleaned.”
After further negotiation with the chicken, Clem let the group through. The lead chicken high-fived a fan and another chicken skipped in a circle in front of the desk.
They paraded around the lobby, tossing Cluck Snack gum and chewable vitamins to excited residents, singing:
“Cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck snack
Snack snack snack snack snack snack cluck
Cluck snack cluck snack cluck snack cluck
Snack snack snack snack snack snack cluck!”
Residents pressed their backs against the wall, leaving colorful smears and streaks, as the chickens passed through the open door to the elevator vestibule. Some residents followed the chickens, and some scurried away into stairwells or behind plants.
“I’m going to go look for the SPs,” she said. Clem and Af gave her vague gestures and murmurs in response.
She took the stairs up to the second floor. As she walked down a hallway with unmarked doors, a faint sound grabbed her attention. She halted, took two steps backward, and opened the door to a huge storage room.
Most of the SPs were playing ping-pong at a regulation-sized table. A few others tinkered with the objects they pilfered from the resident storage lockers, including a waffle maker and a laminator, which they tried to combine into a single machine. Tubiel watched the ping-pong game while humming the Cluck Snack song.
“Hey guys. Can we get out of here now?” She didn’t want to let on how relieved she was to find them safe.
She noticed that the chickens had moved into the management office reception area and took the SPs there. They grinned and jumped up and down, ecstatic to be in the middle of all of the Cluck Snack excitement, and see the chickens performing live in the studio with the camera operator.
“It’s too bad Roger ascended,” Af said to Kelly. “He’s been desperate to get the Cluck Snack chickens on his show for the longest time. This would have been the highlight of his entire life. Except for, you know, ascending. I suppose.”
“Of course the chickens showed up after his ascension.”
The SPs pressed up against the glass of the studio window. The door opened and they crammed into the studio.
“Meet me by the dumpsters later,” she told Af.
One of the chickens came out of the studio and into the main management office. He went right up to Af and whispered something in his ear.
Af pressed his eyes shut and nodded. The chicken went back into the studio and shut the door to the noise.
Tears ran down Af’s cheeks onto his shirt.
ne half of the dumpster lid flipped open. Four angels, like four surprised raccoons, blinked at the sudden light and at the woman who hoisted herself up on the corner.
“Pothole City Dumpster Task Force.” Kelly held a fake badge with one hand and a vial in the other. “Get your fallen butts out of the dumpster, right now.”
“My butt has not fallen a millimeter,” Gaap said. “It’s as taut as it ever was.”
Forcas raised his eyebrows. “I had no idea the Dumpster Task Force was so elite.”
Raum agreed. “I underestimated how seriously the city takes its dumpster enforcement.” He hoisted himself out and sat on the edge of the open lid. The others grumbled and brushed trash off themselves.
“All of you,” she said. “Out.”
“Or what?” Raum asked, holding out his arms to the side.
“Or you’ll end up in these vials.” She showed them her case of vials with a smile. “And you’ll be sent back.”
“Really?” Forcas said. “Where?”
She shrugged. “Could be a chafing dish, a coffee mug, a stuffed animal. Could be wherever you came from. Not my business. Or you can get out of the dumpster, forget about the end of days and go back to your apartments.”
The garbage truck backed up to the loading dock, beeping loudly, engine and brakes roaring. It inserted its prongs into the slots on the dumpster. The angels bent their heads in a huddle and spoke softly, and a second driver, supervisoring the lift, gave a halt signal to the driver.
What’s the hold-up?” the driver yelled.
“Dumpster Task Force.” She flashed her badge to the driver. “We have a situation here that I’m working to resolve, so hold steady.”
The angels spoke amongst themselves while she waited next to the dumpster.
“We should stay,” Crocell said. “If we leave, we’re just going to get bound again, and I can pretty much guarantee you that wherever that next prison is, it won’t have the amenities that Amenity Tower has. What are the chances we’d be put in another luxury condominium?” He popped up and looked at Kelly. “We don’t want to go back.”
“Then get out of the dumpster and let these guys do their jobs.”
“It’s true. You can’t go home again,” Raum said, his normally upbeat countenance downcast.
“I need to check my mail,” Forcas said.
“Fine, we’ll stay, for now!” Raum grabbed the edge. “But don’t come complaining to me later.”
The angels hopped out of the dumpster. Crocell fell onto his side with an “Oof.”
“Please don’t put us in those vials. Look how glorious we are.” Gaap’s wings unfurled to their full width, dropping eggshells, banana peels, and candy wrappers. “And check out this butt.” He patted a cheek. “See how firm? I’ve been training.”
Raum brushed wilted salad leaves and coffee grounds off his sleeve. “What about Af? I know that Af is no longer Amenity Tower Af: product reviewer, committee member, coffee drinker. He’s an angel of destruction, a prince of wrath and a ruler over the death of mortals. I know he’s out there, destroying everything as we speak, because that’s what he does.”
They turned their heads at the soft thud of shoe heels. Af rounded the corner into the loading dock. She let out a relieved breath, and Raum’s looked disappointed.
The garbage truck driver yelled impatiently. “C’mon, lady! I got eighteen more dumpsters
to pick up today!”
She waved to the driver. “Go ahead, you’re all clear.”
The driver waved back. “Give the mayor my regards.”
The four angels trudged back to the building. Raum patted Af’s back and showed him a spiral notebook. “Say, Af, since we’re staying, would you mind taking a look at my book-in-progress? It’s a thriller. I call it Sixty Floors of Wrath.”
“I don’t really have the time right now, Raum. Get Vassago to read it.”
“Vassago has food poisoning.”
“Then ask Roger,” Af said, not bothering to tell Raum that Roger ascended.
elly ushered all of the SPs into the mechanical room, past a wall-mounted breathing apparatus. The cavernous room vibrated with the whirring, rumbling, and motorized sounds of the equipment and the high-pitched whistling of the air intake. A giant Barry Blower motor grumbled aggressively in the far corner.
“Is beast. Runs all the time. Sucks air.” Dragomir stalked up to her, scowling.
“That’s your best feature,” she said, referring to the scowl.
“Why you bothering me? Very, very busy.”
She maneuvered an SP named Morris in front of her. “Take him to the air handler. He’s going to fix it, permanently.”
Dragomir pointed a finger at the four-foot-tall, pajama-wearing, label-making creature in front of him.
“I do not like children.”
“I’m not a big fan of shrieking germ farms, either. But he’s not a child. He’s child-like.”
“He wears pajamas with attached feet and plays with child’s toy. I do not see the difference.”
Morris made eye contact with Dragomir and handed him a label. Dragomir rolled his eyes and handed the label to her. It read ‘Velocity.’
“He’s been obsessed with that label maker ever since his friend lent it to him. But it doesn’t matter. He can fix the stack.”
Dragomir laughed, a hand on his stomach. “This child, he fix Amenity Tower’s nastiest engineering problem, the one that gnaws on my―”
“That’s right,” she said. “And he’s usually extremely busy, so you’re damn lucky he carved out the time for you.”
Dragomir crossed his arms. He sneered and smiled at the same time. “This may be, but handler cannot be fixed. Building must get redesign from square one. Many consultant have reach the end of professional… abilities in this building.”
“You killed them?”
Dragomir waved his hand, scrunching up his face. “No, I did not kill them. What I try to say is, the turbulence on roof”―he made a swooshing gesture with his arm―“that rips through air handler is phenomenon these so-called experts have never seen before, not ever, in whole career.”
Morris placed the label-maker on the floor and reached his arms up to Kelly, who hesitated just a second before hoisting him up on her back.
“Why do you care what they think?”
Dragomir squinted at her.
“No one knows this building better than you. So help Morris do his thing.”
“Give me one reason why child can fix nasty problem, hm?”
Morris applied spit to her hair, twisting strands until they stuck out from her head.
“Because Morris is the angel in charge of HVAC systems.”
Dragomir snorted. “Where was he when I start this gypsy-cursed job?”
elly gestured to the doors of the air handler room. “If this is where the monsters get into the building, wouldn’t you have a problem with chunks?”
Dragomir snorted. “No chunks. Monsters enter with the excess velocity, the extreme turbulence. Small chunks left on mesh.” He shrugged. “We sweep off. Wind make bad situation even worse.”
He thumped on the first of three heavy, submarine-style access doors, all in a row. “Static pressure with door closed is zero-point-fifty.” He tilted his head at the gauge by the door. “When you open door―”
With one deft move, Dragomir pulled the handle open, revealing the louvers, mesh filters, and coils of the air handler. A solid blast of cold air made her stagger back a step.
“Static pressure decreases. Is fun, no?” He kept the door open and raised his voice over the howling wind. “Monsters do not enter building as solid form,” he said, loudly, as one creature entered, followed by another. Dragomir seemed unconcerned. “Air and creatures are filtered, heated or cooled, then go out through ducts and to the resident floors.”
A jaguar-thing with shiny yellow wings took form from a cloud of particles and roared at her.
Dragomir continued, unfazed. “Monsters egress through hallway vent on each floor, under apartment door, and circulate in apartment. Maybe go out through bathroom vent, maybe not. Maybe stays in apartment and eats whatever it finds. This why no humans left in building.”
She grabbed the power screwdriver on the side of Dragomir’s tool belt and distracted the jaguar while she vialed it with the other hand.
She pocketed the vial and focused on two other creatures. One, a weasel with a tiny walrus head, leapt on her.
A tusk pierced her skin as she struggled with it, and when she managed to push it off her a few inches, she wrenched it out. The monster writhed, and she stabbed it with its own tusk.
Morris made an ad hoc bandage from a piece of sketch paper, some Cluck Snack Pizza Flav’r Gum, and his saliva. Morris taped the bandage down on her shoulder. It soothed the pain in seconds.
“Filters too close to louvers and louvers too small,” Dragomir said. “If building was redesigned from ground up, they could make louvers larger. This increase space between louvers so velocity would not increase, and bring in more monsters. But is impossible to fix.”
Morris pulled out his sketch pad. He drew a bottle with a spray nozzle, a milk jug, something small and tree-shaped, a chicken with a word bubble that read ‘Cluck,’ and a dollar sign.
Kelly held up the pad. “I knew there’d be a quiz. OK.” She tapped her finger on the nozzled bottle. “You want the Cluck Snack Sweet n’ Savory Breakfast Foam Topp’n.” She glanced at Morris, who raised the corners of his mouth in approval.
“And…” She raised her chin and closed her eyes, translating the sketch, searching her memory of Cluck Snack products. “The Cluck Snack Gummi Milk Bott’l with Liquid Center.”
Morris nodded and lowered his eyes to a spot of oil on the concrete.
“What is it?”
Morris drew a bubble around the two objects on the pad then connected it to a third, empty bubble.
She guessed. “There’s a third Cluck Snack product. And you don’t know which one it is.”
He flashed his eyes wide with a touch of defensiveness, as though to say he didn’t know everything and she shouldn’t expect him to.
“The two things you have already are liquids, right?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Maybe you need something solid. Give me a sec.” She paced to the other side of the huge room, walked in a circle, and came back.
“The Cluck Snack Chewable Vitamin: Tree Edition,” she said.
Morris raised an eyebrow.
“Not for Dogs and Ferrets.”
Morris clapped. She dispatched Af by phone to round up the products they needed and meet her as soon as possible.
Dragomir removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What is this Cluck Snack? Is the only thing cat will eat.”
“I have no idea.” She waved the sketch book. “Let’s wait until Af gets back with these.”
“You are going to use snack food to fix air handler?”
“You’d be surprised at how versatile this snack food is.”
Dragomir walked off, holding his head in a vise grip and cursing under his breath.
s Af entered Amenity Tower Grocery, the Jackal stumbled toward him with a bag full of Cluck Snack Meal’n a Box Totez (“Take Your Cluck Snack With You”). His thick, lustrous hair was held back in a band. “They’re half off!”
Af wasn’t familiar with the layout of Ame
nity Tower Grocery. He had zipped in and out a few times to get a single, overpriced item―a spice, a corkscrew, some cream of tartar―but for the most part, he ordered his food through the mail.
He referred to his list. The Cluck Snack products would probably be dispersed all through the store, in every category. The Cluck Snack Sweet n’ Savory Breakfast Foam Topp’n would likely be in the breakfast aisle.
There seemed to be a hundred subtle variations of every product, and the Cluck Snack brand was no exception.
Several agonizing and bewildering minutes later―thinking about how earlier that day he was in his majestic, glorious angel form and was now staring blankly at an aisle of snack food―Af spotted one lone, dusty box of Cluck Snack Sweet n’ Savory Breakfast Foam Topp’n, half-hidden behind the instant breakfast drinks.
The breakfast aisle was a challenge, but the other sections were even worse. Af nearly gave up on finding the Cluck Snack Gummi Milk Bott’l with Liquid Center. What did ‘gummi’ mean? He looked for the Bott’l in the breakfast aisle, in the milk cooler, and in the baby aisle.
The store’s few employees rushed past him with boxes. Finally Af went to the front to flag down someone to help him while the wind beat against the side windows like a crazed ex-lover.
A wheezing produce aisle stocker lumbered through the store with Af. Each regular step seemed to take the employee three or four tedious motions, with the slowness and the swiveling. Af balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth as he followed the stocker into the candy aisle.
He searched frantically for the product, now that he knew how it was shelved. “Gummi Milk,” he muttered. “Gummi Milk, dammit, Gummi Milk!”
“What’s that?” the stocker asked.
“Nothing,” Af said. After what seemed like the length of time he was bound in the arcade game, he located a bag of the Cluck Snack Gummi Milk Bott’l with Liquid Center. As he triumphantly held the blue and white bag in his hands, Af was overcome with relief and elation. “This is what being human is like!”
“I know,” the stocker said, shambling off. “Livin’ the dream, right?”