Aftertaste

by Andrew Post

  The thermometer fixed to the siding rapidly rises, reaching a hundred and thirty before sputtering red all over the inside of the foggy, plastic dial. The windows alive like jack-o-lanterns, and inside is the sound of things inside bursting and crashing—that’s all of her stuff that’s in there, making those sounds. The photo albums, her DVDs, makeup and jewelry, her clothes. Too late now. So much for being like Ripley.

  Out of the dark behind him, Zilch hears sirens. Red and white lights flash across him and he watches a set of fire trucks scream past. Their destination is obvious: the underside of the low clouds, not far from here, are splashed with an undulating orange—the smell of smoke is on the air when the wind turns, the reek of melted plastic and burning foam-stuffed furniture.

  He’s running before fully arriving at the logical conclusion.

  Zilch moves toward the column of smoke in the distance as fast as he can, cutting through people’s yards, slapping aside the hanging, prickly arms of pine trees. He goes down into a ditch and then through a lumpy field. He cuts through some heavy brush, nettles and the skeletal fingers of dead trees clawing at him. Then he’s on a dirt road, running blind with no street light or moon to guide him—just keeping his attention trained on the glowing sky ahead. He’s in the trailer court now, making the bend to the far lot. He comes into view of it, a double-wide burning like some biblical thing in the dark, people standing around outside in their sleeping attire, faces lit, mesmerized. The firemen have beaten him there. The ropes of white water they’re shooting in through the windows do nothing; the fire is hungry and will not be told when it’s had its fill.

  Coming up closer, among the confusion and parked emergency responder vehicles and fellow trailer-court resident gawkers, Zilch finds Galavance sitting cross-legged on the hood of her bubblegum pink Cavalier, staring at the brick-shaped blob of flame that was once, apparently, where she lived.

  “Galavance,” Zilch says.

  She turns and looks at him with glassy eyes, then slides off the car, looking at Zilch as if she’s not sure if he’s real. Surprising him—and herself, it seems—she hugs him.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “The Lizard Man is real,” she says in his ear. “I think Jolby’s one.”

  “Where is he?” Zilch asks. “Have you seen him?”

  “No. I don’t know where he is. I called and he’s not answering. I thought he might be here. My boss, she’s …” She presses her hands to the sides of her face, holding them there, wide-eyed, mouth open. Too much has been going on, he can tell.

  “I need to find him,” Zilch says. “Is he at the house, you think? Wait, what did you say?”

  “There were these little worms in his bandage. And my boss—well, technically my boss’s boss’s boss—she’s lost her mind. The sausage at work isn’t sausage. It’s … I ate some of it.”

  “Slow down. What about sausage?”

  “And I don’t know if he’s okay, or if …” She shakes her head, realigning reality. “She knows about you, too.”

  “Who’s this we’re talking about?”

  “The regional manager for Frenchy’s. Patty LeDoux.”

  “Okay, she knows about me? How?”

  “I told her you were looking for the Lizard Man at the swamp, near where Jolby’s house is.”

  “All right, and what about worms? Never mind, explain on the way. I thought I was gonna have to break some bad news to you, but apparently you already know.”

  “Know about what?”

  Zilch is moving toward Galavance’s pink car, looking almost yellow with the flames lighting up its clear coat. He stops. “We just need to find Jolby,” Zilch says. “If I could beg one more ride off you, I swear it’ll be the last.”

  “But the fireman guy, he said I need to stick around and file a report when they’re through. He actually just went to the truck over there to get the form so I can fill it—”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Zilch says, and stifles a cough, his chest burning. Whether it’s smoke or dead buggies, he can’t say. “I don’t have time.”

  “So this Patty person has been tasked by this dying chain restaurant to hunt down mythological creatures because the meat will be free?”

  “Yeah, and then she shot at me.”

  Zilch nods up at the hole in the car’s ceiling, then at the one between his legs in the seat. “I was gonna ask—I don’t remember your car being so … perforated before.” He recalls the ghillie-suited individual with the rifle. “I think maybe she and I have met, actually.”

  Galavance doesn’t respond. He watches her driving with both hands, ten and two on the wheel. It’s dark and the car’s one headlight keeps flickering out and back on with each bump they hit. She says, barely above a whisper, “We have to find him.”

  “We will. You think the worms you found mean … ?”

  “That Jolby’s sick and he might turn into a whatever you called it.”

  “A were-amphibian.” Zilch grimaces. “Well, uh, the thing about Jolby maybe turning into a were-amphibian is …”

  “What?” She looks between Zilch and the road, twice, fast. “Tell me!”

  “Look. Steel yourself, but I’m afraid he’s already a were-amphibian. And has been for a while.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  “What?”

  “Galavance, you mentioned bringing home leftovers from work. How long have you been doing that?”

  “For about as long as I worked there.”

  “Sausage, huh? Smart. Grind the bits and bobs down to unrecognizable mush and—”

  Galavance gives him a glare. “Could you maybe not admire the people turning the people I love into menu items? I ate that shit. Fucking Psycho Patty says that when they turn, they’re no longer themselves—not people at all—but it doesn’t make me feel any better.” She’s somewhat green right now, Zilch notices, but not Jolby-green.

  “You said she’s been hunting them. She’s gotten a lot of them before?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Does she think Jolby is the last one?”

  “Last one that’s … alive.” She looks over at him again. Briefly, but he can see the sadness piled in her eyes. “Can you fix him?”

  “No. Actually, I sort of have to kill him.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because that’s how it works.” Zilch holds the side of his head to combat a dash of pain that fades quickly. His left ear starts ringing. “I’m sorry. We can certainly try, but separating the parasite from him now, after its gotten comfortable in him, will probably kill him anyway.”

  “But we can’t kill him. It’s not his fault. He’s not the amphibian-thing all the time.”

  “Would you prefer I do it or your gun-toting regional manager?”

  “Neither! He’s my boyfriend! He may not be perfect, but …” She has nothing to finish that sentence with.

  She’s all over the road, and he can’t help but say something. “Maybe we should slow down.”

  “If I don’t take you to the house then you can’t find him—and if you can’t find him, you can’t kill him!”

  Zilch scratches his chin. “Listen. All right, so if this thing is spread through some kind of parasite, maybe that’s what I’m actually after. My bosses say the Lizard Man—host and parasite—are one and the same, but they also told me they’d leave it up to my discretion. Again, we’ll try to get it out of him. Clearly he’s full of the things if you found some in that bandage of his. Maybe we get out the right one, the mama worm.”

  “What if I have one? Will you kill me too, if I turn into a monster?”

  “Probably. Kidding. I’m kidding. We’ll get it figured out. Let’s just focus on the were-amphibian we know for sure.” He adds: “Just so you know, if we find him, he’s not all there upstairs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s making him steal car parts.”

  “Why?” />
  “I don’t know. It’s just what the parasite has him doing. Some kind of compulsion, I think, crossed wires.”

  They reach the Whispering Pines’ muddy entryway, and continue driving until they pull up along the front of 1330. It’s like all the other halfway-finished homes on the block, each empty, glassless window dark. Galavance shuts off the car but makes no move to get out. Zilch watches her eyes moving over the interior of the car—the chrome-plated vent-covers, the jewel-eyed skull shifter knob, the rear-view mirror in the shape of a supine woman.

  “I always just figured he was getting money from his mom or buying the parts used online or something. I never thought he’d be stealing these things.” Her eyes switch from all of the various modifications to her Cavalier’s interior, back onto Zilch. “And that’s enough for your people to think Jolby is a threat? That he’s stealing car parts?”

  “He was seen. Before Chev knew it was Jolby, he got a video of him and put it online. It wouldn’t be such a problem if he wasn’t a were-amphibian stealing car parts,” he says. “If he was just some regular guy doing it, sure, no problem—not their jurisdiction. But because he is what he is, then that becomes their problem, apparently. Does Jolby like the Frenchy’s stuff you bring home?”

  “He seemed to, yeah. Why?” She’s already referring to him in the past tense, Zilch notices.

  “Never know—it might be useful. What was that thing Sun Tzu said, that knowing is half the battle or whatever?”

  “I thought that was GI Joe.”

  “Either way, it’s sound advice.”

  Galavance looks out the windshield, points. “Was that light on when we pulled up?”

  Zilch bends forward to peer up through the windshield at the house. The plastic over one of the front windows is now lit from within. A shadow streaks past going one way, then back, person-shaped, pacing.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Zilch says. Coughing suddenly, he looks at his hand. It’s sprayed with red dots. “Look, this might get ugly.”

  “Say, uh, could I tell you something quick?”

  Zilch looks at her sidelong. “Sure …”

  “So, I said you were crazy a whole bunch of times, before. Right after I hit you with my car. And that was … pretty rude.”

  Zilch looks like he’s fighting down a grin.

  “And, well, you’re not crazy. And I guess what I mean is: I’m sorry. For saying that,” she says. “Oh, and for hitting you with my car. I don’t think I apologized for that. Which, obviously, is something you should do after doing to somebody.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Zilch says. “Let’s go figure this thing out.”

  Zilch wonders how much time he’ll have to do so. The dashboard clock reads 11:59. Just as he looks at it, Saturday to marches onward to—

  “Keep him calm,” Zilch says as he leads the way across the muddy lawn. “Besides, I don’t really think I stand much of a chance against him, anyway.”

  The single light inside goes out.

  The sound of the swamp is too loud to listen for footfalls or whispers. Zilch stops in the driveway with Galavance and they stare up at the split-level ranch that is 1330 Whispering Pines Lane, waiting for someone to make the first move.

  “What should we do?” she whispers.

  “Maybe you should say something,” Zilch suggests. “Let him know you’re here to help him.”

  Galavance takes a deep breath and shouts at the front of the house: “Jolby, it’s Gal. I didn’t really like how we ended that last fight so I thought I’d come out here so we could talk to face to face. This is my friend, Saelig Zilch.”

  “Keep going,” Zilch tells Galavance. “That’s good.”

  “Come on, Jolby. Let’s talk about this. Saelig doesn’t want to hurt you, it’s just that you’re sick and you need help and—oh, come on, Jolby. Do you have any idea how much crap I’ve been through today? I’ve been shot at. There was a fire at the house. Actually, there is no more house. Then I hear all this trouble with you stealing stuff and … I’m not having a real good time tonight, is my point.”

  “Nicer stuff, if you can,” Zilch whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “Think of him like a scared cat that ran up a tree and can’t get down.”

  “Right, sorry.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, Galavance shouts, “Jolby, I don’t want to, like, talk down to you here like this is some kind of intervention, but you’re sick. You got some kind of bug and Saelig and me really want to help you. Is Chev in there with you? I’m sure he wants you to feel better too. Chev? Are you in there? Jolby?”

  The plastic covering one of the second story windows rustles. There is an audible slap as something heavy is thrown down into the mud in front of them.

  Zilch doesn’t approach it, whatever it is, but Galavance rushes forward, moving as if Jolby had pitched himself out the window to his death. But Zilch saw it move, just a twitch, whatever it was. And anyways, it’s too small to be a person.

  “What is that?” Galavance says, reluctantly stepping closer. She blanches and practically jumps away from it. “God … oh … oh, my God.”

  Zilch steps around her and recoils once the shapes start to make sense. It’s a torso wrapped in paint-spattered plastic sheeting. Underneath the several layers of it, he can just make out Chev’s lifeless face, eyes rolled, his tongue swollen and purple. His arms are ripped off at the shoulders, chewy and jagged cuts—and his bottom half is truncated at the navel, his guts unspooling inside the plastic packaging. Blood pools where the sheet is bound with colored insulated wire and rubbery fan belts made into improvised twist-ties.

  “What the fuck, Jolby?” Zilch shouts at the house. “Now I have no fucking choice but to kill you. If you didn’t do this shit, we could’ve maybe talked about options—but now—fuck, do you have any idea what you’ve put your girlfriend through? You’re lucky she’s even stuck around this long, you piece of shit.”

  There is the sound of splashing from around the back of the house. Zilch leaps over Chev’s corpse, skidding and slipping as he tries to charge across the muddy yard. He nearly runs into the swamp, the water rising up to his knees before he stops. All he can do is stare out at the disturbed wake, a stretching V marking Jolby’s progress across the bog, moving swiftly just under the water’s surface. It’s too dark to see where he’s intending to go or if there’s even a shoreline out there at all he’s heading for.

  Before long the wake has disappeared completely. All Zilch can see are some twisty trees, a few pathetic meter-wide islands of mud. Galavance tiptoes her way through the soggy yard to stand next to him.

  “Did he go out there?” she says.

  Zilch nods.

  She screams suddenly, startling Zilch. “Jolby Dawes! Stop being a dumbass! Get out of that water right now!”

  There is no reply. The scratching sensation in Zilch’s head fades, stops—Jolby is falling out of range. The crickets, non-murderous frogs, and other swamp life go quiet for a moment, then return at full volume when Galavance doesn’t shout again.

  “I’ve never seen a dead person up close before,” Galavance says, following Zilch as he drags what’s left of Chev through the front door of 1330 Whispering Pines. She deliberately keeps her eyes off of the corpse in his transparent plastic wrapper, closes the door—a makeshift slab of plywood on hinges—behind them, and stares at the wall to avoid looking at what her boyfriend has turned his own best friend into.

  Zilch drops Chev with a wet smack to the unfinished floor. “Not to be crass, but you get used to it.”

  Galavance rarely ever visited Jolby at work. The house made her see red, so she mostly avoided it. So it’s with fresh eyes that she surveys exactly what her boyfriend’s been up to. To describe the house half-finished would be a lie, it’s not even remotely that far along; and most of it looks like it’s been done out of order. Some rooms have their hardwood flooring down with a nice dark stain applied, while others are just rows of studs. Drywall has been put up here and there, some of the
panels crooked or measured incorrectly, insulation peeking out of a gap at the top. The living room seems to have been abandoned some time ago and has, since, become something of a squatter’s den, a couple of lawn chairs aimed at a TV and a videogame console set on a stack of two-by-fours. A toppled ice chest lies nearby, its contents spilled across the floor, a few roll-away beers and a water-logged sandwich. Baggies with pot crumbs have settled in the corners, there are overflowing ashtrays everywhere, and an elaborate resin-stained hookah is set high on a bucket of drywall mud like it’s a relic to be worshipped.

  Among the mess, there are red smears all over the fiberboard floor. If they’d been just a few minutes early, they would’ve walked in on Jolby dismantling his best friend. Stepping into the kitchen, Galavance sees that this is where the fight must’ve shifted from a struggle to something worse, ending in murder.

  She sees Zilch is also piecing it all together, righting a lawn chair and picking up a video camera where it had fallen over, still screwed into its tripod. The thing is still on, and the flip-open display on its side is aglow, a blue screen reading END OF TAPE.

  Galavance turns the camera in her hands, finds the rewind button, and backs the tape up. She sees, in the tilted view, Zilch dragging in Chev’s body a few minutes earlier. She rewinds some more and hits play again.

  “We’re gonna put this high score on the internet, man,” Chev says, “and everyone will bust their asses trying to top it. Tonight’s the night, I can feel it.”