I liked watching her work. She’d stick her tongue out and squint her eyes in concentration. I could tell she was happy, perfectly caught up in the work, caring more about the process than the final result.
I could tell you how she named every vehicle we had, from bikes to cars. Our current vehicle, the El Camino, was named Doofus. She’d scream and swear at him when he wouldn’t start, heaping enough insults to guarantee an NC-17 rating if it were ever a movie. And when the car finally did start, she’d hug the steering wheel and apologize and say things like, “I only do it because I love you, Doofus.”
I could keep going. Instead, let me tell you more about how we hooked up.
About four months after Nif and I had sex that first time, she walked in on me crying like a little girl in the tiny break room at Big Shot Chicken. I had been sitting there for almost an hour, alone, poring over my college letters. Graduation loomed in just a few short months, and I still hadn’t made my final decision about where to go. Time was running out.
Shit, I was overwhelmed. I don’t even know why. A crushing feeling pushed in on my chest as I looked over all the possibilities, and I just started crying.
My dad had been getting sick lately, too. My mom was saying it had to do with demons. My mom occasionally said weird shit like that, so I learned to ignore it. But my dad getting sick meant he was unhappy, and when my dad got unhappy, we moved. When they moved this time, I wasn’t going with them.
They hadn’t taken care of me in years. I could’ve dropped out, flunked out, been a serial killer, and neither of my parents would care. Sometimes I’d spend the night at Royce and Randy’s or Monobrow Sam’s house, and they wouldn’t even notice I was gone.
It was the realization, not that I was going to be alone, but that nothing was going to change, that brought me to tears. I know, it doesn’t make sense. But that’s what it was.
Nif came in, saw me wipe my eyes. She sat down across from me at the table. We were still doing the pretend-it-never-happened thing.
I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d had the abortion just four weeks earlier.
She grabbed my hand.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”
She looked into my eyes. Those goddamned brown eyes of hers took a bit of me away every time they zeroed in. “You’re a lot of things, Adam. But you’re not a liar. Don’t become one now. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I sighed. “I don’t know what to do, and it’s freaking me out.” It seemed so stupid when I said it out loud.
“With what?”
“My life.” I even told her about my parents and how I felt about them. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t spoken of them since that time I had broken down about the tadpoles and my folks to my old lady neighbor when I was ten years old.
The whole time we talked, Nif held my hand, and stared right into my eyes. I know it’s funny, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel alone, and it was the warmest, happiest thing I’d ever experienced. Even when I’d thought I was in love with Samantha, I’d never felt anything like this.
“Fuck your parents,” Nif said. “And fuck whatever responsibility you have. Do what’s in your heart. In fact, you know what…” She gathered all the papers into a pile, and smacked them face down on the table. “You need to stop looking at this bullshit. Don’t even think about it until Monday. We’re going to finish our shift, and afterwards, you’re coming to my apartment. We’re going to sit on my couch, play some Nintendo, and then I’m going to cook you dinner. When was the last time someone cooked you dinner?”
“Uh…” I said. “Well, my mom…”
“Fuck your mom,” she said.
After work, I followed Nif to her apartment, a tiny little studio on the south side of town. She was 18 by now, but she’d had the place since she was 17. I never asked her how she’d pulled that off. I walked into her home, spent some time talking about all the Pee-wee Herman and Bad Brains stuff she had all over her walls, and then we sat on her ratty old couch.
“Rule number one,” she said as she put her feet up along the wall. She lit a cigarette then laid down on the couch and talked at the ceiling. “We don’t talk about college or our futures or our sad, miserable pasts. We just, you know, talk about unimportant bullshit. The purpose of tonight is to veg and chill and de-stress and not do anything or make any decisions that will impact our lives beyond the immediate.” She waved her cigarette in the air, as if it were a magic wand, and she cast a spell upon us and the evening.
“What’s rule number two?” I asked, amused.
“Don’t be afraid,” Nif said.
She stood before I could respond or even try to figure out what she meant by that.
She bowed, talking with a fake English accent. “Anyway, sir, since I don’t live in the gilded, Big Shot Chicken manager’s office, I am required to touch dead chicken as a part of my duties. As a result, I smell like a yak. I’m going to take a shower before I cook you a non-poultry dinner. Entertain yourself in any way you see fit. You’ll find my ancient Nintendo 64 has the biggest library of games you’ve ever seen.”
She turned and marched off. A moment later, I heard her shower turn on, and she began to sing “No Direction” by Bad Religion.
I thought about rule number two.
Don’t be afraid.
After a few moments of hesitation, I decided not to be. I joined her in the shower.
My legs burned as I sprinted the rest of the distance back to 5th street.
The white Volkswagen still sat on the side of the road, though now the roof had a huge dent where the soldier had landed on it. To my relief, the duffel bag remained untouched in the hedge. I grabbed it, tossed it into the car, and got in. I rolled the windows up tight in case a roving plague of bugs descended upon me. You were spared earlier. I shuddered.
I turned the key—please start—and the engine roared to life.
For several moments, I sat still, breathing, thinking about everything that had just happened. My ear ached. Above, a jet streaked through the hazy, red sky. I wondered if the military knew about the roving tractor-trailer taxis, picking up the Grinder’s orphaned drones. If they did know, I wondered if they were doing anything about them.
I could feel it. The Grinder beckoned me. Stronger than before, even though it was still far away. It was like a sixth sense pulsating in my chest. I still had my mind, my reason, but it scared me. It was getting stronger, more insistent. It felt like I stood on an uneven surface, tilting further and further sideways. I knew if I just closed my eyes and went slack, I’d fall in the direction of the monster. How soon before it became too much?
Why me? What was different about me than the soldiers, who didn’t feel this call?
Nif. I thought about the doctor who had run away, what the drones had told her, that somebody named “Joey” was safe. They had said the same to me about Nif. Since Nif was captured, and we were close to one another, the monster somehow knew me. I suspected every time it captured someone new, it got into their head, tuning into their mind like a station on the radio, broadcasting directly to your loved ones and pulling them in.
Be strong. Remember rule number two.
I backed the car off the sidewalk, and the side panels shrieked as I pulled between a truck and a fence. I maneuvered onto a side street where I had more room. I drove, wary of going too far south toward the Grinder, the bugs, and the roving semi truck.
I turned up the volume on the radio.
“…reiterated his promise not to use nuclear arms, under any circumstances on American soil,” the female radio announcer said, her voice tired and strained. “However, in light of these new developments, many are questioning this policy. Earlier, Admiral William Lexington, former vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had this to say:”
A new voice came on. “Certainly, we want to stop this threat without resorting to a nuclear arsenal,” said the gravel-voice
d man, “especially when that threat remains within the confines of a major American city, but if this…entity splits and spreads, it is our duty to the American people and our way of life to contain it before we lose another city.”
“So,” said the interviewer. “Are you saying we’ve lost Tucson?”
“If these new reports are true,” said the Admiral, “then, yes. We’ve lost Tucson.” A long pause. “If not all of southern Arizona.”
“But what about the people still trapped in the city? We have confirmed reports of military checkpoints not only detaining, but quarantining civilians.”
“Look,” said the admiral. “We don’t know what this creature can do. We do know, however, that this…this…”
“They’re calling it ‘the Grinder.’”
“This Grinder’s influence is getting stronger as every minute ticks past. We have people, seemingly normal people, suddenly acting out in response to this contagion. Until we figure out what this is, how it’s spread, and how it can be cured, we have no choice but to quarantine anyone who may have come in contact with the infection.”
“But if we use nuclear weapons,” the reporter asked, “won’t it put these so-called quarantined individuals, many—if not most—of whom aren’t infected, in danger?”
“If we do exercise the nuclear option,” the Admiral said, “then it’ll be because we have no other…”
I couldn’t listen any more. I flipped the channel until I found more news. It took me a minute because the car’s owner didn’t have any talk stations on her presets. It was disconcerting how many stations were still playing music as if nothing was going on. I continued down the side street, heading downtown.
A male reporter spoke. “Meanwhile, the massive dual pileups, a 40-car, multiple fatality accident near Casa Grande, a town approximately half way between Tucson and Phoenix, and an even larger one just outside of Benson, has completely shut down Interstate 10. I-10 is one of only two major arteries out of Tucson. Traffic is further mired by people abandoning their cars in droves. While most of the refugees are taking to walking toward the military checkpoints, we do have reports of people turning back toward the city after learning they won’t be allowed any further.”
Another younger, male voice asked, “How can they contain so many people? Not everyone will remain on the roads with checkpoints.”
The reporter continued. “That’s exactly what’s happening. CNN is showing footage of hundreds of 4x4 trucks crossing the desert in all directions. I-19 toward Mexico is still moving, and the military has yet to stop the flow of people that way. Plus there are other, smaller state highways to and from. Listen… Pima County is over 9,000 square miles. People are going to get out. If I was stuck in the city, I’d be trying to get out, too.”
“Hell,” said the other voice, “They can’t even keep people from crossing our border up from Mexico.”
I flipped the channel again, and it was some nut screaming about the apocalypse and Jesus. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, though he reminded me of Reverend Snow, the preacher Nif had gotten tangled up with. I soon realized the rapture-and-death mindset was a running theme amongst most of the channels.
“Professor, tell us what the Hellmouth is,” another interviewer asked. “And tell us why you think it’s pertinent to the situation in Tucson.”
I paused to listen.
“Jack, I appreciate the chance to speak,” said the professor, his voice cutting in and out like he talked through a cell phone. “Depictions of the entrance of hell, the Hellmouth, were very prevalent in medieval art. Sometimes it was shown as a dark cave entrance, or a hole in the ground sucking in sinners, often with red, fiery demons at the entranceway. But sometimes, the Hellmouth was illustrated as just that—a mouth. Usually the mouth of a massive sea creature, like a whale or other nondescript sea entity. Leviathan.”
“Tucson is nowhere near the sea,” interrupted the interviewer. “But, are you suggesting that this phenomenon is related to the Christian hell?”
“Well, first off, this hell is almost universal. We’ll get to that in a minute. Secondly, while Leviathan is portrayed as a sea monster…”
I flipped the channel. I didn’t give a shit about its origins, at least not at the moment. I cared about what was really happening at the moment.
“…to make matters worse, the National Weather Service has issued a dense fog advisory for the Tucson area which will certainly hinder…”
“…reports of shooting directly into the surging crowd…”
“…of Mexico warned the United States against using nuclear weapons in such close…”
“…rang, and I picked it up, and it was her. She said she’d been captured by the monster.”
My hand froze on the radio’s controls. I stopped the car.
“She asked me to come help her.”
I stared at the radio.
Another, female reporter came on. “From far away as India there are reports of people receiving similar telephone calls from loved ones ensnared within the Grinder. All the calls are the same. A loved one calls, tells them they’re trapped, and requests help. The calls don’t last more than a few moments. The U.S. military has neither confirmed nor denied that they shut down all cellular and wire-based communications within Tucson after the first wave of calls were reported. They warned that anyone who receives such a call should assume it’s ‘an obvious and insidious trap’, that the person calling them is not doing it out of their own free will.”
So. I hadn’t really talked to Nif. It was a trick of the Grinder. Designed to get me out of the house and moving toward it. I felt sick.
Was Nif really trapped inside an armored car, sequestered and alive somewhere deep within the beast? Or was she gone already, dead and burned? Was she crushed under the mass of humanity, just another expendable, replaceable human cog?
A terrible sinking feeling welled up inside my chest.
Knowing I wasn’t unique, that others had received a call, changed everything. What little hope I had began to slip away, like water through my fingers. I wondered how many people who’d received calls were also scrambling around town, trying to save their loved ones. I wondered how many had already been caught up or killed.
A pair of dogs ran headlong across the street in front of my stopped car. I watched them disappear down the street, heading southeast. I thought of Hamlet, and I felt guilty for leaving the back door open so he could run free. I’d done it because I was afraid the house would get destroyed, and he’d be stuck. Instead, I probably got him killed. That seemed to be the theme of the evening—I couldn’t fix it, so I made it worse. I wondered if Nif would sense Hamlet if he ended up in the Grinder, if she was even still alive in there somewhere.
The twins. That was my fault, too. I could picture their mom and dad. They lived in Douglas, a couple hours away. If I managed to survive tonight, I’d have to go to them and tell them how their sons died.
I had promised Randy I’d bring the duffel bag to their girlfriend, even though I doubted the chances of her being able to help. She probably wasn’t home anyway. But I had promised him, so I had to try. I sighed and continued on my way.
I drove out of the neighborhood and into a nightmare.
As I approached the University of Arizona stadium, this time from the east, I had to cross the path the Grinder took after it had devoured the crowd at the game. The side of the stadium had cracked, and the road was torn to shreds. Buildings lay wrecked, and smoke danced into the sky from several points.
Corpses lay everywhere.
A few cars with their brights on circled the area just southeast of the stadium. A group of twenty or so people shifted through the trail of the dead, dropped like crumbs in those moments when the Grinder had grown exponentially. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must look like inside of the stadium.
Just a few hours ago, this was a normal intersection. All these people were alive and happy, at a football game they had looked forward
to for weeks. Then it ended, just like that. All in a matter of seconds.
Few people took notice as I drove across the thoroughfare. I did my best to avoid hitting any of the bodies on the road, but the Volkswagen lurched over a few arms and legs here and there. Every bump sickened me.
As I cleared the scene, I continued toward downtown, staying on the side streets, though they were less linear and more difficult to traverse. I passed Tucson High School, checking for more soldiers, though the school appeared dark. Above, airplanes and helicopters continued to circle the sky.
The Grinder was further away than ever. But I could still feel its presence. It was on the far east side of town at this point, close to my house. The radio newscasters had no contact with anybody in town, but reporters were at both the major roadblocks. The roadblock east toward New Mexico had degraded into an all-out riot on word that the Grinder was moving in that general direction. The military presence was heavy, and several people ended up shot.
Reporters warned that the flood of refugees out of town could no longer be detained. As the eastern roadblock collapsed, the northern one toward Phoenix started to buckle as well.
I listened to a tearful account from a girl who had survived the attack at the stadium. She’d been in the bathroom and somehow avoided being touched by the Grinder’s human chain. Another claimed to have seen it from an airplane in final approach to Tucson International, but the plane diverted to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor just in time to avoid the beast. He said it looked like a giant, red jellyfish from above, shimmering in the dark as it crawled across the tarmac.
I numbly navigated onto the main street and turned toward the industrial section of downtown. Random buildings around town were engulfed in flames, and I realized that it wasn’t the Grinder, but errant missile strikes. Half of Congress Street downtown burned, and with despair, I saw the row of brick buildings that housed The Nomery were destroyed and caved-in.
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