Oatmeal
Dedicated to my Belle, who always gets the last bite.
SUNSHINE COMES IN THROUGH the window and presses a warm hand to her cheek. She shifts in the bed, lowers her feet to the floor, and rises. She pads across the floor, quiet, careful. She doesn’t want to wake him. In the kitchen, the shelves are spare. Their food is almost gone. A cylindrical canister sits on the shelf by the fridge. She opens it. Only one scoop of oats remains in the bottom of the can. Not even enough for one serving. She shakes it out into a bowl and prepares it the usual way, making sure to add just a pinch of salt—that’s all she has left—and stirring occasionally for ten minutes.
She pours the oatmeal into a bowl and places it on the table. It isn’t much. She hears him rise upstairs above her. The flap of his long ears. The ticking of his claws on the bare floor, slow. Steady. His padded feet on the stairs, thumping down each step.
“My dear,” she says, “your breakfast.”
She helps him up onto the chair, just a hand to support his hop. He gazes at her from a face speckled with white. She nods and he laps the oatmeal into his mouth. When he is finished, he looks up at her, licking his lips, and she knows she is a good girl, and she knows that he knows he is a good dog.
Her stomach growls. He cocks his head at the sound. She pets his head, his ears, and pulls him against her belly. He rubs his face against her apron.
They are short of food, but they will never be short of love.
Part Two: Furuncles
Cafeteria Food
THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND her with a soft click. Marissa looked down the hall, her left hand gripping the shaft of the IV tree. She wheeled it next to her as she snuck down the hallway, her bare feet slapping on the cold tiles. She had to get out of there. Something wasn’t right with the hospital, and definitely not with the attending doctor.
She wasn’t sure what floor she was on, and the hallways were long and blank, void of any landmarks that would suggest she had been there before. As far as she knew she was wandering through a circular hallway. A door opened. She pressed herself into a shallow alcove in the wall.
A stout nurse with chunky white heels backed out, wheeling a gurney through the doors. As the double doors swung shut against the sides of the gurney, the nurse cursed. Marissa’s need to leave the hospital suddenly became more urgent as a severed arm fell from beneath the stained sheet, splattering blood onto the floor.
The nurse picked it up and shoved it back beneath the sheet with a quick look around the hallway, then wheeled the gurney down the hall. She disappeared around a corner.
Marissa moved slowly and paused at the door the nurse had come through. It had caught on a red stained cloth, leaving a few inches of viewing space. Inside she saw a doctor, Dr. Cadaver, her attending physician, preparing a needle. On the table in front of him was a squirming woman. He shoved the needle deep into her chest until she stopped moving. Marissa watched as he caressed her all over, cooing and talking in low tones that she couldn’t hear. Finally, with a laugh, he turned and took out a surgical saw.
Marissa ripped the needle out of her arm and ran. She turned the corner just as the nurse disappeared at the end of the hall through a set of doors labeled KITCHEN. Marissa peered through a circular window and watched the nurse sort the body parts into bins. Each bin had a different label. Meatloaf, Lasagna, Beef Stroganoff. Marissa choked on bile and spit on the floor when the nurse tossed a head into a dumpster.
The nurse looked up. Her eyes locked on Marissa’s through the window.
“What are you doing out of your bed?” she asked with a twisted smile. Her red lipstick had bled into her face powder.
Marissa turned to run but was stopped by a thick hand around her neck. Dr. Cadaver smiled at her, the surgical saw, dripping with blood and flecks of flesh, was propped on his shoulder.
“Let’s get started,” he said in a low voice, eyeing the front of her gown.
Marissa screamed, but it was no use. She was the only one left.
Mountain View Hospital
THEY PUT ME IN MOUNTAIN View six years ago. They said I was crazy. But I could see things no one else could. I sat in a padded room with dingy gray walls. I acquired one black crayon that I used to draw symbols on the walls. Protection symbols. But after six years, the black of the crayon has grown dull. In some places, it blends away into the wall and disappears.
Every night for six months the same thing happened. I heard it lurking. A low purring sound, like a large cat, came from outside my door. It stopped by my door and smelled the crack at the bottom with long, sucking sniffs. The sound of it made my stomach turn. I pushed myself into the corner. My toes curled involuntarily. I trembled. I heard a faint scratching that sent my flesh tingling and my heart pounding.
The doors to the rooms along the hallway all have a barred window near the top, almost too high up to see through. A dark shadow appeared in the window. Red eyes glared at me. A twisted mouth with sharp teeth and long fangs opened and a low, long rattle issued from within.
I turned my head away and wrapped my arms around my body. I prayed for it to go away. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to melt into the wall.
The doorknob jiggled, and I jerked my head to look.
“No!” I cried. I jumped to my feet and grabbed the doorknob, keeping it in place. The doors were supposed to be locked. They were supposed to keep us safe in here. It twisted beneath my hand, and I squeezed harder. It dug into my flesh. The beast outside looked suddenly to the right and fled.
I swallowed hard, my hand gripping the doorknob. I pulled it away and flexed my stiff fingers. I took a deep breath and tried the knob. It was unlocked. I backed away a few steps. It was supposed to be locked. I was supposed to be safe here. Tears burned in my eyes and nose. My breathing quickened. I felt panicked. My knees shook, threatening to buckle. I had to get out. This place was no longer safe for me. I ran to the door and tried to look out the window. On my tiptoes, I could just see over the bottom edge.
The black form appeared suddenly in the window, knocking me on my back. I scooted into the corner as the doorknob slowly turned and the door creaked open. I gasped for air. My face felt hot, blackness threatened my vision. The dark shape loomed closer, rattling and sniffing. The red eyes glowed. The fangs dripped saliva that singed the floor.
I screamed for help, knowing no one would come. No one else could see them. Only I could see them. My scream was mingled with the cries of the other patients as the beast ripped into my flesh.
Death is Not an Excuse
ONE WOULD THINK THAT death would be an excuse for missing a deadline, however, at Spinkman’s & Snott’s that was not the case.
It was the day before my project was due. I was nowhere near completing it. There was a knock at the door. I was half relieved and half annoyed that I was pulled away from my project.
When I got to the door, I was shocked to see a young woman in a low-cut, knee-length red dress, heaving bosom and all, standing on my porch. She pushed her way inside and slammed the door.
“You’ve got to help me,” she said. “Do you have any boards?”
“Boards?” I asked. I was still shocked that this beautiful woman was in my house.
“Yes, boards!” she screeched. “Two by fours, eight by tens, boards! You know? Wood?”
“No,” I said with a raised eyebrow. I lived in a town house, it wasn’t like I kept lumber lying around.
She made an exasperated noise and brushed her hair out of her face. I saw she had some blood on her forehead.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”
At this she laughs. “Am I in trouble?” She asks in a mocking tone. “The whole town’s in trouble! Haven’t you seen the news?”
She looked around and grabbed the television remote off the coffee table and turned it to Channel 4. A frazzled set of newscasters shouted to get inside, bar the doors and windows if you could, do anything to stay safe and indoors. T
his is not a test.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Before she could answer, there was a bang at the door. I turned to answer it, but she grabbed my wrist.
“Listen to me,” she said her eyes wide. “Don’t open that door. If you value your life, do not open it!”
“What? What’s wrong with you?” I stepped backward toward the door.
“Please,” she begged. “There’s, oh you idiot! You’ll never believe me!” She fell to her knees by the couch and hugged the arm, waiting for me to open the door.
When I reached the door, I listened. Outside there were sounds of movement and moaning. Perhaps someone outside was injured?
“Please,” the girl whimpered. “Just stay inside,” she was crying.
I grabbed the door knob, jerked the door open and gasped at the spectacle before me.
There on my lawn, milling around like cattle, were about fifty people, only they weren’t normal people. Their skin was grayish. Some of them looked the worse for wear with tattered clothes. Their eyes were what caught my attention the most. All of them had light blue eyes, almost as if they were blind. They were all moving around each other, unaware, moaning.
“Zombies!” I screamed. I slammed the door, but it was too late. They knew we were inside. They started to bang on the door. I heard a window in the kitchen break and their terrible moans increased. The kitchen door was closed. I ran to it and locked it as quick as I could.
“Boards!” the girl cried. “You don’t have any boards!”
“We’re as good as dead,” I said. I crumbled to the floor beside her and held her. A perfect stranger.
We waited. Listening to them scrape at the kitchen door. The squeak of their fingers and faces against the glass of the windows by the door.
Finally, they broke through the barriers of door and window and they were upon us. Biting and gnashing.
I woke up with an immense hunger for brains, but I’m a vegetarian. I’ve never eaten meat, so I dismissed my craving and went back to work on my project. My brain felt foggy, like a bad hangover, and the words on the screen and on my documents didn’t make any sense.
I tried to say something, but it came out a low, wheezing moan.
“Wha?”
I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
Gray skin. Tattered clothes. Disheveled hair. Blue eyes.
The phone rang.
I answered it. There was a series of moans and groans that, oddly, I understood.
“You’re late! Where is your project?”
It was my boss, Mr. Spinkman, and indeed, I was late. I missed my deadline.
Goodbye Liver
HUGH MCGUMPFREY WAS drunk after six rum and cokes, a shot of Jagermeister, and a snort of lime juice–the latter taken on a dare.
“Elvis are you out there somewhere?” He sang. “Lookin’ like a happy man?” He turned to the woman beside him. “I wrote that song,” he said. She gave him a disgusted look and left.
In all actuality, his ex-friend Brian wrote that song. Hugh merely played the keyboard for that number, and that was as a favor for Hugh’s brother Murphy.
“McGump,” the bartender, Josephine, said. “You better get out of here before you cause a disturbance.” She always warned her customers before having them removed from her bar.
“Josie, lady, I ain’t causin’ no trouble,” Hugh said. He sipped some water from a random glass of melting ice.
“I know,” she winked at him. “But you’ve had your fill and you ought to get home.”
Hugh considered the two of her for a moment, wobbled dangerously on his stool, and decided that he should honor her wishes. He gathered his coat and left the bar.
He stumbled and grabbed onto the first thing he touched, which happened to be an enormous pink elephant.
The elephant took his hat from his hand with her trunk and put it on his head, then helped him stumble home.
The next morning, Hugh woke up with a massive headache.
“Jager,” he scowled. “I should know better by now.” He spit into the sink and waited for the nausea to subside.
In the mirror, something caught his attention and he turned around.
An attractive woman in a towel stood behind him. She smiled and flung herself into his arms and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips.
“Who are you?” Hugh asked.
She removed the towel–Hugh surprised himself by turning around abruptly–and started to dry her long pink hair with it. Hugh just then realized that her hair was in fact pink.
“I’m Pinky,” she said with an upside-down grin. “I’m your liver.” She straightened up, planted a kiss on his lips and left the bathroom. Hugh followed her. She had a big red bag, packed full, that she gripped in a tiny hand.
“You need help?” Hugh asked.
“No,” Pinky said. She giggled. “Maybe a long time ago.” With that she left his apartment.
Hugh suddenly felt very tired and worn down. He went to the couch and dropped onto it, no sooner had he done this, he jumped back up and ran to the bathroom to throw up. After rinsing his mouth, he looked in the mirror and saw his skin held a yellow tinge.
I’m dying, was his first though, and in fact, he was. He fell to the floor just as his liver burst.
Hugh sat up straight in bed with a gasp. He had an empty bottle of Jack in his hand.
“Holy shit,” he said. “That was some dream.” He started to rub his eyes just as a woman with pink hair dragged a big red bag across the room.
Judgment
Modern World, 2099. A war has broken out among the folk of Modern World and of Old World. Beliefs and technologies have clashed for decades. Finally, in an attempt to bring peace or destroy Old World, a trio was formed and sent deep into the center.
AFTER TRAVELING THROUGH winding outer and inner caves and tunnels, traversing steep inclines, scaling vertical walls, and swimming across dangerous underground lakes, the trio stood before the tall wood and metal door. The entrance to Old World.
“This is it,” Bruce said. He was the fighter. The modern-day warrior, equipped with both knowledge and strength. He had the cunning manipulation of the best salesman, the business savvy of a Wall Street trader, and the strength of ten men. He could take on the world, or a simple, financial negotiation.
“Yeah,” Tiera replied. She was the thief. Stealthy by day and by night. She had the double-edged personality of a pure Gemini, she could be sweet and innocent and pick your pocket at the same time. She was dangerously alert, artfully silent. She could step in and out, take your most precious belongings, without you knowing she even existed.
“Let’s go.” Coo gripped his staff. He was the healer. The doctor who cared for sick children, ailing seniors, and everyone in between. He could take a temperature, probe an abdomen, write a prescription and raise stamina all at the same time. A real magician of herbs and chemistry. He was equipped to handle a severed arm as well as a tummy ache.
Through the door was Ginocka, the largest of the four titans to rule over Old World. He sat in his throne, a mixture of sloppy mud and hard granite. He moved with the sound of grating stone and ordered his minions to do his bidding.
He was in the middle of sending out a scout when the trio came through the doors.
“Ginocka,” Bruce said, catching his attention. “Today you shall die.”
Ginocka laughed a deep, resonating laugh.
Bruce laughed back, a hearty chuckle. He stopped suddenly and unsheathed his sword. “No, I’m serious.”
“Let’s talk,” Ginocka said. “All this fighting and no one ever talks anymore. You’re skilled in verbal communication, let’s talk.”
“There will be time for talking later,” Tiera said. She loosed an arrow at a low-flying bat-bird. It hit its mark with clear accuracy and pinned the beast to the wall above Ginocka’s head.
“Now Tiera,” Bruce said, turning to her. “You’re supposed to wait for my mark,”
“There�
��s no time for waiting, Bruce,” she said through clenched teeth, her eyes unmoving from the face of Ginocka. “We must destroy him,”
“Listen to me,” Bruce said. He placed a hand on her arm, forcing her to lower her arrow.
Tiera turned to him, removing her eyes from their enemy. “What is it now?”
Bruce and Tiera argued.
Coo wondered why he ever joined a husband/wife team, then remembered he was assigned to them as well as this mission. He cleared his throat a couple of times, his eyes locked on Ginocka. Ginocka’s mud hand moved toward a lever. A small gate opened to his left.
“Guys,” Coo said. “Guys I think something’s happening,” he watched as a black form emerged slowly, like smoke seeping under a door during a house fire. “Bruce,” Coo said. “Tiera, something’s happening.”
Ginocka laughed again. “This is Judgment,” he said, gesturing to the form. “I’m sure you have all heard of him.”
Bruce and Tiera stopped arguing and looked to where Ginocka pointed. There sat the black mass. Oh, yes, they had heard of Judgment. Everyone had been exposed to some diluted form of him for centuries, millennia even.
Judgment was unforgiving and cruel. He was the best at the worst punishments and torture techniques. He was a backstabber and a friend all at one time. He hated everyone before he even met them. He turned friends on each other, ripped apart families, and destroyed everything in his path. He was the Old World’s oldest weapon and at that very moment, he oozed across the floor toward them.
Bruce looked from Tiera to Coo.
“Run,” he said in a harsh whisper.
They turned and fled through the massive front doors. They ran back through the caves, scaled the vertical wall, swam across the lake. When Bruce stopped, Tiera and Coo ran into him.
LUMP Page 2