LUMP

by Claire L. Fishback

  Jake woke, heart pounding. His clothes clung to him. The bed moved slightly, and he heard licking. He clicked on the light, and there, with tufts of long white fur shooting out at various spots, clouded eyes staring, lay the cat. With all his remaining strength, Jake grabbed the cat, and dragged himself and the mongrel into the living room. He opened the woodstove and tossed it inside, squirted a whole can of lighter fluid on it, and threw in a match. He closed the stove and went to bed.

  His sleep was disturbed by yowling. He felt hot and itchy. He got up to pee and looked in the mirror. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken. His skin was dry and leathery. He fell to the floor as muscle fatigue overcame him. He stared out into the hall, unable to move, when a beautiful, white cat prowled into view. It turned to look through him with clouded eyes.

  As the cat stared, Jake felt his body shrivel, felt his skin tighten against his bones. His vision clouded. The last thing he saw before he went blind was the cat’s now green eyes penetrating his soul.

  The Tiniest Enchilada

  EVAN STARED OUT THE window, random thoughts roving through his idle mind. He remembered seeing a video of a hamster eating a tiny burrito one time and wondered how small the smallest enchilada in the world would be. Would it even be enough to feed this hungry little hamster? How did the chef even make tortillas that tiny? Was there even a baking dish small enough to bake them?

  These were the types of questions that filled Evan’s mind on a day to day basis. Trivial ponderings. Nonsensical nonsense. Things that didn’t matter. Not when the world was ending.

  The plague hit about a month ago. It started in Barrow, Alaska, where a research team thought the cold climate would keep it contained. Kill it if it got out. But the thing had evolved fast until it was indestructible. Invincible. The Superman Plague. Fast as a speeding bullet and all that.

  Then, it spread. All over the world.

  I need to see the world’s largest teddy bear. Evan thought, as he gazed out the window of his seventh-floor apartment, sipping a cup of cold coffee. After all, his mom, who passed a year before, named him after that sixty-one-foot-tall stuffed animal. She said it was that or Theodore. She would have called him Teddy. He was glad she named him Evan.

  But, he really needed to see that bear.

  There were a lot of things Evan needed to see.

  A crowd of Plaguers shuffled by on the street below. They moved in packs now. Before long they’d learn to use tools as weapons to take down their prey. If there was any prey left. Evan glanced straight across from his apartment at the building next door. A woman stood on her balcony.

  What is she doing?

  The air was rife with the virus. He watched as she climbed up onto the railing. She looked up, and he swore their eyes met, even though he could hardly see her face.

  He waved.

  She jumped.

  He looked away.

  The pack below must have heard her land. They changed direction and rushed toward her fresh corpse.

  There were so many things he needed to see, but that was not one of them.

  Evan closed the blinds. He needed to anyway, before the sun came pelting in, heating up his apartment like . . . he tried to think of some clever metaphor, but only came up with a pizza oven. His stomach growled.

  When the virus had gone airborne, he’d turned off the thermostat and covered all the vents with garbage bags and duct taped around the doors and windows. Anywhere outside air might get in, he sealed it up. He was surprised he could still breathe. The fact that he could made his skin crawl. Air had to be getting in from somewhere. Air carrying the virus.

  So far, he hadn’t shown any signs or symptoms.

  Maybe that woman had.

  Evan sighed. His mind went back to the world’s largest teddy.

  I’m not big, though.

  He looked down at his stomach, which had shrunk substantially over the last two weeks. He ate his last sleeve of stale saltine crackers that morning. His last ration. No more food. Just this cold cup of shitty coffee. He took a sip. Grimaced.

  Before the plague, he’d had an impressive gut, akin to a hippo. Well, maybe an average-sized hippo. Regular-sized hippos were much larger. His double XL shirt size had to be considered average . . . for a hippo.

  A knock came at the door. Evan dropped the cup. Cold coffee splashed all over the carpet. Another knock. Steady. One, two, three. Gentle. Three, two, one.

  He always thought if anyone knocked it would be loud and frantic banging. Or the scrape of fingernails. Fingernails with old blood caked beneath.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called through the door.

  Evan didn’t respond. He crept to the peephole and peered out.

  It was his neighbor, Gloria. Always beautiful, Gloria, even though her shoulder-length blonde hair was stringy and greasy from not washing it.

  Evan never thought about the water. He glanced over his shoulder at the spilled coffee, made with water from the tap. Water from out there.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Evan? Are you in there? It’s Gloria.”

  “Go away Gloria,” Evan said, his voice rough from disuse. She’d broken his heart before. They had a one-night stand. He was in love. She was not.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. He watched her through the peephole. She turned around, and her head slid out of view. Evan sat on the floor with his back to the door and pretended the hard surface was Gloria’s back.

  “You shouldn’t be outside,” he said.

  “I know.” He heard her shift on the other side of the door. “I’m sick.”

  Evan sucked in a breath and held it. He scrambled away from the door and pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose. His eyes darted around the door frame. Every scrap of tape was still in place.

  Go jump off your balcony, he thought, then took it back, surprised at how easily he’d forgotten what humanity looked like, sounded like, felt like. He suddenly yearned for human contact. To hold her hands, to run his fingers through her grimy hair, feel the press of her lips on his. Her arms around him.

  Would it feel like a hug to be mauled by a Plaguer?

  What a stupid question.

  Gloria was still talking on the other side of the door, her voice laced with hysteria. She stopped and began whimpering, then sobbing, then growling.

  The virus was quick.

  Her fingernails scraped down the door.

  Evan moved to the window again. Opened the blinds and looked out. His stomach rumbled. He ran his hands over his belly.

  An average-sized hippo.

  Even the tiniest of tiny enchiladas would be good right now.

  Narration with illustrations available at ClaireLFishback.com/stories-and-books!

  Year 2245

  THE TIME MACHINE SAT in the corner of the basement covered in a thick layer of dust and speckled with cat pawprints. The machine was spherical in shape. Strange appendages with knobs on the ends jutted out in various locations along its exterior. It had a similar appearance of a sea bomb, only it sat on planks of wood, giving the impression that it sat on the water, not under it. The thing hadn’t been used in over two decades, not after the ban on time travel that was enacted in 2266.

  Benjamin straightened his vest and cleared his throat, preparing himself to approach the machine, as if it might suddenly turn on, snatch him inside, and send him into the past. He looked at his wrist monitor, noting his elevated heart rate. The mechanism also recorded excited levels of perspiration. He cleared his throat again and touched his neck over the small, sickle-shaped scar where his GPS chip had been implanted thirty years ago when he was born. Would They know that he was standing next to a time machine?

  They, as the New Government called themselves, did everything they could to keep the general public safe from harm, and in turn keep humanity under strict control. This included banning alcohol (to become inebriated was to cause harm to many), tobacco (to smoke was to cause many to become sick, and therefore harm many), agr
iculture (to grow food is to show a lack of support to local grocers, and therefore, harm many), and eventually, time travel.

  The time travel ban, like with the other bans, came with a statement: To change time was to change the lives of many, and therefore harm many. The statement was supposed to be profound, and indeed, to some it was, but to the major organizations behind time machine manufacture, it was preposterous. No one used time machines to change lives. According to a survey done by the Time Travel Administration, the most common use of a time machine was to visit dead relatives; the second being to right a wrong, not wrong a right.

  The ban was viewed with renewed interest after the trial of Mercy vs. Lewis when Cynthia Lewis traveled back in time to object to the marriage of Gloria Gray and Frederick Mercy. Upon doing so, she unknowingly started a series of events that would ultimately lead to the assassination of the 100th president, Wilhelm Wundt (the twenty-first century “father of psychology” who managed to travel forward in time by—as he put it—hitching a ride), in 2245.

  Benjamin cleared his throat again and took a step forward. The sound of his foot on the wooden floorboard made his heart jump. He paused and listened, noting nothing but a deafening silence that was punctuated by with the pounding of his heart in his ears. He breathed a heavy sigh, rubbed his forehead and stepped next to the machine. He didn’t know how to work it, though his grandfather used to let him sit in it. He should have shown more interest all those years ago.

  He touched his vest pocket where he had tucked his copy of his grandfather’s will, along with a note: The only thing in the lockbox willed to him. The note was simple:

  I was so close! Get back to March 3, 2245 and stop her!

  Benjamin didn’t know who her was, but he had a good idea. He swallowed hard past a lump in his throat. The hatch to the time machine opened with the press of a button labeled open.

  Inside was a schematic of the machine, clean and crisp as if it had just been printed. The interior was decorated sparingly, but the cushion on the seat was a plush velvet in cranberry. Benjamin climbed inside.

  A warning tone buzzed in his ears and a polite female voice said, “Benjamin Mode, you are in close proximity to a banned substance. Please step away at once.”

  When he ignored the tone and the warning, they became increasingly loud every second until it was unbearable. He jumped from the machine and went to the drawer where he grabbed a pair of needle-nose pliers. He held his left finger on the scar, and with his right hand, eyes closed tight, dug the ends of the pliers into his neck, shouting in agony. He twisted the skin open, feeling with his opposite hand. When he felt the hard metal of the chip, he gouged it with the pliers. With a final jerk, he pulled the chip, roughly ⅛ of an inch square, and crushed it.

  He didn’t have much time. They would know he removed it in a matter of seconds. He jumped into the time machine, closed the hatch, and looked at the instructions. His hands fluttered over the buttons and knobs indicated in the drawing. Pressing, toggling, pulling.

  The machine started with a bang. Benjamin frantically turned the dials to the date his grandfather mentioned. The machine vibrated at such intensity, his legs became numb. With a shotgun blast, the machine stopped vibrating and the hatch opened.

  There stood a woman with dark auburn hair and startling green eyes. Benjamin looked around at his grandfather’s basement, now immaculate and clean.

  He jumped out of the machine and gripped the woman by the shoulders.

  “Don’t do it,” he said, breathless.

  “What?” She asked, touching her lips.

  “If you leave him, you will kill him.”

  Benjamin jumped back into the machine and with a pop, he was back in 2266.

  When the hatch opened, his grandfather stood in the now immaculate basement of present time, his arm around a woman with familiar green eyes and auburn hair shot with white.

  “I’ve done it, Ben,” his grandfather said with a grin.

  “Done what?” Benjamin asked.

  “After all these years,” he said with a grin, “I finally married your grandmother!” He kissed the woman in question and squeezed her gently around the shoulders.

  An Odd Job

  GEORGE AWAKENS ON THIS particular Monday morning knowing that great things are going to happen. He is going to start his hunt for a job.

  He optimistically brings in the morning paper and settles down at the kitchen table. Flipping to the classified ads, he takes a sip of hot coffee and a bite of toast. Nothing sparks his attention at first. The regular things a guy might want to be. A janitor, mechanic, electrician.

  But then, there below an ad for a receptionist with a great smile and good fashion, is an ad that blows his mind.

  Wanted, it reads. One pet sitter. Pay exceptional. Benefits. No experience. Must love dogs.

  He is instantly reminded of a movie his ex-girlfriend made him watch, but realizes this is a job listing, not a personal ad.

  He circles the ad and picks up the phone. Within minutes he has a job. They apparently need no resume or an interview at this particular place. All he has is an address, some easy directions, and a time to come in to start.

  When George pulls up to the front gates, he is startled to see a large, stone castle looming above him. He never thought there were such structures in this town. The gate swings open slowly, with a long, low sound, and he pulls up the drive way.

  He is greeted at the front gate by a woman all in black. She has pale skin and ruby-red lips. She is very attractive, in a startling, Adam’s Family way.

  “My name is Morganna,” she says.

  “I’m George,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Rubix is inside,” she says with a half-smile. “I believe you two will get along quite well.” Her eyes dart to his hair, which he realizes he forgot to comb.

  When he enters the castle, he looks around, eyes wide. It’s furnished like a castle would be. Tapestries hang from the walls, and there is a suit of armor pushed against a corner. An iron chandelier with lit candles hangs above his head.

  “I will go and fetch Rubix,” Morganna says.

  George nods, and she leaves him in the foyer.

  There is a roar from somewhere within the castle, and a shriek. He sidesteps to an adjoining doorway and peeks through. Just a dining hall. There is a set of stairs straight ahead of him and he peers up into darkness. It’s almost as if the stairs lead nowhere.

  “Here is Rubix,” Morganna says. George turns with a start and shouts, jumping back.

  Morganna is draped across the jaws of a massive alligator, crocodile, thing.

  “It’s quite alright,” she says with an uncharacteristic laugh. “This is how we play.” She grimaces as he shifts her in his mouth with his prehensile tongue, then places her on the ground. She brushes her dress down.

  “I’m supposed to pet sit ... him?” George asks slowly, gawping at the dragon before him. Rubix is panting, and with each pant of hot breath comes the foul smell of sulfur.

  Morganna nods her head.

  “The ad said must love dogs,” George says dubiously.

  “Oh,” Morganna says with a laugh. “He’s very much like a dog.” She looks at Rubix with love and places a hand on his large jaw. “I will be leaving in about fifteen minutes.” She pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to George. “This is payment in advance.”

  He counts out one thousand dollars with wide eyes.

  After Morganna leaves, George looks at Rubix who has stopped panting and has a strange gleam in his eyes. He licks his chops, and George swallows hard.

  “Hey, hi Rubix,” he says. He can’t keep his voice from shaking.

  Rubix lets out a low growl. He licks his massive chops again, and George glimpses a row of sharp, stained teeth.

  MORGANNA ENTERS THE castle after a day out. She has a satisfied grin on her face when she looks at Rubix who is lying on his side sleeping, belly bulging. Next to him lies the one thousand dollars she had given th
e nice young man who so willingly volunteered to be Rubix’s lunch. She sits down quietly by the telephone and calls the newspaper.

  “Yes, my ad worked wonderfully,” she says. “Will you please run it indefinitely?”

  Part Three: Goiters

  Clown in the Closet

  Published in Predicate Literary Journal

  BRIAN WATERBY, AGE 35, was crying. He always cried, and he always talked about the clowns. His childhood was one of terror, he told me. This was the third time I’d heard the story.

  “My parents were terrible people, Dr. Melissa,” he said, gulping air to gain control of his emotions. He was on the couch on his back, his knees bent. He had taken his shoes off, and his pristine white socks were bright against the cool black leather of the couch. “They plastered every surface of my room with these terrible beings, these clowns,” he shuddered.

  “What was so bad about the clowns?” I asked. “Clowns are fun and joyful, they make us laugh.”

  Brian turned and looked at me, his face contorted in disgust mingled with disbelief. “No,” he said. “No, they aren’t.” He sniffled hard and sat up, his face still in that grimace. “Clowns are terrible beings meant to frighten . . .” he trailed off, mumbling into his fists as he rubbed his eyes. “My parents never came when I screamed,” he said. He dropped his hands into his lap and stared at them. He lay back down and sighed deeply. “They never came.”

  A tear dribbled from the outer corner of his eye and dripped onto the couch.

  “Why did you scream?” I asked after giving him a few minutes.

  He turned his head, his eyes wide. “I can’t,” he said. He shook his head vigorously. “I can’t go there.”