Benjamin kept a list of what she brought over. Kept a list of the days she dropped by. He checked the list yesterday. It had been two weeks.
That made Benjamin sad. That made Benjamin worry. It didn’t last long. He added new notes to the lists. Put them in their shoe boxes. Shelved them away. Began working on the ants.
Something smelled funny in the air. He pulled out a box of allergy masks he kept in the basement. Next to the lists. And the dead ants. Strapped it to his face. Breathed easier.
Back to work.
8
Emily dropped by. But this time it wasn’t Emily. But it was. She was very pregnant. Yet she wasn’t. Her eyes were full of green fluid. Leaking onto her cheek. Her face was spotted. Cracking. Her hair had vines wrapped up in the blonde curls. When she smiled, Benjamin saw leaves behind her teeth.
They talked like they usually did. About the usual things. Benjamin talked about ants. She talked about gardening. About having a baby. A boy, this time. She was sure of it. Maybe Gary would let this one live? She didn’t know. Won’t know until afterward.
Benjamin felt like something was off. Something was different about her. She was pretty, still, yes. But she was greener. And smelled of wet earth and mushrooms growing in a cave.
When she left Benjamin was sad. He hadn’t been sad since his mom had died. Cancer.
9
The ants weren’t coming together. They were falling apart. Each piece, sliding. Damn it. He slammed them. Broke the pieces. This wasn’t going right. He took his brush. Walked out of the basement. Upstairs.
This wasn’t going right at all. He felt dizzy. His hands shook. A yellow pollen fluttered in the air. Like a mist. In his living room. He looked around. Saw that his living room had changed.
No, no, no. Not today. Why did this have to happen today? He wasn’t finished yet. Not yet. Why couldn’t this wait until he was finished?
10
He made a list of things wrong with the living room.
The television is dead. Spiders in it.
Vines on the ceiling. Floor.
Plants burst through windows. Bushes.
Red berries on the bushes. Poisonous?
Ceiling covered in bugs.
Yellow spores.
Door is gone. Replaced by wall of roses.
Thorns on roses. Ouch. Blood.
Smells bad.
11
He wore his allergy mask. It helped him breathe better. Now that he could breathe he could work. Still dizzy, just not so much. Made more ants. They needed an ant army. Invaders. Plant invaders. Coming. Attacking.
We need a militia. Seven thousand strong. Will have to recruit civilians. Shamans. Priests. Firefighters. Ant families and ant children. This was a call of duty. A call to honor.
He fell asleep. Paintbrush in hand. Army at the ready.
12
Doorbell. Woke him. Stumbled upstairs. Paint covered hands. Clawed. Allergy mask on. Looked like survivor. Wanted to survive. The pollen was still there. Made walking hard. Like swimming.
He answered the rosebush. Ouch! Thorns. Forgot about those. It was Emily. Beautiful. Skin greenish blue. Eyes no longer leaking. But blossoming. Two flowers for eyes. Leaves sticking out of her hair. When she talked her voice sounded burbly. Like she was underwater. Or lungs full of water. Or drowning. Benjamin did not know which.
“Come outside,” she said. “See the sun.”
Benjamin looked behind her. There was no sun. Just pollen blotting it out. The world was a haze of yellow. Plants were everywhere. Pushing through concrete. Covering houses. Buildings. Cars.
“No thank you,” he said. “I don’t like the sun.”
She smiled. So pretty.
“Come on, we can play. We can sing, we can dance. You can help me garden. We can catch bees and pollinate ourselves. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Benjamin liked that. Wanted that. But the ants were not finished. The army was not finished. He could not forget about the invasion. It was important. He shook his head. “The army needs me,” he said. “My children need me.”
She parted her lips. Like plums. “You can kiss me,”s he said. “I know you would like that. Come on, kiss me. Take that mask off. Kiss me. You can even cop a feel if you’d like. Gary wouldn’t mind. Just take the mask off. Kiss me.”
Benjamin began to pull the mask down. Was leaning in. Almost taken off. When he saw a yellow spider crawl out from between her lips. Scale up her face. Make a web between her two eye flowers.
He kept his mask on. This isn’t Emily, he thought. Emily did not have spiders inside of her. Baby, yes. Spiders, no.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll send Gary around. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”
Benjamin didn’t like that. She slammed the rosebushes in his face. Stormed off. Even though she wasn’t Emily he still didn’t like making her sad. Or mad. It didn’t sit well with him.
Depressed, he went back inside. Went downstairs. Continued to work.
13
There is never an entry for 13. It is unlucky.
14
The ant army was close to being finished. But not just yet. His hand cramped. He needed to hurry. The basement was the only room in the house still safe. Still uninfected. His hand itched as it clawed up. Itch, itch, itch. Felt like something crawling, growing under his skin.
He took some medicine. But the itch did not stop. The pain did not stop. He would have to be done painting for now. Building for now. He couldn’t work. Not like this.
15
The rooms in the house infected with the garden:
Living Room
No room to walk anymore
Even the floor is covered in weeds
Insects everywhere
Buzzing.
Kitchen
Stove is now a rhododendron
Lilacs in the Frigidaire
Ceiling fan filled with vines
Second Floor Bedrooms
Beds are trees. Cracking through ceiling.
Floor is moss. Green. Fuzzy.
Bookshelves are moldy.
Books are gone. Eaten by insects.
Attic
No more attic. Just lattice of branches
16
There was a scratching at his basement window. Like a cat wanting to come in. Benjamin looked up. Saw a branch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The doorbell rang.
Damn it, he thought. Almost finished. If only his hand had stopped itching. Stopped hurting. Stopped moving on its own. And now, now. His arm itched. His eyes itched. His lips and mouth itched.
He scratched, scratched, scratched. Even though it hurt. I don’t want to answer the door, he thought. I don’t want to prick myself on the rosebushes again.
It rang, it rang. Maybe it was Emily. He would like to see her again. Sigh. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He hoped she was all right.
17
He opened the rosebushes. Gary stood there. His skin was orange. He had flowers in his hair. In his neck. Poking through skin. His fingers were wrapped tightly with vines. His hands tensing. Clenching. Green knuckled. His eyes leaked onto his face. Two buds sticking out. Waiting to blossom.
“Hey, you. Fuckwad. My wife wants you outside. Enjoy the sunlight. Right? Come on. Get out. And take off that fucking mask. It makes you look stupid.”
Benjamin looked at him. Gary. Shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I like it inside. I like my ants. I need to go and paint some more. Before my hand stops working.”
“Come on. Get outside. Fucking idiot.”
Hand lashed out, grabbed onto Benjamin’s shoulder. Fingers dug deep into shoulder blade. Dragged him outside. Others on the street. Staring. Green skinned. Spider infested. The air wanted to choke him. Even with the allergy mask on.
“Come on, pansy. Take off the fucking mask already. Or do I have to take it off for you?”
Benjamin moved back, shoved Gary’s hand off him. Skin was brittle, broke. Bones broke. Smell of rot. Spores flew out fro
m the broken skin. Infecting the air. Little yellow things. Pollen. Dancing.
Beneath his broken skin was vegetation, curled up around bone. Benjamin leaned over. Tried not to vomit. Dry heaved. He looked back up. Gary laughed at him.
“Take off the mask. Or I’ll take it off for you.”
Benjamin saw a shovel in Gary’s hand. Saw it rise up. Going to hit him. Going to hurt him. He moved out of the way. Shovel hit ground. Stuck into it. Gary’s skin cracked, broke a little. Vines and leaves peaked out. Pollen spread out.
Benjamin screamed. Ran inside. The others on the street turned. Looked at him. Followed with Gary. Even after Benjamin had slammed the rosebush shut. Even after he had run downstairs. Locked the basement door. Locked himself in.
He had enough canned food to last him a little while. Enough time to make his army. To make a stand against the invasion.
18
Nineteen left to go. Itch, itch. Scratch, scratch. Skin broke. Saw bits of leaves beneath. No, no, he thought. Can’t be happening. He kept his mask on. Just in case.
Dizzy. Dizzy. Needed to finish.
A loud bang. On basement window.
He turned. He looked.
No. No. No.
Emily’s face. Cold, white, pale. Porcelain. Like a doll. Her teeth parted. Leaves behind them. Leaf tongue. Leaf lips. Leaf uvula. Spiders ran over her face. She was on the ground.
More banging. On the basement door.
No. No. No.
19
Let them come. His army was ready. He was ready. He scratched. Itchity itch itch. It hurt. So much hurt. The army was poised. Ready. Set into fighting formation.
He had a list in his hand. Of all the things he wanted to do before the world died. Kiss a girl. Kiss the sun. Swallow the moon. Go fishing. Become a fish. Not die. Die over and over again. Live. Have something nice for dinner. Have someone nice for to dinner. To breathe again. To be again. Whole again. To raise a family. To raise the dead. To sing one last time. To have a sandwich. To try witchcraft. To burn the world. To be burned. To love. To live. To make something work. Just once. To make it work.
20
Breathe. Breathe. It felt so good to breathe without the mask on. Like breathing underwater. Walking like swimming. He no longer itched. It no longer hurt to paint. To do anything. Pain was distant. A memory. Like his childhood.
He leaned over. Kissed the glass. Where Emily’s face was. Smiled. Her head burst. Blood. Pollen. And insects. Inside of her head was a tiny baby. An infant. Made of coiled up vines, and a face that was a flower blossoming. Two tiny eyes stared at him. Was it a boy? Benjamin hoped so. Emily would’ve been happy if it was a boy.
It crawled up to the window. Placed a hand against it. Benjamin felt connected to it. Wanted to take care of it. Felt something in his own mind. Growing.
He smashed the window. His basement door burst open. Now was the time for war. Now was the time to defend his lists. His sanctuary. His love.
CITY OF REFUGE
Jerry L. Gordon
David watched from behind the crowd, as two men led a young woman up a small set of steps to the hangman’s noose. A razor-sharp wire replaced the traditional rope, ensuring a clean decapitation and a bigger spectacle of blood and death. The crowd’s palpable sense of anticipation surprised him less than the calm demeanor of the accused. She faced the gallows with such serenity stepping to the noose as if receiving Holy Communion.
The Order’s crest pinned to David’s putrefying animal hide cloak parted the crowd as effectively as its foul odor. He approached the makeshift structure, sizing up the two men standing on either side of the woman. The tall man in the bowler hat appeared to be in charge, but David focused his steely gaze on the short one with the set jaw. The little man’s face erupted with anger at the interruption.
“What can I do you for, Cardinal?” the tall man said, after looking down at the crest pinned to David’s rotting coat.
“Bring me the accused.”
“What?” the short man exclaimed, stepping forward.
“You heard me, boy.”
“She killed my father. I have a right to—”
“Unless you’d like the archbishops cutting off trade to this little haven, you will mind your place.” David stroked his unkempt beard, setting his jaw. “Do it. Now.”
The man in the bowler hurried the accused forward. On closer inspection, she was more girl than woman. Her tangled black hair and vibrant blue eyes dwarfed her petite nose and mouth. She stood with both hands tied behind her back. Deep bruises marred both sides of her face.
“Are you Jenna, the miller’s daughter?”
The girl bowed her head. “Yes, Cardinal.”
David produced a handwritten document from a pouch inside his cloak. “You petitioned the archbishops for asylum?”
“Yes, Cardinal.”
David handed the document to the short man. “The archbishops have granted Jenna an audience. If her claims are found wanting, she will be returned to you and you can continue,” David motioned around, “this exhibition.”
“Asylum?” The short man rifled through the document as though he wasn’t illiterate like the rest of the peasants. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It is an unusual request,” David admitted, “but one the archbishops have agreed to hear.”
“Then I will go with you and speak for my dead father.”
“If your testimony is needed, the church will call for you. Until then, there will be no vengeance upon this girl or her family. Understood?”
“Whatever you say, Cardinal,” the tall man in the bowler replied, stepping between David and the dead man’s son to deliver the girl. “Please give our regards to the archbishops.”
David yanked the girl toward him and turned to face the deflated crowd. People looked away, averting their gaze as he brushed past them with his prisoner. Like most havens, this one relied on the church for tools and guns. No one would question the archbishops’ judgment.
David’s mule grazed on a patch of grass near the front gate, obscured by a cloud of flies. The girl shuddered as she approached the rotting animal skins that covered the beast.
“Will I have to wear a cloak?” she asked, clearly blanching.
“Only if you want to live,” David said. “The Fallen may have little interest in this high altitude settlement, but in the lowlands they’ll pick your body clean if they think you’re alive. Get used to wearing it.”
David untied her hands and pulled a long coat of rotting flesh from the mule’s saddlebags. The girl vomited twice before she settled into the foul garment. Even then, she retched and gagged uncontrollably. David retied her hands, this time in front of her, and leashed her to the mule with enough slack to allow her to walk.
With a nod to the gatekeeper, the tall wooden doors that protected the enclave parted. David chose to walk at first, leading the mule and his prisoner down a series of treacherous mountain switchbacks.
Here, above the dark clouds, he almost felt safe. As long as the Fallen could sustain themselves in the lowlands, they had no urge to feed in the mountains. For one stray moment he closed his eyes and felt the burn of the sun on his face. One day this will all be gone, he thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.
They reached a small lake halfway down the mountain. David stopped to water the mule and sat down to eat some dried jerky. After a few bites he felt guilty and untied the girl, giving her a small piece of meat.
“Thank you,” she said.
David nodded, staring out across the sparkling lake. In his mind, this place could easily double for the Garden of Eden-a place of perfection in a world of death. He rarely entertained religious thoughts, but the lake possessed an untouched quality at odds with the devastation below. It reminded him that there were a few things still unspoiled in this world.
After a long silence, the girl finally spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
“No.” David’s back popped in three plac
es when he stood. He had the distinct feeling the girl already knew that he did not care. “I’d like to hear more about this city of refuge idea you dreamed up. The archbishops seemed particularly interested in that.”
The girl gave him a knowing smile and stood with her arms out, ready to be leashed to the mule. Something about her request had the archbishops up in arms, but they didn’t share their thoughts on the matter with him. He buckled the saddlebags and tied her to the beast.
The steep switchback trail opened up, becoming broad and smooth as it descended below the dark clouds. Light rain obscured the twisted remains of a tourist village, nestled in a distant fork of the mountain. From this vantage point it looked deserted, but he knew better.
Giving the old resort town a wide berth, they left the muddy path for a thick canopy of trees. David expected the girl to complain about the never-ending thicket of thorny brambles that scraped, poked, and tore at even the smallest bit of exposed flesh, but she kept her mouth shut. Even the mule seemed mindful of the danger posed by their proximity to the settlement and stayed quiet.
They finally stopped at a dilapidated home in the middle of nowhere. The road leading to the hillside dwelling had lost its battle with the wilderness, and only a small portion of the house refused to yield to the encroaching vegetation. The Fallen had stripped the inside down to its studs, leaving just enough support to keep the house standing.
Almost like they knew exactly what they were doing.
David didn’t trouble himself with questions about the Fallen’s fascination with the remnants of humanity or the strange cities they built with the material they foraged. Only one thing mattered to him: they seldom returned to gutted buildings. He went from room to room, shotgun ready. With the exception of a few doors and a large, rusting washing machine stored in the back of the basement, the house stood empty. The old Maytag probably weighed too much for the Fallen to have bothered lugging upstairs.
The Book of Apex: Volume 2 of Apex Magazine Page 29