Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  Cindy Parker shushed her terrier. Kimberly Berry put on a sociable yet somewhat forced smile as she came abreast of her friend. They allowed their dogs a chance for an olfactory inspection as they chatted.

  “Horrid, that thing about the Morans...”

  “That was months ago. Did you get the latest popup from the council?”

  “I’m getting tired of checking my m’box. Too many junk ads. Just delete, delete... what’s the council say now?”

  “Empty recycling bins have to be removed on the day, or you get fined.”

  “Going to see that science fiction movie, the End of Forever? MEDIC said it’s number two at the box office right now.”

  “I don’t like those kinds of movies, but if everyone else is seeing it, then sure. You and me?”

  “If I can find a babysit—”

  A burst of compressed, electronic pop music erupted from Cindy’s head. “Sorry,” she said, tapping the MIM behind her earlobe. “I should get this.”

  “Thursday at eight?”

  Cindy nodded and waved Kimberly goodbye as she walked on and answered her mobile implant. “Hello?” she said, then laughed and rolled her eyes. “Bobby, you shit, how are you? Did you get that funky haircut? With the red and the blue... yeah, that. You freak. People will look at you, you know, and think you’re totally mental...”

  ***

  Patricia awoke with a stillness in her heart. Not a bereavement or morose emptiness, but peace. Dare she think it—serenity. Something she hadn’t known for an often torturous eight months of pregnancy.

  She felt reborn.

  She wanted to stir up the routine, even forego the first reflex action of the day. But that was ludicrous. She leaned over and activated the MEDIC. She made enough decisions on her own, thank you very much. Especially now that Jack...

  She shook her head. Try not to think of that.

  The MEDIC printed a prosaic greeting across its liquid screen, like black script flowing above the blue-green surface of an aquarium. The newer models had voice response. They—her and Jack—had initially planned on upgrading this year, but with the newborn on the way Patricia had begun to budget their expenses. Nonessentials were low on the tier. Glancing at the icon-littered screen she realized that perhaps she’d made a mistake. The MEDIC was quite a lot more valuable to their—now her—life than most things. She should have placed it higher on the list.

  She selected the Weather, News, Consumer Update, Health Watch and Entertainment icons. Each popped up in separate windows, crowding one another and vying for attention. Patricia flipped rapidly through the data as she dressed and inserted the MIM in the pin-sized port just below her earlobe.

  The MIM transmitted directly into her auditory canal: “You have no new messages. One missed call from... Kimberly,” which reminded Patricia that Kim was going to come around later in the afternoon. She’d rang without leaving a message. Patricia assumed that meant they were still on.

  She set the MIM on low vibrate, and selected her right pinkie; not too intrusive and she was less likely to spill or break anything when a ring came through. Better than some abrupt musical ringtone deafening her, anyway.

  The MEDIC informed her that it was sunny this morning and partially cloudy in the afternoon. Temperature and humidity were standard for the month, carefully moderated and controlled within the enclosed township of Burbelle-Parax. Based on averages approximated from mid to late twentieth century. Before the planet’s climate started to go haywire.

  Nothing interesting was happening on the international front, and she skipped local news of drunk drivers, thefts, shootings, etc., but watched a clip of a three car pileup on the highway. Some injuries were reported, but no footage of casualties, just an aerial view of the traffic congestion. Snooze alert.

  She clicked on Consumer Update. It told her what everyone was buying, the latest tech-upgrades and downloads, including which books were “hot” right now. She passed over the non-bestsellers that didn’t fit in a proscribed niche. If they couldn’t be categorized properly, what was the point? She only read for twenty minutes in bed anyway, just enough to dull her brain into transmitting those delicious alpha waves.

  Health Watch declared tomatoes were being ruled in favour of cancer-causing. Last week it was corn. Tofu, although not scientifically proven to cause cancer, was still suspect. Someone had written a bestselling book about it.

  Everyone was seeing an action film about the latest war on another continent, seen through the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy. She made a mental note to go see it, even though she didn’t particularly like action films or war films. The second blockbuster was called End of Forever, but Patricia didn’t like that title. Not today, when all was right with her little world.

  She rubbed the mound of her belly and went down to have some pancakes, shrimp wrapped in bacon, scotch eggs, pickled beets and chutney. And naturally, a bit of Jack. She needed the protein. She avoided coffee. Mrs Baker next door had told her it was bad for the newborn. That, or it upset her stomach. She couldn’t remember which.

  ***

  “Refreshments?”

  Door hinges creaked and the screen whapped shut behind her as she emerged onto the front porch.

  Kimberly looked up, startled. Her lacquered fingertips were already poised above her heart. Her spine was straight, parallel but not touching the back of the chair.

  “Sorry about that,” said Patricia. “I’ve been meaning to oil those hinges for some time. My mind keeps wandering these days. I haven’t been this absentminded since my undergrad years.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Kimberly as she accepted a glass without troubling to rise. The liquid was dark and red. “Get your hubby to do it. I have Terry at my beck and call all day long. What is this, tomato juice? Where’s the celery stick?”

  Patricia winked. “It’s a bit more potent than that, Kimmy.” She took an emphatic sip.

  “Pat!”

  Patricia laughed at the expressed shock. “Come on Kim, live a little.”

  “No thank you.” She put the glass down. “And how long have you been a G.P.? What’s next, a snort of cocaine? Let’s see how much smack junior can take.”

  “You know you sound more and more like Terry every day, don’t you? Soon folks will start thinking you two are brother and sister.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Kimberly, uncharacteristically serious. She gazed off into the synthetic autumn foliage beyond the paved driveway and the neat stack of houses rounding out the cul-de-sac of the street. Halloween decorations were set up everywhere. Pumpkins and spooky-fun lawn ornaments and window displays. Candy wrappers danced with the dead leaves, auburn and marigold and scarlet, whispering in the gutters. Last night’s rapacious trick or treating and other, more gregarious activities of the holiday, had come and gone.

  “Ted Baker’s mowing his lawn again,” Kimberly observed. “What’s that, the fifth time this week?”

  “He never stops. Quit ogling my neighbours.”

  “I like his tattoo.”

  “He’s got two small girls. Besides, Mrs Baker’s the jealous type.”

  “No kidding. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “He’s just meat,” said Patricia.

  Something in the way she said meat perturbed Kimberly. A shiver passed through her like a wayward spectre. Protectively and unconsciously she rubbed the three month protuberance of her abdomen.

  Patricia proffered the drink to her friend once more. “Spiced with cinnamon, Kim. Give it a try, you might like it. It’s too early in the day for a Bloody Mary. Honest.”

  “Oh, Pat.”

  “Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m scared of so many things.”

  “It’s only natural—”

  “No. There are things... some things that just don’t feel... right. I can’t explain it. I read that What to Expect When You’re Expecting cover to cover and there’s nothing in there... I didn’t find anything about this... God, listen to me. You mus
t think I’m losing it.”

  “Kim, honey, of course I don’t.” Patricia leaned forward in her chair, took hold of her wrist and smiled reassuringly at the poor girl. “I’ve been where you are. True, it was almost six months ago, but I know what you’re going through. It’s a frightening ordeal, but we’ll get through it together. You’ve got so much to look forward to. Excessive urination, an achy back, hormonal upheaval, varicose veins and haemorrhoids. You know what makes it all worthwhile? The ‘expectant mothers’ parking spaces.”

  A smile briefly passed Kimberly’s lips. “I don’t know... I’ve been having these dreams. Really freaky dreams...”

  “Psychiatry isn’t my field, but it’s not unusual for your subconscious mind to exhibit fear of—”

  “It’s not only that,” Kimberly interceded. She was nervously gnawing at a hangnail.

  Patricia sat back and sipped. The postman was two doors down, keying a download into the McCarthy’s m’box. She tapped her MIM twice, turning it off. She wanted to give Kimberly her full attention.

  “What are you dreaming?” Patricia asked, softly.

  “Movement. Noises. I’m in our house, but it’s different. It’s bigger, and the paintings and decor aren’t ours, mine and Terry’s, but things from my childhood. Stuff from my mom and dad’s house in Connecticut. I’m not alone in the house, but Terry’s downstairs in his studio, working on something that sounds like jazz, but it’s very low and muffled. I’m going to the kitchen for a snack, but it’s taking a long, long time to get there. And upstairs I can hear them running around. Little feet. Tiny feet, like little kids scurrying about like rats on the upstairs landing. Then they’re overhead, in our bedroom, and they won’t stand still. I can almost see them through the ceiling, and I can hear them—I can hear their feet. They’ve got little mouths on their feet. The mouths are chattering and muttering incessantly. I can’t make out the words, but it never stops. The voices never stop, not until I’m at the fridge door and inside there’s pâté and steaks and lard.

  “It gets pretty gross after that, because I know all the food came from human bodies. I can’t help but try some, and it tastes... oh god, it tastes like an orgasm. Then I wake up, horny and starving.”

  Patricia was silent. She blinked at her young friend, her best friend for half a decade. She was noticing the bags under her eyes.

  “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?” Kimberly repeated, gently but accusingly.

  “You won’t believe me if I say no.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go inside.” Patricia helped her friend to her feet and led her through the living room and into the kitchen. “What does Terry think of all this?”

  “He’s... he’s avoiding me. He’s working a lot more on his music, even on Sundays, and he never use to work on Sunday.”

  “Have you told him about the dreams?”

  Kimberly shook her head; Patricia stuck hers in the fridge. “He’s been different ever since I started having these cravings. We’ve been vegan for three years now. We were going strong, doing it together. But now... I can’t help it now. We discussed this when I first got pregnant. Even our family doctor said that it’s natural for me to want meat.”

  Patricia put out two plates and some cutlery, and plunked down a casserole dish in-between. “Thank god, honey. Thank god,” she said. She uncovered the food.

  “Roast ham?” said Kimberly, smiling with genuine joy for the first time all morning.

  Patricia grabbed a carving knife and began extracting two generous slices for the pair of them. “Terry isn’t the only one,” she told Kimberly. “Jack started on me too. And Larry, you know Larry? Denise’s husband.”

  “They live on Park Lane?”

  “Right. That Larry—he sussed her out, too.”

  “Ooh, that looks wonderful! How long has Denise been pregnant?”

  “Four weeks.”

  Even cold the meat was tender and juicy. Kimberly tasted rosemary, garlic and ginger, and she said so. Her senses were overwhelmed. She couldn’t help a moan of pleasure that erupted from the very depths of her belly. She apologized, as if she’d belched aloud.

  “Don’t fret it, honey,” said Patricia, her own eyes aglow with every swallowed morsel.

  “How am I going to handle Terry?”

  “Don’t fret that either. Eat up. Afterward, I’ll show you a thing or two.”

  “This is simply delicious. Where is Jack today, anyhow?”

  Patricia chewed thoughtfully. A tendril of redness seeped from the corner of her mouth and was diligently wiped away with a pumpkin-imprinted napkin. “I’ve been a real bitch lately,” she said. “The pregnancy’s taking its toll. I’m keeping it together, but Jack hasn’t been very supportive lately.”

  “Absent a lot, is he?” said Kimberly.

  Patricia replied, but her mouth was full, and what she said came out incoherently.

  ***

  The paediatric ward at Mercy hospital in Burbelle-Parax was closed down in early December. All pregnancies were re-routed to a nearby clinic at Oditta, a neighbouring township connected to the northern perimeter.

  The secretary of health, via the MEDIC, issued a statement that in typical political fashion said nothing and was full of placating pleasantries. Conflicting stories spilled in from innumerable online sources. Nothing was for certain.

  MEDIC said not to worry, that the situation was under careful scrutiny and control. The population had nothing to fear. Therefore there was a mild current of unease, but generally people trusted in MEDIC.

  MEDIC wouldn’t lie to them.

  MEDIC reported similar trouble in other, relatively nearby burrows. This problem, then, was more widespread than the residents of Burbelle-Parax had imagined.

  MEDIC wouldn’t lie, yet it wasn’t telling the whole truth either.

  Hearsay filled in the apparent gaps in the reports. There was something wrong with the babies. More than a dozen mothers had died hideously of a birthing that was anything but natural. Fathers, relatives and on-hand medical staff had suffered casualties and, in a few cases, death. Caesareans were better regulated, yet the products were no less unusual. Twenty or so different babies, of different parents and gene pools, were born with carnivorous teeth. Not human teeth, but closer to those of underwater predators.

  And these babies were born dead. No pulse, no respiration, and already putrid from decomposition. But they were animate, growing, and hungry.

  The public laughed at the absurdity of these rumours. They locked their doors at night, tucked their children in, and listened to the latest Hollywood gossip on their vid-screens. They went to work the next day with their heads full of enough day-to-day problems to seriously affect their sex lives. They didn’t need this additional nonsense to deal with, too.

  ***

  “I’m pregnant,” Angela Baker had informed her husband one night as she was massaging cream into her hands. No build up, no warning, no consultation as to whether or not he also wanted to have another child. Two previous pregnancies had, in effect, set the standard. Neither of those had been discussed, vetoed or consented to either, prior to conception.

  “Helluva time for it,” had been the first thought in Roger’s head. Luckily he hadn’t voiced it, and instead said, “Are you? That’s fantastic!”

  After all, he was a proud, loving father. Overpopulation, global decay and other sound reasons against did not fit into his view of things. They had the money and the means. Besides, they were married. It was what marriage entailed. They didn’t want to become one of those social pariahs of ill repute, like the Duncans, who’d been married for a decade and actually preferred not to have children. And they lived only a few doors down.

  More children gave their separate and conjoined lives validity. Roger hoped it would be a boy this time. Not that he didn’t love his two girls to death.

  Everything was going smoothly for the first three months. Some strange occurrences were happening in Burbelle-Parax—but n
o one knew for certain exactly what the problem was, so they blocked it out. They were more concerned about the graffiti bandit who was targeting outdoor playgrounds.

  Something was wrong with the Bakers. Perhaps something had been wrong all along, but Roger hadn’t noticed. Angela began showing overt symptoms of discontentment and hostility. It was going to be a difficult pregnancy, Roger bemoaned to himself.

  Four months in, Angela decided one afternoon to bake her husband a special cake for dessert. He had two bites and was up all night vomiting. He didn’t go to his doctor. He was beginning to get suspicious. This wasn’t the first or last of such incidences. Angela, as always, played it dumb.

  Two weeks later he gasped awake in the middle of the night just as a crowbar whipped down next to his head, missing his ear by a fraction of an inch, but landing a glancing blow off his left shoulder. He reacted quickly and rolled out of bed, dodging a second blow. It came down again and again in an enraged frenzy. The mattress tore. Flakes of down festooned the air, but unseen.

  Roger scuttled around the bed frame and leapt at his assailant.

  Angela went down with a scream. They disengaged, and Roger turned in bewilderment just as the crowbar crashed into his bicep over his tattoo. He didn’t wear a shirt to bed. There wasn’t much force behind the strike although it drew blood. He grabbed Angela by the wrist. In the feeble light that streamed through the window he saw her as a demon: dishevelled, lips moist, eyes wide and wild. She smelled differently too. Earthy and repellent. Of upturned soil and spoiled milk.

  She was holding a barbeque skewer in her other hand, which he didn’t see until she swung around and buried it in his cheek. The forked steel tip penetrated into his mouth and stabbed his tongue. Angela moved away as he yanked it out with a cry. Warm liquid seeped through his fingers. He stumbled in the dark until something tripped him. He fell against her, shoving her back, his head against her rotund belly. There was a horrid, wet crack.

  Roger groped in the black nightmare of their bedroom until he found the light switch.