by Crae, Edward
He thought of what such a creature could do to the boy. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed Toby. He needed him for his blood. Besides, there was a small part of him that liked the boy. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was just a little part of Maynard’s soul. A small part of humanity that was left in his black heart.
He didn’t like that thought.
Toby stood atop the toilet in the small bathroom. He was still too short to reach the vent above, though, which dampened his spirits. He thought for sure he could get out that way, and maybe he still could if he could reach it. Maybe Sarah could be maneuvered in the bathroom to let him stand on her shoulders, if she ever came back.
He had no desire to come in contact with her, but if that was the only way he could get out, then that’s what he would do. He had to get home, and he would escape. He knew it.
He stepped down off of the toilet to think. There was the small table in the other room that he could stand on. It was about the same height as the toilet. If he could somehow balance it on the lid and climb up, he might be able to reach the vent.
He smiled and raced into the other room to fetch it. It was heavy, but he lifted it anyway. Dragging it would make too much noise, and he couldn’t risk it. By the time he got it to the bathroom, he was breathless, but confident. He closed the toilet lid and lifted the table up onto to it. It looked sturdy enough to support his weight if he was careful. He had to try.
Using the wall as a wedge, he climbed up on top of the table. It was wobbly, but stayed in place. He kept his right hand against the wall for balance, and then reached up to grasp the vent cover. It came out easily, being supported only by a spring action latch. He bent down and set it on the toilet tank, and looked up into the dusty hole.
It was dark and scary, not to mention small. He could fit, but it would be a tight squeeze. The only question was if he was strong enough to pull himself up. He reached up into the hole, feeling around for an edge to grab onto. There was nothing but the trim surrounding the vent. The duct was vertical for about six inches before bending. He couldn’t reach that far, but he was determined to try the climb anyway.
He grabbed onto the trim, pulling it to test its strength. It seemed sturdy enough, and he still weighed less than one hundred pounds. It should hold him. Gripping it tightly, he slowly pulled. He strained against his own weight, gritting his teeth and growling for strength. But it was no use. He didn’t have the muscle to pull himself up. But that didn’t stop him from trying again.
He pulled with all his might, telling himself he could do it over and over again. He imagined himself doing pull ups as an adult, flexing his muscles for all the pretty to see. That gave him a little bit more strength.
But it wasn’t his strength that gave out.
The trim splintered and came loose, sending Toby back down to the table. As he landed, he lost his balance, and the table slid off of the toilet. He closed his eyes as he fell, never seeing the sink as he fell toward it, smacking his head against its edge. There was a bright flash of light that came with the impact, and a sharp burst of pain. He barely had time to cry out in pain.
He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
“Toooooooby,” he heard a fuzzy voice whisper. “Wake up, Toby.”
His eyes fluttered when he tried to open them. His head was pounding, and felt like it had been split open. That made his heart pound in terror. He lifted his hand and felt his head. There were bandages, and a cold compress of some sort.
“Toby,” the voice said again. Toby whimpered, opening his eyes.
Maynard’s face was there staring down at him. Though his voice was kind, his face was still odd and frightening, especially his eyes. They were the eyes of a madman. They were like his dad’s eyes. Cold and empty, like a monster’s.
“There we are,” Maynard said. “You took quite a tumble, didn’t you?”
Toby moaned.
“Yes, you did,” Maynard continued. “You were trying to get out through the ductwork. That was a good idea. But tell me, what were you planning on doing when you got up there?”
“I—I don’t know,” Toby stammered. “I just want to go home.”
“Ah,” Maynard said. “I see.”
“I miss my mom and my friends,” Toby said. He began sobbing. “I wanna go home.”
“There, there, Toby. Soon you can go home. Once the sky clears and the sun comes back out, I will take you home myself.”
He looked up at Maynard’s face. Though he didn’t see any malice, he couldn’t tell if Maynard was being truthful or not. His eyes seemed kinder now, but his smile was still that of a liar.
“Don’t worry,” Maynard continued. “You’ll be home soon. I promise. Until then I have a surprise for you.”
Maynard stood and moved to the side. Behind him stood a shuffler. It was male, with strangely bushy hair and a beard with a red ribbon tied around it. Its eyelids and lips were gone, giving it an almost comical—yet frightening—appearance.
“Sarah is gone now,” Maynard said. “So I thought I would find you a new friend. The best part is, you can name him whatever you want. What would you like to name him?”
Toby stared at the thing, mortified and repulsed. But he had to pretend, at least, that he liked it. Maybe then Maynard would trust him more, and let him go outside. Then he could escape. But what would he name the thing?
“George,” he blurted out. “His name is George.”
Maynard chuckled strangely. “That’s a fine name,” he said. “George it is. Say hello to George, Toby.”
“Hello, George,” Toby said.
The shuffler did nothing, much like Sarah.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took some of your blood. It was just a little… for now.”
Toby looked at his arm. There was a cotton ball taped to it at the inside of his elbow.
“Okay,” Toby said, still not sure why Maynard wanted his blood.
He laid back down on the couch, his head still pounding and throbbing. He felt dizzy and wanted to puke, but he held it in. Maybe he would puke once Maynard left.
“On the table there is a glass of water and a little white pill,” Maynard said. “If the pain gets too bad, take half the pill. It will help, and you will sleep.”
“Okay,” Toby whispered. He didn’t want to take a pill, but if it would help with the giant headache, he might consider it. He just worried that Maynard would try to poison him.
“Goodnight, my little friend,” Maynard said. “Goodnight, George.”
George moaned.
In the cellar below, where the oddities were caged, a large rat scurried across the floor. It stopped at each cage, sniffing and observing their contents. The living fungal things stared and sniffed back at it curiously, moaning and hissing when they smelled its blood.
Undaunted, the rat went cage to cage, unsatisfied with what it found in each one. It hungrily licked at every tiny object on the floor, every piece of dirt or chunk of mortar. There was nothing edible, even for a rat.
It sensed something behind the curtain that dominated the back wall, and approached slowly, sniffing the air, trying to assess the situation. It reached the bottom of the curtain and nibbled on it, finding it displeasing, and walking along its edge. It smelled something—something alive, perhaps—possibly something dangerous.
But it was hungry, and nothing could scare a hungry rat.
There was movement behind the curtain that startled the rodent. It stopped, raising up on its haunches and sniffing desperately. Its nose caught a strange scent, and it curiously walked closer to the curtain, daring to poke its head underneath.
Suddenly, the rat was snatched from the floor and disappeared behind the curtain. There was a crunching sound that echoed in the cellar as it was devoured, and a small trickle of blood dripped onto the stone floor. The rager went into a frenzy, catching the scent and attempting fruitlessly to escape and lick up the precious fluid.
But its excitement abated when a low hissing g
rowl rumbled its cage, sending a wave of unnatural fear throughout its ravaged body. It cringed in the back corner of its cage, unsure of what it had heard, crouching silently and trembling in uncertainty.
Even with its primitive, parasite-controlled mind, the rager knew that a greater threat had been awakened.
Chapter Seven
Maynard trudged through the hard snow, his four escorts chained to his waist. He didn’t like to go outside the safety of his property without them, as there were dangerous creatures out there roaming the hills. His four pets afforded him some protection, as the fungal creatures were afraid of them, and the mutants often ignored them.
He reached a country road nearby where he frequently harvested the flesh of a massive graveyard of the dead. Here, something violent had taken place during the initial days of the event, resulting in the executions of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people.
All of them just lay there in the streets, dead and rotting. It was a virtual smorgasbord of scrap meat for his pets; except those that were currently with him. He never fed them, as doing so would trigger their desire to transform. Instead, he starved them, alleviating any nesting instincts they had.
It had been successful so far. None of them had ever tried to escape and form a cocoon. But it was a lesson that he had to learn the hard way. His previous attempts at taming the strange, half-mutated humans had failed. He tried fresh blood—his own—with no luck. It was only when he ran out of food to give them that he discovered it was eating that drove them to complete their transformation.
They were much like caterpillars that way.
Finding a good place to harvest, he set his bucket down and began sawing off the leg of a nearby corpse. It was frozen, as he expected, but fat and meaty. It would make a good snack for his other pets.
When he had finished sawing off the limb, he cut open the corpse’s abdomen, pulling out the stiff and freezing innards and slopping them in the bucket. His four pets stirred, pressing toward him in curiosity, but blocked by the wooden poles that connected him to them.
It was a brilliant idea.
“Now, now,” he whispered. “None of that. No yummy num nums for you.”
The creatures groaned, gradually losing interest. Maynard continued harvesting organs, finding that this particular corpse was chock full of gooey innards.
“Aren’t you a hardy one?” he whispered to the corpse. “It’s too bad you couldn’t transform. You would have made a glorious rager.”
He chuckled to himself, taking great pleasure in gutting the dead. But his pleasure was cut short by that same screeching howl that flashed by him in the blink of an eye. He froze, startled and frightened. He thought he had caught sight of the creature, seeing the vague shape of… a little girl.
He cocked his head, grinning crookedly. “Interesting,” he said.
His eyes darted around, searching for the strange being. In his mind he thought of the ancient legends of the old country; those legends of the banshee. Were they real? If they were, why was he hearing the keening? Was he about to die, or was someone he loved doomed.
The being flashed by again, streaking right across his line of sight. He barely saw the ghastly, twisted face, with its jagged mouth and black eyes. He sighed with a strange pleasure… or was it fear?
“Aren’t you a pretty one?” he whispered, drool dripping from his bottom lip. “Come to me, my sweet child.”
There was another shriek, and the shattering of wood as his tethers were severed. He fell back, unbalanced, crawling backward as he realized his four escorts were now free.
“Damn you,” he growled, struggling to reach his bucket.
The four creatures fell upon the nearest corpses, munching on their frozen flesh and moaning with the pleasure of a tasty meal. Maynard scrambled to stand, drawing their attention. They stood back up, each of them gazing at him hungrily with blood-soaked lips and hungry, hollow eyes.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Maynard said, backing away.
He turned and began running, lugging the heavy bucket with him. He knew he could outrun them, as they were slow and clumsy. When he reached the edge of the road, he spun sideways, skiing down the small bank, laughing as he went.
Then, he was impacted from behind and knocked onto his face. His bucket went flying, spilling it contents everywhere. He landed on his face, feeling the impact of the rough icy surface as he slid across it.
“Goddamnit!” he hissed. “Fucking little bitch!”
He broke through the surface trying to stand, ignoring his bucket and tramping across the snow in his effort to escape. His heart was beating wildly now, and he felt the unusual sensation of fear. Behind him, the creature shrieked again, sending chills up his spine. His breathing became ragged with fear, and his heart felt as if it were going to explode.
Was he dying?
“Fuck you,” he whispered, breathless.
He stopped suddenly as the creature blinked into existence right in front of him. His legs gave out, and he flipped straight onto his back, still locking eyes with the demonic thing.
“What are you?” he howled.
The creature was gone, having blinked away. He wasn’t even sure he had seen it. Maybe his fear was playing mind games. Defeated and on the verge of collapsing, he rolled over and got to his feet, only to be knocked down again.
This time, the demonic thing had drawn blood. He howled in pain, clutching his shoulder where the sharp claws had raked his flesh. He was bleeding heavily, and the pain was enough to crush his very soul. Crying out in agony, he struggled to his feet again, whimpering as he made his way home.
He could see the dim lights of his lanterns through the windows, and he focused on them as he desperately ran to reach that safe place. Every breath brought a whimper, and every whimper brought more pain. When he reached the edge of his property, he began crying out, hoping that perhaps his pets would hear him and come to his rescue.
He collapsed onto his porch, clawing at the wood to pull himself up to the door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, hoping that Toby was still in his blocked off area of the cabin. It would be disastrous for Toby to see him this way. He had to get in without alerting the boy.
Finally, he found his key, and pulled himself up to the doorknob. The shriek sounded again behind him, and he turned in terror. The thing was only ten yards away, blinking in and out rapidly, each time with an even more terrifying scowl on its evil little face. Maynard cried out as the key slid into the lock. He burst through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. He stayed pressed against it for several terrifying minutes, fully expecting the demon thing to burst through or appear right in front of him.
It never did.
It was quiet outside, except for the wind. He sighed with relief, his breathing gradually slowing, and the pain in his chest subsiding. He had barely escaped, he knew. He came way too close to becoming demon chow. The thought amused him. He chuckled out loud in the darkness, thankful that he was now in his safe place. His cradle.
His womb.
“So,” Grace said to Travis. “You used to be a doctor?”
Travis shrugged, grinning. “Used to be,” he said. “But shit happens I guess.”
Grace took a drink of her “freshly brewed” instant coffee. “What kind of shit?”
“Well,” Travis began, scratching his head. “I was prescribing medications off-label, and AMA or the FDA didn’t like that.”
“What kinds of meds?”
“Suboxone,” Travis said. “It’s used to treat opiate addiction, but I was giving it to patients for depression.”
“Why?”
“European doctors have been doing it for a long time,” Travis explained. “It works really well for people who don’t respond well to standard psychotropics.”
“Ah,” Grace said. “I see.”
Travis nodded, hoping Grace wouldn’t think badly of him.
“Did it work?” she asked.
“Actually it did,” he said. �
�Several patients went on to get their lives back together with new hope. But, of course, I was labeled as a drug dealer for not using what the big pharm companies wanted. It’s all just about the money, man. Nobody cares about patients anymore.”
“Why did these patients not respond well to psych drugs?”
Travis shook his head. “Some people just don’t. They have bad reactions, suicidal thoughts, extreme anxiety, or sometimes just the opposite effect of what the drug is supposed to do. They came to me as a last resort since all the shrinks wanted to do was… zombify them with mind poison.”
“Right,” Grace said, nodding with an understanding smile. “I took Paxil when I was a teenager. It didn’t do shit.”
Travis smiled. He liked Grace. Other than Max, and to a certain degree, Dan, Grace was about the only person who really understood things from his own point of view. Even Eric was skeptical of his ideas, although he did agree that “big pharma” was dangerous.
“I’ve noticed Dan popping pills,” Grace said. “What’s that about?”
Travis shook his head. “Ah, that’s his thing. He loves pain killers, and sometime the ADHD meds. I’ve never seen him get too high or anything. He just uses them the same way I prescribed Suboxone I guess.”
“Is he a good leader?”
“Yeah,” Travis said, nodding. “Yeah. Really good. He’s not afraid of shit, and he’s a lot tougher and smarter than he looks. He and Drew survived out there for a long time by themselves. They were all fucked up most of the time, too.”
Grace chuckled. “Whatever works, I suppose.”
Travis got up from the table. “I think I’ll have a glass of wine. Would you like some?”
“No thank you,” Grace replied. “I had enough whiskey earlier.”
“We’ve got just about everything,” Dan said to Gena as she looked over their selection of weapons in the storeroom.
Gena walked along the racks, smiling with approval at their arsenal. Dan opened the drawers beneath, showing her their supply of ammo.