Toxicity

by Max Booth III

  Standing in front of the mirror, gaping at a decaying version of himself, he thought, Is this really me?

  There was one hell of a throbbing bastard pulsating on his left cheek. Just the sight of it alone was enough to make Johnny gag. He hadn’t even felt it until he noticed it in the mirror, but now that he was aware of its existence, the itching was downright unbearable. Tremors of anxiety scalded the interior of his mind, cooking the exterior until it was nothing but a black charcoaled mess of ruined brains. Arm shaking, his fingers climbed up his chin, over his mouth, stopping at this swelling located in the center of his cheek.

  All it took was one simple touch to send his senses into overdrive, a white burning light of pain searing his nerves to obliteration. Teeth sunk into his fleshly muscle of a tongue. Blood soaked into his gums. Johnny couldn’t resist the incredibly powerful temptation that baited him. The itching was just too much.

  He plunged his fingers into the sore, breaking through the surface, digging deep into his cheek. But even that didn’t stop him, but rather increased the level of irritation. In a back and forth motion his disintegrating nails slashed through the gash like a set of vicious windshield wipers, burying themselves further into his skull, blood and pus dripping down his hand, flinging against the mirror. The smell was horrendous, like a removed tumor or popped boil, but it kept him alert. It kept him trained on his mission, and that was to satisfy this evil burden of an itch. At that moment, it was the only thing that seemed even remotely important anymore. Everything else could wait.

  He dug until there was nowhere else to dig. The tips of his fingernails scraped against something smooth and hard, almost like bone. Who was he kidding? It was bone. He had dug all the way through his flesh to the cheekbone. He had hit the bottom and yet it still wasn’t good enough.

  Fuck it, he thought, and began grinding his fingers against the bone, his nails tearing away as well as the skin. It was as if his face had turned into a blender and he was gladly offering his flesh up for the slaughtering. The pain was tremendous but he didn’t care; the itching outweighed any other sensation one could ever feel.

  And it was only growing stronger by each scratch.

  Screaming through bubbles of blood, he felt his cheek giving away, a gruesome flab of skin freefalling to the sink, going SPLAT! against the already crimson porcelain. Now he could actually see the white space of bone visible where his cheek once dwelled. The smell was becoming too much to handle and he let loose a lumpy discharge of violet colored vomit. The glob exploded in front of him onto the mirror, erasing his reflection.

  He gasped, drawing his hand back, staring wildly at the mirror. Did it only take a puddle of puke to erase yourself from existence? He fled to his bedroom. Using the only hand he possessed that wasn’t deformed, he reached in his drawer and pulled out a can of “medicine”. He raised it to his mouth and sprayed, not letting go of that nozzle for the whole world. He felt the purple spraying through the gash in his face, smearing against his cheekbone. A warm trickle of urine dripped to the carpet, leaking down his bare leg, and he thought, When the hell did I get naked?

  Where am I?

  Why am I?

  And where are YOU?

  “I am here.”

  Johnny spun around, the can of Jericho falling from his grasp and clattering to the bloodied hardwood floor. “Where?”

  “HERE!”

  Johnny’s eyes rolled back against his skull. His legs turned to flimsy rubber and he collapsed, smacking his head on the floor.

  When he opened his eyes again he was not in his own body—or any body, for that matter. The Fly had led him into some type of wicked astral projection. His spirit floated among the clouds, or at least he thought they were clouds. More like a cloudy mist; not in a sky but rather a sea, he realized. A sea covered by an intricate fog.

  Where had he been taken?

  And then, just like that, he knew.

  This was what would happen to the world. After everyone was dead and washed away on the shore of Hades, this would be the remains.

  And unless he wanted to be left stranded out here in this vast emptiness, he had better sure as hell get himself back in gear and prepare for the last of his orders. There would be no more embarrassing scenes in front of mirrors. No more mistakes or he would quickly find himself erased for the rest of eternity.

  When you came right down to it, he was just a pawn. He needed to shut his mouth and follow directions and that was all. Then after everything was done, after the war was over, he would receive his rewards.

  The ocean’s chromatic water seeped through his ears that weren’t there, through every orifice that wasn’t there, whispering apocalyptic secrets and lunatic enigmas, and he knew, he knew this was knowledge to hold close to his heart that wasn’t there, either.

  He realized that this entire sea, the whole damn thing, it was only one entity. One deity. The most powerful one of them all. And seconds before regaining consciousness, Johnny came to a confounding epiphany that what he was swimming in was the Fly.

  But at the same time, the Fly was swimming inside Johnny.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Gun of Elvis

  “Benny, wake up.”

  Maddox lightly slapped his brother across the cheek, sending him into a delirious stirring fit on the couch. He opened his eyes mumbling, “What? What’s going on? What do you want? What time is it?”

  “You know that show we were watching earlier?” Maddox asked, towering over him. “You know, with the dolls?”

  Benny yawned. “Yeah, what about it?”

  “You told me you knew who they were, right?”

  “What—the Desperations?” Benny said, sitting up and stretching. “I don’t know them, like not personally or anything. They were just in the news a while back. Why?”

  Maddox looked desperate; desperate and tired. “That mansion they showed—the place where that woman won the lottery—is it nearby?”

  Picking away eye snot, Benny said, “Yeah, man, it’s up there at that Libertyville place. People like to drive by and take pictures of it. Me and a buddy went up there a couple months back just to see what the big deal was. It’s not worth it. Just some house, a lot bigger than most, but still just some house.”

  “So you could take me there?”

  “I…I guess.” Benny nodded. “Hey, what’s all this about?”

  “We can’t stay here much longer,” Maddox said. “Someone is going to find Winston and he is going to call King, and when he does, all hell is gonna break loose. The first place they’ll check is this trailer.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we need to be gone by morning.”

  Maddox started walking away and Benny jolted to his feet, at last realizing the situation. “What, you mean abandon my trailer?”

  “Yes, Benny, that is exactly what I mean.”

  “No way, man! I still haven’t even paid this baby off yet.”

  “That’s because you’re being scammed.”

  “I think I would know if I was being scammed, Mads.”

  “Sure you would.” Maddox gestured back to the couch. “Why don’t you go back to sleep and we’ll talk more about this in the morning? We’ll need to get up early and leave as soon as possible. We should actually leave tonight but I just can’t think of anywhere else to go right now.”

  “But where are we gonna go in the morning?”

  “Well,” Maddox said, “you’re gonna take me to that mansion we were talking about, and I’m gonna get us some quick cash for our little trip coming up. Then we’re gonna pick up my daughter and hightail it the hell out of Illinois before the shit hits the fan.”

  * * * * *

  It was the creaking that awakened Maddox bright and early Monday morning. A creaking of a door lightly being pushed open, moving at a pace so slow it was conspiratorial. He heard the soft steps of heavy boots carefully entering the trailer behind him and he knew this was no wanted guest; a mysteri
ous stranger short of the most valuable resource one needs the most when trespassing into another’s home: an invitation.

  Maddox kept his eyes shut. The blaring silence in the room gave away the intruder’s presence right away. Maddox detected a strong stench of chewing tobacco from the guy’s foul breath, well-practiced exhales of crude air warming the back of his neck.

  He heard each step the man made, could feel how close they were. Of course the intruder was aware of Maddox’s presence there on the chair, but the question was whether or not he believed he was sleeping.

  There was a sharp clicking as a pistol’s hammer was thumbed down. Obviously a hit man, and an amateur at that. Who in their right mind would wait until after entering the target’s home before preparing their weapon? Besides, any true professional knew damn well cocking your pistol did nothing but make you sound like an idiot. That hadn’t actually been required since the days of the Old West. There was a sudden need to smack him. Seriously, this was like Gangster 101.

  He felt the side of the barrel tap against his head, a voice saying, “I know you’re awake.”

  Maddox moved his head away. “How?”

  “Because no one sleeps while holding their breath,” the intruder said. “Now where’s the other one? Boss said there were two of you.”

  Maddox surrendered and opened his eyes. The intruder was dressed in a black-striped suit, the buttons of his jacket threatening to pop off of his straining gut. A shaggy beard covered his chin and most of his neck, ending at the cheap knockoff of a tie clipped on to his undershirt.

  “That is a really small gun,” Maddox said. He was surprised the thing even fit in his hand.

  The hit man glanced at the pistol and shrugged. “So, who cares if it’s small?”

  “I just think somebody your size should be packing something a lot bigger, like a shotgun.”

  “Well I happen to be partial to this gun, thank you very much. It was my father’s, and his father’s before his. They…they were much smaller than myself.”

  “I can believe that,” Maddox said. Then: “I take it you’re from King.”

  The hit man chuckled. “Unless you’ve pissed off more than one millionaire drug kingpin. Where’s your brother?”

  “I don’t know. Probably in the bathroom.”

  “He’s hiding somewhere, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t think where my brother is really matters.”

  The hit man raised his eyebrow, amused. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” Maddox nodded, “considering that he’s not in the room, but the Smith & Wesson currently under my blanket is in the room, I think there are other more important matters to discuss.”

  The hit man snorted. He studied the throw blanket across Maddox’s lap, at the elevating bulge in the center of it. His face turned pale.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  “Is it?” Maddox smirked. “Well, it’s either a gun or I’m very happy to see you. No offense, but I don’t find you particular sexy. The beard, it just doesn’t do it for me.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I? You care to bet your life on that?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Why don’t you take a seat so we can find a way out of this without either of us leaving in a body bag?”

  “Okay.” The hit man slowly nodded, sidestepping the couch and sitting down. “But just for the record, I still call bullshit.”

  “Of course.” Maddox smiled. “I’ll just keep pointing this massive erection your way.”

  “They told me Maddox was the smarter Kane brother. I take it that’s you.”

  “What else did they say about me? Did they talk about my huge dick? Some people say it’s the size of a locked and loaded Smith & Wesson, you know.”

  “They told me, whatever I did, not to let you get hold of a gun.”

  He grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I’m just jerking off over here, huh?”

  The hit man sighed. He settled back on the couch.

  Maddox cracked his neck. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

  “Elvis,” the hit man said.

  “Come off it.”

  “Come off what? That’s my name.”

  “Your real name?”

  “According to my birth certificate. What’s wrong with Elvis?”

  “Nothin’. Just a little odd, is all.”

  “And Maddox ain’t?”

  “Good point.”

  They sat there, staring at each other, trying to predict the next move—who would draw first, who would live, who would die—all that gunslinger-standoff jazz.

  Then the toilet flushed. Elvis took his eyes off the chair, looked down the hall. Maddox blew a hole through his blanket, through the thick unwelcoming air, and through the abdomen of the hit man, sending him into a spasm on the couch. His arm jerked to the side and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet just a hair’s inch from Maddox’s own cheek.

  Maddox released two more shots, making sure he’d stay dead.

  The bathroom door burst open; rapid footsteps trampled down the short hall and turned into the living room. Benny stopped in his tracks, gaping wide at the corpse on his couch.

  “Who the fuck is this?” he yelled, a sheet of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his foot, pants barely even buckled.

  “One of King’s assassins,” Maddox said.

  “And he’s dead, right?”

  “Well, he ain’t alive.”

  “Jesus, what are we gonna do?” Benny said.

  “Whatever you don’t want to lose forever, put in a bag. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We need to pick up my daughter before they get to her.”

  Benny snorted. “You really think they’d hurt her?”

  He was answered by a stone cold stare. Maddox retrieved the phone and dialed Addison’s number, but over at the apartment it only rang and rang until it went to voicemail. Hand trembling, he let the phone drop to the floor.

  Could they have gotten to her already?

  The idea alone left a thick lump clogged in his throat, making it almost impossible to breathe, let alone think.

  He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if they touched even a hair on his daughter’s head—and it scared him. Scared him even more than no one answering the phone.

  In retrospect, Winston undoubtedly had a cell phone on him. Everyone he’d encountered since his release seemed to have one. Except for him, of course, but he had it marked as a top priority purchase once they were far away from Chicago and had a few expendable dead presidents.

  “We gotta go. Now.”

  The Hummer skidded away, leaving behind a gust of snow.

  Daddy’s coming, sweetheart, Daddy’s coming…

  * * * * *

  “Why can’t I come in?” Benny asked. “What if there’s a bunch of gangsters up there and you need my back? Then you’ll be screwed, bro. Admit it: you need me.”

  “You go up there and you’re just gonna end up shooting me again,” Maddox said, reloading the lovely Smith & Wesson he had snatched from the back of the Hummer.

  “Oh c’mon, Mads, you know I’m not going to do that again.”

  “Do I?”

  “Well, you should.” Benny lowered his head.

  “Tell you what. You can be my lookout. You see anything fishy going on, honk three times. That way I’ll know if I’m being ambushed. Sound like a plan?”

  “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a kid, you know. I’m twenty-nine years old, for Christ’s sake.”

  Maddox sighed. He had tried. “Okay, I’ll stop treating you like a kid when you stop shooting me. How’s that sound?”

  “Man, whatever.”

  Snapping the now full clip into the gun, Maddox stepped out of the driver’s seat, boots crushing icy snow. Rays from the sun pierced his pupils and temporarily blinded him until he managed to adjust his vision to the bright sky. The morning was still somewhat early. He prayed that he wa
sn’t too late.

  Jogging across the snow, pistol stuck in the back of his jeans, Maddox pushed his way inside the apartment building and up to the third floor. He headed straight for the door with the large wooden C nailed above the peephole. After a few knocks and no answer he grew frustrated and tried the knob, only to find it unlocked.

  Beads of sweat dripping down his scalp, Maddox stepped inside and entered the living room. A blanket covering a large object on the floor. It was soaked with some kind of brownish liquid; there was no mistaking what was under it.

  He pulled out his pistol as he bent down and uncovered the blanket, revealing the pale face of his ex-wife. Her eyes were still open—open, but not alive. She looked like a ghost.

  “Jesus.”

  Shivering, he threw the blanket back on top of her and stood up. It took him a moment to regain his composure. He couldn’t take another step forward. Who knew what else waited for him in this place?

  Fuck.

  Maddox stepped over a floor covered in trash, careful not to leave any fingerprints, and continued down the hall. Each room came up empty—until he entered the last door at the end.

  He started gagging. The smell alone was horrible, but the sight…that was something else altogether. Crazy bastards hadn’t even bothered to pick up the bowling ball. They’d just left it there, creating a gruesome crater in the man’s face for eternity. He stepped away, unable to take his eyes off the gory corpse.

  Where was his daughter? He searched the apartment one last time, shouting her name over and over, but it was no use. She was gone. So were her clothes. Someone had packed her stuff and taken her someplace—but where?

  Like it wasn’t obvious.

  Who else? King had taken her. Of course he had.

  His goons had come, killed Sheryl and her dickless husband, and snatched Addy. She was most likely being held hostage at the Sting with King himself, waiting to trade for the payment Maddox owed.