by Glenn Rolfe
Chapter Four
“You shouldn’t touch that,” Kim said.
Brady ignored her warning. Kim was as cool as she was cute, but she was also a bit of a fraidy cat. He pressed down on the top of an exposed pipe, heaved up from the earth after last night’s underground boom.
Brady loved the strange currents rumbling through his town. It was the most interesting thing to happen in Eckert since…well, since ever. Over the last five days, seismic blasts had occurred in several different areas of town. The latest shook the backyard of Packard’s Flea Market. Brady hated the place (it was his mom’s Saturday afternoon delight), but this was the closest the booms had come to his house.
The boom had hit last night while he was going to the bathroom. While the lights flickered, and he tried his best not to piss on himself, Brady’s heart raced from excitement. He knew this one was close. He managed to get away with only a few drops on the thigh of his new Levi’s before putting himself away and checking on his mom. She stood by her china cabinet, tried to hold it steady. Once she saw him, she barked orders. “Get the jars on the shelf; I can’t replace those.” Brady clutched the cherrywood shelf above their DVD cabinet. A couple of the cases sitting on top of the DVDs shook free and dropped within the cabinet. He made sure none of his mother’s ceramic trinkets on the shelf followed suit. The ground growled and shuddered just like he’d read in the paper. He’d sneaked the daily from the kitchen table when his mom wasn’t looking. She didn’t want him to buy into the hype and crazy theories being passed around town like Kim’s older sister, Cheryl. He felt bad for thinking such a thing about Cheryl, but as his Uncle Pete liked to say, “The truth isn’t always pretty”. Most of Mom’s stuff survived except for her matryoshka dolls. Their demise brought a tear to her eye. Mom loved her junk.
Now, a witness to how the quake had ripped this pipe up from the ground in Mr. Packard’s backyard, he was thankful that they’d only suffered the loss of her Russian toys. “What do you think this is?” He slid the rubber tip of his sneaker along the jellied substance that coated the exposed piece of heavy pipe.
Kim stepped up behind him, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know—a water pipe or something?”
He pointed at the spot he’d been touching with his shoe. “Nah, I think it’s something chemical. Look at the blue stuff coming out by the crack.”
“Well, I don’t think you should be touching it, even with your feet. That stuff could be poisonous. We could be breathing in harmful chemicals.”
“Maybe,” Brady said. He pulled his foot back and squatted down to get a closer look.
“Brady…”
This close to the blue ooze, he could hear a faint noise, like the sound he made whenever he blew bubbles through his straw in his chocolate milk, only softer.
“Shhh…” he interrupted. “Do you hear that?”
“What is that?” she said.
“I’m not sure. Sounds like something bubbling inside the pipe.”
“We should get away from it. What if it blows up or something?” Kim backed away.
Brady reached his right hand out toward the blue slime crawling down the exposed shaft.
“Brady, don’t!”
He let his fascination get the best of him and touched the gel. A current of raw energy pushed through his fingertips and shot up his arm. The energy exploded within his chest and sent him backward into Kim.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” he heard her cry out. “Brady, are you okay? Brady? Brady?”
Brady could sense his best friend’s presence; he could hear her, but couldn’t feel her touch. It was as if there was an unseen force field around him, within him. He heard her asking him something and saying his name. Her voice was fading. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as the daylight fell away.
Kimberly Jenner went to bed that night praying her best friend would be all right. She knew they shouldn’t have messed with that blue slime. They shouldn’t have been out there after all the strange things Cheryl’s boyfriend had said about the underground booms. She’d overheard his rant about some ancient cult being tied in with the government and how this was the beginning of something huge. She never gave much credence to anything her sister’s cretin boyfriends ever had to say, but after what happened with Brady today, it was impossible to deny that something weird was definitely happening in Eckert.
She lay down and closed her eyes. Replays of the incident went on in an endless loop: Brady reaching down and letting the weird stuff run over his finger, then the strange bluish glow that surrounded him. She tried to convince herself that that glowing had been in her mind, but she knew better.
Within minutes, she was asleep and dreaming of conspiracies, cults and boys who glowed when they flew.
Chapter Five
Alan Packard watched the ambulance come and take away the Carmichael kid. He also noticed the broken bit of earth that the turd and his little friend had messed around with. Maybe the creatures in the earth had tried to break free, just like Harriet Bunker had suggested. He was half tempted to go investigate the area himself, but couldn’t find the guts to follow through. Hell, he hadn’t even answered the door when Officer Poulin knocked. Once the hoopla over the kid’s accident died down, Alan settled in for the evening. He wanted to watch WrestleMania IV and maybe throw on a skin flick before he took his whiskey to bed.
That night, after he stumbled to the bedroom, he dreamed. Horrible dreams, but as soon as he opened his eyes, the dreams and their awful images burned up like a match—just a quick flare, followed by a lingering trace of what was. He woke up three times during the night, each time more soaked with sweat than the last. He realized in the morning that he was slimy, not wet. His body secreted some sort of grease or oil. Still drunk from the whiskey, he got up and decided to shower the foul mess away.
He stood and soaked up the hot, steamy water, oblivious to the blue tint of the water or the heavy slaps it made hitting the bottom of the tub. He was struck with a vision—a woman encased in a capsule of blue mucus. Her dead eyes stared back at him. In a flash, the image was gone, but left a cold trace down his spine. He knew it had something to do with the dreams from last night. He shook his heavy head clear of the thought. He needed a drink.
He unearthed a clean pair of boxers, his other pair of navy-blue sweatpants, and an old concert T-shirt. A headache stepped from the dark shadows of his fading inebriation. Sobriety threatened him. He grabbed a couple Tylenol and, without giving it a second thought, downed the little white pills with a tall glass of the odd-smelling water. His esophagus protested as the thick water hit the back of his throat, but he still managed to get the pain medication down.
Prior to the onset of the headache, he decided he was going to clean up and get some fresh air, maybe go get something to eat at Kasey’s and chat it up with Gus and Nat. But now, as if in protest of his intention, his headache pounded behind his eyes like a bass drum and took a turn down Migraine Lane. All plans of going out were scrapped, and it was back to his damp bed and the smell of boiled eggs. He clenched his eyes, praying for relief or sleep, whichever came first.
Alan Packard woke up and ran from whatever crawled after him in his dream. He retched in the dark. Sobered up for the first time in days, he touched his arm and jerked his hand away. He clicked the lamp on his nightstand. His skin was coated in the strange blue slime that was pooled around the drains in the sinks and the tub. He reached with a palsied hand and touched the mucus. He wanted to slip out of his own skin. He couldn’t make it to the toilet. The vomit projected outward, hitting the wall and floor with a series of loud splats.
Over the next three days he lost the ability to control his bladder. His urine mixed with blood and the blue mucus that covered his bed. He abandoned the mattress on the second day. Every spot he’d curled up in since had also been vacated; within the first few hours of sleep, his body would ooze. The slime was everywhere, and the smell—the dreadful stench of something wet and ruined—was with it. He should have le
ft, should have gotten out, gone to his cousin Jarrett’s in Melbourne. He was sick, but he no longer cared. The voices filled his head. Take them. Bring them. Ascend.
“Hey, kid sister, you okay?” Cheryl said.
Kim had been sick with worry since watching Brady get hauled off to the hospital three days ago. The doctors said he had suffered some head trauma, which put him in a coma-like state. She was there with him when it happened. She didn’t see him hit his head on anything. But he did turn blue and fly at you. She ignored her mind and continued running her hand over the cover of the book Brady had left her. She’d finished it after supper. She’d never read a book so fast, but it had helped her to not fall apart these last couple of days.
“Yeah, I just…” she said.
“I know,” Cheryl said. She sat down next to Kim on the bed and wrapped her arms around her.
Kim buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, smelled the incense—burning sandalwood, or whatever Cheryl had called it—and cried. Kim’s shoulders shook with each sob. She cried for Brady, praying that he would pull out of it soon. She couldn’t lose him. She also cried for her mother, not that she would share that with Cheryl. Cheryl hated their mom, or at least she acted like she did. Kim let it all out while her sister held her close and rocked her, just like their mother used to do.
“He’s gonna be okay. Brady’s a good kid. He’ll probably be up by the weekend and you two can go do whatever you two do together. Maybe hold his hand…or if you really want him to know how much you think of him, maybe you could even give him a kiss.”
Kim laughed between cries. She had never mentioned her feelings for Brady, but that was Cheryl for you. She seemed to just know everything. “Shut up,” Kim said, sitting up. She wiped the tears with the sleeve of her sweater and looked her big sister in the eyes. “Thank you.”
“No worries, K,” she said. “I gotta go over Bobby’s, unless you want me to stay?”
“No, no, go ahead. I’m good.” She did feel better. Cheryl had the magic touch. “I think I…I just…”
“You just needed a good cry. We all do from time to time.” Cheryl rose and zipped her sweatshirt. Her long blonde curls hung down over her chest. She was beautiful. Kim hoped Bobby Colby knew how lucky he was.
“What should I tell Dad if he comes looking for you?”
Cheryl smiled. “Tell him I’m at my study-buddy’s house.” And with that, she strolled out of the room. Kim looked at the book on her lap and thought of Brady.
Chapter Six
Alan sat in the cab of his truck, the slime already beginning to seep from his pores and onto the cloth interior. He watched Gus Jackson stumble from Nat Gallant’s Chevy. Take them. Bring them. Ascend. He stayed parked with his headlights off under the plump foliage of the sugar maple in Gus’s neighbor’s yard. Nat’s Chevy hitched and shimmied before revving up and pulling off down the road. Alan let Nat’s taillights disappear, then put his truck in neutral and let it roll down the little mound of the neighbor’s front yard. His truck rolled straight across the blackened street and into Gus’s empty dirt driveway with nary a sound. He applied his brakes, grabbed the tire iron from the seat and stepped from the vehicle.
Gus Jackson’s trailer sat in silence. No lights had come on since he stumbled through the door. Alan climbed the steps and gripped the doorknob, pausing just long enough to listen to his new friends. He turned the knob and threw the door open. It hit something halfway.
“Hmmm, who’s that? Nat?” Gus mumbled.
Alan stood in the doorway and stared down at the man slowly pulling himself to his knees. Gus hit the light switch. Pale, yellow luminescence filled the room. Alan stepped inside, closing the door.
“Jeeessus, Alllan? Wasss wrong?” Gus said. He plopped backward on his ass, trying to focus on Alan. “What are you…why…what’s goin’on?”
Alan had no answers. He stepped over his drunken friend, raised the tire iron over his shoulder and brought it down with a thwack. Gus never even brought his hand up to defend against the shot. He just went limp as the blood gushed down from his forehead and over his face. Alan kicked the top of his body over so that he lay flat on the floor. Taking him by the ankles, Alan moved to the door and let go with one hand to open it. The street was empty. He took hold of Gus Jackson’s ankles and dragged him down the short stairs, across the dirt drive and to the back of his truck. The gate came down with a loud clank. Gus’s body was easy to lift—the old man was lucky if he still hit one hundred and twenty pounds. Alan loaded him into the truck bed and closed the gate with another loud clang. He gave the gate a pull. Once everything was secured and ready, he walked back to the trailer, grabbed his tire iron from the floor and closed and locked the door.
Just over the hill, Alan’s headlights lit up a green Chevy parked and running in the vacant lot where Colt Jackson’s trailer used to be. A year and a half ago, Jackson had set the trailer on fire with his girlfriend and her two kids in it. The town had only gotten around to moving the burned-out mobile home last month. The truck now idling in the old haunted space was Nat Gallant’s. Alan couldn’t resist. He pulled his truck in just behind it.
“Ossifah, I’s jest pull over here to rest…I ain’t drivin’,” Nat said. Alan caught the scent of the man’s horrid breath and enough alcohol to light up the sky. Nat’s head bobbed and weaved like Ali on the ropes. “Al? Alan? ’Sat you, eh?”
Alan lifted the door handle and opened the door. “You look like you could use a ride,” he said.
“Thanks, Alan. I jisst couldn’t keep straight on the road. Damn line wass movin’, heh heh.”
Alan helped Nat from one truck to the other. Nat stumbled, threatening to topple ass over tea kettle. Alan held his breath. Nat reached one grubby hand out just in time and steadied himself against the hood of Alan’s truck. Alan exhaled. The last thing he wanted was to have to wrestle this big bastard up from the side of the road. Visions of Hogan and Andre the Giant raced through his mind.
Alan clapped Nat on the back, and helped him around to the passenger’s side. “You know you shouldn’t drive after drinking so much. It could get you killed.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t realize I was sso drunk, eh.”
Nat climbed in. Alan closed the door. The window made a soft thump as it caught the side of Nat’s bobbing head.
“Oops. You okay?” Alan asked.
Nat gave a thumb’s up. Alan nodded, hurried around the front of the truck, and slipped behind the wheel.
Alan glanced over and saw Nat lift his head from against the passenger window and steady himself against the dashboard. He made a retching sound but didn’t puke. He turned and fidgeted with the manual lever to roll the window down. “Wass wrong with this sing?”
Alan started the truck and eased onto the blacktop.
“That window’s broken, hasn’t rolled down in two years. You’ll have to crack this one.” Alan pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the cab’s rear window. He eyed the big-bellied drunk as he tried to turn toward the rear window.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Nat grunted and shifted on the bench seat, maneuvering his two-hundred-plus-pound body toward the center window between them. He managed to angle himself at the window, reached his meaty right arm across his man-tits and undid the little rectangular latch. More grunts and another threatening retch followed as he fought to hold down his liquid supper and slide the little window along its track. Cool night air wheezed through.
“Ahhh,” Nat said.
Alan slid his hand across the seat and found the tire iron. Nat had his face toward the cab’s roof, sucking in the night air through his pig nose like a caged snake sensing its rodent meal being delivered. Alan brought the tire iron to his lap unnoticed. Street lamps up ahead threatened to expose his intentions. He clenched the cold metal in his hand.
“Huh? What in the Ssam hell?” They passed beneath one street lamp and then another. Alan watched the ugly look of confusion take hold of Nat’s bearded face. “That a body? Ala
n?”
“It’s Gus. I need him.”
Nat leaned back, eyes wide. “Alan, what’d ya do? What’d ya do to Gus?”
“The same thing I’m going to do to you.”
“Fuck you are.”
Alan hit the brakes. Nat cried out. His forehead slammed into the windshield. Alan cut the wheel and took a left down the promising darkness of Gilson Road. Nat’s inebriated equilibrium rocked away and toward the passenger window, which his temple met with another thud. His head bounced back toward Alan and was smashed across the right eye and cheekbone by the tire iron. The crack of bone accompanied the cry of pain. Alan struck again before his bloodied passenger could raise his hands in defense, this time whacking Nat between the eyes and shattering the bridge of his nose. Alan slammed the brakes on again, sending Nat’s blood mask forward and smashing the windshield again. Alan turned and whacked his passenger until the man’s arms fell to his sides. Breaths coming in sharp pants, Alan flung the tire iron to the floor and ran his finger through his hair. He gripped the steering wheel, took a couple deep breaths and continued toward home.
He’d done as he’d been told—ascension the sole thing on his mind.
Chapter Seven
“Brady? Honey, it’s Mommy. Mommy’s right here.”
Belinda Carmichael, stationed at her son’s bedside, cried for the umpteenth millionth time. She had arrived at Wisconsin General after the horrifying phone call from Kim Jenner’s father Monday afternoon. It was now Wednesday. She held her boy’s hand, the worst moment of her life fresh in her mind.
She had been busy interviewing an applicant for the cashier opening at the record store when she received Randy Jenner’s frantic call. All he said was that Kim and Brady had messed around out back of the flea market, where the latest boom occurred, and that Kim had come running home, yelling that Brady was hurt and that he wouldn’t wake up. He called 911, rushed over to the grassy lot out back of Packard’s Flea Market, and found Brady unresponsive but still breathing.