Monty’s whole body shook, slowly backing away from the French doors. As he did, he bumped into a patio chair, which prompted him squeal, turn and run as fast as he could through the yard. As he turned the corner, Alan pulled up into the driveway. Monty came to an abrupt halt in front of Alan who stood on the brakes to avoid killing his neighbor. Monty screamed, the car inches from him.
Alan threw the car in park and jumped out. “Jesus, Monty! What the hell are you doing?”
Monty, panting and shaking, placed his palms on the hood of Alan’s car to steady himself. He could not catch his breath. Monty forced himself to calm a bit; he looked at Alan with concern.
“Alan, is Molly all right?”
Alan looked confused. “Yeah,” he replied. “She’s just a little under the weather. Why?”
Monty looked at Alan, back to the house, and then at Alan again. “You’re sure she’s OK?”
“Of course, I’m sure. She just picked something up at the hospital.” Alan held up the bag from the pharmacy. “Talked to Tony and got her meds, too. All will be well.”
Monty stood upright and looked around nervously as he nodded. Without a word, Monty turned and headed for his house. He stopped again and spoke quickly without turning around. “Okay, just worried is all, so I’ll see you later, buddy.”
Alan watched Monty walk away, mystified. Shaking his head, entered the house. Alan shucked off his coat and called down the hall.
“Molly, I’m back.” No answer. He called out again as he approached the bedroom door, “Molly? You awake, honey?”
Alan entered the bedroom to see that Molly is not in bed. Confused, he looked around the room in the dim light, finally spotting his wife’s crumpled body near the French doors.
“Molly!” Alan called out as he rushed to Molly’s side. as he surveys the gore around her. Dropping to his knees, he shook her by the shoulders before noticing the sticky puddle of goo that led to the corpse of Mr. Peepers.
Molly moaned and her eyelids fluttered. She giggled as though she was drunk.
“So hungry,” she slurred and giggled again.
Alan got her up on her feet and guided her to the bed. He laid her down and quickly ran to the attached bathroom to get a compress. Molly clutched her abdomen and moaned in pain. Alan returned with a wet towel dabbed at the blood on Molly’s face.
“What happened?” he asked.
Molly opened her eyes and looked at Alan, registering where she was and who she was with for the first time. Her eyes were clear, no longer yellow, just slightly blood shot. Alan tried to force a smile, but even he didn’t believe it.
“What’s happening to me?”
Alan shook his head, unsure of just what was happening himself. “Tony says it’s from the… the loss. You’re adjusting. Your body’s adjusting.”
Molly shook her head in disbelief. “That’s not right. Not right.” Molly shuddered, clutched at her stomach again and went limp. Her eyes rolled back into her head and Alan laid her back down on the bed.
He continued cleaning the blood from Molly’s face, meticulously trying to get every drop off. That was something he could fix. He scanned the room for the medication, scooping it up from doorway where he dropped it, and placed on the night stand. He grabbed the top sheet and pulled it over Molly.
Alan regarded the bloody towel in his hand. He turned, entered the bathroom, and threw it into the sink from where he stood. It hit the sink with a slap, one corner hanging out over the edge.
Alan looked over toward the French doors. Now that Molly was in bed, he let the recognition of what he was looking at sink in. Alan bent over what was left of Mr. Peepers to see part of the cat’s face, some bone and chunks of skin. He gagged, nearly vomiting, and held his sleeve up to his face to block the smell. It was obnoxiously sweet, like burnt molasses. Very little of the cat was left; most of the muscle and internal organs were gone. Many of the bones were cleaned and shining white even in the limited light of the bedroom. Even one of Mr. Peepers’ peepers had been sucked from the socket. Alan dry heaved again and walked out of the room, gasping for air.
Alan, trying to shake off the thought of what he knew had to have happened in that room, walked down the hall into the kitchen. He looked around until he found the broom with attached dustpan. He grabbed them, a roll of paper towels and a trash bag. Taking a deep breath, he headed back to the bedroom.
Alan stood at the bedroom door before going in. After making a mental decision, he entered the room quickly, holding his breath, and scooped what he could of Mr. Peepers up with the broom and dust pan and picked the smaller pieces up with wads of paper towels stuffed in his fists. He chucked all of it into the trash bag and yanked the drawstring closed. Alan tossed the bag to the side and exhaled in a gasp, holding his sleeve to his nose before breathing rapidly. After catching his breath, Alan wadded paper towels like boxing mitts so that he could soak up the remainder of the blood on the floor.
Molly moaned in her sleep. She twitched and yelped, as if she were chasing a rabbit in her dreams.
***
That evening, Alan was paced in his kitchen with the house phone to his ear. The television was on in the background, never having moved from the original channel. The news was on, but Alan didn’t even hear it.
“Come on, Tony!” he said into the receiver, “Jesus, pick up your phone!” Alan stopped pacing, hung up, and immediately picked the receiver back up and dialed again. He continued the back and forth trek across the kitchen as Tony’s phone simply rang and rang. Alan gave up on the phone call, slamming the phone down, and went into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, finally taking notice of what was on the screen.
The anchor announced that there was “Breaking news and tragedy in area medical center.”
Alan quickly figured out why Tony wasn’t answering his phone. Tony stood outside the hospital with one of the local reporters. The graphic below the reporter indicated that this was Tommy Richards and that Tony was Dr. Valdez. Another graphic scrolled across the bottom of the screen reading: Moments Ago. Tony smiled as though nothing was wrong, even with a microphone in his face.
“Tommy Richards, Channel Five news. I am here today with Dr. Anthony Valdez, one of the leading surgeons here at Wisdom Community Hospital. Dr. Valdez, can you explain what has happened here this evening?”
Tony looked tired, but seemed to be happy to share the information. “Well, what I can tell you is that a patient, whose identity is not yet known, attacked and killed another patient and wounded two orderlies.”
While Tony and Richards spoke, they failed to notice that one of the wounded orderlies had exited the hospital behind them. Alan recognized the man as Leo or Larry, the orderly that had a hot date and helped Molly from the hospital. Obviously injured, he stumbled toward the news broadcast and then abruptly walked off camera. Alan scooted forward in his seat, mesmerized by what was going on.
Richards asked his next question. “Does this have anything to do with the super flu?”
Valdez shook his head. He explained, “The thought of a super flu is being concocted by the media. There is a flu strain that we’ve come into contact with, but patients are responding well to medication. This particular instance was isolated and, we believe, drug related. As for what drug we suspect, that will have to wait for the lab results. Until then, we can only speculate.”
Richards nodded, accepting the answer. “So there is no need for public panic?”
Valdez smiled, looking tired and sincere. “No. there is absolutely no reason for public panic. In all likelihood, this so-called “super-flu” is nothing more than…”
Before he could finish the sentence, the orderly rushed from camera left, attacking Tony. Tony wrestled with the man, and as Richards watched in horror, the orderly bit into Tony’s neck and tore it open. Blood sprayed across Richards’ chest and face, and he screamed wildly. The cameraman jerked away, giving his audience bits of the chaos before settling on Tony’s limp body as the
orderly buried his face into Tony’s abdomen, digging and chewing through muscle and gristle. Tony’s cell phone rang, muffled in a pocket somewhere, and Alan felt queasy.
Alan sat with his mouth hanging open and could only watch as the orderly looked up, smelling the air, and lunged at Richards, who screamed at his cameraman, “Help me, you asshole!” before subsiding to the attack live on television. The shot went to white static, television snow. Alan sunk back into the couch. He was dumbfounded and could only stare blankly at the television. The scene clicked back to the news room and, like Alan, even the night anchor was speechless. Dread, in high definition, pumped into living rooms across the city.
Molly screamed from the other room. Alan leapt to his feet, ran down the hall and rushed into the bedroom. Molly had thrown the covers off; the sheets were soaked in sweat. Her shirt and underwear clung to her as though she had waded into a river. Her skin was mottled, yellowing and looked like it was beginning to crack in places despite the moisture.
She screamed as she clutched at her stomach. A feral, painful bellow that shook the foundations of the house.
For the first time, ever, he was terrified of Molly. “Oh my God,” he muttered.
Molly heard Alan and opened her eyes. They had glazed over and were yellow again and, like her skin, oozed moisture. The pain in her stomach must have been intense and caused her to grit her teeth so hard that Alan could hear the enamel of her teeth scraping against one another.
She called to Alan in a quivering voice. “It hurts, baby… It hurts so bad…” She screamed again, a deafening call that communicated nothing but misery.
Alan shook off his fear and rushed over to Molly. He touched her forehead and his arm jerked back has those hand was burnt. He touched her again, carefully this time, and his eyes went wide. She was hot, very hot, to the touch. He didn’t know much about medicine, but knew enough that a fever like this, especially after she had been so cold before, was incredibly dangerous.
He slid one arm behind her neck and took her by the wrist in an attempt to get her out of bed. As he tried to lift her, she resisted.
“Come on, Molly,” he pleaded. “You’re burning up. We have to make this better.” Molly moaned in agony, but she tried to help, lifting herself up as far as her weakened state would allow her to go.
Alan managed to pull her up out of the bed and held on tight as they moved toward the French doors that exited to the patio and, more importantly, the pool. Molly screamed again and doubled over, almost falling to the floor. Alan stumbled with her, but managed to keep them both upright and out the doors.
Alan got Molly out into the yard, mostly carrying her as they walked down the short pathway along the fence. As they neared the gate door that led to the pool, Molly screamed again and collapsed against the fence. She wailed as Alan peeled her away from the fence and clutched her abdomen, wracked in pain.
Next door, Monty heard the screams and poked his head up over the fence, looking like some kind of Ziggy parody. He was terrified and neither Alan nor Molly noticed as he watched.
Alan managed to get Molly near the pool when her entire body spasmed. She convulsed violently before vomiting a viscous black liquid onto the deck of the pool. The smell was vile, and Alan retched as the smell hit him.
“Alan… I’m gonna die,” Molly said.
Alan’s eyes hardened and he became more determined. “No you are not.” He said continued to inch her toward the pool.
Molly convulsed again with a pain so intense that her entire body seized and, for a moment, she was stock still. Her breath rate increased. “Hurts so bad,” she moaned.
Alan took a deep breath and braced himself. He slung an arm behind Molly’s legs and lifted her up off the ground. Holding her tightly to himself, he ambled toward the pool. He reached the edge and walked down the steps, one at a time, into the water clothes and all. As Alan gently lowered Molly into the water, her skin hissed; it actually hissed. When she came in contact with the cooler water this caused it to steam around them both. Molly’s body relaxed, visibly, as she cooled down and the convulsions slowed.
Monty watched the entire scene play out and slowly slid back down behind the wall. He turned and leaned up against it, unable to shake off what he had just seen.
Alan sat down on the pool steps, cradling Molly in his lap. He held all but her head under the water. Molly moaned and cooed, falling in and out of consciousness. Alan sprinkled water on her face and head. He stared at her, wishing and praying, as intense as he had ever wished for anything else as if he was willing her to be healthy again.
“You’ll be OK, baby. I’ll take care of you,” he said, choking back tears. Molly tensed slightly with another small cramp. Alan cradled her close as her body slowly relaxed. “Real good care. Real good.”
***
Alan sat in a kitchen chair that he had pulled into the bedroom and placed next to his and Molly’s bed. He had her dried off from the pool and resting. Thankfully, the fever had cooled down, but her skin had taken that yellowish pallor to another, deeper shade. He had tried to spread some lotion over the cracks in her skin but it didn’t seem to help. As he did that, he could feel Molly’s veins raised against her skin, pulsing. He was at a loss, unsure of what to do next. Tony was gone; calls to the hospital went unanswered.
Alan stared at Molly with great concern. She was sleeping fitfully in a clean set of pajamas, finally, and back to the chills. He was happier with the chills over the fever and even managed to convince himself that she was getting better, but only for a moment. Alan studied her movements under the comforter. They were rapid and reminded Alan of kittens playing under a blanket. He slumped back in his chair, frequently wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. The clock on the night stand told him that he should have been asleep many hours ago. He couldn’t even consider a nap with Molly in this condition.
Molly thrashed, quite suddenly, throwing the comforter off. Like before, she grabbed her stomach and writhed. Her stomach gurgled, loudly, and Alan was astonished at the volume of it.
Alan popped up in his chair and asked, “What you need, honey?”
Molly’s eyes snapped open and they had… changed. They were a darker yellow and slimy looking. Not wet, but viscous. They looked like two orbs of mucous. Molly looked right through Alan with a vacant stare.
“Hungry. So hungry… Hollow.”
Alan stroked her hair and rubbed her head. “I’m on it,” he said before rising from his chair and leaving the room. Molly fell back heavily on the bed and gnashed her teeth.
Alan rushed into the kitchen and flipped the light on. He walked over to the dishwasher, reached in, and pulled out a small clean pot. He filled it with water and placed it on the stove. As he turned on the burner he reached up into a cabinet and grabbed a packet of oatmeal, pulling it from the cabinet it slipped from his hand and hit the floor. Alan knelt down to pick it up and sobbed, overcome. It took over his whole body and he plopped down on the floor, shuddering. He barely caught himself so that Molly wouldn’t hear the sound. After a minute, or five (he wasn’t really sure) Alan composed himself and stifled the crying. He retrieved the packet of oatmeal and stood up, wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeve.
Alan walked into the bedroom with the bowl of in one hand and a spoon in the other. He sat down in the chair and inched forward with the bowl. Molly lay in the fetal position with her back toward Alan. She could smell the food and rolled over. Her mouth watered, literally, and Allan fought back his revulsion.
“Try this,” Alan offered.
Fast, and angry, Molly snatched at the bowl. Alan jerked backward almost tipping his chair over and Molly shrunk back, realizing that she had scared him.
“Sorry,” she said, keeping her eyes locked on the steaming bowl. Alan smiled, happy to see that Molly had an appetite. He pulled forward and offered a spoonful of the oatmeal up and out of the bowl to her. Molly lurched forward and chomped on the food, clanking her teeth on the spoon. She hungrily gulped
it down with chewing and, slavering turned back to Alan like a starving animal.
Alan’s eyebrows rose. He was amazed at her behavior. After a moment, Molly frowned and looked over at Alan. The pit of her stomach rumbled like a truck had driven past outside, shaking the house. The look of concern on her face was evident, but she just shook her head, afraid of opening her mouth.
“What is it?” He asked.
Molly grabbed her midsection with both hands and bent forward vomiting all over herself and the bed. It was the same black muck that she spewed earlier, with a little bit of the oatmeal mixed in. It sprayed all over the blankets and sheets with the kind of volume one would expect from a much larger container than Molly’s stomach. Alan turned away to avoid the splatter.
Molly sat, breathing heavily after the first volley, before heaving once more. More black fluid came up, and with one last wracking attempt, she was empty. She fell back on her pillow and cried. Alan tossed the oatmeal bowl over onto the night stand and gathered up the sheets and blankets, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of the black bile.
“I’ll get this honey,” he reassured, “do you want more?”
Molly angrily snapped at him. “No! God damn it!”
Alan’s face fell, and he continued cleaning up. Molly wept quietly. After a moment, she stood up, supporting herself on the night stand, and slowly made her way to the bathroom. Alan tried to take her arm to help, but she pulled it away from him, stumbling back into the night stand. The oatmeal tumbled off, and the bowl crashed on the floor. They both looked at the pile of unfinished oatmeal and broken ceramic for a moment. Molly moved first and continued toward the bathroom. Alan’s eyes were fixed on her until the door closed behind her. The shower spurted to life and, left alone, Alan continued the clean-up.
Keeping Molly Page 4